The Gorgon Spirit
Date: 2015-02-27 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Sword And Sorcery
Description: RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight. Outcast and exile, he seeks to stop the return of the terrible Frostborn to the realm of Andomhaim. At last he knows how the Frostborn shall return. A weapon of great magical power waits in a ruined dwarven city, a weapon with the power to stop the return of the Frostborn. Assuming the ruined city's guardians do not kill Ridmark first...
Publisher: Azure Flame Media, LLC

FROSTBORN: THE GORGON SPIRIT

Jonathan Moeller

Description

RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight. Outcast and exile, he seeks to stop the return of the terrible Frostborn to the realm of Andomhaim.

At last he knows how the Frostborn shall return, and how to stop them. A weapon of great magical power waits in a ruined dwarven city, a weapon with the power to stop the return of the Frostborn.

Assuming the ruined city's guardians do not kill Ridmark first...

Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit

Copyright 2015 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published March 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.

A brief prologue

In the Year of Our Lord 538, Malahan Pendragon led the survivors of the High King Arthur Pendragon’s realm through a magical gate to a new world. There Malahan founded the realm of Andomhaim, and raised the banner of the Pendragons above the walls of his citadel of Tarlion, and in time his realm expanded far and wide. Yet Malahan’s heirs were not alone in their new land, for many other kindreds dwelled upon this world. The bold men of Andomhaim waged wars against the sorcerous dark elves and the fierce pagan orcs, against the grim dvargir and the skulking kobolds. In time the men of Andomhaim found allies as well, for some nations of orcs accepted baptism and the Dominus Christus, swearing to the High King as vassals, and the halflings swore fealty to the nobles of the High King as servants, grateful to their liberators.

Yet in time the men of Andomhaim encountered a kindred that would be neither foe nor vassal.

To the east of Tarlion lay broad, dry grasslands, and there dwelled the manetaurs, a kindred strange to human eyes. For the manetaurs possessed the proud mane and head of a lion, the arms and torso of a strong man, and the lower body of a mighty lion. They had the strength and speed of a hunting lion, yet had the reason and intellect of a man. The manetaurs dwelled upon the grasslands in a mighty kingdom called the Range, lords over all they surveyed.

Three times the manetaur warred against the men of Andomhaim, until at last the High King of Tarlion and the Red King of the manetaurs concluded a truce, agreeing to respect their borders and to aid each other in war. When the terrible Frostborn assailed the realm, the manetaurs honored their word, and fought valiantly against the Frostborn and their servants.

After the defeat of the Frostborn, it is said that the manetaur prince Murzanar and his trusted retainers went to the fallen ruins of the dwarven citadel of Khald Azalar, seeking a treasure hidden within its dark vaults.

Yet they never returned.

Chapter 1: Blur

Ninety-nine days after it began, ninety-nine days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban moved northeast through the thick forests of Vhaluusk. Patches of golden sunlight fell through the thick branches overhead, throwing patterns of light and darkness across the forest’s tangled floor. Despite the uneven ground, Ridmark moved without sound, his gray cloak hanging loose around him, his black staff in his right hand. His eyes scanned the trees for danger, his ears listening for the sound of predators. Vhaluusk was a perilous land, but no trace of danger came to his eyes or ears, and Ridmark kept walking.

He knew where he was going. For the first time since his wife had died, Ridmark Arban knew where he was going.

That was a new feeling.

Sometimes it was so strange that he did not quite know what to make of it.

A long time ago, both the urdmordar Gothalinzur and the Warden of Urd Morlemoch had warned Ridmark that the Frostborn would return to destroy the world. After Aelia had been killed and Ridmark had been banished from the High King’s realm, he had devoted himself to finding the truth about the Frostborn. It had been partly because no one heeded his warnings. It had been partly because Ridmark held himself responsible for Aelia’s death and he wanted to die. Certainly he had expected to die in his quest.

Instead, with the aid of his friends and by the grace of God, he had found the truth.

The Frostborn were returning.

They had not been wiped out, merely defeated. For a year and a month after the omen of blue flame, a powerful wizard could open a gate between Andomhaim and the world of the Frostborn. The corrupted high elven wizard Shadowbearer, master of the Enlightened of Incariel, sought the empty soulstone that Calliande carried. If he claimed the soulstone and killed Calliande, he would open the gate and bring forth the Frostborn again.

So, at long last, Ridmark’s task was clear.

He would keep the soulstone from Shadowbearer for another nine and a half months, until the conjunction of the moons had passed and the way to the world of the Frostborn could not be opened. He would help Calliande find her staff in Dragonfall, hidden in the depths of Khald Azalar, and she would take up the mantle and power of the Keeper of Andomhaim once more.

And then they would defeat Shadowbearer and root out the Enlightened of Incariel.

After five and a half long years of searching, Ridmark Arban knew what he had to do.

Now it was just a matter of surviving long enough to do it.

Though as he looked around the forest, he conceded that survival might prove a challenge.

Ridmark kept moving. He was not far from the foothills of the mountains of eastern Vhaluusk, and the earth had developed a noticeable slope. A few more miles and they would reach the foothills proper. The ground, tangled with roots and stones, did not lend itself to preserving tracks.

But tracks he saw nonetheless.

Ridmark spotted the marks of heavy booted feet, slightly larger than his own. Orcish men, he thought, hunters and trappers from the nearby villages. From time to time he saw the spoor of deer and rabbits and the feral turkeys that wandered the forests of Vhaluusk.

There were other tracks, ones that he did not like.

The tracks were long and narrow, shaped like an inverted wedge. Holes the size of Ridmark’s fingers marked the impact of sturdy claws. The tracks started in clusters of two, but then shifted to four, as if whatever creature had produced them had dropped to all fours for additional speed.

Like the creature was running down prey.

A shadow flapped overhead, and a raven perched on a branch, its beady eyes glinting. Ridmark looked at it for a moment, smiled to himself, and went motionless. He considered his surroundings, and looked at a thick tree ten yards to his right.

“You can come out now,” said Ridmark.

For a moment nothing moved, and he felt slightly foolish.

Then a scowling young woman came out from behind the tree. She wore leather and wool, sturdy clothes for the wilderness, and a cloak of tattered green and brown strips hung from her shoulders. A long wooden staff, its surface carved with sigils, had been slung over her shoulder, a leather strap across her chest holding it in place. A hunting bow rested ready in her hands. Her long black hair had been bound in a braid, and her black eyes were deep and stark in her pale, lean face.

Right now she looked annoyed. Or more annoyed than usual, anyway.

“How did you know that I was there?” said Morigna.

“I didn’t,” said Ridmark. He waved his staff in the direction of the raven. “The bird gave it away.”

Morigna sighed. “Alas. The ravens are useful scouts, but the concept of stealth simply does not enter their minds. One suspects that they consider stealth the province of lesser creatures.” She spoke Latin with a peculiar, stately formality that had been archaic decades ago.

Given that the man who had taught her magic had fled the realm of Andomhaim a century and a half past, it was not surprising.

“The ravens’ opinions do not concern me,” said Ridmark.

“One certainly hopes not,” said Morigna, a smile almost flickering over her thin lips. “That would be troublesome.”

“I am more interested in their observations of the forest,” said Ridmark. “Have they seen anything?”

The faint smile faded. “Nothing at all. No creatures, no orcs, not even any animals.”

“That is unusual,” said Ridmark.

“It is,” said Morigna. “It is clear that a great many orcs lived here recently. Now I find no trace of them.”

Ridmark nodded, thinking it over. They stood in comfortable silence as he considered the problem. Other thoughts intruded upon his mind. He was alone with Morigna. He remembered the taste of her mouth beneath his, the feel of her body as they lay together in the night. If he pulled her close and kissed her, she would not stop him. She would welcome it. And then…

He rebuked himself. His ardor for Morigna had almost gotten them killed once before in the Torn Hills, when they had succumbed to it long enough for a group of urvaalgs to surprise them. Granted, the forests of Vhaluusk were not nearly as dangerous as the spell-haunted wilds of the Torn Hills, but they were still perilous enough. He had to remain focused.

There was a glint in Morigna’s eyes. Likely she had guessed his thoughts. She had gotten good at that.

“Kharlacht says there is a village not far from here,” said Ridmark. “Another mile or so. We’ll have a look, and then rejoin the others.”

Morigna shrugged. “Perhaps it will be empty. We have seen many empty villages in Vhaluusk.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. He slung his staff over his shoulder, hanging it from its own leather strap, and lifted his bow. He wasn’t as good a shot as Morigna, but he had spent five years wandering the Wilderland, and the necessity of hunting for meals had improved his skills with a bow. “Vhaluusk…emptied itself.”

“What happened?” said Morigna.

“It was five years ago,” said Ridmark, starting forward. “Vhaluusk had never been unified. There were a score of different orcish tribes, all of them worshipping the old blood gods. Then an orc shaman decided that he was the incarnation of one of the blood gods. He convinced many of the tribes of Vhaluusk, and they marched south at his command…”

“Mhalek,” said Morigna. “Then he and his followers met you.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “You…know what happened then.” He did not like to talk about that day, though God and the saints knew that it was always in his thoughts. “I suspect that is why we have had little trouble with Vhaluuskan orcs on our way to Khald Azalar. All the true believers perished with Mhalek and Qazarl, and those that remain are cynical and have lost their faith in the old blood gods of the orcs.”

Morigna laughed. “Do not tell Brother Caius. Else the dwarf shall be eager to win converts at every village and crossroads.” She considered for a moment. “Do you think that is what happened? That the men of this village followed Mhalek to his doom?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “The tracks are too recent. I think there were orcish men in this forest yesterday.”

“Aye,” said Morigna. “And those other tracks, too, the long ones with the claw marks.”

Ridmark nodded.

“I would say they were kobold tracks,” said Morigna, “but they are far too large. Kobolds stand three or four feet tall. Whatever left those tracks, to judge from their stride, was far larger.”

“You have a good eye,” said Ridmark, his own eyes moving back and forth over the trees.

“Calliande is right about you,” said Morigna.

That startled him so much that he almost stopped. “You and Calliande never agree about anything.”

“She says you keep secrets out of habit,” said Morigna, “and that you would rather make a point in a dramatic fashion than go to the trouble of explaining something. Like the marsh gas near Moraime. Or that carnivorous plant in the Torn Hills. Or…”

“Yes, I see your point,” said Ridmark. “I think those are troll tracks.”

“Trolls?” said Morigna. “Truly? There are such creatures as trolls?”

“You’ve never encountered them?” said Ridmark. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have. They prefer it colder. They rarely come as far south as Moraime, and prefer the peaks of Vhaluusk or the Mountains of Ice to the north. They are to kobolds as a lion is to a barn cat.”

“A pleasant thought,” said Morigna.

“Not really,” said Ridmark. “Their hides change color for camouflage. Not as effective as an urvaalg’s ability to become invisible, but they’re much smarter than urvaalgs. They regenerate, too.”

“Regenerate?” said Morigna.

“Heal themselves,” said Ridmark. “Not as quickly as Calliande can heal wounds, but close. Fire and acid are the only things that do lasting harm, and the only way to permanently kill trolls is to cut off their heads and remove their hearts. Otherwise they can regrow anything.”

“Even their heads?”

“Even their heads,” said Ridmark.

“That,” announced Morigna, “sounds grotesque.”

“It’s not a pleasant sight,” said Ridmark.

“You think trolls attacked the orc village,” said Morigna.

“I suspect so,” said Ridmark. “Let’s find out. No more talking until we’re there.”

“I shall send the ravens ahead to scout,” said Morigna. Her black eyes went glassy for a bit, her expression distant as she used her magic to command the ravens. Wings flapped overhead, and the dark shapes of ravens flew away to the northeast. Ridmark beckoned, and they kept moving.

The trees thinned around them as the slope grew steeper, and suddenly Ridmark and Morigna came into cleared fields, a wheat crop waving in the breeze coming down from the cold mountains. The hillside had been carved into terraces. A tall hill rose from the center of the terraces, topped by a fortified village. The houses had been built in the fashion of the pagan orcs of Vhaluusk, with round walls of fieldstone topped with thatch.

The village’s gates stood open, and utter silence reigned within.

“Anything?” said Ridmark after a moment.

Morigna’s eyelids fluttered as she communicated with her ravens. “Nothing. There is no one inside. One thinks the orcs were negligent in leaving their gates open, no?” She closed her eyes, her frown deepening. “The ravens smell…”

“What?” said Ridmark.

“Blood,” said Morigna. “Quite a lot of blood…oh.”

Her eyes popped open, and she took a cautious step back.

“What do trolls eat?” she said.

“Anything they can catch,” said Ridmark. A dark thought occurred to him. “You know what happened to the orcs.”

“There is a pyramid of skulls in the center of the village,” said Morigna. “Fresh ones, too. Bits of blood and meat are still stuck to them.”

“Like the trolls stacked them there,” said Ridmark, “after they had finished dining.”

“One suspects so,” said Morigna. “The ravens…are quite excited.”

“We had better get back to the others,” said Ridmark.

###

Calliande stared at the shapes of the mountains to the east.

They had come into sight a few days ago, and had gotten larger with every step. Now they loomed like the wall of a vast fortress. They did not really take up half the sky, she knew.

In her mind, it felt as if they did.

Because she knew what lay beneath those mountains.

What waited for her.

“My lady Magistria?” said a deep, smooth voice.

Calliande shook off her reverie. “Oh?”

A short halfling man stood a few paces away. He wore a vest of black leather and a white shirt that he somehow managed to keep crisp and clean despite the rigor of travel. His black trousers and boots matched his vest, and a sword and dagger rested in scabbards at his belt. He had large, amber-colored eyes with a square chin, his brown hair thick and curly. A glittering brooch held his dark cloak pinned in place, and in his right hand he held a biscuit.

“I must say, my lady Magistria,” said the halfling with a flourishing bow, “I have never seen anyone look so dismayed at the prospect of breakfast. I do hope it is not a commentary on Brother Caius’s cooking. I fear his feelings shall be crushed.”

“Ignore his witticisms, my lady,” said Brother Caius, straightening up from the campfire. He was of the dwarven kindred, broad and strong, his skin the color of granite. His hair was fighting a losing battle against his forehead, and his black beard was streaked with gray. His eyes were like blue marble, and a wooden cross hung from a cord around his neck, resting against his brown robes. “I fear that Master Jager is too used to the luxurious cooking of Coldinium. Alas, the simple fare of travelers is far too humble for his refined stomach.”

Jager, who had once been the Master Thief of Coldinium, snorted. “As I recall, when I prepared breakfast yesterday you compared my cooking to one of the ten plagues God visited upon the Pharaoh of Egypt on Old Earth.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Caius. “Your cooking was quite adequate.”

“Adequate,” snorted Jager. “He damns with faint praise. How like a preacher!”

“I said one of the ten plagues of Egypt would be preferable to hearing a tale of your exploits yet again, Master Jager,” said Caius.

Jager opened his mouth to reply, but Calliande spoke first.

“Behave, children,” she said.

“Children?” said Jager. “You look younger than me.”

“Unless you spent the last twenty-two decades sleeping below a ruin of the Order of the Vigilant,” said Calliande, “I fear I am somewhat your elder, good sir.”

Jager laughed and again flourished his cloak in a bow. “I stand corrected. And may I say, my lady Magistria, that you do not look a day over one hundred and twenty.”

Despite herself, Calliande laughed. Jager was boastful and argumentative and abrasive, yet he nonetheless had his charm. And he was a brave man who had risked everything to save his wife.

“With a honeyed tongue like that,” said Calliande, “I can see how you won Mara’s heart.”

She looked at Jager’s wife, expecting Mara to offer a droll comment of her own, but Mara was silent. She sat on the other side of the fire, her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. Mara was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, and Caius could likely have picked her up with one hand. Her large green eyes were distant, her ragged blond hair hanging loose to conceal the delicate elven points of her ears.

“Mara?” said Calliande. “Is everything all right?”

Mara looked up from the fire and offered a faint smile. “I…don’t know. Not yet. I need to think for a moment.”

“Foes?” said Caius, reaching for the mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel that hung from his broad leather belt.

“No,” said Mara.

“Something with the Sight?” said Calliande.

“No,” said Mara. “I’m…not sure. Let me think for a moment. If something is wrong, I will let you know.”

With that, Mara turned her gaze back to the fire.

Jager shrugged. “She was always the contemplative one.”

“A virtue made all the more obvious by her contrast with you,” said Caius.

“Ha!” said Jager. “That’s the spirit.”

“Thank you for breakfast,” said Calliande. Suddenly she wanted to think in peace, and watching Jager spar with Caius or Arandar or Kharlacht was not conducive to quiet contemplation. “I am going to take a walk around the edge of the camp. See if Ridmark and Morigna have gotten back yet.” They had gone off to scout. Of course, Calliande was well aware that they often used their scouting excursions for things other than scouting. Yet she did not think Ridmark had done so today. There had been a faint edge of concern to his voice. He thought was amiss.

“Of course, my lady,” said Caius, turning back to the fire.

Calliande walked across the clearing, slinging her green cloak over her shoulders. It was the middle of summer, yet the days this far north were still cool. Last night they had made camp in a large clearing that commanded an excellent view of the surrounding trees.

Two men stood at the edge of the camp, speaking in low voices. The first was orcish, a tower of a man who stood seven feet tall. His head had been shaved save for a black warrior’s topknot bound in a bronze ring, the black hair a stark contrast to his green skin. He wore armor of overlapping blue steel plates, and the hilt of a massive greatsword rose over his shoulder. Like Caius, he wore a wooden cross around his neck. The second man was human, about forty years old. He had a lean, weathered face, a hawkish beak of a nose, and hard brown eyes, his mane of black hair streaked with gray. A longsword rested at his belt, its hilt wrapped with leather.

“Kharlacht, Arandar,” said Calliande. “Any news?”

“Not yet,” said Kharlacht. The big orc remained solemn, as he almost always did. “But I do not expect the Gray Knight and Morigna to return for some time yet.”

Arandar scowled. “He spends too much time with her. That woman is not trustworthy.”

Kharlacht shrugged. “She is arrogant and opinionated, aye. But she has been a reliable comrade in many dangers.”

“What Ridmark does,” said Calliande, “is not our concern, Sir Arandar.”

Arandar gave her a hard look, but nodded. “You speak truly, my lady Keeper.”

A tingle of unease went through Calliande at the title.

She was the Keeper. When Malahan Pendragon had led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm to Andomhaim, the Keeper has been their guardian. Just as Merlinius Ambrosius had advised Arthur and his father on matters of magic upon Old Earth, so had the Keeper guided Malahan and his heirs. Even after the Magistri and the Swordbearers had been founded, armed with magic from the high elven archmage Ardrhythain, the Keeper had been the chief wizard of the realm, the High King’s advisor of all things magical.

Until the last Keeper had been killed fighting the Frostborn.

Or so Calliande had thought.

The Warden had told her the truth with his cold, malicious glee. Calliande had been the last Keeper, the architect of the High Kingdom’s victory against the Frostborn. But she had seen the truth, had seen that Shadowbearer had summoned the Frostborn and would one day do so again. Future generations might not see the peril. So she had put herself into deep sleep beneath the Tower of Vigilance, trusting the Order of the Vigilant to awaken her when the time had come.

Yet Shadowbearer had unraveled her plans. He had destroyed the Order of the Vigilant. He had created the Enlightened of Incariel to eat out the realm of Andomhaim like a cancer. And when she had awakened on the day of the blue fire, the day of the great omen, he had been waiting for her. If Ridmark had not intervened, if he had not saved her from the dark altar upon the slopes of the Black Mountain, she would have died.

Her plans would have come to nothing, and the Frostborn would have returned.

Calliande had forgotten everything that she had ever known, had sealed herself away below the Tower of Vigilance in deathlike sleep for centuries. Had Shadowbearer killed her, it would have all been for nothing.

And she would never have known why.

Her memory was still gone. The Warden had told her the truth, but she could not remember anything that had happened before she had awakened in that dark vault ninety-nine days ago. Her memories waited with her staff, the Keeper’s staff, in Dragonfall within Khald Azalar. The Keeper was a figure of legend, a woman of power and stern judgment. What sort of woman, Calliande wondered, had she been? What sort of woman would willingly leave everyone she had ever known and seal herself in sleep for centuries? Would she become that woman again when she retrieved her staff and memory?

Did she even want to become that woman?

Calliande realized that both Kharlacht and Arandar were looking at her with mild alarm.

“Forgive me,” said Calliande. “My mind wandered for a moment. I am going to have a look around. I should be back in a moment.”

“I will accompany you,” said Arandar.

“Thank you, sir knight, but I shall be fine,” said Calliande. In truth, she wanted to be alone to think. “I will return shortly.”

“I advise you not to go far,” said Kharlacht. His deep voice was grimmer than usual, his eyes narrowed behind his tusks. “There is something amiss here. Most of the villages of the foothills did not follow Mhalek in his fool’s quest. We should have seen more people by now.”

“I will not go far,” promised Calliande, and she walked past them and into the woods.

Part of her realized that this was foolish. She ought to remain in the camp, with the others. She still carried the empty soulstone at her belt, Shadowbearer hunted for her, and Ardrhythain could not delay him forever. Sooner or later he would find her. Yet she wanted to be alone, to think over the things that troubled her. She desperately wanted to talk to someone about her fears. Ridmark, most of all, but Morigna would have grown suspicious if Calliande had spent any time alone with him. Perhaps…

A branch snapped, and Calliande spun, her left hand coming up to work a spell, her right hand falling to the hilt of the dagger that Ridmark had given her. Coming out here alone had been foolish indeed…

A young man of sixteen or seventeen years came into sight. He had brown eyes and curly brown hair, his expression distant. He wore blue steel armor of similar design to Kharlacht’s, armor of dark elven metal looted from Urd Morlemoch’s armories. At his belt he carried a longsword of identical design as Arandar’s weapon. Arandar bore the soulblade Heartwarden that Ridmark had once carried. Gavin now bore the soulblade Truthseeker, recovered from the shadows of Urd Morlemoch. She had seen him wield that blade with great effect in the final desperate battle below the Warden’s great circle, had seen him slay an urvuul, a feat that few Swordbearers in all of Andomhaim’s history could claim.

He seemed older, much older, than the boy Calliande had met outside the village of Aranaeus, the rash boy who had hoped to travel to Castra Marcaine to seek the help of Gareth Licinius. That courage was still there, but it had been tempered into something harder.

Gavin blinked. “Lady Calliande. I did not think you were there.”

“Swordbearer,” said Calliande with a smile.

He blinked. “I…suppose that I am, aren’t I? Isn’t that an odd thing?”

“Not really,” said Calliande. “There have been Swordbearers of your age before, in the most desperate days of the wars against the urdmordar and the Frostborn.”

“Aye,” said Gavin, “but I never thought that I would be one of them.” He shook his head. “I did not mean to intrude. I shall go back to camp.”

“Actually,” said Calliande, “I think I might be the one intruding here.”

“No,” said Gavin. “I…just needed to think.”

“If you wish to speak,” said Calliande, “I am ready to listen.”

For a moment she thought that Gavin would say nothing.

Instead he shook his head. “I’m…not sure I know who I am any longer.”

Calliande said nothing, waiting.

“This is what I wanted, you know,” said Gavin. “I wanted to go to the High Kingdom and become a knight, and do great and daring deeds. And then…”

“And then you would return home to Aranaeus and wed Rosanna?” said Calliande.

“Aye,” said Gavin. “But she has wed Philip by now. Aranaeus will be rebuilt, if we stop the Frostborn…but it will not be the same. It will not be the place I grew up.” He shrugged. “It shouldn’t trouble me…but it does.”

“Perhaps you are simply putting aside childish things and becoming a man,” said Calliande.

Gavin snorted. “Brother Caius says that. I think he is quoting Saint Peter.”

“Paul, actually,” said Calliande. “I think you are feeling lost. That the world you knew is gone, and you don’t know how to make your way in a new one. That you have new abilities and new responsibilities, and you don’t know how to use them.”

“Yes,” said Gavin. “How did you know?”

“I feel a little of that myself,” said Calliande.

Gavin blinked, and then his eyes went wide. “Oh. I…should have realized. The things the Warden told you. Forgive me. My fears seem a small thing next to…ah, next to the things that you must fear.” He took a deep breath. “I do not know what it is worth, my lady, but you shall have my help until the end of our quest.”

“Thank you,” said Calliande. “And that is worth far more than you know. I think you shall be a worthy Swordbearer.”

“You are kind,” said Gavin.

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” said Calliande. “I saw you fight at Urd Morlemoch.”

“I suppose if I live long enough, we shall see if you were right or not,” said Gavin.

Calliande laughed. “Now you sound like Ridmark.”

Gavin shook his head. “I think…”

His eyes narrowed, and Truthseeker swept out of its scabbard, the soulstone worked in the blade shining with a pale white glow. Calliande spun, raising her hand for a spell.

A woman’s voice came to her ears, low and sardonic. “Did we startle you?”

A man and a woman came from the trees. The woman was black-haired and black-eyed, a bow in her hands. The man was tall and strong, with cold blue eyes in a hard face, his black hair close-cropped. A brand of a broken sword marred his left cheek. He wore a leather jerkin and a gray cloak over blue dark elven armor, a black staff slung over his shoulder, a hunting bow ready in his hands.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. A peculiar welter of emotions went through her at the sight of him. Gratitude for all the times that he had saved her life. A bit of longing, too. She could have very easily fallen in love with him. Perhaps it was just as well. The Keeper of Andomhaim did not seem like the kind of woman who should have personal entanglements.

Mostly, she was just glad to see him.

“Calliande, Gavin,” said Ridmark. “We had better had back to camp. There might be a problem.”

###

Gavin followed Ridmark, Calliande, and Morigna to the camp.

He kept quiet as they discussed the situation. Ridmark had seen far more fights than Gavin, and Calliande and Morigna could bring powerful magic to bear. Yet if Ridmark or Calliande commanded, then Gavin would act. He could act far more effectively than he could have a few weeks ago.

The sword at his side ensured that.

Even without concentrating, he felt his link to the soulblade at his side, the sword’s power waiting at his call. Long ago, the archmage Ardrhythain had forged the soulblades, giving them to the High King of Andomhaim to wield against the urdmordar. To Gavin, Ardrhythain had been a figure of distant history, and then Gavin had met him twice outside the walls of Urd Morlemoch.

Gavin was a Swordbearer now, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade. He could barely grasp the idea. A year ago he had been a boy of Aranaeus, angry at his father, hoping to win Rosanna’s attention.

It seemed like it had been a century ago. Gavin had seen wonders and terrors beyond imagination since then. What would his father think of him now?

Who had Gavin become?

He wasn’t sure he knew. He almost hoped that a fight was coming. In a battle there was no time to brood. That was why Ridmark and Kharlacht had him practice every day, working the movements of blade over and over so they became imprinted upon his very muscles.

They returned to the camp. Mara, Caius, and Jager sat at the fire, Jager and Caius arguing good-naturedly while Mara stared at the flames. Kharlacht and Arandar stood on watch a short distance away. Gavin’s eyes flicked to the soulblade at Arandar’s belt. Ridmark had once carried Heartwarden as a Swordbearer, but the sword had been taken from him after Mhalek’s death. Gavin had always respected Ridmark, but that respect had risen after he had taken up Truthseeker. To lose his link to his soulblade would be as devastating as losing a hand.

Yet Ridmark had carried on nonetheless.

“Gray Knight,” rumbled Kharlacht. “What news of the village?”

“There is no longer a village,” said Morigna.

They all looked at Ridmark.

“Something killed every single orc in the village,” said Ridmark. “Men, women, and children. Morigna’s ravens spotted their skulls piled up in the square. It seemed unwise to enter the village, so we came here to warn you.”

Calliande offered a faint smile. “By your usual standards of recklessness, that was prudent.”

“What slew the pagan orcs?” said Arandar. “Raiders from other villages?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Trolls.”

“Trolls?” said Jager. “Are not such beasts mythical?”

“I have never encountered one,” said Arandar.

“You’ve never come this far north before,” said Ridmark. “I have. Kharlacht has, too, I would wager.”

The big warrior offered a curt nod. “They dislike warmth, and prefer to keep to the mountains of Vhaluusk and the Mountains of Ice. I am surprised they have come down from the mountains. You are sure trolls slew the folk of the village?”

“There were troll tracks everywhere,” said Ridmark. “It happened recently, within the last two days.”

“What can you tell us about these creatures?” said Arandar. “If we are to fight them, then it is wise to know as much about them as we can.”

“They are large,” said Kharlacht. “Eight nor nine feet tall. As strong as five men, and deadly quick. In appearance they resemble large kobolds.”

Calliande shuddered at that. She had been taken captive by kobolds, Gavin remembered, before her powers as a Magistria had returned.

“They are also clever and cunning,” said Ridmark, “and have some ability to camouflage themselves. They are intelligent, fearsomely so, but do not have any kind of society or civilization. Their ability to heal, it seems, makes them averse to the company of their fellows, and they eat anything they can catch.”

“Anything?” said Jager.

“Anything,” said Ridmark.

“One imagines they would find halflings to be particularly toothsome,” said Morigna.

“Compared to you, certainly,” said Jager without missing a beat. “You would be far too bitter. And stringy.”

Morigna’s black eyes narrowed, but Ridmark kept speaking before Morigna could respond. “I hope to avoid them if we can, but if they pick up our trail we will have to fight. They can heal from almost anything, save for fire and vitriol. If we fight them, take them down and cut off their heads, and let Morigna burn the wounds with her acid mist.”

“Would not the soulblades harm them?” said Gavin.

“They are not creatures of dark magic,” said Ridmark. “Their strength and healing come from their flesh, not from any dark power.”

“We are but a day from Khorduk,” said Kharlacht, “and from there we can hire guides through the High Pass and the Vale of Stone Death. Perhaps we can elude the trolls entirely and reach the gates of Khald Azalar without incident.”

Calliande swallowed at that.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “Once we leave camp, we’ll circle south of the village and then head for the foothills. From what Kharlacht has said, it should be a straight path to Khorduk from there.”

The others nodded and started to move, but a quiet voice interrupted them.

“I fear,” said Mara, straightening up from the fire, “that we might have another problem.”

They all looked at her. Gavin liked Mara, but she inspired fear in him in a way that not even Morigna managed. Certainly Mara was the most level-headed among the Gray Knight’s followers. She never quarreled with anyone, never complained about anything, and never even raised her voice. She was short and pretty and soft-spoken and pious, and yet Gavin had seen her mow her way through the Warden’s orcs like so much wheat, the power of her dark elven blood making her disappear and reappear so fast that his eye could barely follow. If she felt like it, she could probably kill half the people in the camp in the space of a few heartbeats.

He was very glad she was on their side. Though he did wonder what Jager had done to charm her.

“What kind of problem?” said Ridmark.

“I think my father is coming here,” said Mara.

It took a few moments for that to sink in.

“The Traveler,” said Ridmark. “He’s coming to Vhaluusk.”

Mara nodded, her face tight. “He might be here already.”

“How do you know?” said Calliande.

“I can hear him,” said Mara. “No, that’s not quite right.” She searched for the words. “Since my…change started, I’ve been able to sense the auras of powerful dark elven lords and wizards.” Ridmark and Gavin nodded. “My mind interprets it as a song. A beautiful, compelling song. That’s why the urvaalgs and the ursaars and the other creatures of dark magic have to obey the dark elven lords. They hear the song…and it makes them want to obey. They do it willingly. Joyfully, even. I have my own song now, which is why they cannot compel me.” She shook her head, frowning, and Jager stepped to her side and took her hand. “But I wander from the point. The Traveler’s song, my father’s song, has been changing.”

“Changing how?” said Calliande.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” said Mara. “I’ve only been able to hear the songs since I escaped from the Iron Tower. And in that time, the songs I could hear – the Matriarch, the Warden, the Artificer, and my father – they stayed in the same place. Then my father’s song started to change. I thought he was casting a spell, or working some great sorcery. When you came back to the camp just now, Gray Knight, you were talking…”

“And my voice changed as I drew nearer,” said Ridmark.

“Then I understood,” said Mara. “The Traveler’s song changed because it wasn’t really a song. It was an aura, and he was moving. He’s coming closer, and I think he’s coming here.”

“For you?” said Ridmark.

“Perhaps he simply wishes to meet his new son-in-law,” said Jager.

“The Warden failed to recognize what you were,” said Arandar, “and that undid all his work. Perhaps the Traveler has not made the same mistake.”

Mara shook her head. “I doubt he even knows that I am still alive, and he would not care if he did. Something else has brought him forth.”

“It must be something of grave import,” said Arandar. “In all the history of the High King’s realm, the Traveler has never ventured forth from his stronghold of the Nightmane Forest.”

Jager snorted. “Yes, such a long history the High King’s realm has.”

Arandar scowled, but Caius spoke first. “If you will forgive Master Jager’s flippancy, sir knight, he does have a point. Malahan Pendragon came to this world from Old Earth a thousand years past. My own kindred have dwelled here for thirty times that. And the high elves and the dark elves…who can say how long they have warred? You heard what the Warden shouted at Ardrhythain during their duel. A hundred thousand years, or perhaps longer. Who can say what the Traveler has done in the past?”

“True,” said Mara. “But Sir Arandar has a point. My father is a coward.” She said it without rancor. “He will never put himself at risk if he can help it. That is why he has ringed Nightmane Forest with warding spells and surrounded himself with an army of orcs and urvaalgs. He has not left Nightmane Forest in the last millennia because he fears the outside world. Something dire must have driven him forth at last.”

“If not you, then what?” said Ridmark, but Mara only shrugged.

“Dragonfall,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “My staff. The power of the Keeper. That has to be it. Why else would the Traveler come to Vhaluusk? He must have realized that Dragonfall and the staff of the Keeper are within Khald Azalar.”

“Not even Shadowbearer knew where you had concealed your staff,” said Ridmark.

“The Warden knew,” said Mara. “Maybe the Traveler figured it out as well.”

“He must not claim it,” said Calliande. “That power cannot fall into his hands.”

“He won’t,” said Ridmark. “Not if we get there first. Then the Traveler can beware.”

“Of what?” said Calliande.

“Of you,” said Ridmark.

Calliande blinked.

“The power of the Keeper,” said Arandar. “The chronicles of the High King speak of how the Keepers dueled dark elven princes, how they could defeat urdmordar with their spells. Ardrhythain did not create the Two Orders until five hundred years after the realm was founded, when Andomhaim stood on the very edge of defeat. Before that, the Keeper’s strength held the dark powers at bay. If you recover yourself, my lady Calliande, you shall have that kind of power once more.”

Calliande nodded, though Gavin thought she looked uneasy.

“Whether the trolls or the Traveler are after us,” said Ridmark, “the sooner we are gone from here, the better. Let’s…”

He stopped talking, frowning as he looked at the trees to the west.

At the same time Morigna’s head snapped in the same direction, and four dark shapes shot overhead. Ravens, their wings flapping.

“Ridmark!” said Morigna. “They’re…”

“Trolls!” said Ridmark. “Defend yourselves!”

Gavin turned, drawing Truthseeker from its sheath, and saw nothing at all.

The soulstone embedded at the base of Truthseeker’s hilt shone with a pale white light, but the sword did not react as it did in the presence of dark magic. Gavin’s eyes swept back and forth over the clearing as the others raised weapons or began magical spells. He saw nothing strange, nothing out of place.

Then a branch snapped across the clearing, and the air in front of the trees rippled, changing colors like cheap paint dissolving beneath water.

And suddenly, all at once, Gavin saw the trolls.

There were three of the creatures, their scaly hides changing colors to match their surroundings as they raced forward. They looked like a cross between a towering man and a hunting lizard. Long claws tipped their fingers and toes, and their tails coiled back and forth behind them like whips. Gavin would have expected them to have long snouts like lizards, but instead they had short, blocky heads with enormous fang-lined jaws, their necks corded with muscle like mastiffs. Those jaws would let them take devastating bites, ripping chunks of flesh from their prey. Their nostrils were black slits, and their eyes were yellow and divided by vertical black slashes, like the eyes of a serpent.

Gavin lifted Truthseeker, calling upon its power, and the sword answered. Strength flooded through him, and suddenly he felt faster, felt as if he could cut down an oak tree with a single blow. He started forward, shield upon his left arm, Truthseeker grasped in his right.

Morigna was faster.

She swept her staff before her, purple fire flickering from the sigils carved into the wood. A twitch went through the ground, and thick masses of roots erupted from the earth, reaching up to coil around the trolls’ muscled legs. The creatures came to a staggering halt, snarling with fury, and slashed at the roots binding their legs. Their claws parted the roots as if they were slender threads.

But the roots had slowed them long enough for Gavin and the others to attack.

He struck before the first troll recovered. The creature straightened up as its claws shredded through the roots, and Gavin brought Truthseeker down in a vicious slash. The soulblade sheared through the troll’s wrist, the talon-tipped hand falling to the earth. In lieu of blood, thick yellowish slime spurted from the stump of the hand. The troll loosed a deafening, brassy roar, its thick head coming down, its jaws yawning wide. Gavin stepped back, snapping his shield up. The troll’s fangs, like massive serrated daggers, slammed into his shield. The impact staggered him a step, but the troll leaned forward, its remaining hand coming up. That movement gave Gavin an opening, and he brought Truthseeker up and down again, all his strength and the sword’s power driving the blow.

The soulblade split the troll’s skull. The creature went into a weird, jerking dance, and fell backwards. As it did, Gavin caught a look at its wrist.

Its right hand was already growing back, the scales slick with yellowish slime.

It was such a grotesque sight that Gavin froze for an instant, but only an instant. His training and his experiences screamed at him, and he snapped his gaze back and forth, taking stock of the battlefield, half-expecting that the other two trolls were about to attack him.

But the fighting was almost over.

Arandar, Kharlacht, Caius, and Jager had taken one of the trolls. Jager had somehow gotten behind the creature and hamstrung it with the sword he had taken from the Warden’s armory. As the troll stumbled, Arandar, Caius, and Kharlacht landed blow after blow, driving the troll to the ground.

Ridmark fought the final troll all by himself.

Gavin blinked in astonishment. He was competent at the art of fighting, but if he could sketch a decent picture, Ridmark could have painted an entire fresco by himself. The black staff of Ardrhythain blurred and flickered in his hands, and he landed blow after blow upon the troll, dancing around the creature’s raking claws and snapping fangs. The staff did not penetrate the troll’s hide, but Gavin heard the snap and crack as the troll’s bones broke. At last the troll fell with a rasping bellow of fury, and Ridmark brought the butt of his staff down with both hands.

The crack of the troll’s skull collapsing sounded like a thunderclap.

Gavin stepped back just as the troll he had struck down started to move. It sat up, its cloven head oozing back together, yellow slime dripping down the distorted face and across its muscled chest. He struck with Truthseeker again, driving the soulblade into the troll’s chest and again into its skull. The creature slumped back to the ground, but already its wounds shrank. Gavin had never seen anything heal that fast. Calliande’s healing magic worked quickly, but he had seen the price she paid to work the spell, the pain that filled her face and her eyes as she worked the spell.

The troll merely seemed annoyed.

“Get out of the way!” Morigna’s voice rang over the clearing, and Gavin sprang to the side. Morigna gestured again, and a sphere of writhing gray mist rolled over the fallen troll. It touched the troll’s wounds, which spat and sizzled as the acidic mist flowed into them. The troll’s frantic twitching stopped as the mist rolled into its head. Gavin turned as Morigna cast her spell again. Kharlacht, Arandar, Caius, and Jager jumped back, and Morigna’s mist rolled over the thrashing troll, hissing and snarling. Ridmark snatched a burning brand from the campfire and drove it into the mouth of the troll he had struck down. The troll went motionless, and he retreated as Morigna rolled a cloud of acidic mist over the troll.

The mist faded, and silence fell over the clearing.

Ridmark looked around, nodded to himself, and drew the dwarven war axe from his belt. The Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave of Coldinium had given the enspelled weapon to him. Ridmark buried the axe blade in the chest of the nearest troll, yellowish slime bursting forth, and raised the weapon for another blow.

“What are you doing?” said Calliande.

“Making sure they don’t heal and attack us from behind,” said Ridmark. “I’ll take the hearts. Kharlacht, remove the heads. Once you have them off, throw them in the fire. It’s the only way to make sure they don’t heal.”

Kharlacht nodded, raised his greatsword, and went to work.

###

Perhaps ten minutes later Ridmark tossed the final heart into the fire and wiped his hands clean upon the grass. God and the saints, but the stench of burning troll flesh was hideous.

“What now?” said Calliande, looking at the flames.

“We go,” said Ridmark, “and make our way to Khorduk. Avoid the trolls if we can, and fight our way clear if we cannot.”

“If we can,” said Calliande.

“We went into Urd Morlemoch and we came out alive again,” said Ridmark. “After everything we have endured, I don’t intend to let some trolls or even Mara’s father stop us.”

She smiled. “You cheer me.”

“Let us hope my optimism is not delusional,” said Ridmark.

They left the clearing and headed northeast into the forest.

Chapter 2: Prey

Ridmark led the way through the forest.

Morigna was a few paces behind him, her bow in hand. Of all the others, she was the only one who could keep up with him while remaining stealthy. Though in truth, it was more of a question of whether or not he could keep up with her. She moved like a ghost through the trees, sometimes so quietly that he lost track of where she was. He had learned hunting and tracking as a squire at Castra Marcaine, skills that had been refined by five years wandering the Wilderland. Morigna had spent years living alone in the wilderness as a child, and stealth and tracking were woven into her very bones.

Mara was almost as good, though.

The power of her dark elven blood let her travel short distances in an instant. She could cover twenty or thirty yards in the blink of an eye, vanishing and reappearing in a swirl of blue flame. The flame could draw notice, of course, but Mara had a knack for choosing locations that blocked the light of the fire, bushes and patches of trees and boulders. The use of her power taxed her, and Ridmark would not have had her use it under normal circumstances.

Moving through a troll-haunted forest was not a normal circumstance. The trolls were six hundred pounds of muscle and talons, but for all their bulk they moved with terrifying stealth. It would have been a cruel fate for Calliande to have survived the Frostborn and her long sleep and Shadowbearer only for some passing troll to kill her.

He intended to see her to Dragonfall alive. Between Morigna’s ravens and Mara’s abilities, he should be able to keep any trolls from ambushing them. As a Swordbearer of Dux Gareth’s court, he had often led men into battle, and he had never possessed such capable scouts before. Hopefully he would never have to face an army with scouts like Morigna and Mara.

Ridmark pushed the musings away and looked back. The others were in a loose line behind him. Kharlacht brought up the front and Arandar the back, ready to attack should any trolls show themselves. Calliande walked between Caius and Gavin, both of them ready to defend her if attackers appeared. Though she was hardly defenseless herself, given the power of the magic she could bring to bear. Jager strolled next to her, as calmly as if he had been walking through the forum of Coldinium. Enemies tended to overlook him in a fight, which made it easier for him to hamstring them or stab them in the back.

The ground grew steeper and rockier. Most of the forests of Vhaluusk were oak and maple, towering and old, but the heavy trees thinned, replaced by pines and sturdy bushes. They were entering the foothills, and the village of Khorduk was not far. Another day, Ridmark thought, and they could shelter behind walls before making the final journey to the Vale of Stone Death and the gates of Khald Azalar.

He did not like this terrain. The slope meant that any enemies would have the high ground, and the small valleys and ravines of the hills provided ample places for an ambush…

Blue fire flickered in front of Ridmark, and Mara reappeared, breathing hard.

“What is it?” he said. She wouldn’t have come back unless she had seen something.

“Fighting ahead,” said Mara, the others catching up to Ridmark. “A group of orcs, six or seven, and a pair of trolls. I don’t think the orcs will last long without help.”

“What manner of orcs?” said Ridmark. “Vhaluuskan?”

Mara shrugged. “I think so. They wore fur and leather, had a lot of scars and tattoos. I suspect they would not hesitate to attack us if they thought they could prevail.”

“If we aid them,” said Kharlacht, “they may tell us news of the trolls, and perhaps of the Traveler and his army.”

“Or,” said Morigna, “they shall cut our throats by way of thanks.”

Kharlacht shrugged, unruffled as ever. “Perhaps. But I doubt that. All the fanatics of Vhaluusk perished with Mhalek and Qazarl at Dun Licinia. The remaining orcs of Vhaluusk are pragmatic. If we save their lives, they will likely not assail us. Perhaps they are even baptized and follow the teachings of the Dominus Christus.”

Morigna snorted, but said nothing else.

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “Let us aid them, and see what we might learn.”

“It’s this way,” said Mara. “In a small valley about a quarter mile up the slope.”

“Lead on,” said Ridmark.

###

Calliande’s magic could not harm the trolls. She was a Magistria, wielding the power of the ancient Well in Tarlion’s heart, and her magic could heal, defend, and seek. It could not harm or kill another living mortal, and the trolls were living creatures.

That did not mean her magic would be useless in the coming fight.

She took deep breaths as they walked, gathering her power and focusing her will. At last she was ready, and she lifted her hands and cast the first spell, white light pulsing from her fingers. The glow sank into the others, a spell to turn aside harm and armor them from blows. It would not make them invincible from harm, but it would provide some protection.

Then she cast another spell, more white light sinking into her companions. This spell made them faster and stronger. It would not make them as fast and strong as Heartwarden and Truthseeker made Arandar and Gavin, but it would give them an edge nonetheless. Battles were chaotic, terrifying things, and the smallest thing could decide victory or defeat. She would give her friends every advantage in her power, and she concentrated on the effort of holding the spells in place.

Only to discover that it was not as much of an effort as she expected.

Holding a spell in place was like carrying a bucket of water up a flight of stairs. She could do it without much difficulty, and the longer she did it the more tired she became. Yet it was much easier than it had been. The amount of magic she had used at the Iron Tower during the desperate battle against the Artificer had made her stronger…and the amount of power the Warden had used within her flesh had magnified her strength further. Once holding two spells in place like this had been an effort. Now it was no more onerous than carrying a pair of daggers.

Perhaps she had gotten stronger…or perhaps the power of the Keeper was asserting itself.

That thought disturbed her. Maybe it shouldn’t have. The Keeper was who she really was. Calliande wondered again what kind of woman she had been.

She pushed the entire mess out of her mind. A battle was not the place for such contemplations.

But by the time they reached the valley, the battle was over.

Mara might have seen six or seven orcs, but a dozen orcs carpeted the ground, some of them still moaning. A pair of trolls moved over them, their hides rippling green to match the carnage on the ground. The blood of orcs was dark green, and the talons and the fangs of the trolls glistened as they feasted.

A hideous scream of agony came to Calliande’s ears.

They were eating the orcs alive.

Calliande took a deep breath, focused upon the spells. Ridmark, Arandar, Gavin, and Kharlacht started forward. Morigna came to Calliande’s side, trading her bow for her sigil-carved staff, while Caius and Jager moved in front of them, ready to shield them should the trolls recognize the danger of Morigna’s magic and attack. Mara walked to Jager’s side, a short sword of dark elven steel in her right hand.

The trolls looked up and let out a coughing, wheezing laugh.

“What folly is this?” said the nearest troll in orcish with a thick accent. A memory stirred in Calliande’s mind, something she had learned before she had gone into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. The trolls had their own secret language, one never shared with others. “Humans, a dwarf, and an orc, all traveling together?” It clicked its jaws, its serrated fangs making a rasping sound as they rubbed against each other. “A most peculiar meal, but I shall not object.”

“You’re a long way from your mountains,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps you ought to return to them before you try to eat something that disagrees with you.”

“The world is about to change,” hissed the troll. “The great power stirs below the mountains, and the demons in the deep awaken.” Calliande blinked at that. Did it mean the Keeper’s staff? “The stench of the change fills my nostrils. This world shall change, and we shall feast upon you and your kindred.”

“Why don’t you tell me about that?” said Ridmark.

The troll’s blunt features twisted into a sneer. “You lesser kindreds. You require so many words. Such fools you are! Do you not understand? The hunger is the one true master, and we shall devour you! Your screams shall…”

Blue fire flickered, and Mara appeared behind the troll, the short sword flashing in her hands. The troll’s diatribe ended in a furious scream, and it whirled as Mara disappeared, reappearing next to Calliande in the usual swirl of blue flame.

“A splendid rebuttal, my dear,” said Jager.

“Why, thank you,” said Mara.

In the troll’s moment of confusion, Ridmark, Arandar, Gavin, and Kharlacht charged, weapons raised. The second troll roared in fury and broke into a run, its hide rippling, and Kharlacht went left and Gavin went right. Kharlacht’s massive greatsword, a broad length of gleaming blue dark elven steel, ripped through the troll’s leg. Gavin slashed, Truthseeker glowing in his fist, and the soulblade pierced the troll’s thick scales like cloth. The troll stumbled forward, its heavy claws raking for Arandar. The High King’s bastard son snapped his shield up, and the claws rebounded from the oak and steel. Heartwarden blurred in his fist. The blade pierced the troll’s skull, and the creature went into a twitching dance. Arandar ripped the soulblade free, and Kharlacht stepped past him, raising his greatsword and bringing it down like a man chopping wood. The troll’s head rolled away, the jaw still working, and the slime-coated stump of its neck bubbled as a new head started growing from the damaged flesh.

“Morigna,” said Calliande, but the sorceress was already moving. A ball of mist rolled over the stump of the troll’s neck, burning the wound, and the half-formed head burst into flames. Kharlacht went to work opening the troll’s chest and taking out its heart, while Gavin and Arandar ran to aid Ridmark. The Gray Knight wheeled around the troll, dodging its furious blows and landing strike after strike with his black staff. The troll’s right leg looked misshapen from the barrage, a shard of slime-coated bone jutting from the damaged limb. Ridmark stepped back, and Gavin and Arandar attacked. The troll roared and reached for Gavin, and the young Swordbearer dodged, causing the troll’s injured leg to buckle beneath it. The troll stumbled, and Arandar plunged Heartwarden into its chest. Ridmark slammed the end of his staff against the side of the troll’s skull. There was a crack, and the troll went limp, the wounds on its leg and chest already healing.

Arandar brought Heartwarden down, taking off the troll’s head. At once Morigna cast her mist over the spurting stump of its neck, and Ridmark drew his dwarven axe and started opening its chest.

Calliande let out a sigh and released her spells.

The fighting was over. She suspected they would encounter trolls again, perhaps this very day. So far no one had taken injuries in the fighting, but Calliande doubted that would last. The trolls had been overconfident, and they had so far encountered only small groups of trolls.

Could they take ten at once? Twenty?

Calliande hoped they would not have to find out.

She stepped forward, looking at the fallen orcs. She wondered if any of them were still alive, if…

Then her eyes saw their faces, and she froze in alarm.

###

Ridmark wiped yellow slime from his axe and returned the weapon to his belt. More of Morigna’s mist swirled over the fallen trolls, making sure that they would not rise again. Ridmark stepped towards the fallen orcs, wondering if any of them had survived.

It didn’t look as if any of them had, which was likely a mercy. The trolls had been taking bites from the orcs almost at random, like fat merchants sampling a platter of appetizers. Some of the orcs had been reduced to nothing more than mangled piles of bloody meat.

Ridmark stopped, blinking in surprise.

One of the orcs had a scarred face. That was not unusual. Kharlacht had scars. So did Ridmark. Yet this warrior’s scars had been carved into the shape of a stylized skull that covered his face. The green skin of his head had been tattooed red, which made it seem as if the warrior’s face had been covered with a crimson skull.

A crimson skull was the symbol of the orcish god Mhor, the blood god of death and slaughter. That meant that the dead orc had been a Mhorite, a fanatical follower of Mhor from the mountains of Kothluusk to the southwest.

Ridmark had encountered those orcs before.

“Mara,” he said, and she stepped to his side. “These orcs. Do you know who they are?”

She shrugged. “Vhaluuskan pagans, I assume.”

“You’ve never seen Mhorites, then?” said Ridmark.

“Mhorites?” said Mara with alarm. “These are the orcs Jager told me about? The ones that tried to kill you at Vulmhosk and Coldinium?”

“You were with the Red Family,” said Ridmark. “They worship Mhor, too. I’m surprised you’ve never encountered the Mhorites.”

Mara shook her head. “The Matriarch kept me away from them. I suspect she feared I would try to take control of them.”

“A far more pertinent question,” said Morigna, “is why there are Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk in the forests of Vhaluusk.”

“We are a long way from Kothluusk,” said Caius, frowning at the mutilated dead.

“Aye,” said Morigna. “Perhaps there is an alliance between the Mhorites and the orcs of Vhaluusk.”

“No,” said Kharlacht and Arandar at once. They glanced at each other in surprise, and Arandar gestured for Kharlacht to continue. “The orcs of Vhaluusk worship many gods, but the Kothluuskans hold Mhor supreme. Furthermore, they are murderous fanatics, and think nothing of killing and enslaving other orcs.”

“When they cannot raid in Durandis and Rhaluusk,” said Arandar, “they turn against other orcish tribes.”

“But to come this far?” said Kharlacht. “It seems unlikely.”

“Perhaps they came here for the same reason that the Traveler has come here,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “To claim the power in Dragonfall.”

“We don’t know why the Traveler is here,” said Ridmark, “and as for the Mhorites…”

“Gray Knight.”

The voice was a furious, hissing rasp. Ridmark whirled, fearing that one of the trolls had healed from Morigna’s mist. The trolls’ carcasses remained motionless, but one of the fallen orcs got to his knees, his leather cuirass wet with blood, the right side of his face gleaming with gore.

He held a dagger clutched in his right hand.

“I know you, Gray Knight,” rasped the Mhorite, black eyes glittering with the scarlet light of orcish battle rage. “I saw you. When you dueled the great Voice of Mhor below the walls of Vulmhosk. You should have fallen there. You shall fall.”

“The Voice of Mhor?” said Ridmark, a dark suspicion falling into his mind.

“I think,” said Morigna, “that he means Mournacht.”

That was an alarming thought. Mournacht was an orcish shaman, a priest of Mhor, a wielder of powerful dark magic. He was also a formidable warrior, and used his dark magic to enhance to combat prowess to deadly effect. Ridmark had dueled him twice, once at Vulmhosk, and again at Tarrabus Carhaine’s domus in Coldinium, and both times Ridmark had barely escaped.

“The female speaks truly,” snarled the Mhorite, staggering forward. “The Voice of Mhor is here. He has gathered tribes of Kothluusk to his side, and he has marched forth with the might of the followers of great Mhor behind him. He has come to claim the great power for himself, and to bring the world beneath the heel of Mhor.”

“The power?” said Calliande with alarm.

“The great power awakening beneath the mountains,” said the Mhorite warrior. “The Voice of Mhor shall claim it and pour out Andomhaim upon Mhor’s altar as a blood offering.” He laughed. “He shall be pleased, most pleased, to find you again, Gray Knight. He owes you a debt of pain and suffering.”

“Does he, now?” said Ridmark. “Tell him that he is welcome to try and collect, if he wishes.”

The Mhorite started to answer.

Suddenly both Heartwarden and Truthseeker blazed with white fire, and a jolt of pain went through Ridmark’s head from his broken bond with Heartwarden.

“Beware!” shouted Arandar. “A…”

A blur shot behind the Mhorite orc and drove the Kothluuskan warrior to the ground. The orc just had time to scream, and then a hunched, misshapen form appeared over him as the blur melted away. The creature pinning the Mhorite looked like a twisted cross between a wolf and an ape, its body corded with muscle, greasy, lank black fur hanging from its body. Its eyes burned like dying coals, and its fanged mouth yawned wide.

It was an urvaalg, one of the war beasts of the ancient dark elves, a creature immune to steel and vulnerable only to magic.

Before Ridmark could react, the urvaalg’s jaws crushed the Mhorite’s skull with a single vicious snap.

“They’re around us!” said Gavin, and a half-dozen more blurs appeared, resolving into the shape of urvaalgs. The scent of the spilled blood must have drawn them. The urvaalgs charged in a ring, claws bared, fanged maws yawning wide. Almost anyone would have fallen to such a vicious onslaught.

But Ridmark had two Swordbearers with him, and the soulblades had been forged to fight creatures of dark magic.

Gavin and Arandar moved in a blur, their soulblades leaving a trail of white fire in the air behind them. The Swordbearers crashed into the charging urvaalgs, leaving two of the creatures dead in their wake. Calliande shouted and cast a spell, and a blast of white fire slammed into another urvaalg, throwing the beast to the ground. The creature screamed as the white fire of the Well’s magic chewed into its flesh. The urvaalg crouching atop the dead Mhorite snarled and sprang forward.

Ridmark met its attack with a two-handed blow of his staff.

His old staff would have been useless. That staff had burned in the destruction of the Torn Hills as the aftermath of the Warden’s furious spells erupted around them. Instead, Ardrhythain had given Ridmark his old staff. The archmage of Cathair Solas had carried the staff for so long and worked so many spells with it that the staff had taken on some magic of its own. Symbols of white fire flared up the staff’s length as Ridmark struck, and the weapon smashed against the urvaalg’s yawning jaws. Fangs shattered and bones cracked, and the urvaalg stumbled with a furious yowl. Before the creature recovered, Ridmark swung again, his staff hammering against the side of the urvaalg’s skull.

This time the creature went down and stayed down.

Ridmark spun, seeking another foe, and saw a second urvaalg preparing to spring.

There was no way he could reach it before the beast jumped, and it was too close for him to avoid the lunge. Ridmark got both hands around his staff and braced himself, hoping he could strike the urvaalg in midair with enough force to divert its motion.

But the urvaalg did not move, its body trembling with tension.

Ridmark had an instant of confusion, and then his instincts screamed for him to move. He raced forward, whipping the staff around, and brought it down with all his strength. The urvaalg started to get to its feet, but by then it was too late. The black staff of Ardrhythain slammed into the urvaalg’s skull with the snap of bone, and the creature collapsed to the bloody ground.

He whirled, seeking new foes, but the battle had ended. Arandar cut down the final urvaalg, Heartwarden blazing with white fire. Ridmark remembered what it had felt like to have Heartwarden burning in his fist, the sword’s power flowing up his arm and filling him with strength. He also remembered what it had been like to have his connection to the sword severed, agony flooding through him. He still had a sharp headache whenever he looked at the sword or drew too close to it.

None of that mattered right now.

“Is anyone wounded?” said Ridmark.

“I don’t think so,” said Calliande, looking around.

“Seven urvaalgs and not a scratch,” said Caius. “Truly, God was with us.”

“God,” said Jager, offering a grand bow to Gavin, “and two men with soulblades. You know, Sir Arandar, as annoying as you are, you are quite a useful fellow to have around.”

“Such high praise,” said Arandar, his tone half-amused, half-annoyed.

Gavin said nothing, staring hard at Morigna. She glared right back at him. Ridmark wondered what that was about, and decided that he could worry about it later.

“The spilled blood must have drawn the urvaalgs,” said Kharlacht. “They are likely one of the few creatures in Vhaluusk that can defeat a troll in combat.”

“It is not a mystery why the urvaalgs were here,” said Caius. “I am more concerned about the Mhorites.”

Jager shrugged. “It is not such a mystery. I daresay we rather annoyed Mournacht during our last meeting, and I’m certain the Gray Knight in particular vexed him a great deal. Well, Morigna and her rats, too.” Calliande shuddered a little at that. She hated rats.

“But to gather a host and march upon Vhaluusk?” said Arandar. “Vhaluusk is a long way from Kothluusk, and to march so far for vengeance…”

“He’s not here for vengeance,” said Calliande. “You heard that Mhorite orc. Mournacht is here to claim the power below the mountains. He’s here to take the Keeper’s staff for himself.”

“How could he possibly know that?” said Jager. “No one knew where the damned thing is, not even you, and you’re the one who hid it!”

“The Warden knew,” said Caius.

“Aye, and we almost got ourselves killed asking him,” said Jager. “I cannot see Mournacht taking the same risks, or the Warden sharing the secret out of charity.”

“Shadowbearer,” said Kharlacht.

They all looked at him. Save for Calliande, Kharlacht was the only other member of their group who had met their ultimate enemy.

“From what we have seen, Shadowbearer prefers to work through emissaries and proxies,” said Kharlacht. “He used Qazarl and my kin to claim the soulstone and Calliande, and when that failed, he used the Enlightened of Incariel and the Red Family. We defeated them both, so now Shadowbearer has chosen a different proxy.”

“How could he know to send Mournacht here?” said Calliande. “How would the Traveler know to come here?”

Mara shrugged. “Perhaps he watched us from afar.” She considered that for a moment. “Or maybe we awakened the staff of the Keeper.”

“Awakened?” said Calliande. “What do you mean?”

“I wonder,” said Mara, “if when you learned of the staff’s location, it…woke up. Started calling to you, the way the auras of the dark elven lords call to me.”

“I can’t hear or sense anything like that,” said Calliande.

“I fear it is possible,” said Mara, “that you have forgotten how to do so.”

“But the Traveler and Mournacht,” said Ridmark, “might know how to hear the staff.”

“Others, too,” said Jager. “If my clever wife is correct, and she usually is, that means anyone who can hear the staff’s call will hasten to claim it. Like pouring out a bag of coins in the forum on a festival day.”

“Then our task is all the simpler,” said Ridmark.

“How?” said Calliande.

“It is a race,” said Ridmark. “We simply find Dragonfall and your staff before the Traveler, Mournacht, and anyone else who tries to claim it.”

“That’s it?” said Jager, and he laughed. “Simplicity itself!”

“The best plans are always simple, are they not?” said Ridmark. “If this is a race, then let us win it.”

They left the valley and the dead Mhorites, trolls, and urvaalgs, climbing higher into the foothills.

###

A few hours later Gavin saw Morigna walking alone at the rear of the column, her eyes half-closed as her ravens circled overhead, watching for trolls and Mhorites and God knew what else.

He made up his mind, took a deep breath, and walked to her.

Her eyes, hard and black and deep, stared at him. Again he wondered what Ridmark saw in her. She was brave and clever, true. She was also pretty, and when he had seen her unclad at Coriolus’s altar near Moraime, he was honest enough with himself to admit that it had been hard to look away. Yet there was a cold arrogance within her that seemed dangerous.

“Well, Sir Swordbearer,” said Morigna in her usual mocking tone. “Come to keep me company, hmm? Perhaps to reminisce about your childhood in Aranaeus, oblivious as everyone around you worshipped spiders?”

“I know what you did,” said Gavin.

“Oh, just what is that?” said Morigna. “I ate breakfast, I helped save your lives from some trolls…”

“You used dark magic,” said Gavin, his voice quiet enough that no else could hear it, “to control that urvaalg in the battle.”

Morigna’s eyes narrowed into black slits. “So sure of that, are you? Are you a Magistrius now, to…”

“I felt it,” said Gavin. “During the battle. It was the same spell you used during our fight against the Warden’s creatures. I only felt it because I was standing a few feet away from you. I think you made it weaker so that Sir Arandar and Lady Calliande would not sense it.”

Morigna stared at him. He could almost guess the thoughts behind those dark eyes. She was contemplating lying to him. Or perhaps attacking him.

“So you think to bully me, boy?” said Morigna. Apparently she had decided to threaten him. “You think that sword gives you the right to command me? Sir Gavin the Wise, then?”

“Why?” said Gavin. “You told the Gray Knight you would not use the dark magic again.”

“I did it to save Ridmark’s life,” hissed Morigna. “That urvaalg would have taken him unawares, and neither of you mighty Swordbearers were close enough to aid him. I will not lose someone else to those damned urvaalgs.”

Gavin hesitated. He knew that dark magic was dangerous. He had seen what happened to those who turned to dark powers, Paul Tallmane foremost among them. Morigna was playing with fire, was creating a weapon that would one day turn upon her. Yet he could not find the words to articulate his thoughts.

“You should be careful,” said Gavin at last. “You are playing with dangerous things.”

She sneered. “I have been playing with dangerous things since long before you were born.”

“You are five or six years older than me at most,” said Gavin. “If you were playing with dangerous things then, you must have been a most foolish five-year-old.”

She almost smiled at that. “So, my brave Swordbearer. What shall you do with the vile witch in your midst? Denounce me to Sir Arandar and the Magistria?”

“No,” said Gavin. “I’m not going to tell anyone. You should think on something, though.”

“Do enlighten me,” said Morigna.

“You used a spell to control an urvaalg,” said Gavin. “The Old Man used an urvaalg to kill your Sir Nathan. What kind of spell do you think the Old Man used to command the urvaalg? The same one you’re using, perhaps?”

Her face went blank, but her dark eyes flashed with rage, and for a moment Gavin thought she might strike him. Then she scowled and looked away, but he saw a flicker of chagrin on her face. Perhaps she had listened to him. Perhaps she was putting on a show for his benefit.

But he would watch her closely nonetheless.

Chapter 3: Khorduk

The next day they reached Khorduk in the middle of the afternoon.

“That,” said Gavin with surprise, “looks a lot like Thainkul Dural.”

Ridmark nodded, watching the village.

They were high in the foothills now, almost to the mountains proper. The peaks rose up overhead like fists of gray stone and white ice, their snow-topped caps glinting in the sun sinking towards the western horizon. Somewhere beyond those peaks, he knew, lay the Vale of Stone Death and the gates to the ruined dwarven city of Khald Azalar.

With luck, they would find aid within the walls of Khorduk.

The village was a peculiar mixture of dwarven and pagan orcish architecture. A stockade of sharpened logs and piled stones encircled the village, and most of the houses within were round with thatched roofs, much like the dead village Ridmark and Morigna had seen yesterday. Yet the gate’s twin watch towers were built of massive blocks of perfectly worked stone, and stood twice as tall as the stockade itself. The blocky shape of dwarven glyphs marked the towers’ sides, along with the stylized, angular bas-beliefs the dwarven kindred preferred for artwork. Within the heart of the village rose another blocky dwarven tower, twice as high as the watch towers. Khorduk was a strong place and would be difficult to take by storm. To judge from the crossbow-armed guards standing atop the wall, it hadn’t fallen to the trolls. If the Traveler and Mournacht had both brought armies to enter Khald Azalar, they would find it wiser to go around Khorduk.

“Aye, Sir Gavin,” said Caius, gazing at the towers. “It was once one of the outer watch towers of Khald Azalar, with a signal fire to warn the others. Likely it fell when the Frostborn stormed Khald Azalar itself.”

“If it is a watch tower,” said Morigna, “then would it not open to the Deeps? Perhaps we can enter Khald Azalar through a tunnel and avoid our foes entirely.”

Caius shook his head. “A sound thought, but the outer watch towers would not link to the Deeps. The approaches to Khald Azalar within the Deeps have their own strong points.”

“You seem most familiar with Khald Azalar, Brother Caius,” said Arandar with surprise.

“I visited it once,” said Caius, his deep voice distant. “Long ago, before it fell to the Frostborn, when the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves were still the Four Kingdoms. Certainly long before any of you children were born.”

“You shall make a useful guide, then,” said Arandar.

“Not as much as I would wish,” said Caius. “It was long ago, and I only visited the top levels of Khald Azalar. I had no idea the Keeper would conceal her staff there…or even who the Keeper really was.” He smiled. “Had I but been a little older, I could have met Calliande in person centuries ago and saved us much trouble.”

Calliande smiled back. “How dare you have been born too late, Brother Caius.”

“We can hire a guide with more recent knowledge here,” said Kharlacht.

“This village looks like a den of iniquity,” said Arandar.

“It is,” said Kharlacht, “but the orcs here worship neither the blood gods nor the Dominus Christus, but only profit. They will not kill us in the name of Mhor.”

“No,” said Jager. “Though they might kill us in the name of all the armor of dark elven steel that we are wearing. Such relics are valuable.”

“That is a possibility,” said Kharlacht. “But only if we look like easy prey.”

“Well,” said Ridmark. “Let us find out if we are appetizing or not.”

He strode towards the gates of Khorduk, the others following. The Vhaluuskan orcs upon the stockade straightened up, lifting their crossbows. They didn’t precisely aim at him, but Ridmark knew they could bring the crossbows to bear easily enough. He stopped a dozen paces from the gate and lifted his hands.

For a moment the orcs stared at him.

“If you’re looking to sell those women,” said one of the guards, a tough, grizzled orcish man with skin like battered green leather, “you might find a buyer.”

“You could not afford me,” said Morigna with a smirk.

“We’re treasure hunters,” said Ridmark. “We want to take some relics from the ruins of Khald Azalar.” That part, at least, was true.

“You picked a foolish time to come, stranger,” said the orcish guard. “The trolls are stirred up, and there are devils loose in the Vale of Stone Death. It seems as if every warlord with a petty army is marching on the Vale for some reason.” He cackled, a bit of spittle dangling from his yellowed tusks. “Perhaps they all hope to die in the Vale.”

“Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “I wish to speak with a man named Qhurzal.” Kharlacht had given him the name. “I want to propose a joint venture. My followers and I shall make no trouble within your walls.”

“Very well,” said the guard. “Though if you make trouble, we’ll sell that fine armor of yours.”

The gates to Khorduk swung open.

###

Gavin had never been in a tavern of pagan orcs.

He had talked to pagan orcs before, of course. Occasionally small groups had launched raids upon the outlying farms of Aranaeus, but more often they came to trade. The pagan orcs prayed to demons and false gods, but they still needed to eat and drink and buy and sell. The Vhaluuskan orcs were grim and taciturn, hard-dealing but fair. Rather like Kharlacht, now that Gavin thought about it, though Kharlacht had been baptized and brought into the church.

Though Gavin supposed that all the fanatical Vhaluuskans, all the ones like Mournacht and his followers, had marched to their deaths at Dun Licinia.

The tavern was unlike any Gavin had ever seen. Of course, he hadn’t seen all that many taverns in his life, which struck him as absurdly funny. For all the wonders and the horrors that he had seen since leaving Aranaeus, there was so much of the world he had not seen, so much of life he did not understand.

Still, it was a strange tavern. It was a large round room walled in stone, a larger version of the orcish houses, the thatched roof held in place by old wooden beams. A firepit blazed in the center of the room, smoke rising through an oculus in the center of the roof. Skulls lined the walls of the tavern, troll skulls, skulls of kobolds and murrags from the Deeps, and even a few urvaalg skulls, the bones glistening and black. Benches and tables circled the firepit. Orcish women moved back and forth among the tables, carrying trays of food and drink. They looked as tall and fierce and muscular as most of the orcish men, and either they were in a foul mood or a scowl was their customary expression. Orcish men and a few orcish women sat at the tables, eating and drinking. Most had the rough look of mercenaries or bandits, and all of them cast quiet glances at Gavin and the others like wolves contemplating the prospect of prey.

Ridmark, Kharlacht, Jager, Caius, Calliande, and Morigna sat at one of the tables, while Gavin, Arandar, and Mara stood guard. Gavin felt better having Arandar to back him up. He also felt better having Mara nearby, which made him feel a rueful sort of amusement. He had never thought such a diminutive woman could make himself feel safer, but she did.

Though given that both Mournacht and the Traveler were loose in the foothills, he supposed any sense of safety was an illusion.

A deep, gurgling laugh rang through the tavern.

The orcish man they had come to see sat at the head of the table, between Ridmark and Caius. Like Kharlacht, he was nearly seven feet tall. Unlike Kharlacht, he had run to fat, his tusks rising before thick jowls, his broad gut straining against his leather jerkin. Yet he looked as if he knew how to use the weapons hanging at his belt. He also wore a peculiar variety of symbols – a wooden cross, a red skull of Mhor, symbols of the other blood gods, blocky glyphs that Gavin thought belonged to the dwarven gods of stone and silence, and other symbols he did not recognize. The big orc’s symbol-laden chest positively clanked every time he lifted his cup of beer.

“You bear, master Qhurzal,” said Caius, “a most curious array of symbols.”

“Well,” rumbled the big orc, “one man says his god is supreme, and another says that his rules over the heavens. Who is to say which man is correct? Gods are powerful things, and I have no wish to earn their enmity. So I burn a handful of incense to the Dominus Christus, sit in silence for an hour in honor of the gods of stone and silence, and sprinkle a pinch of blood on Mhor’s altar on days of the blood moons. I pay my respects to all the gods, for a man must have many friends.”

Arandar gave a faint shake of his head. “Polytheist,” he said in a soft voice.

Gavin blinked. “A what?”

“Polytheist,” said Arandar.

Gavin thought back to his lessons with Father Martel in Aranaeus. “You mean…a figure of more than three sides?”

Now Arandar looked confused. “What?”

“I think you mean a polygon,” said Mara. “A polytheist is someone who worships more than one god at once.”

Morigna gave them an irritated glance and made a shushing gesture, but fortunately Qhurzal seemed not to notice.

“A pious attitude,” said Caius, “though the Dominus Christus and his Father are supreme above all other gods.”

“And that,” said Qhurzal, “is why I burn incense, to avert their wrath. But, come! I am curious how a dwarf of Khald Tormen became a priest of the god of Andomhaim…but Kharlacht tells me you came all this way to talk business, yes?”

“We did,” said Ridmark.

“I enjoy war as much as any orc,” said Qhurzal, rubbing his thick hands together. “But business is more profitable by far. So! What brings such a peculiar band of travelers,” he glanced over them all, “to the gates of Khorduk?”

“We wish to enter Khald Azalar and retrieve a particular item,” said Ridmark.

Qhurzal considered that for a moment.

“Kharlacht my boy,” he said, “I thought you seemed a sensible lad, at least until you fell in with that lunatic Qazarl and his pack of Mhalekite madmen.”

“He was kin,” rumbled Kharlacht.

“The bonds of blood are sacred, this is so,” said Qhurzal. “But if you want to follow this madman into Khald Azalar, then you are indeed a fool. Oh, I know who you are, Gray Knight. Tales of you have come this far north. But even you cannot go into Khald Azalar right now and live.”

“Why not?” said Ridmark.

“Because,” said Qhurzal, “strange things are going on in the Vale of Stone Death.”

“What manner of strange things?” said Ridmark.

Qhurzal took another drink of beer, the fingers of his free hand drumming against the planks of the table.

“The ruins,” he said, “are waking up.”

“Waking up?” said Ridmark. “They’re stone and steel. How can rock and metal awaken?”

“More precisely,” said Qhurzal, “their ancient guardians are awakening. How to begin?” He thought for a moment. “There is a pass through the mountains near here. It goes into a vale in the heart of the mountains. On the far end of that vale is one of the main gates to Khald Azalar, specifically the Gate of the West. We call the vale the Vale of Stone Death. Do you know why?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “I suspect the story is not a pleasant one.”

Qhurzal smiled, showing yellowed teeth in the gray tangle of his beard. “It’s not. There is…something in the Vale, some manner of creature that can turn its victims to stone.”

Caius sighed. “The ancient defenses. I feared we might encounter something like this.”

Qhurzal grunted. “You know what it is, dwarf?”

“When the Nine Kingdoms of the dwarves were founded many millennia ago,” said Caius, “my kindred were at war with the dark elves. The dark elves wielded mighty magic and terrible weapons, and we feared defeat in that war. We had no wish for our engines and magic to fall into the hands of our enemies, so our stonescribes prepared defenses of…surpassing potency, let us say, only to be activated if our kingdoms fell.”

“What kind of defenses?” said Ridmark.

“Something that can turn living men into dead stone, apparently,” said Caius.

“A basilisk?” said Ridmark.

Qhurzal grunted again, impressed. “You’ve seen a basilisk, Gray Knight? How are you still alive?”

“Not a basilisk, but its eye,” said Ridmark. “Years ago, in a dark elven ruin. Even that almost killed me.”

“I doubt it was a creature of flesh and blood,” said Caius. “Likely it was some kind of spirit creature, summoned and bound through the lore of the stonescribes. When Khald Azalar’s fall became inevitable, its king would have released the final defenses.”

“The Frostborn army that attacked Khald Azalar was utterly destroyed,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “Khald Azalar itself fell and its people were wiped out, but the Frostborn army perished as well.”

“It was,” said Qhurzal with less concern. Gavin supposed it was ancient history to him, but for Calliande it had been part of her life, even if she could not remember it. “So the Vale of Stone Death is littered with dwarven ruins, to say nothing of Khald Azalar itself. From time to time some of the tribes of Vhaluusk or an enterprising rogue organizes an expedition into the Vale and Khald Azalar in search of treasure. Some of them come back rich. Most do not come back at all. Yet there are gold and jewels to be found in the ruins, and items of dwarven steel fetch a fine price anywhere.”

“What makes the Vale so dangerous, Master Qhurzal?” said Jager. “This…guardian creature?”

“That,” said Qhurzal, “and the ways to the Deeps are open from Khald Azalar. So anything that wishes to visit the surface can do so. Kobolds, dvargir, deep orcs, deep trolls…and deep trolls make the mountain trolls look like frolicsome kittens. To say nothing of the guardian, this creature that turns its victims to stone. The creature seems to sleep on occasion, sometimes for years at a time, but when it awakens it goes on rampages. So few of those who enter the Vale of Stone Death ever return.”

“You did, though,” said Ridmark.

“Aye.” Qhurzal finished his beer and then called for one of the serving women to bring him another. “Three times.”

“How have you survived?” said Calliande.

The big orc grinned at Calliande. “By being clever, madam. And stealthy. The biggest mistake raiders make when they go to the Vale is…well, making too much of a fuss. They hire teams of mercenaries to guard themselves, trains of pack horses and mules to carry out all their treasures. That draws the notice of the guardian and the creatures of the Deeps. I went by myself, alone and stealthily. I also made sure to go when bigger expeditions were making for Khald Azalar.”

“So the bigger expeditions distracted the guardian and the denizens of the Deeps,” said Ridmark, “and you crept in and carried away whatever you could.”

“Clever, yes?” said Qhurzal. “That was their mistake, you know. They just got greedy. You can’t spend gold when you’re dead.”

“Moderation is a virtue,” said Caius, “and it seems to have preserved your life as well.”

“Truly,” said Qhurzal. One of the women returned with another cup of beer, and Qhurzal took a long drink and belched.

“We wish to go to Khald Azalar,” said Ridmark, “and were hoping you could guide us.”

“Too risky,” said Qhurzal at once. “The guardian is stirred up. And for some reason, it seems as if the Vale is drawing visitors. The trolls have gone berserk and are attacking everyone they can find. Bands of crazed Mhor-worshipping orcs are making for the Vale, along with these odd spiny orcs I’ve never seen before.”

Spiny? Gavin wondered what that meant.

“Orcs in the service of the Traveler,” said Mara, expressionless, “the dark elven monarch of Nightmane Forest.”

“Dark elves are bad business,” said Qhurzal. “They once ruled the world and kept my kindred as slaves, until they summoned up the great spider-devils and became slaves themselves. If some dark elven prince thinks to enter the Vale, let him. He can fight it out with the guardian.”

“If the Mhorite orcs and the Traveler distract the guardian and the other creatures of the Vale,” said Ridmark, “we have all the better chance to reach Khald Azalar.”

“True,” said Qhurzal, considering the matter. “Very well. We shall compromise. I have no wish to return to Khald Azalar, and even less desire to enter the Vale. But I shall guide you to the Vale itself in exchange for a reasonable payment.”

Gavin wondered what Qhurzal would consider a “reasonable” payment.

“While I appreciate your offer,” said Ridmark, “I wonder what benefit it offers us. The pass to the Vale of Stone Death is not hard to find. If I were to climb upon the roof of this tavern and look over the walls, I could see it from here. I wonder why I need you to guide me to something I can already see.”

“A prudent question, Gray Knight,” said Qhurzal. “You can see the pass. So can the Mhorites, the spiny orcs, the trolls, and everyone else who’s decided to descend upon the Vale. The pass shall be crowded. You alone might have a chance of sneaking past, but all nine of you? No.”

“You have another route, then?” said Ridmark.

“I do.” Qhurzal looked smug. “The High Gate.”

“Ah,” said Caius.

“You know what it is?” said Ridmark.

“I suspect it is another way into the Vale,” said Caius. “My kindred believe in being thorough. The High Pass would be the main route into the Vale. But the kings of Khald Azalar would have built another path into the Vale, a way through the mountain. Specifically, a way under the mountain.”

“I thought you had been here before,” said Morigna, scowling at him. “Why did you not mention the High Gate before?”

“Because I didn’t know if it existed,” said Caius. “I visited Khald Azalar once, as a young man, before the Frostborn destroyed it. I was little more than a common soldier at the time, and the king of Khald Azalar did not see fit to share his secrets with me.”

“Truly?” said Qhurzal. “You saw Khald Azalar in its glory? That would have been two hundred and fifty years ago. You’re that old?” Caius nodded. “To hell with that. Living that long with knees like mine doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“Back to the point,” said Ridmark. “You know where the High Gate is? And it is still accessible?”

“Aye and aye,” said Qhurzal. “It’s been open for years. It doesn’t open to the Deeps, but sometimes trolls lair inside of it. Or urvaalgs.” He glanced at Arandar and Gavin. “Though with your friends, urvaalgs or ursaars won’t prove much of a problem.”

“This hidden path of yours sounds too good to be true,” said Morigna, her suspicion plain. “How do we know you shall not lead us into a trap?”

“You don’t,” said Qhurzal. “But I am not spinning you a pretty story. The High Gate exists, and while it is dangerous, it is presently less dangerous than the High Pass.” He shrugged. “Go to the High Pass if you wish and get slaughtered by the Mhorites or eaten by the trolls, or wander the foothills looking for the High Gate until you starve to death. It is no concern of mine either way.” He waved a hand at Arandar and Gavin. “And robbing you? The skill of the Gray Knight is famed, and those two scowling fellows by the short blond girl are both Swordbearers. What sort of madman attacks Swordbearers? I am a man of business, not an idiot.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “What sort of fee would you consider reasonable for your services?”

“Well, then,” said Qhurzal, leaning closer. “Let us drink together and discuss the matter.”

After that, it was all over but the haggling.

###

Several mugs of beer later, Ridmark agreed on a price with Qhurzal. They would meet at the gate of Khorduk at first light tomorrow and head for the High Gate, which lay a half-day’s climb into the hills.

The peculiar tavern with its skull-lined walls was reasonably clean, and Ridmark and his companions had not slept under a roof since leaving the ruins of the Iron Tower, so he paid for rooms as well. He retreated to his room on the tavern’s second floor while the others sat down to dinner. The room was small, but the bed was clean and the floor was free of vermin. Ridmark had spent months at a time sleeping outdoors, but he would not object to a bed. In fact, right now a bed sounded more pleasant than a hot meal.

He had no sooner propped his staff in the corner then the door opened.

Ridmark turned, reaching for the dwarven war axe at his belt, but it was Morigna.

“Oh,” he said, and smiled at her. “Is everything all right?”

She licked her lips, grinned at him, seized his collar, and kissed him.

Ah. That was what she wanted.

He kissed her back, his hands curling around her hips and pulling her closer, all thoughts of sleep retreating from his mind. They broke apart, and a moment later they were out of their clothes, and a moment after that they were in the bed together.

After, Ridmark lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling, head pillowed on his left arm. Morigna lay on her stomach next him, her fingers tracing slowly across his chest. His right hand rested upon the small of her back, the skin warm and soft beneath his fingers.

“Do you think we can do this?” she murmured at last.

“Again?” said Ridmark. “I need a little time to recover first.”

She blinked, and let out a startled laugh. “I have no doubts on that score, Gray Knight. No.” Her smile faded. “Do you truly think we can go to the Vale of Stone Death and come out again?”

“I think it can be done,” said Ridmark. “Aye, there might be many foes in the Vale…but they all hate each other. Mournacht will not submit to the Traveler, and the Traveler will try to clear the Mhorites from his path. The trolls will prey upon them both, and I suspect this guardian of Qhurzal’s will prey upon anything it can catch. With luck, we won’t have to fight anyone. We can slip past them and make our way to Khald Azalar while they fight it out.”

“Then,” said Morigna. She fell silent and considered her words for a moment, and he felt her tense a little. “Then this is not about death?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You kept talking about how you did not deserve to live after what had happened in Dun Licinia,” said Morigna. “Now you are about to head into danger once more. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Ridmark started to snap at her, annoyed, but stopped himself. There was no accusation in her tone, no anger. She just wanted to know.

It was a fair question, given some of the reckless things he had done in the past.

“No,” he said at last. “I would not be doing this if I did not think it necessary, and if I did not think we have a reasonable chance of success. When I left Dun Licinia, after…”

“After Aelia died,” she said, voice quiet.

He was grateful he did not have to say it. “I was looking for the Frostborn, for how they would return. Both the Warden and Gothalinzur warned me of it, but no one had taken that warning seriously. I had nothing else to do with my life, and that seemed a worthy task.” He shrugged. “And if I was killed in the process, well…it was no less than I deserved.”

“Ridmark,” she said.

“But we succeeded,” he said. “We found how the Frostborn are returning. We don’t know why Shadowbearer is trying to summon them back…but we know what he needs to do to summon them, which means we know how to stop it.” His free hand curled into a fist. “We find Calliande’s staff and keep the soulstone from him for another ten months. Then the window is lost, and he will not be able to bring the Frostborn back for centuries.” He took a deep breath. “So, no, I am not trying to get myself killed. I am trying to win a battle and keep the Frostborn from destroying the world. If I am slain in the process, so be it…but I want to be victorious. And if I am victorious and I live, all the better.”

“What changed your mind?” said Morigna.

His hand traveled up her back. “What do you think?”

She smiled at him. She smiled so rarely. Of course, he rarely did, either. She often smirked, usually while answering one of Jager’s barbs or taunting poor Gavin about something or another, but she hardly ever smiled. But when she did, some of the hard edges seemed to fall from her face. It made Ridmark wonder what she would have been like if the dvargir had not murdered her parents and Coriolus had not taken her as an apprentice, if her life had not been marred by the Old Man’s dark magic. Likely she would have married and settled in Moraime, and he might well never have met her.

“Such words of flattery, Gray Knight,” said Morigna. “Shall you write me poetry next? Or perhaps find a lyre and sing songs of my beauty?”

“I cannot compose poetry and I have no ear for music,” said Ridmark, “and saying that you do not make me want to fling myself into the jaws of death hardly counts as flattery.”

Her smile faded. “You have not answered my question. One thinks that you do not wish to answer it.”

“What am I to say?” said Ridmark. “That a naked woman in my bed makes me want to survive? Am I really that simple?”

“Apparently,” said Morigna. “But that still does not answer my question.”

“Since you must hear it, very well,” said Ridmark. “I do not want to get myself killed. I want to stop the Frostborn and live. I want to come back to you. Can I not be clearer?”

“No,” said Morigna, and she rolled onto her side and kissed him for a long moment. She pulled away and gazed at him, black hair hanging loose around her pale face. “If anyone can stop the Frostborn, Ridmark Arban, you can. With my help, of course.”

“Of course,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “How have you been?”

A lazy smile went over her thin lips. “You should know. You were there.”

“The power you took from the Warden’s soulstones,” said Ridmark. Her smile vanished. “It hasn’t…”

“Done what?” said Morigna, going rigid. “Twisted me into a monster?”

“Harmed you,” said Ridmark.

Morigna let out a long breath. “No. Nor have I used it. Do you fear me so?”

“No,” said Ridmark.

She lifted her chin. “If not fear, what do you feel for me?”

“I’ll show you,” said Ridmark.

He rolled her onto her back, and her eyes went wide with sudden surprise. Then she grinned and pulled him close.

Chapter 4: The High Gate

A cold wind blew over the rocky slope, and Calliande shivered and pulled her green cloak closer.

Though it was not that cold. They were not yet in the mountains proper, and tough little bushes and pine trees clung to the slopes. The mountains rose overhead, bleak and massive, their crowns topped with snow, their flanks rocky and barren. Somehow, under all that stone, the dwarves of Khald Azalar had built a city large enough to house tens of thousands. It was a stupendous feat of engineering.

Within the ruins of the dwarves waited Dragonfall and her staff.

A flicker of anticipation and terror went through her. The office of Keeper was a tremendous burden and responsibility. Could she be equal to it?

Perhaps the woman she had been, the woman who had been cold enough to seal herself in darkness and lose everyone she had ever known, had been strong enough to wield such power.

Perhaps she would be that woman again.

That thought frightened her.

She pushed it aside. She hadn’t gotten her staff back yet. She hadn’t even gotten to Khald Azalar. It would be a cruel irony if one of the Mhorites killed her while she was fretting about her staff, especially while it lay so close at hand.

Calliande looked around, trying to keep watch over their surroundings.

Qhurzal had been true to his word, waiting for them at the gate of Khorduk with a half-dozen grim, silent, well-armed orcish men. All of them had the shaved green heads and black topknots of warriors, and they carried a wide variety of weapons. The orcs remained wary and watchful, their hands hovering near their sword hilts. Calliande feared treachery, but the orcs were not watching her or the others.

They were watching the hills. That was probably good, given how dangerous the trolls were. Ridmark and Qhurzal walked at the head of the line, speaking in low voices. Morigna walked a short distance behind him. She looked smug, the way she always did after she and Ridmark went “scouting” together. Calliande knew that shouldn’t bother her. There was no reason for that to bother her. She had no right for it to bother her.

But it did. Maybe a little.

She laughed at herself. The fate of the world hung in the balance, the lives of countless thousands were at risk, and she was jealous. God and his saints, but she was thinking like a foolish child.

“My lady Calliande?”

She looked up. Gavin walked a short distance away, clad in leather and wool and his blue dark elven steel cuirass, his hand resting on Truthseeker’s hilt.

“Is something amiss?” he said. “You were laughing.”

“I hope I have not become so grim that laughter seems out of place.”

He had been solemn ever since they had left Urd Morlemoch, ever since he had taken up Truthseeker to become a Swordbearer. She could understand. Nevertheless, her remark made him smile, if briefly.

“No,” said Gavin.

“We mortals are ridiculous creatures, are we not?” said Calliande. “We want what we cannot have, and focus on trivialities in the face of dangers.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Jager, strolling behind her. “I want to have hot biscuits and fresh bacon in bed with my wife, but instead I am strolling into the cold mountains to face monsters.”

Calliande glanced at Ridmark and then down at Jager.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

###

As Qhurzal promised, they reached the entrance to the High Gate shortly after noon.

Ridmark and Morigna both had a great deal of experience at tracking, and Kharlacht knew his way around a forest. Nevertheless, they could have searched for weeks without finding the High Gate. A narrow set of stairs, cleverly carved into the face of a cliff, climbed up the sheer stone face. Unless Ridmark had been standing in exactly the right place, he never would have seen them. The stairs crawled back and forth up the front of the cliff, stopping at a broad ledge three hundred yards above. Boulders ringed the ledge, concealing it from observation from below.

Behind the boulders, carved into the face of the cliff, yawned a gate.

It had been built in the same fashion of the gates of the other dwarven ruins he had visited, a square stone arch flanked by bas-relief carvings of dwarven warriors in full armor, shields upon their arms and axes in their fists. Dwarven glyphs had been carved into the lintel and above the arch.

Beyond stretched a gallery of stone, lined with columns, columns that vanished into the darkness beneath the mountain.

“That also reminds me of Thainkul Dural,” said Gavin in a quiet voice.

“Or Thainkul Agon,” said Calliande, coming to Ridmark’s side. Her face was still, but her blue eyes did not blink as they stared at the gate.

“Just how many dwarven ruins did you people visit before you met me?” said Jager.

“More than I care to recall,” said Ridmark. “And have you forgotten Thainkul Balzon beneath Coldinium?”

Jager sighed. “I was trying to forget, but then you had to remind me, didn’t you?”

Caius stared up at the glyphs above the gate, his brow furrowed.

“What does it say?” said Ridmark.

“That we are entering the domain of the King of Khald Azalar,” said Caius, “and that the Vale beyond and all the Deeps beneath the mountain are his domain and subject to his law.”

“Really?” grunted Qhurzal, wheezing from the climb. “I’ve always wondered what it said.” He took a deep breath. “Too damn old to climb up all those damn stairs. Easier when I was younger.” He waved a hand at his warriors. “Light the torches. The sooner we deliver the Gray Knight to the Vale, the sooner we can get paid and go home.”

The orcish warriors went about their tasks. Each man lit a torch in his left hand and drew a sword in his right. The torches were not strictly necessary. Both Morigna and Calliande could summon light with their magic, and Gavin’s and Arandar’s soulblades glowed when they drew upon the sword’s power. Yet Ridmark preferred that Morigna and Calliande save their strength for a crisis.

God only knew what awaited them in the High Gate and the Vale of Stone Death.

“Qhurzal,” said Ridmark. “How far to the other side?”

“Four or five miles,” said Qhurzal. “It’s straight and the floors are clear. Takes about an hour, an hour and a half if you don’t dawdle. There are side chambers, armories and barracks and such, but they were cleared out long ago. A stairwell goes to a ruined tower on the Vale side, but nothing lives up there. Too cold and desolate, I suppose.”

“Then let’s not dawdle,” said Ridmark.

###

The flickering light of the torches cast ominous shadows across the walls of the wide tunnel.

Though it was certainly the most impressive tunnel Gavin had ever seen. The ceiling rose high overhead, much like that of a church. Stone pillars lined the gallery, carved with figures of dwarven warriors in armor. Gavin felt as if their stone eyes watched him, frowning upon his intrusion in their realm. From time to time doors opened in the walls, leading to darkened chambers, likely the barracks and looted armories that Qhurzal had mentioned. Gavin watched the doorways, but nothing emerged from them.

He was jumping at shadows. The High Gate had been so well concealed that he doubted the Mhorites or the Traveler’s spiny orcs had found it. Yet Qhurzal had mentioned trolls, and as large as the gallery was, Gavin would not want to fight trolls in a confined space of any kind.

Qhurzal and his men took the lead. Ridmark and Kharlacht came next, followed by Caius and Jager. Gavin and Arandar guarded Mara, Morigna, and Calliande. If attackers came, Gavin would keep them away long enough for Morigna and Calliande to bring their magic to bear and Mara to travel behind their foes.

“A grim place,” said Arandar in a quiet voice.

“Aye,” said Gavin. “But we have trod in ruins before.”

“Urd Morlemoch,” said Arandar. “But that was an evil place. That was always an evil place. The dwarves…they are stern and proud and cold, but they are not malicious. They have built great kingdoms, and now this kingdom lies in ruin.” He shook his head, his gray-streaked black hair sliding around his ears. “Will this happen to Andomhaim, I wonder? The Enlightened of Incariel have eaten into the realm like a cancer. I had hoped to win a better future for my children…but I fear instead they shall inherit a ruin like this.”

Gavin had no answer for that. Once Calliande regained her staff and her power, perhaps she would have the authority to deal with Tarrabus Carhaine and his band of demon-worshipping madmen.

“Kindly stop talking, sir knight,” said Qhurzal in a quiet voice. “Echoes can carry quite far.”

Arandar made a curt nod.

They continued on in silence, the torches throwing capering shadows across the ancient carvings.

###

“By the blood gods,” muttered Qhurzal. “What is that?”

Ridmark frowned. “Is something amiss?”

The gallery continued on, boring into the heart of the mountain. More pillars lined the passageway, square and blocky, stone dwarves gazing out from the carved walls. The flickering light of the torches made the carvings seem alive, the shadows dancing in the deep-cut lines of their eyes and armor. Qhurzal lifted his torch, a pair of his guards flanking him, and Ridmark followed.

A small dark shape lay upon the floor. Ridmark squinted, and saw that it was a torn belt, likely discarded after it had been broken. Qhurzal picked it up, sniffed a few times, and then tossed it away.

“Recent,” he said. “It is still damp with sweat. Likely it has been here for only a few hours.”

“Raiders?” said Ridmark.

“I do not know,” said Qhurzal. “It is orcish sweat. Human sweat smells far fouler.”

Ridmark decided not to comment on that. “Could someone have known that we were coming here?”

“I do not see how,” said Qhurzal. “Save for my men, I told no one that we were traveling to the High Gate.”

“I doubt we were followed or overheard,” said Caius. “Even if an enemy had overheard us speaking at the tavern and had hastened for the High Gate at once, it would still be a long and hard march. We would have seen signs or tracks.”

“There are no tracks in here,” said Morigna. “The floor is too hard.”

“It seems likely that a scout found his way into the High Gate,” said Kharlacht. “Perhaps he went all the way through to the Vale.”

“And then we’ll meet him on his way out,” said Ridmark.

“Assuming the inhabitants of the Vale do not kill him first,” grumbled Qhurzal.

“Let’s keep going,” said Ridmark. “We can deal with a few scouts.” If they were Mhorites or the Traveler’s soldiers, Ridmark did not want them reporting back to their masters. Better to reach Khald Azalar without Mournacht or the Traveler or anyone else noticing.

“Perhaps we should turn back,” said Qhurzal, the doubt plain on his weathered face.

“No,” said Ridmark. “To the Vale I intend to go, and to the Vale we shall go. You can turn back, if you wish.

Qhurzal hesitated. “You paid me to take you through the High Gate. Qhurzal is a man of his word.”

“And so he is,” said Ridmark. “The High Gate is a straight tunnel. I think we can find our way from here. Your part in this bargain is complete.”

Qhurzal did not take long to make up his mind. “Very well. This gallery continues for another half-mile. Beyond that is a large hall, with dwarven glyphs carved upon the floor. After that is a flight of stairs, and atop the stairs you will find the door to the Vale of Stone Death. May the human God watch over you, Gray Knight, for you shall surely need his aid.” He grinned behind his beard and tusks. “Perhaps when you return, you shall buy us drinks with the gold you find.”

“Perhaps I shall at that,” said Ridmark.

Qhurzal and his men left without another word, the glow of their torches vanishing down the gallery to the west. Jager and Mara already had torches, and the others lit torches themselves.

“Well,” said Morigna with annoyance as she stared at the retreating torchlight, “he certainly proved eager to abandon us at the first opportunity.”

“It’s for the best,” said Ridmark. “If it came to a fight, I’m not sure he would have been on our side. If our opponents had offered him more money, Qhurzal might have sided with them.”

“Treachery,” said Arandar with a shake of his head.

“Business,” said Ridmark. “This way.”

He started forward, torch in his left hand, black staff in his right, and the others followed. Qhurzal’s prediction proved accurate. After another half-mile, the gallery ended into a wide stone hall with a lofty ceiling. Hundreds of dwarven glyphs had been carved into the floor, their edges still as sharp and clear as if they had been inscribed yesterday. At the far end of the hall yawned a wide, square gateway. Broad stairs rose beyond it, and Ridmark saw the faintest glimmer of daylight upon the steps.

The way into the Vale of Stone Death.

“There,” said Ridmark.

“Those doorways,” said Mara, pointing. Behind the pillars, a dozen different doorways stood in the walls, the rooms beyond dark. “There are glyphs above the doors. Where do they go?”

Caius squinted, lifting his torch. “Ah…guard rooms and barracks, I believe. I think the High Gate’s garrison was stationed here.” He pointed. “That door, there. There are stairs beyond it. I believe it leads to the watch tower that Qhurzal mentioned, the one with a view of the Vale.”

“A garrison?” said Ridmark. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Surely the dwarves wished to guard their secret tunnel from unwanted visitors,” said Jager.

“Such as thieves?” said Arandar.

Jager grinned at him. “Precisely such as thieves, Sir Arandar.”

“But why garrison this end?” said Ridmark. “There wasn’t anything like this at the western end of the High Gate. A garrison would be more effective at the western end, keeping any intruders from getting into the tunnel at all.” He waved a hand. “If an enemy gets this far, what’s to stop him from climbing the stairs and reaching the Vale?”

“Ridmark,” said Mara in a soft voice, her green eyes darting back and forth. “Those glyphs. I…think there is a spell upon them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Mhorite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ridmark!” shouted Mara, pointing.

He looked at the stairs to the Vale.

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

Ridmark made his decision.

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

###

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

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

Calliande gritted her teeth and ran faster.

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

Steel flashed in the corner of her eye.

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

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

He seized her hand and yanked her forward.

“Go!” he yelled.

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

“Ridmark!” said Morigna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did?” said Calliande.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you, Mara,” said Ridmark.

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

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

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

Then she vanished in a swirl of blue fire.

Ridmark was in motion at once, beckoning her forward.

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

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

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

“Can we make it down the mountain?” said Calliande.

“We’ll have to,” said Ridmark. “You’ve spent two hundred years waiting to get your staff back. Are we going to let one mountain and some Mhor-worshipping orcs stop you?”

His determination cheered her. This was a man who had spent five years hunting for the mystery of the Frostborn, who had not let urdmordar, dvargir, assassins of the Red Family, or even the Warden of Urd Morlemoch stop him.

“Not if you won’t,” said Calliande.

To her surprise, he smiled at that. “Do you remember the day we met?”

Calliande raised an eyebrow. “Given that I was naked, tied to an altar, and about to die, it was a hard day to forget.”

“Five minutes after we met,” said Ridmark, “we had to run for our lives.” He glanced at the doorway to the west. “Looks like we’ll get the chance again.”

She laughed. “At least I have clothes this time. Running in bare feet is not pleasant.”

He smiled again, and then his face settled into its usual grim mask. He pulled the dwarven war axe from the dead Mhorite’s skull, wiped the weapon off and returned it to his belt, and then they ran for door to the watch tower stairs.

Chapter 5: Swordbearers

“We should go back,” said Morigna.

“There is no way to open the door,” said Brother Caius, his deep voice calm.

They kept climbing the stone stairs. The tunnel sloped upward, the sunlight at the end of the stairs growing brighter with every step.

“Your damned kindred should have left a way to open it,” said Morigna. Unlike Caius, she looked nowhere near calm. Gavin was half-afraid that she might try to strike the dwarven friar. “All marvel at the renowned craftsmanship of the dwarves, yet you cannot build a door that can be opened from without.”

“That is the point of a secure door, I believe,” said Caius. “And Ridmark and Calliande are not trapped. They can escape through the watch tower, and we shall meet them at the gates of Khald Azalar.” He scratched at his beard. “Specifically, the Gate of the West.”

“You are so certain of that?” said Morigna. Her dark eyes were hard, her face tight with fury. “Perhaps the stairs are choked with rubble. Perhaps your kindred sealed off the tower to stop the Frostborn. Perhaps there are already Mhorite orcs in the Vale, or that guardian spirit of yours in lairing in the watch tower, and they shall walk right into…”

“Morigna,” said Mara. “The Gray Knight knows what he is doing. So does Calliande. They will win free of the High Gate, and we’ll wait for them at the Gate of the West.”

Morigna all but snarled at Mara, but the shorter woman remained cool. For once Jager had the wit to keep his observations to himself. At last Morigna looked away and gave the barest fraction of a nod, though she all but radiated fury.

Gavin understood her anger. She was in love with Ridmark, and she could not help him. Gavin had felt the same way when he had seen Aranaeus burn from the walls of Urd Dagaash, knowing that Rosanna was in danger and he could not aid her. Of course, Calliande was with Ridmark, which would not improve Morigna’s mood. For a brief instant Gavin felt a flicker of jealousy that two beautiful women were in love with Ridmark. On the other hand, Calliande was the Keeper, a centuries-old figure of legend, and Morigna was a dark sorceress with a temper like an injured badger.

That made the jealousy turn into sympathy.

“Almost there,” said Arandar. “Once we reach the top, we should leave this place at once. Since the Mhorites learned of the High Gate, they might have placed watchers here.”

“Thank you for that counsel, sir knight,” said Morigna. “Are all Swordbearers trained to point out of the obvious? One wonders if Gavin shall now announce that the steps are made of stone.”

Arandar scowled, but Kharlacht spoke first.

“Sir Arandar has a point,” said Kharlacht. “The top of the stairs would be an ideal place for an ambush.”

“I’ll travel up and look,” said Mara. She looked tired, her face paler than usual, her eyes glittering. Gavin didn’t understand how the strange power of her dark elven blood worked, but it had taken a great deal of her strength to travel through the massive door.

“It is too risky,” said Jager.

“Not really,” said Mara, squinting up. “It’s a straight line, and anyone who sees me will be too startled to react. I’ll travel up, look around, and come right back.”

“Be careful,” said Arandar.

“Oh, you know us, Sir Arandar,” said Jager. “We are the paragons of prudent caution.”

Mara nodded and vanished in a swirl of blue fire. Gavin dropped his hand to Truthseeker’s hilt, staring at the end of the stairs a few hundred yards ahead. He heard nothing, but if the slightest sound of a fight came to his ears, or Mara took too long, he would draw upon the soulblade’s power and run to her aid.

But it did not prove necessary. The blue fire flickered once more, and Mara reappeared.

“It’s clear,” she said. “The arch opens onto a ledge. Some dwarven carvings and ruins. A very good view of the Vale. No orcs, trolls, or guardian spirits that I could see.”

“Let us proceed, then,” said Arandar. There was a tone of command in his voice. Gavin supposed that made sense. Arandar was a Swordbearer, and before that he had been a knight in the service of the High King. He would have led men in battle before. The thought reassured Gavin. Perhaps Arandar knew what he was doing.

Though to judge from the glare she sent his way, Morigna did not agree.

He wondered if they would come to blows. Morigna had never bothered to hide her disdain for Arandar in particular or for the Swordbearers and the High Kingdom in general, and Arandar was convinced that Morigna was a dangerous renegade and a wielder of dark magic. Nor was the Swordbearer entirely wrong. In fact, loyalty to Ridmark was the only thing that had held this group together.

And if Ridmark was dead…

Gavin wondered what he would do if Arandar and Morigna fought, and realized that he did not know.

Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.

At last the stairs ended, and they stepped out onto a broad mountain ledge, cold wind whistling past them. The archway to the stairs looked much the same as the gate on the other side of the mountain, with the same carvings and glyphs. The ledge looked as if it had once been part of a fortified tower. The ground beneath his feet was paved stone, and tumbled walls of half-fallen stone ringed the ledge. Caius crossed to one of the walls, heaved himself atop a boulder, and peered over the rubble.

“Ah,” he said. “It seems were are not the only visitors to the Vale.”

“Mhorites?” said Arandar.

“You had better come and see,” said Caius.

Arandar and the others walked to the ruined wall, and Gavin followed them.

Despite the name, the Vale of Stone Death looked quite pleasant. The gray slopes of the mountains descended to a broad, bowl-shaped valley. The valley itself was a vibrant green, its floor filled with pine trees. A wide, cold-looking lake filled the northern third of the Vale, its waters still and icy blue. Far to the east Gavin saw another towering wall of mountains. He suspected it would take about two days on foot to cross from one end of the Vale to another, longer if the pine forest concealed rough terrain. He glimpsed numerous dwarven ruins scattered throughout the Vale – more towers and small fortresses upon the slopes of the mountains, and here and there at the edge of the forest he saw houses that looked a great deal like the Dwarven Enclave in Coldinium. A road descended from the mountains to the south, vanishing into the forest.

The road held the entirety of Gavin’s attention. Or, rather, the men marching down the road.

Mhorite warriors. Thousands upon thousands of Mhorite warriors.

“That,” said Jager, “is a lot of Mhorites.”

“At least five thousand strong, I deem,” said Kharlacht. “Maybe six.”

“Those are only the ones that we can see,” said Jager. “It looks like their vanguard has already reached the forest, and there are likely more in the mountains behind.”

“God and his saints,” said Arandar, shaking his head. “Mournacht could have brought ten thousand Kothluuskan orcs here. How did he gather such a strong force? It should be impossible.”

“Given that he is here and the orcs stand before us,” said Morigna, “one thinks your grasp of the impossible is tenuous.”

Arandar gave her a hard look. “No one shaman or chieftain has unified Kothluusk in centuries, and Mournacht must have convinced many tribes to follow him. Did he have these kind of numbers when you faced him last?”

“He did not,” said Jager before Morigna could answer. “At least, we only saw him with a few hundred at most.”

“He must have gone for reinforcements the minute he fled Coldinium,” said Caius.

“But why come here, then?” said Arandar. “If he wanted vengeance against all of you for eluding him in Coldinium, why march for Khald Azalar?”

“Perhaps it is as we feared,” said Kharlacht, “and Shadowbearer is directing his actions.”

“I think we can all agree,” said Mara in her quiet voice, “that the Gray Knight was wise to choose the High Gate.”

Gavin started to object, and then realized that she was right. True, they had been forced to fight and separated by the High Gate’s defenses. Yet if they had made for the High Pass, they would have run right into the Mhorite column. They would have been surrounded and overwhelmed in short order.

“Aye,” he said.

“Look,” said Jager, pointing. “Something is burning.”

Thin plumes of black smoke rose from the pine forest. Even as he looked, a small band of Mhorite orcs, scouts most likely, emerged from the forest and hastened to the main column.

“It looks like they’re skirmishing with someone,” said Arandar. “Perhaps raiders from the Deeps, or…”

“Or the Traveler’s soldiers,” said Mara.

“Qhurzal said he had seen spiny orcs in the foothills,” said Arandar. “Would those be the Traveler’s orcs?”

“Probably,” said Mara. “They match the description, certainly.”

“What did he mean by spiny?” said Gavin. “Do…the orcs have spines coming out of their flesh?” It was not outside the realm of possibility. The Devout, the orcs in the service of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, had been augmented and made stronger over the generations through the Warden’s dark magic. The mutations made their blood and eyes glow with ghostly blue light, the veins shining beneath their skin.

“Not quite,” said Mara. “The orcs in the Traveler’s service call themselves the Anathgrimm, which is the dark elven tongue for ‘deadly slaves’ or ‘fierce hounds’, depending upon context. The Traveler has used his magic to alter them.”

“Alter them?” said Arandar. “How?”

“You must know from your histories, Sir Arandar,” said Mara. “Andomhaim has skirmished with the Traveler’s forces before. The orcs…he causes their skeletons to continue growing until the bones extend outside their bodies. Masks of bone cover their faces like helmets, and an extra set of ribs wrap around their torsos. Spikes of bone come out of their elbows and knees like claws they can use in combat. The Traveler shelters within his fortress of wards, and so he turns his orcish slaves into mobile fortresses to use in his defense.”

“That sounds like a cumbersome defense,” said Kharlacht.

“It’s not,” said Mara. “The Anathgrimm run slower than other orcs, but the Traveler gives them extra muscle to compensate for the weight of the bone armor, and the bones themselves are harder and more resilient than those of a normal orcish man. The Anathgrimm are very hard to kill.”

“You’ve never spoken of this before,” said Jager.

Mara shrugged, her eyes haunted. “I don’t like to speak of Nightmane Forest. It was not a pleasant place.”

“Then forgive me for asking another question,” said Arandar. “The Traveler himself. Do you think he is nearby?”

Mara closed her eyes and concentrated, her eyes twitching behind he closed lids. “I…think so, yes. It is hard to gauge. I’ve never really done this before. But I think he’s in the Vale already.”

“Then it seems likely the Traveler reached the Vale first,” said Caius, “and the Mhorites are hot on his heels.” He looked at Mara. “Is the Traveler powerful enough to compel Mournacht to obey him?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mara. “The dark elves can dominate urvaalgs and ursaars and the other creatures formed through their dark magic. Orcs are living mortals with free will. The Traveler cannot dominate Mournacht, and from what you’ve said of his magic, Mournacht is strong enough to fight back.”

“That would explain the fires, wouldn’t it?” said Jager. “If the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm are already skirmishing.

“That will work to our advantage,” said Arandar. “If Mournacht and the Traveler are focused on each other, we can slip past them and make our way to the Gate of the West. Brother Caius. I assume you know the way?”

“I do,” said Caius. “We simply need to follow the road, though I suggest we keep to the trees and stay out of sight. The Gate of the West is hard to miss.”

“No,” said Morigna.

They all looked at her.

“The first thing we need to do,” she said, “is find Ridmark and Calliande.”

“The Gray Knight told us to meet him at the Gate of the West,” said Caius.

“That assumes he is able to reach the Gate of the West,” said Morigna. “We do not know what other dangers wait on this mountain, and he is alone with only Calliande for aid.”

“We also don’t know where he will emerge from the High Gate,” said Arandar. “The mountains are vast, and that watch tower could be anywhere.”

“One imagines that a tower on a mountain would be quite easy to locate,” said Morigna.

“One could imagine that,” said Caius, “but one would be wrong. A tower in the mountains would be easy to hide, especially if the dwarves of Khald Azalar built it for concealment. We could wander for weeks and never find it…and meanwhile the Gray Knight and the Magistria would be waiting for us at the Gate of the West.”

“They could be injured and in need of aid,” said Morigna.

“Calliande could heal his wounds,” said Jager.

“Calliande would have a harder time healing her own wounds,” said Morigna. “And need I remind you that the entire point of this is to retrieve Calliande’s staff and memory? She can hardly do so if she is dead because we failed to find Ridmark.”

“No,” said Arandar. “We should proceed to the Gate of the West and find a hiding place. That was Ridmark’s plan, and while it is hardly optimal, it is the best that can be done.”

Morigna sneered. “Have you so little regard for your word, Swordbearer? You told Ridmark you would aid him. Perhaps you have decided to forsake that promise.”

Arandar’s eyes narrowed. “And do you have so little regard for the Gray Knight’s abilities, sorceress? Or do you feel the need to rush over and hold his hand?” He shook his head. “No. We should keep to the plan and make for the Gate of the West at once.”

“By what right do you claim authority over us, Swordbearer?” said Morigna. “This is not the High Kingdom, and you have no right to command anyone here. Or do you claim your sword is a badge of authority? A sword that rightfully belongs to a better man than you?”

“Heartwarden does not belong to me or to Ridmark,” said Arandar. “It belongs to the Order, to be used in the defense of the High Kingdom and its people. You ought to be grateful that we are not in the High Kingdom.”

“Oh?” said Morigna, her voice soft and dangerous. “Just why is that?”

“Because if we were in Andomhaim,” said Arandar, his voice just as soft and dangerous, “you would be arrested as a sorceress and a wielder of dark magic, and put to death for it. And rightly, I might add.”

“Is that a threat?” said Morigna. She had her staff in hand, her fingers tightening against it.

“Simply a statement of fact,” said Arandar, his voice just as hard as hers. “You might have clouded Ridmark’s judgment…”

Morigna’s eyes flashed, and she took a step forward, her staff rapping against the stone ground. Arandar’s hand fell to Heartwarden’s hilt. Gavin looked back and forth between the others, wondering what they would do, what he should do.

“You idiots,” said Jager. “You’re going to kill each other? Are you children who cannot cooperate without Ridmark to watch you?”

“This is madness,” said Mara with much less rancor. “We are surrounded by enemies, and you wish to fight each other? Could you not at least wait until we have found Ridmark and Calliande again?”

“By what right does he presume to command us?” said Morigna.

“He has led men in battle before,” said Caius.

“He is the High King’s bastard get,” said Morigna. “Does that somehow confer wisdom and insight?”

“As opposed to your dark magic?” said Arandar.

Everyone started talking at once. Gavin took a step back, frowning. Mara was right. This was madness, but he didn’t know how to stop it. Ridmark would have ended the argument, or Calliande could have, but Gavin didn’t know what to say. He decided instead to keep watch, lest enemies come upon them while they debated.

Or if Morigna’s and Arandar’s shouting drew foes.

Gavin looked over the ruined wall, and the gray gleam of pale light caught his eye.

Disturbed, he moved to the edge of the wall, his hand falling to Truthseeker’s hilt. Six motionless orcs stood a few yards below the wall, and alarm flooded through Gavin. He started to draw Truthseeker, and then realized that the orcs weren’t moving.

They weren’t even breathing.

In fact, the orcs weren’t even orcs at all.

They were statues of gleaming gray stone, so perfectly wrought that they almost looked alive. Almost. Gavin could pick out the precise detail of their clothing and weapons, the fold of their clothes, even the individual hairs of their topknots.

Every last one of the orcs had an expression of fear and alarm.

Gavin whispered a quiet curse and stepped away from the ruined wall, turning to face the others. Morigna and Arandar continued their shouted argument, the others trying to get a word in and usually failing.

“We have a problem,” said Gavin.

No one noticed. How would Ridmark have handled this? Gavin considered for a moment, then drew a deep breath.

“Shut up and stop talking!” he roared at the top of his lungs.

Morigna and Arandar both whirled to face him, Arandar lifting Heartwarden and Morigna her staff. The others looked astonished. Gavin supposed that he did not shout all that often, now that he thought about it.

“Shut up and stop talking?” said Jager. “That’s redundant, you know.”

“We have a problem,” said Gavin. “A serious problem. If you can stop bickering like children for a moment, I will show it to you.”

Morigna’s eyes narrowed. “You think to call me a child, boy?”

Arandar hesitated. “If…we are acting like children, then he is not wrong to do so.” He offered a polite bow to Gavin. “Lead on, Sir Gavin.”

Morigna’s eyes remained narrowed, but she said nothing and followed Arandar. Gavin led the others around the ruined wall and to the statues.

They stared at the stone orcs for a moment.

“It seems that Qhurzal was not spinning tales,” said Kharlacht at last.

“Someone certainly has macabre taste in artwork,” said Jager.

“I don’t think that’s artwork,” said Mara.

“A gorgon spirit,” said Caius, voice grim.

“A…gorgon spirit?” said Arandar. “Forgive me, Brother Caius, but what is that?”

“A creature like a basilisk,” said Caius, “but of infinitely more power. A basilisk is simply a large lizard that can turn men to stone with its gaze. A gorgon spirit is much worse. It inhabits a physical vessel of its choosing, and then anyone it touches or looks at is transformed into a statue. The defenses of the remaining three great dwarven cities all have gorgon spirits bound as a final line of defense. One of Khald Azalar’s gorgon spirits must be loose in the Vale of Stone Death.” He looked at the stone orcs. “I suppose these treasure-hunters found that out the hard way.”

“Those aren’t treasure hunters,” said Mara. “Look at their faces.” The orcs had faces of gray stone, but the ritual scarring was clear against their features. “Those are Mhorites.”

“And they were transformed just a few hours ago,” said Morigna. The anger had drained from her face, replaced by alarm.

“How do you know?” said Caius.

“Look at the footprints,” said Morigna. The slope here was bare stone, with patches of gritty dust here and there. Footprints were plain in the dust, coming to an abrupt halt behind the statues. Gavin did not have Morigna’s or Ridmark’s skill at tracking, but he had spent much of his childhood hunting in the forests around Aranaeus, and he could read a trail.

The Mhorite orcs had been running from something.

Something, he suspected, that had caught them and transformed them into statues.

“Well,” said Arandar. “I suppose that settles it. We dare not stay on the hillside any longer. If this gorgon spirit lurks nearby, it might find us.”

“Assuming,” said Gavin before he could stop himself, “all the shouting hasn’t drawn its notice already.”

For once, Morigna had nothing to say to that.

“Sir Gavin speaks truly,” said Arandar. “We should make for the Gate of the West at once. If the gorgon spirit comes after us, the presence of the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm orcs might provide it with more tempting targets.”

“But what about Ridmark?” said Morigna. “Can we not find a way to warn him of the spirit?”

“The Gray Knight and the Magistria are likely safer than we are,” said Caius. “I believe that a Magistria’s magic can ward against a gorgon spirit’s power.”

“You believe?” said Morigna, making a scornful curse of the word. “Or you know?”

“I do not know for certain,” said Caius.

“I propose this compromise, then,” said Arandar. “We shall make for the Gate of the West and conceal ourselves there. If after two days, Ridmark and Calliande have not arrived, we will go in search of them.” He sighed. “If Calliande is killed, this entire enterprise has been in vain anyway. Does anyone object?”

No one did. Not even Morigna.

“Kharlacht,” said Arandar. “Save for Morigna, you have the most experience as a woodman among us, and you have the keenest eyes, Mara. I suggest you lead the way.”

Chapter 6: The Vale

The stairs climbed ever higher.

Ridmark’s torch had burned out long ago, but that was just as well. The air in here was stale, and the smoke would have choked them. Calliande walked behind him, a sphere of pale white light hovering over her palm. His staff waited in his right hand.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, her voice a whisper.

“Aye?” said Ridmark.

“Do you mind,” she said, “if we stop and catch our breath? Just for a moment?”

He frowned. His instincts screamed for him to hasten, to reach the top of the stairs as soon as possible. God only knew what dangers awaited Morigna and the others outside the High Gate, and they might need his help. For that matter, he did not know how long it take for Morigna and Arandar and Jager to be at each others’ throats. Probably less time than it would take for any dangers to find them.

He started to refuse, and then took a closer look at Calliande. She was breathing hard, sweat trickling down her temples. For a woman who had spent two hundred years sleeping in a vault, she was quite fit, but she wasn’t as strong as he was, and they had climbed at least a mile’s worth of stairs. And that was after all the magic she had worked in the warded chamber below.

Come to think of it, his legs felt a bit watery as well.

“Aye,” he said, leaning against the curved wall. Calliande let out a relieved sigh and slumped next to him. “Don’t sit down, though. We shouldn’t linger long. The others might need our help.”

“They might,” said Calliande. “But they have two Swordbearers between them, along with Morigna’s magic and Mara’s abilities, to say nothing of Kharlacht’s and Caius’s and Jager’s skill at arms. Ridmark, they’re probably safer than we are.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “I had not considered that.”

“Do you think the Mhorites are following us?” said Calliande.

“They’re aren’t,” said Ridmark. “Everything echoes in this damned stairwell. If they were after us, we would have heard it by now.”

“At least they couldn’t have gone after the others,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded, doubt gnawing at him. He had no idea what waited beyond the sealed doors. Mhorites, certainly. Perhaps creatures from the Deeps. Or this mysterious creature that haunted the Vale of Stone Death, the guardian Qhurzal had told them about.

“You’re worried about Morigna,” said Calliande.

It was a little disconcerting how well Calliande could read him by now. “Aye. Though perhaps I should be worried about whoever crosses Morigna’s path. She can take care of herself.”

Calliande raised an eyebrow, her face ghostly in the pale light.

“And what they might do to each other,” said Ridmark. “Either Kharlacht or Arandar will try to take charge. Morigna will listen to what Kharlacht says, but she can’t stand Arandar. I hope they do not come to blows.”

“You really do love her, don’t you?” said Calliande.

“You sound surprised,” said Ridmark.

“Well…” said Calliande.

“She is abrasive, rude, arrogant, and supremely overconfident,” said Ridmark. “She holds the Swordbearers, the High Kingdom, and the church in contempt, and is not concerned about keeping her opinions quiet.”

“Why did you say that?” said Calliande.

“Because it’s all true,” said Ridmark, “and you were thinking it.”

Calliande sighed. “It is a sin to lie.”

“She is also brave and loyal,” said Ridmark. “Strong and skilled and intelligent, as well.”

“Do you love her?” said Calliande.

Ridmark said nothing. He wanted to drop this line of discussion, but he supposed he owed Calliande an answer.

“The last time I loved a woman,” said Ridmark, “it didn’t end at all well.”

“It wasn’t…”

“My fault, yes, yes, I know,” said Ridmark. “So you’ve said. Many times. Maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Aelia died despite everything I could do, and that was that.”

That thought disturbed him. He had lost Aelia, and he did not want to lose Morigna, too. He had tried to keep anything from happening between them. Then she had kissed him at Vulmhosk, and then they had been alone after the battle at the Iron Tower…

His spirit might have wanted to be strong, but his flesh was weak.

His heart, too, now that he thought about it.

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande. “I should not pry.”

He looked at her. He had kissed her, too, before Kharlacht had been poisoned by the wyvern west of Moraime. Had the wyvern not intervened, things might have continued between them. God and all the saints, but Ridmark was a fool. He was caught between two women of strong will. How the devil had he let that happen?

He laughed quietly to himself.

“What?” said Calliande. “What did I say?”

“I think,” said Ridmark, “that I am a fool. And I think that we shouldn’t linger here. Can you continue?”

“I think so,” said Calliande.

“Good,” said Ridmark.

They continued climbing.

###

“How high have we gone?” said Calliande some time and many stairs later.

Ridmark did not answer right away. “About a mile and a half, I deem. And I suspect we’re almost to the end.”

Calliande frowned. “What do you say that?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “it’s getting colder.”

He was right. She realized that his cloak was stirring around him, that a breath of chill air touched her face. Calliande wondered why it was so cold, and then understood. They had gone up a mile and a half. They were well into the mountains proper.

At last the stairs ended, and they found themselves in an octagonal chamber of stone, the walls carved with dwarven glyphs. Stairs climbed up the walls, ending in a stone trapdoor.

“Caius was right,” said Ridmark. “The watch tower.”

“He usually is,” said Calliande.

Ridmark climbed the stairs and pushed the stone trapdoor. Nothing happened. He strained for a moment, his pale face starting to redden, but the door did not move.

“It’s stuck,” said Ridmark. “Maybe if I use the staff as a lever…”

“Won’t it snap?” said Calliande.

“I doubt it,” said Ridmark, wedging the staff into the gap. “Ardrhythain must have strengthened the wood. My old staff had dozens of nicks and scratches. This staff doesn’t have a single one, and I’ve been beating Mhorites and trolls to death with it.”

He strained again for a moment, but still the stone trap door did not move.

“It must be jammed or blocked,” he said. He rubbed his jaw. “We…may have to retreat back to the High Gate and back to the foothills, and then take the High Pass to the Vale. Assuming Arandar and the others wait that long. It will add at least a day and a half to…”

“There might be another way,” said Calliande.

Ridmark grunted. “You have a spell to use on the door?”

“Not quite,” said Calliande. “I can make you stronger, the way I do in combat.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Ridmark, “but that door weighs at least half a ton, maybe more. Your spell doesn’t make me that much stronger. Even Heartwarden wouldn’t have made me strong enough.”

Calliande smiled. “That’s because my spell is usually divided among you and Kharlacht and Caius and everyone else, along with whatever warding spells I’m holding in place at the time. I can put all my power into you.”

Ridmark shrugged. “Let’s try it and see what happens.” He paused. “Though I suppose those were the last words of many a fool.”

Calliande decided to ignore that, and instead summoned her power and focused her will. She cast the spell, white fire burning around her fingers, and the light sprang from her hands and sank into Ridmark. It was brighter than usual, and Ridmark staggered a little with surprise.

“How do you feel?” said Calliande, focusing as she poured all her strength into the spell.

“Lighter,” said Ridmark. “Probably because I’m stronger.” He adjusted his grip on the black staff. “Let’s give this another try.”

He climbed up the steps, wedged the staff into the gap below the door, and strained. For a moment nothing happened, and Calliande concentrated on holding the spell in place. Then the door shuddered, rising a few inches. Pale gray light shone through the gap, and Ridmark twisted, getting his hands under the door. He grunted, the cords standing out in his neck, and pushed the trapdoor open the rest of the way. A thunderous crash echoed through the chamber as the door fell open. Ridmark stepped through the opened trapdoor, looking around, staff ready in hand.

“It’s clear,” he said. “You can come up.”

Calliande nodded, released the spell, and followed him up the stairs. A stray memory flickered through her thoughts of the day of the omen of blue fire, the day she had awakened below the Tower of Vigilance. Then she had been alone and naked and terrified, her memory gone and her knowledge lost.

Oddly, the thought cheered her. She was stronger now, with the power of a Magistria, and she knew who she was and what she had to do. Now all she had to do was reclaim her staff and memory.

She only hoped she was strong enough for it.

Calliande climbed through the opened trapdoor and into a ruined watch tower. The tower rose a good fifty feet overhead, but the roof had been ripped off, and the naked sky was visible overhead. Debris lay heaped about the floor, which had no doubt blocked the door.

“Dwarven masonry is usually sturdier than that,” said Calliande, looking at the damaged walls. “The wind and the ice of mountains must have worn it down.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Look at the cracks. Something hit the top of the tower. Some terrible weapon or spell, I think.” He looked down at her. “Did the Frostborn have such weapons?”

“They must have,” said Calliande. “I don’t remember it.” She would, though, once they entered Khald Azalar and Dragonfall.

“The histories I’ve heard said the Frostborn wielded terrible sorcery,” said Ridmark. “Spells to turn entire armies to ice and rip down walls of stone.”

“They must have,” said Calliande again. “In tens of thousands of years, both the dark elves and the urdmordar only managed to destroy five of the nine dwarven kingdoms. The Frostborn destroyed Khald Azalar in a few years.”

They would destroy far more if they returned again.

“The door’s blocked,” said Ridmark.

“I can cast the spell again,” said Calliande, eyeing the heaped slabs before the door.

“No need,” said Ridmark. “The windows are clear.” He scrambled up the pile with the ease of a lion, and jumped to the window. Calliande hesitated, and then followed him up. He caught her hand, and then helped her to the windowsill. Ridmark braced himself and then jumped to the snowy ground six feet below.

Calliande hesitated again.

“Don’t worry,” said Ridmark. “I’ll catch you.”

Calliande grinned and jumped from the window. True to his word, Ridmark caught her around the waist, lowering her to the ground without much of a shock. Even without her augmenting magic, he was very strong. It left her a little breathless, but she banished that line of thought at once.

The cold helped with that. It was cold up here, much colder than the foothills of Vhaluusk had been, even colder than the ghostly desolation of the Torn Hills outside the walls of Urd Morlemoch. Calliande pulled her green cloak closer, shivering a bit.

“The Vale of Stone Death,” said Ridmark.

Calliande looked down the mountain slope, past the foothills, and to the green valley below. It was a large valley, perhaps two days’ journey in length. A large blue lake filled the northern third of the valley, and the rest lay beneath a pine forest.

“Fires,” murmured Calliande. Black plumes of smoke rose from here and there in the forest, like smears of charcoal across green cloth.

“There is fighting the forest,” said Ridmark, raising a hand to screen his eyes. “Look. That road, there, making its way down the mountainside.” From this height, the road looked like a pale thread against the gray stone, albeit a pale thread covered in tiny dark shapes. “The Mhorites, I think. An entire army of them.”

Calliande shivered, and not just from the cold. “It was well we took the High Gate instead of the High Pass, then.” There was no way they could have fought their way through that many Mhorites.

“Who are they fighting?” said Ridmark.

“It must be the trolls,” said Calliande. “Fire is one of the ways to stop their vitality, and not everyone can conjure acidic mist as Morigna can.”

“A lot of trolls,” said Ridmark, shaking his head. “Perhaps the Traveler’s orcs as well, these ‘spiny’ orcs.” He rubbed his jaw. “I should have asked Mara more about them. I’ve heard tales that the Anathgrimm orcs of Nightmane Forest are twisted and deformed, but I’ve never seen one myself.”

“Spines or not,” said Calliande, “it will take a large number of foes to overcome two Swordbearers. Should we try to find the others? We’re higher than they are, and we might overtake them.”

Ridmark hesitated. She could tell he wanted to go after them, that he wanted to find Morigna and the others before they walked into the Mhorites or the trolls or whatever other creatures lurked in the Vale of Stone Death. Yet he gave a shake of his head. His mind usually overruled his heart. Unless Morigna was involved.

Though, Calliande thought sourly, perhaps something other than his heart and his mind governed him when it came to Morigna.

At once she felt a pulse of shame. That had been an unworthy thought.

“No,” said Ridmark. “We have no way of knowing where the High Gate opens. I can guess, based on the position of the tower, but if it’s as well-concealed as the other entrance we could wander for days and never find it. No, we’ll stick to the plan and make for the Gate of the West. Morigna and Kharlacht know how to move unseen in a forest, and as you’ve said, they have two Swordbearers. We’ll reach the Gate of the West and meet them there.”

“I agree,” said Calliande.

“Then let’s move,” said Ridmark. “If we hasten, we should be able to reach the foothills by dark. It’s too cold to spend the night up here.”

“Aye,” said Calliande, and Ridmark started to pick his way down the slope. The ancient dwarves, thankfully, had left a path, though it was narrow and worn by time and wind. “Have you ever noticed that disaster always seems to strike when we’re alone together?”

He froze for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and turned, his face solemn.

“You mean,” he said, his voice quiet, “when we kissed?”

“What?” said Calliande. The realization flashed through her, followed immediately by mortified embarrassment. “No, no. I meant…I meant the wyvern. The last time we were alone together was the day you found the stoneberries and I remembered my father. And then…”

“Oh,” said Ridmark, blinking. “Yes. Of course. The wyvern. That was disastrous.”

“That is what I meant,” said Calliande. “The kiss, it was…” She groped for words. “Not disastrous.”

“High praise,” said Ridmark.

“You know what I meant,” said Calliande.

“Aye,” he said. “You tease me enough. Perhaps I am entitled to retaliation from time to time.” The hint of levity faded. “But perhaps it is just as well. The kiss might have been disastrous.”

“What do you mean?” said Calliande.

“Like kissing a bishop,” said Ridmark.

She gave him a level look. “How was it possibly like kissing a bishop?” Another thought occurred to her. “Have you kissed a bishop? I hope not.”

“That…may have been an infelicitous choice of words,” said Ridmark. He turned and continued down the path, and Calliande followed him.

“Clearly,” she said. “You didn’t answer the question, though.”

“Like kissing the High Queen, then,” said Ridmark.

“How?” said Calliande.

“When we…back then, we didn’t know who you were,” said Ridmark. “You might have had a husband, children, sleeping in some other ruin of the Vigilant. Now we know. You are the Keeper of Andomhaim, heir to the Keepers of Avalon upon Old Earth…and you are beyond me.” He glanced back at her. “I am a branded outcast, but even when I was still a Swordbearer and a knight of the realm, you would still have been beyond me.”

“Beyond me?” said Calliande, confused.

“Beyond me,” Ridmark repeated. “Just as a kiss from the High Queen would be beyond the reach of a simple freeholder or common laborer.” His smile was a little sad. “To put it simply…the Keeper of Andomhaim is too good for a branded outcast.”

“I…see,” said Calliande. She had not considered it in that light, and she did not like it at all. Again it made her wonder what kind of woman she had been two hundred years ago. Had she been so cold, so aloof, that she had been willing to lose everyone she had ever known to slumber beneath the Tower of Vigilance? “You do not give yourself enough credit. The high and mighty Keeper of Andomhaim would be dead on an altar if not for that branded outcast.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “And…the kiss, if you must know, was most certainly not disastrous.”

They stared at each other. Calliande felt uncomfortable, but not nearly as cold as she had a moment earlier.

“You know,” said Calliande, “if my calculations are anywhere near correct, I have to be at least two hundred and twenty years old. Probably closer to two hundred and forty.”

“You don’t look it,” said Ridmark with a small smile.

“Thank you,” said Calliande. “But my point is that even two hundred and forty years is insufficient age to discuss matters of the heart without feeling like a foolish child.”

To her surprise, he laughed, maybe harder than she had ever heard him laugh. “Perhaps we are all fools in the end. My brother Tormark will be the Dux of Taliand one day, and is a stern and grim knight…yet if his wife touches his hand in public, he turns as red as an apple. Come! Fools we may be, but let us not linger. No sense in being dead fools.”

“I could not agree more,” said Calliande, and they continued down the path.

Chapter 7: Anathgrimm

Darkness fell, and Gavin and the others made camp in a gully at the edge of the forest.

Arandar forbade a campfire, and for once Morigna did not argue with him. They needed rest after the fighting in the High Gate, and blundering around the forest in the dark was a recipe for disaster. Arandar, Gavin, Kharlacht, Jager, and Caius took turns at watch while Morigna and Mara slept. Both Morigna’s magic and Mara’s strange abilities were taxing, and Arandar wanted them rested in case their powers were needed.

Gavin did not sleep well when his turn to rest came. Every sound in the forest stirred him to alarm, every breath of wind and every creak of the trees. The smell of pine needles and burning sap filled his nostrils, and from time to time he heard a distant noise that he was sure was the battle cry of a hunting troll.

Yet neither trolls nor orcs nor the gorgon spirit found them, and the sun rose without incident.

“We must decide how to proceed from here,” said Arandar when they had awakened. Ridmark would have laid out a plan, listened to any suggestions or objections, and then set off. Gavin suspected Arandar preferred to first achieve consensus and then act.

He looked at Morigna and Jager. Achieving consensus might prove harder than Arandar had thought.

“We must avoid the road if at all possible,” said Caius. “The Mhorites are using it for their march, and I have no doubt the Traveler’s orcs will do so as well.”

“Obviously,” said Morigna. “We must make our way through the forest.” Her face was tighter than usual, the lines harsher, her black eyes ringed by dark circles. Likely she had not slept well either. “Avoiding Mournacht and his followers will prove challenging.”

“There will be ruins where we can take shelter, if necessary,” said Caius.

“Ruins?” said Arandar. “What kind of ruins?”

“This wasn’t always a pine forest,” said Caius. “Before Khald Azalar fell, this entire valley was farmland. The pine trees have grown up in the centuries since. But there were barns for storing the crops and barracks for housing the workers.”

“And I assume,” said Arandar, “that these barns and barracks were built with the same durability as other dwarven stonework?”

Caius blinked. “Of course. My kindred are not ones for doing things halfway.”

“I’m sure the orcs and the trolls have noticed the ruins as well,” said Jager, “along with what marvelous strongholds they would make.”

“Trolls have little need for shelter,” said Kharlacht.

“Just Mhorite and Anathgrimm orcs, then,” said Jager. “See? Already our odds improve.”

“The road runs east to the Gate of the West,” said Arandar. “Do we make our way through the forest north of the road or south of the road?”

“South,” said Morigna at once. “That lake is north of the road. It will be a convenient source of water for our foes, and one suspects that they shall send scouting parties there on a regular basis.”

Kharlacht’s customary frown deepened. “We are already north of the road. To cross it seems an unnecessary risk.”

“So does remaining near the lake,” said Morigna.

“I fear crossing the road to the south is a greater risk,” said Mara. “Even if there is not a source of fresh water there, both Mournacht and the Traveler will send scouting parties to the south. We will have to elude them, just as we must elude any foraging parties sent to the lake. I agree with Kharlacht. Crossing the road seems an unnecessary risk.”

“Your reasoning is sound,” said Arandar. “We shall make our way through the woods to the north of the road.”

“I shall bind some ravens and set them to circling us,” said Morigna.

Arandar frowned. “Would not Mournacht be able to detect the spell? Or perhaps the Traveler?”

“I doubt it,” said Morigna, and she grinned without humor. “I commanded a hundred rats to attack Mournacht in Coldinium, and he could do nothing to stop them.”

“Rats?” said Arandar with a flicker of disgust.

“I have seen the spells she uses to command birds with my Sight,” said Mara. “The amount of power is very small. I do not think even the Traveler would notice unless one happened to land upon his shoulder.”

“They will also keep watch for Ridmark and Calliande,” said Morigna. “We are seven, but they are but two, and Ridmark knows how to move quickly and quietly. He might well overtake us.”

“Let us hope so,” said Arandar, and they set off to the east.

###

Silence hung over the little battlefield.

Gavin looked around, his hand resting on Truthseeker’s hilt. He did not draw the sword, not yet. Truthseeker almost always glowed when he drew the blade, the sword’s glow turning into white fire when confronting creatures of dark magic. There were not any foes in the clearing, but Gavin did not want to take the risk of Truthseeker’s light drawing any eyes.

Five dead Mhorite orcs lay scattered around the small clearing. All of them had wounds raging from severe to obviously mortal, their blood seeping into the pine needle-coated earth. Some of the wounds had come from swords and axes. Other appeared to have been inflicted by claws, or perhaps some sort of heavy spiked weapon like a pickaxe. After his months traveling with Ridmark, Gavin had seen enough fighting that the sight of corpses no longer shocked him.

Should the sight have shocked him? He did not know.

The mystery of dead trolls kept him from brooding on it.

Two trolls lay dead near the Mhorites, the stench of their charred flesh drowning out the smell of spilled orcish blood. Both trolls had been burned from head to toe. Gavin looked them over, grimacing at the vile reek coming from their corpses. The fire had been hot enough to burn away their leathery, scaled hides, char their flesh to a stinking black mass, and turn their bones to smoking coals. The ground around them was blackened, and two of the nearby pine trees had burned as well.

“The Mhorites could not have done this,” said Mara.

“Perhaps they learned of the trolls’ weakness to fire,” said Arandar.

Mara shook at her head. “There are not enough ashes. Those trolls looked as if they were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace. How could the Mhorites have created a fire that hot without fuel?”

“Pine logs would not burn that hot,” said Caius. “And had the Mhorites made a fire that hot, it would have burned down half the forest by now. Certainly the trolls would not meekly submit to it.”

“They did not,” said Morigna, circling the troll carcasses. “Something…hit them, I deem. Look there, and there. It is like they were hit by shards of molten metal that burned their way through the flesh.” She scowled at Caius. “Have the Mhorites uncovered some dwarven weapon of power? Or does this gorgon spirit of yours have other capabilities?”

“Neither,” said Caius. “Some of our most potent traps could do this, but they would be in the heart of Khald Azalar, even if they were still functional. And the gorgon spirit turns its victims to stone. It does not burn them alive.”

“The Mhorites did not fight the trolls,” said Morigna, scowling at the ground. “Look at the tracks. The trolls came here first, and then someone slew them. The Mhorites arrived a short time later, likely drawn by the fire, and were overwhelmed and slain.”

“Can you tell who killed them?” said Arandar.

Morigna shrugged. “Large men wearing boots, to judge from the tracks. At least a score. Likely the spiny orcs belonging to the Traveler.”

“They are most welcome to prey upon each other,” said Arandar.

“Though I would like to know what killed the trolls,” said Jager. “I do not want to be eaten, and I definitely do not want to be cooked before I am eaten. A dragon, perhaps?”

Caius shook his head. “The histories of the high elves say the last true dragons perished before the elven kindred sundered into the high elves and the dark elves. Some other creature could have done this. A hydra, perhaps?”

“Hydra?” said Morigna.

“A serpent that dwells in the Deeps,” said Caius. “It has many heads, and each head can breathe fire…but, no. I do not think a hydra have summoned such a potent flame.”

“An urdhracos, maybe?” said Jager. “We saw them breathe fire at Urd Morlemoch.”

“An urdhracos’s fire would not be that hot,” said Mara, her eyes distant. Gavin knew her well enough by now to realize that she had an idea.

“You suspect something, my lady,” said Gavin.

“Antenora,” said Mara.

“Who?” said Jager. Gavin didn’t recognize the name.

“The sorceress Morigna and I met in the halfway place between this world and Old Earth, when the Warden tried to open his gate,” said Mara.

“Oh,” said Gavin. He had forgotten about that detail.

Of course, a lot of things had happened that day.

“Antenora?” said Morigna, her sour expression turning to puzzlement. “Truly?”

Mara shrugged. “You saw the power she wielded against those spirit creatures in the threshold. Gales of fire and blasts of flame. I am certain she could conjure a fire hot enough to kill these trolls.”

“But how could she be here?” said Morigna.

“I don’t understand,” said Gavin.

Morigna gave him a withering look. “I am shocked.”

“The Warden’s spell,” said Mara, “joined together the thresholds of Old Earth and this world, their…shadows in the spirit realm, I suppose. Once the Warden joined their thresholds, apparently he would have been able to open his gate and step through it to Old Earth. When Morigna and I were pulled into Old Earth’s threshold, we encountered Antenora. She sensed the Warden’s spell and came to see what was happening. She claimed to have been an apprentice of the Keeper, the original Keeper, and wanted to redeem some long-ago treachery.” She looked at Morigna. “She did say she would try to find the Keeper.”

“Which means Calliande,” said Caius.

“Even if she left the threshold of Old Earth and crossed to the threshold of our world,” said Morigna, “she would be trapped there.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mara. “She reached the threshold of Old Earth, did she not?”

“I…had not considered that,” said Morigna.

“I am shocked,” said Gavin.

She scowled at him.

“If it is indeed this sorceress,” said Arandar, “do you think she is trustworthy?”

“I do not know,” said Mara. “I thought she was telling the truth about who she was, but I have been mistaken before.” She shrugged. “Perhaps we are all wrong, and Mournacht has acquired a new form of dark magic, or the Traveler has a spell I have never seen him use before.”

“If it is Antenora,” said Morigna, “and the trolls are fighting her, we should aid her.” Gavin blinked in surprise. “I pay my debts, and if not for her help, Mara and I would never have escaped the threshold.”

“If we encounter her, we shall aid her,” said Arandar. “And if our logic is in error, if some other creature is doing this…we shall avoid it. Let our enemies fight among each other.”

“That is my kind of fight, sir knight,” said Jager.

They left the clearing and the dead behind.

###

Gavin crouched behind the fallen log, gazing at the motionless shapes standing atop the low ridge. They had not moved, and though he could not see clearly through the trees, his impression was that they were guards around a camp.

But he didn’t think they were moving at all.

Something stirred behind him, and he whirled, starting to draw Truthseeker from its scabbard. But it was only Morigna, her staff in her right hand, her black eyes glassy as she communicated with the ravens under her control.

“Those are not guards,” she muttered. “Or if they are guards, they have been on watch for a very long time.”

“Statues?” said Arandar, crouching next to Gavin.

Morigna closed her eyes and nodded.

“The gorgon spirit’s work?” said Arandar.

“Possibly,” said Morigna, some of her usual asperity coming into her tone. “Or a mad artist has decided to carve statues in the heart of a troll-haunted fortress. Which do you think is more likely, Swordbearer?”

Arandar sighed and straightened up.

“Ridmark Arban,” he said, walking towards the ridge, “must have the patience of a saint.”

“He tolerates you, does he not?” said Morigna, but Arandar did not look back.

Gavin got to his feet and followed the Swordbearer and the sorceress to the ridge, pushing his way past the pine trees. He scowled as the needles raked at his hands and neck. Twelve stone figures of orcish warriors stood atop the ridge. The statues had uncanny detail to them, the work so fine that Gavin could make out the stitches in the seams of their leather armor. Despite the detail, the statues had a weathered look to them, as if they had stood out in the wind and rain for a long time.

The weathering did nothing to soften the looks of fear and horror upon the stone orcs’ faces.

“Not Mhorites,” said Arandar. “No facial scarring.”

“Vhaluuskan, I think,” said Kharlacht. “Their clothes and armor are similar to those we saw in Khorduk.”

“Look at their feet,” said Morigna. Their feet and legs had sunk several inches into the earth. “They have been here for a long time. Years, possibly.”

“Can the transformation be reversed, Brother Caius?” said Arandar.

“Yes,” said Caius. “It can, if the gorgon spirit is commanded to do so. The trouble is…just because the victim is turned to stone, the processes of the body continue.”

“The processes of the body?” said Gavin.

“Digestion,” said Caius. “The need for food and drink. Unless it is reversed soon, the victim dies and all that remains is a statue. If the petrification is reversed after long enough, the body simply crumbles into dust when it returns to flesh.”

“A man will die in a few days without water,” said Mara, her voice quiet. “Those orcs have been there for years.”

“And the gorgon spirit was likely bound to obey the King of Khald Azalar,” said Caius. “It will continue defending Khald Azalar until…”

“Until when?” said Arandar.

“Until the world crumbles into dust,” said Caius, “or there are no more foes left in the Vale of Stone Death.” He considered for a moment. “There might be…a warding stone, a totem rod, for controlling or binding the spirit. Maybe a helmet or a crown. But Khald Azalar held a hundred and fifty thousand dwarves at its height. Whatever controlling totem binds the spirit could be anywhere.”

“Suffice to say,” said Arandar, “we had best avoid the creature.”

“Perhaps that is why Calliande chose to hide her staff here,” said Jager. “If she knew this gorgon spirit was loose in the Vale, she could go to sleep certain that any thieves would become part of the landscape.”

“We’ll have to ask when she catches up to us,” said Gavin.

“She will not give you an answer,” muttered Morigna, both hands grasped around her staff, her head bowed, “because she does not remember why she did it. A terribly foolish way to go about it. One thinks she could at least have left herself a note or…”

She flinched, and then straightened up with a hiss.

“What is it?” said Arandar.

“The ravens,” Mara said. “I think they’ve seen something.”

Morigna gave a shake of her head. “Orcs, to the north. I have never seen their like. They have…”

“Spines,” said Mara, her voice grim. “The Anathgrimm.”

“We need to go, now,” said Arandar.

“No,” said Morigna, looking around. “No, it is too late. There is no place to take cover, and they are running to the south. By the time we try to take cover, they will have found us…”

“How many?” said Arandar, drawing Heartwarden. The sword shimmered with white light.

“At least thirty,” said Morigna. Gavin drew Truthseeker, feeling the sword’s power thrum up his arm. “Maybe forty. The ravens were too spooked to get any closer. The orcs…the ravens are afraid of them.”

“We shall make our stand here,” said Arandar. Kharlacht raised his dark elven greatsword, and Caius his mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel. Jager and Mara drew the blades they had taken from Urd Morlemoch. Morigna’s fingers tightened around her staff, purple fire flickering within the symbols carved upon its length. “We have the high ground. Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin. With me. We will hold the front. Jager and Mara, hang back and keep the Anathgrimm off Morigna. Morigna, kindly bring your spells to bear against the orcs. Distract and slow them, preferably.”

Morigna scoffed a little. “So you will not refuse the help of a wicked outlaw sorceress in your hour of need?”

“If we do not fight alongside each other, we are going to die,” said Arandar. “Perhaps you last thought can be one of smug satisfaction that your pride has gotten us both killed.”

Gavin snorted. “A fine argument.”

“Do shut up and fight,” said Morigna.

Gavin set himself and waited, Arandar on his right and Kharlacht upon his left. He adjusted the scarred shield on his left arm, the shield he had taken from Tarrabus Carhaine’s slain men-at-arms in Aranaeus. Strange that it had survived so much danger alongside him, danger that he was not sure he would have survived himself.

Perhaps it would see him through one more battle.

A moment later the first of the Anathgrimm burst from the trees, and Gavin saw what had frightened Morigna’s ravens.

He had seen mutated orcs before. The arachar had consumed the blood of Agrimnalazur, making them stronger and faster and instilling them with furious bloodlust. The deep orcs in Thainkul Dural had been blind, yet able to see heat and hear things no human ear could detect. The Devout, the servants of the Warden, had been larger and stronger than normal orcs, their blood shining with the cold blue light of the Warden’s dark magic.

The Anathgrimm looked stranger than them all.

The first orc that reached the bottom of the shallow ridge wore a strange patterned black mask over his face and tusks, his black eyes gleaming with crimson battle rage. An instant later Gavin realized that the black material of the mask was actually dense bone, the bones growing from the warrior’s temples and scalp to encircle his face like a living mask. Gleaming steel chain mail covered his torso, and massive bony spikes rose from his shoulders and elbows and his forearms. They did indeed make the orc look spiny, though those spikes of bone were anything but fragile.

Two more Anathgrimm emerged from the trees, and then five more.

“You will have to aim for their throats,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “There is another layer of bone armor beneath the chain mail, covering their torsos. I do not think even a Swordbearer’s strength will drive a blade through it.”

Gavin nodded, his fingers tightening against Truthseeker’s hilt.

“Humans, a Vhaluuskan orc, a halfling, and a dwarf,” shouted the lead Anathgrimm warrior in the orcish tongue, his deep voice buzzing with a strange cadence. Gavin realized that the bone mask vibrated in time to his words, distorting his voice. He also realized that the Anathgrimm had failed to recognize that Mara was half dark elven. “A peculiar party.”

“No stranger than yours, sir,” said Arandar. “I have not seen your like before.”

“We are the Anathgrimm,” said the orcish warrior, “the servants of our lord and master and god.”

“God?” said Arandar.

“The greatest of all the dark elven lords,” said the orc, “the rightful master of the earth.” The Anathgrimm smiled, revealing black teeth the same color as his mask and tusks. “You may know him as the Traveler.”

“There is only one God,” said Brother Caius, “and his son the Dominus Christus.”

“A folly,” said the Anathgrimm. “The Traveler is the rightful god of this world, and in time all kindred shall be his slaves, even as we are. Your kindred, too, are the rightful slaves of the Traveler.”

“Tell me,” said Arandar. “What brings the servants of the Traveler to the Vale of Stone Death?”

“We have come to crush a fool,” said the Anathgrimm. “A proud rebel who calls himself Mournacht, who reveres the false blood gods, who thinks to place himself above the Traveler. We shall crush him utterly and lay his head before our god’s feet.” The big orc tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps you shall serve the true god.”

“I rather doubt that,” said Arandar.

The Anathgrimm snarled and raised his right hand, and suddenly cold blue flames played about his bone-armored fingers. “Perhaps not. For I am Zhorlacht, a priest of the Traveler, and in his name I shall slay you. Kill them!”

The Anathgrimm ran forward in silence. To complement their bone armor, most of them wore heavy steel plate and chain mail, massive shields upon their left arms and steel maces in their right fists. They did not move quickly, but they did move steadily, climbing up the slope to present a solid wall of wood and steel. Zhorlacht stepped forward, raising his right fist, a surge of dark power snarling around his fingers as a bolt of blue fire burst from his arm and howled forward.

Gavin jumped to intercept it.

He raised Truthseeker, and the soulblade’s power flared in response to the Anathgrimm wizard’s dark magic. Truthseeker blazed into white fire, and Gavin called upon the sword’s strength. The bolt of blue flame slammed into Gavin, only to shatter against the shell of white light shining from the soulblade. A strange chiming noise filled his ears as wizard’s spell collapsed, and through the glaring haze of competing magic Gavin saw Zhorlacht lower his hand, his dark eyes narrowed.

The spell ended, and Gavin spun to face the Anathgrimm. The armored orcs climbed the slope, their heavy boots tearing the ground. Gavin braced himself, preparing to attack.

Morigna struck first.

She waved her staff and the ground rippled. Roots burst from the earth and coiled around the orcs’ legs liked dirt-caked ropes, yanking them from their feet. The ground rippled like a banner caught in the wind, and more of the Anathgrimm fell, their armor clanking as they lost their balance. For a wild instant Gavin wondered if they would be like turtles, held down by the weight of their armor and unable to stand, but the orcs started to regain their feet at once.

But in that moment of distraction, he struck.

Gavin raced forward, Truthseeker filling him with strength and speed. He whipped the soulblade around in a sideways slash, all his strength and the sword’s magic driving the blow, and the blade sheared through the exposed neck of the nearest Anathgrimm. The bone-masked head hopped off the armored shoulders in a spray of green blood and rolled away down the slope. Another Anathgrimm started to get to his feet near Gavin, raising his mace, and Gavin struck first. Truthseeker sheared through the warrior’s wrist, the mace rolling away, the hand still grasping its handle. The orc howled in pain and rage, and Gavin killed the warrior with a quick thrust.

Next to him Arandar crashed into the disorganized Anathgrimm line, Heartwarden blazing in his fist. Gavin was a competent swordsman by now, but Arandar was far better, a Swordbearer at the height of his physical strength with decades of experience. In the time it took Gavin to take two Anathgrimm, Arandar killed five of them, carving his way through the orcs with ease. A moment later Kharlacht and Caius crashed into the line as well, Kharlacht’s dark elven greatsword rising and falling. Caius had traded his mace for the massive two-handed dark elven war hammer he had taken from Urd Morlemoch’s armories, and he brought the huge weapon down in a tremendous swing. The head of blue steel smashed into an Anathgrimm warrior’s chest, crushing his cuirass and smashing the bone armor encircling his torso. Morigna waved her staff again, and more roots burst from the ground, reaching up to entangle the orcish warriors. The roots could not hold the Anathgrimm for long, but it was long enough for Gavin and the others to land killing blows. For a moment the Anathgrimm attack wavered, and Gavin thought they might win free.

Then Zhorlacht began another spell, flinging a lance of darkness and blue flame at Gavin. He jumped back, snapping his soulblade to guard position, and called upon the sword’s power for protection. The soulstone in the blade blazed like a star as the blast of dark magic struck Gavin, its power repelling the Anathgrimm wizard’s spell. That gave the orcish warriors near him a chance to reform, and when Zhorlacht’s spell unraveled, Gavin found himself facing a unified wall of shields. He lashed out with Truthseeker, putting all his strength into the blow. The soulblade left a deep crack in one the shields, but it did not break. A spear darted over one of the shields, and Gavin could not get out of the way in time. The spearhead pierced his leather jerkin and slammed against the plates of his dark elven armor. The armor held, but the sheer force of the blow rocked Gavin back, the breath exploding from his lungs. The Anathgrimm orcs rushed at him, and only the speed granted by Truthseeker’s power let him avoid their weapons. Around him the others retreated, forced back by the discipline and skill of the recovering orcish warriors.

Orcish warriors, Gavin realized, who had just received reinforcements.

Another group of Anathgrimm rushed around the base of the ridge, charging past the petrified orcs to attack Morigna, Jager, and Mara. Gavin wanted to aid them, but he dared not turn his attention from the warriors in front of him. Morigna whirled to face the new attackers, and conjured a wall of acidic mist across the slope, the ground hissing and smoking beneath the acid.

That proved less effective than Gavin hoped. The Anathgrimm simply closed their eyes, lowered their heads, and sprinted through the wall of mist. Their bone armor seemed immune to the acid, and the burns upon the exposed sections of their flesh did not appear to trouble them. Morigna cursed and began another spell, and Mara disappeared in a swirl of blue flame. She reappeared behind one of the Anathgrimm, opening the warrior’s throat with a quick slash of her short sword, and then whirled, tripped another, and disappeared. Jager sprang into the chaos left in her wake, quick as lightning, his short sword darting to stab and cut. Mara and Jager fought together remarkably well, and they gained enough time for Morigna to work more magic, the ground rippling beneath the feet of the warriors and knocking them over.

Gavin dispatched an orcish warrior and turned to face another foe. He did not manage to get his shield up in time, and the blow from the warrior’s mace clipped his shoulder. Pain exploded through him, and he stumbled back with a hiss. Again the Anathgrimm raised his mace, and Gavin just managed to get his shield up time. The steel head of the mace bounced off the shield, sending a fresh wave of pain down Gavin’s arm and into his chest.

He stepped back to retreat, only to realize that he was running out of room to do so. The Anathgrimm orcs had encircled them. Blue fire flickered through the Anathgrimm ranks as Mara made trouble, and Morigna’s spells slowed them, but the bone-armored orcs advanced step after dogged step. Gavin looked around in alarm, his arm throbbing. Arandar and Caius and Kharlacht had all taken wounds. They would leave many slain Anathgrimm orcs piled upon the ground, but in the end they would be overwhelmed and killed. Gavin parried another blow and struck back, his mind racing. Perhaps Mara could get away and tell Ridmark what had happened, though he knew that she would not abandon Jager.

Then the Anathgrimm orcs stopped and backed off a few paces.

Gavin looked back and forth, sweat dripping into his eyes, Truthseeker thrumming in his fist.

“Hold!” said Zhorlacht, his voice booming over the warriors. Gavin saw the wizard standing behind the warriors, watching them. “Hold, Swordbearers! You have fought well and valiantly. Perhaps we can come to some accord.”

“And what accord is that?” said Arandar.

“My master the Lord of Nightmane Forest wishes to meet you,” said Zhorlacht. “He wars against the upstart worshipper of Mhor, and the Swordbearers are enemies of the servants of Mhor, are they not? Perhaps you can rid my master of this upstart shaman.”

Arandar laughed. “You seriously expect us to work with a dark elven lord?”

Zhorlacht grinned behind his bone mask. The strange masks, Gavin noted, did not inhibit the movement of the mouths and jaws of the Anathgrimm. Likely that was necessary to allow them to eat and speak and breathe. “Indeed not. The enemy of my enemy may be an ally, but that does not make him my friend. Yet if you meet the Mhorites, you shall oppose them. My lord would wish to discuss matters of mutual interest with you.”

“And if we refuse to speak with him?” said Arandar.

Zhorlacht shrugged his massive shoulders. “Then we shall kill you.”

Gavin looked at the others.

“No,” said Mara in a low voice. “Do not trust him. The Traveler is a dark elf, and the dark elves delight in treachery. Look at what the Artificer did to Paul Tallmane. If we let him, my…the Traveler will do the same to us.”

“If we are to die here,” said Kharlacht with a shrug, “so be it.”

“Pursue death if you wish,” said Morigna, “but I would prefer to achieve our goals first.”

“If we fight here we are dead,” said Jager. “Should not a knight choose a battlefield to his liking, Sir Arandar? If we follow along for now, we may find some advantage.”

He and Morigna shared a disturbed look, as if alarmed to find themselves on the same side of an argument.

“I will not commit an act of treachery,” said Arandar.

“Against pagan orcs?” said Morigna with a sneer. “I thought a son of the church was not bound by promises to pagans and worshippers of demons.”

“Honor is honor, regardless of a man’s faith,” said Arandar. He raised his voice. “What are your terms, Anathgrimm?”

“We shall escort you to the presence of our god,” said Zhorlacht. “We pledge not to strike you until we arrive or our lord commands otherwise, and you promise to not strike at us unless we attack first. If we encounter more of the trolls or those wretched Mhorites, we shall work together to repel them, and then proceed to the presence of our lord.”

Arandar dropped his voice. “I see no other alternative. Does anyone object?” He reconsidered that. “Does anyone have any better ideas?”

No one did.

“Very well, Anathgrimm,” called Arandar. “We accept your terms.”

“Very good, sir knight,” said Zhorlacht. “Let us proceed at once. My lord shall be most eager to meet you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gavin saw Mara swallow.

Chapter 8: Stone Death

Calliande dreamed, and in her dream she came to a place she had seen before.

Her dreams were almost always haunted. She saw many things in them, wreathed in the mist that choked her past. An assembly of old men and women in white robes with black sashes, listening as she made a speech before them. A scarred warrior, grim and hard, yet with a kindly smile. Cities burning, desperate men and women fleeing with their children in hope of salvation. Legions of twisted creatures racing across the land, hunting and killing, men dying as their blood turned to ice in their veins.

Giants clad in armor the color of old ice crossed a frozen wasteland, their skin like crystal, their eyes glowing with blue flame.

The Frostborn.

She understood her dreams better now. They were glimpses of her past. She had been the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had fought the Frostborn. She had defeated the Frostborn. That should have cheered her, but it did not. The Frostborn were returning, and she would have to fight them again. Perhaps she would not be victorious this time.

Sometimes she did not dream of the past. Sometimes she saw Ridmark in her dreams, and those were more vivid and intense than anything from her mist-choked memory.

Now, though, she dreamed of neither the past nor of Ridmark. She stood upon a featureless plain, mist swirling around her.

The Watcher awaited her.

The spirit wore the white robe of the Magistri, bound about his waist with a black sash. His eyes were sad beneath heavy gray eyebrows, and a tangled gray beard and a mane of gray hair encircled his head. He had awaited her in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance, leaving a message for her once she awoke, and he had counseled her ever since.

“Watcher,” said Calliande.

“Calliande,” he said in his tired voice. “It is good to see you.”

“I thought I might never see you again,” said Calliande. “Not after what the Warden did to me. What he did to us.”

“We had a very narrow escape,” said the Watcher, shaking his gray head. “You could have been easily trapped within the soulstone forever, bound to power the Warden’s gate to Old Earth.”

“I know,” said Calliande. The Warden had played them for fools. He had spent nine years manipulating Ridmark, planting the seeds of the idea in the Gray Knight’s mind. The Warden had foreseen Aelia’s death, had foreseen that in his grief and pain Ridmark would try to find the secret of the return of the Frostborn, that he would return to Urd Morlemoch with Calliande. “It was a horrendous risk. But it paid off. I know who I am now.”

“Who are you?” said the Watcher.

“I am the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Calliande, “the realm’s guardian against dark magic.”

The Watcher nodded. “And what must you do?”

“I must retrieve my staff and memory from Dragonfall,” said Calliande.

The Watcher nodded a second time. “And where is Dragonfall?”

“Hidden within the ruins of Khald Azalar,” said Calliande.

The Watcher closed his eyes, a strange expression coming over his bearded face, and for a horrible instant Calliande wondered if she had been wrong, if the Warden had lied to them and sent them to die on a fool’s errand.

Then she realized the Watcher’s expression showed relief.

“Thank God,” said the Watcher. “Thank God, the Dominus Christus, and all the saints. Oh, thank God. You found the truth. You found the truth on your own.”

“Then you knew?” said Calliande. “This entire time?”

“Yes,” said the Watcher. “But I was forbidden to tell you…”

“By my own command,” said Calliande. She shook her head. “I really hope I had a good reason for doing that.” She remembered some of Morigna’s jibes. “Otherwise I have caused myself a great deal of trouble for no good reason.”

“No,” said the Watcher. “You reasons were excellent. For the staff awakened as soon as you knew where it was.”

“It did?” said Calliande, surprised. “How is that possible?”

“Because you are linked to the staff of the Keeper,” said the Watcher. “The bond was never severed, and the office of the Keeper is resigned only upon death. When you learned of the staff’s location, it could reach out and touch you, and it has awakened.”

“Then…that was why I removed my memory?” said Calliande. “Because I knew that when I awakened, the staff would call out to me once I learned where it was?”

“In part,” said the Watcher. “Your plan was for the Order of the Vigilant to escort you to Dragonfall and reclaim your staff, and only tell you the location once you had arrived. Alas, Shadowbearer engineered the destruction of the Order, and we were not there to guide and protect you as we swore.”

“You have guided me nonetheless,” said Calliande

“You must act quickly,” said the Watcher. “The staff of the Keeper has awakened…but you are not the only one to hear its call. Those with power enough to sense the staff will try to claim it for themselves.”

“The Traveler,” said Calliande. “He must be here to seize the Keeper’s staff for himself. And Mournacht, too. Though I am surprised an orcish shaman would have that kind of magical power.”

“Likely Shadowbearer is using Mournacht as his tool,” said the Watcher. “He prefers to use dupes and proxies to achieve his goals, rather than showing himself openly.”

“Could the Traveler be Shadowbearer’s emissary as well?” said Calliande.

“Unlikely,” said Traveler. “Most of the dark elves remaining in Andomhaim and the Deeps hate and fear Shadowbearer, just as the Warden and the Artificer did. The Traveler remained in Nightmane Forest for centuries partly because of his fear of Shadowbearer. Likely the Traveler sensed the staff’s awakening, and hopes to seize its power and make himself supreme over all his foes.”

“Could they actually use the staff?” said Calliande.

“I doubt it,” said the Watcher. “The magic is meant for a human wielder. But if they take the staff, they will deny its power to you…and you must take up the staff, Calliande. Otherwise Shadowbearer might well succeed in killing you, reclaiming the empty soulstone, and summoning the Frostborn to this world once more.”

“Why?” said Calliande. “Why does he want to summon the Frostborn? Simply to destroy the High Kingdom?”

“This is so,” said the Watcher.

“But why destroy Andomhaim?” said Calliande. “Simple spite? Malice? He must have some greater goal.”

“He does,” said the Watcher, “but I cannot yet tell you of it.”

“Because I know what it is,” said Calliande, “but the memory is locked away.”

The Watcher nodded. “I can do this much for you. I can restore your ability to sense the staff of the Keeper, just as Shadowbearer and the Traveler are able to sense it.”

“How?” said Calliande.

“The staff is joined to you,” said the Watcher, “and…”

“Calliande.”

It was not the Watcher’s worn, tired voice. This voice was harder and colder.

Ridmark.

The dream shattered, and Calliande’s eyes shot open.

She was lying on the ground, in the rocky hollow Ridmark had found for their camp, wrapped in her green cloak. Ridmark knelt next to her, one hard hand clamped over her mouth, his face lowering towards her. For a moment confusion gripped her. What was he doing? He needn’t have put his hand over her mouth. She wouldn’t have fought him if he lain down next to her. She would have eagerly let him do whatever he wished …

Then the absurd fantasy vanished as her mind reasserted itself, and she realized that something was very wrong.

Ridmark lowered his mouth to her ear.

“Do not make any noise,” he breathed. “Do not speak. Get up and follow me as quietly as you can.”

In the distance she heard a pair of harsh, snarling voices raised in argument.

Troll voices.

Calliande went rigid, and then gave a shallow nod.

Ridmark rolled to his feet in perfect silence, black staff in hand. Calliande stood somewhat less gracefully, but at least kept from making any noise. Ridmark looked around and beckoned, and she followed him as he glided down the side of the rocky hill. It was still dark out, with six of the thirteen moons shining overhead, their light combing to create a pale, hazy glow. Stars gleamed like jewels overhead, and in their faint light Calliande saw the dark mass of the pine forest filling the Vale of Stone Death.

She also saw the sullen crimson glow of several fires. Campfires, perhaps? Or had the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm set the forest ablaze?

The trolls’ voices rang out again, closer this time.

Ridmark went motionless, and she saw the gleam of his blue eyes as they darted back and forth. Then he nodded and gestured again, and they hurried between a pair of boulders. Ridmark ducked behind the boulder, reached into his belt, and drew out a fistful of something that looked like torn paper. He dropped the little pile on the ground, produced a dagger and a piece of flint, and made a spark. The pile of torn paper caught flame, and a sudden vile stench flooded Calliande’s nostrils.

Her stomach gave an unsteady lurch. The smell was very bad.

Ridmark beckoned, and she followed him as he hurried away from the little flame and its reeking smoke. Her mind sorted through plans, wondering what she could do against the trolls if they attacked. Ridmark could break their bones with his staff and deal hideous wounds with his axe, but those wounds would heal, and Calliande had no magic that could harm the trolls. The best she could do was to enhance their speed so they could get away, but even with her magic she doubted they could outrun the trolls.

Yet the trolls’ rasping voices grew fainter.

###

Two hours later, the sun started to rise over the mountains to the east, and Ridmark came to a stop.

“That should be far enough,” he said, speaking for the first time since he had heard the trolls. They had reached the base of the foothills, and the pine forest spread before them, stark and green and silent. In the distance a plume of black smoke rose against the craggy backdrop of the mountains. The air smelled clear and crisp, heavy with the odor of resin.

“Do you think we lost the trolls?” said Calliande, taking an uneasy glance at the foothills to the west.

“I think so,” said Ridmark. “If they were hunting for us, they would have caught us by now. I don’t think they knew that we were there.”

Calliande frowned. “How can you be sure?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “we heard them talking. If they were stalking us, we wouldn’t have heard a sound.”

Calliande shivered a little. “That paper you burned. What was it?”

“Not paper,” said Ridmark. “Dried leaves. I took them from one of those stinking bushes in the Torn Hills. Remember how foul they smelled?” Calliande nodded. “Enough predators with a taste for human flesh hunt by scent that I thought they would come in handy.”

“So they did,” said Calliande. “Thank you.”

“Let’s move,” said Ridmark. “If the Mhorites and the Traveler’s soldiers are fighting each other in the forest, that will draw the trolls’ attention. I fear they will prey upon the wounded and the injured…but if we make haste, we can elude them all.”

Calliande said nothing, her eyes fixed upon one of the mountains on the far side of the Vale of Stone Death.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“I…can feel it,” said Calliande.

“The Traveler’s magic,” said Ridmark. “Or Mournacht’s?” A more alarming thought occurred to him. “The guardian creatures?”

“No,” said Calliande, her voice soft and wondering. “The staff of the Keeper. My staff. I think…I think I can feel it.” She pointed at the peaks. “It’s there, under that mountain.”

“Ah,” said Ridmark. “Good.” She looked at him. “I would have hated to think that we were on the wrong trail.”

She smiled a little. “That would be unfortunate.” She took a deep breath. “I can feel the power. I hope…I hope I am worthy of it.”

Ridmark blinked. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

Calliande looked at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.

“I could cite your bravery and kindness, but you would ignore that,” said Ridmark. “Instead I will remind you of all the wounds you have healed with your magic. I know you have to endure the pain of the wounds to do so, and I know how much you have suffered to heal me and the others. If I would choose anyone to wield that power, it would be you.”

Calliande blinked and looked away. “Thank you.” She smiled up at him. “And you, Ridmark Arban…I agree with Morigna about one thing. The nobles of the High Kingdom have not treated you justly.”

Ridmark shrugged. “What is done is done. Let us be on our way. We can exchange compliments after we have found the others and recovered your staff.”

“Sound counsel,” said Calliande.

Ridmark took one step towards the forest, and then stopped.

“What is it?” said Calliande.

Ridmark stared hard at the trees, at the white shapes he had spotted at the edge of the forest.

“I think,” he said, “I think those are statues.”

“Statues?” said Calliande. “The Vale of Stone Death.” She swallowed, flexing her fingers in preparation for a spell. “They didn’t just…appear, did they?”

“I don’t think so,” said Ridmark. “I’ve seen them for a while. I thought they were patches of snow from a distance. But it’s too warm down here for snow, and I haven’t seen any rocks that color anywhere else in the Vale.”

“Should we go around them?” said Calliande.

“Actually,” said Ridmark, “I think we should take a closer look.”

She gave him a look. “You’re being reckless again.”

“We are about to enter an ancient dwarven ruin after sneaking past two battling armies,” said Ridmark. “Reckless is perhaps not a sufficient word to describe our actions these last few months.”

“True,” said Calliande with a flicker of a smile.

“Besides,” said Ridmark, “predators don’t usually linger over their bones of their prey after they’ve eaten the flesh.”

“There’s a cheerful thought,” said Calliande, but she offered no further objections as they walked towards the trees. Ridmark kept his staff in a loose grip, ready to raise it to defend or attack, but nothing moved in the forest. A bit of fear gnawed at his heart, intensifying with every step. He wondered if he would find the others already petrified by whatever guardian the King of Khald Azalar had left to defend his ruined kingdom. He had seen Aelia die. What would finding Morigna turned to stone feel like?

He didn’t want to find out.

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

He had not anticipated something like this.

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

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

Calliande stepped past him, blinking at the statue.

“A manetaur?” she said, astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calliande stared at the javelin, blinking.

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

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

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

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

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

“The gorgon spirit?” said Ridmark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or they had all been killed already.

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

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

“What is it?” said Calliande.

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

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

That was a good question.

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

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

They were not far away.

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

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

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

Did they dare risk all that to aid a stranger?

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

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

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

Chapter 9: Lord of the Dark Elves

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

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

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

Hopefully the Traveler would not try to kill them.

Gavin could not make himself believe that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So was the Warden,” said Arandar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morigna scowled but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mara flinched. “Daughters?”

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

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

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

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

The orcs stopped, and Zhorlacht stepped forward.

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

The urdhracosi stepped to the side, forming an aisle.

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

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

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

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

But that was not the worst thing about him.

He looked so much like Mara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gavin stifled a smile at that.

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

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

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

“As I said,” said Arandar, “I am but a simple knight and know little of such matters.”

“Where is the Keeper?” said the Traveler. “She must be here. Else the power would not have awakened.” The void-filled eyes narrowed. “Neither of your women is the Keeper. Yet she must be here. Where is she?”

“I fear I do not know where the Keeper is,” said Arandar. That, at least, was entirely true.

The Traveler shuddered in fury, his eyes growing wide, and blue fire snarled around his fingers. “You lie to me, Swordbearer? Do not think to deceive me!”

“Very well,” said Arandar. “I swear upon the name of Dominus Christus that I do not know where the Keeper is.”

The Traveler’s flames faded a little at that. “You would swear it by the name of your crucified god? Yes. You must speak the truth, for fear of his wrath. Then tell me! Why have you come to the Vale of Stone Death?”

“The High King has charged me with a task,” said Arandar.

The Traveler snarled in fury. “To kill me, yes? Your High King has sent you to kill me! For I am his greatest foe.”

“He has not,” said Arandar.

“Then why?” said the Traveler. “Why are you here? Why do you stand before me with those wretched soulblades?”

“My task from the High King brought me here,” said Arandar. “I confess that I did not anticipate finding you in these mountains.” He considered for a moment. “Nor did I think to find Mournacht and his Mhorite followers.”

The transformation his words worked over the Traveler was nothing short of terrifying.

The dark elven lord stepped forward, his face a feral mask, and blue fire blazed around his fingers and ran up his armored arms. Shadows writhed and crawled around him, and Truthseeker chimed in Gavin’s hand as it reacted to the dark magic surging through the air. The Traveler howled in fury and flung a bolt of flame and shadow. Gavin started to lift the blade, calling up its power to shield him, but that proved unnecessary. The bolt slammed into one of the Anathgrimm, withering the orcish warrior’s flesh to ash and sending his heavy bones tumbling across the ground.

"The orcs are mine!” screamed the Traveler. “Mine! They are my slaves!” He flung another bolt, killing a second Anathgrimm. The other orcish warriors dropped to their knees, bowing their heads before their god. “They are slaves, cattle! I was there when we summoned them, when we opened the door to their world and made them into our slaves. And this upstart mortal maggot thinks to defy me? He will pay for his impudence!” Three more Anathgrimm died in as many heartbeats as the Traveler raged. “He will suffer!”

“My lord and god,” said Zhorlacht from his knees. “Stay your wrath, and turn aside your fury, and we shall gladly hunt down and kill this rebel blasphemer for you.”

“Why?” sneered the Traveler. “You have failed to do so thus far.” He shuddered, and the fury drained from his face. His voice was calm, dead, eerily so. “But there is no need to waste your lives. Your deaths may serve me later. Rise.”

The Anathgrimm orcs stood again, and Gavin watched the Traveler with growing alarm. Neither the Artificer nor the Warden had ever engaged in such a wasteful display of pique. It was like watching a child throw a tantrum, albeit a child armed with dark magic of dreadful potency. Mara had been right. The Traveler was indeed insane, and not fully in control of himself. He might decide to kill them all for no good reason.

“Swordbearer,” said the Traveler in that cold, emotionless voice. “You will perform a task for me.”

“And what task is that?” said Arandar. “We are not your servants.”

“No,” said the Traveler, “but this task is one your oaths would have bound you to perform anyway. More importantly, it is well within your capabilities. If I let you go, you shall find Mournacht and kill him. He blocks my access to Khald Azalar and the power hidden within. My magic should have crushed him, but he has become far stronger than a mere orcish shaman should be.” A flicker of the manic fury returned to him. “Likely the work of the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, I deem. My kindred were fools to listen to him. Why should an orc be any wiser?”

“And if we refuse?” said Arandar.

“Then my servants will kill you,” said the Traveler. “You cannot overcome them, especially if my daughters take the field against you.” He gestured at the seven urdhracosi. “Do you find them fair, Swordbearer? Do they please your eye? They are mine to do with as I please, fathered upon the women of your kindred. They are useful slaves, but they are not worthy of names. No. I simply call them by the order they were born…First, Second, Third, and the others. And if you do not do as I command you, Sir Arandar of Tarlion, they will…”

He went silent, his helmeted head tilting to the side.

His black eyes were staring at Mara.

“That woman,” he hissed. “That woman. Who is she, Sir Arandar?”

“I believe,” said Arandar, “that she has the right to speak for herself. Especially to you, Traveler.”

Mara stepped to Arandar’s side, her eyes stony. Jager followed her, hands on his weapons.

“Who are you?” said the Traveler. “I know you…”

“My name is Mara of Coldinium,” Mara said.

“Mara,” said the Traveler. “A word from a language of Old Earth. ‘Bitter’, I believe.”

“My mother loved me,” said Mara, “but my birth was bitter to her, for she hated my father.”

“You are one of mine,” hissed the Traveler. “Yes, I remember now. One of my concubines escaped, and took one of my spawn with her. Is my concubine with you, Mara of Coldinium? If she is, she will be made to suffer for her rebellion.”

“No,” said Mara. “She died to let me escape from you.”

“Pity,” said the Traveler. “Pity indeed. She died for nothing. For you are no longer Mara of Coldinium. You are mine, and henceforth you shall join the ranks of my daughters,” his left hand gestured at the seven urdhracosi, “and you shall be known as the Eighth.”

His right hand shot forward, and a bolt of shadow and blue flame burst from his palm. It struck Mara with terrific force, wreathing her in its ghostly light. Gavin had seen the Artificer use the same spell at the Iron Tower, designed to force Mara into her final transformation.

The dark magic washed over Mara, and did absolutely nothing.

For the first time the Traveler looked surprised. Alarmed, even.

“You cannot transform me, father,” said Mara, “because I have already been transformed.”

“What are you?” said the Traveler. “Something new? Very well. I have no objections to a new slave. It shall be entertaining to see your limits.”

He gestured, and the sense of dark magic around him grew sharper, the air itself seeming to become colder. Truthseeker’s white fire burned hotter, and Mara swayed a little on her feet. Jager caught her elbow, and she straightened up.

“Come to me, Eighth,” said the Traveler.

“No,” said Mara.

The Traveler blinked, frowning as if he could not understand what she had just said. “You will come to me.”

“I will not,” said Mara.

Again the Traveler looked baffled.

“I have transformed,” said Mara, “but I am my own. You cannot command me.”

“You dare to defy me?” said the Traveler, rage creeping back into his voice.

“Yes,” said Mara. “I do hope that is clear to you by now, father.”

“You are mine,” said the Traveler. Rage was warring with confusion upon his face, but it was clear that rage was about to win a resounding victory. “Mine!”

“I am not,” said Mara. “Not now, not ever.”

“You are Eighth,” said the Traveler, “and you shall obey me!”

“I am Mara of Coldinium,” said Mara in that same cold calm voice, “daughter of Sarah, husband of Jager of Coldinium, and baptized daughter of the church. You might kill me, father, but I shall never be yours.”

“Husband?” said the Traveler.

Jager grinned at the dark elven lord and gave him a jaunty little salute.

And that sent the Traveler exploding into rage.

Again blue fire and shadow swirled around the Traveler, and he lifted his face to the sky and screamed in fury. Every last one of the urvaalgs turned their heads to stare at Mara and Jager, and the urdhracosi stirred, their bottomless black eyes turning towards the halfling and the half-elf.

“I don’t think he likes me,” said Jager, his voice casual, though his knuckles shone white as he gripped the hilt of his short sword.

“A halfling!” bellowed the Traveler. “You have taken a halfling into your bed? The halfling kindred are vermin! Rodents suitable for only the most menial of tasks. You are of my blood, the blood of the dark elven kindred, the rightful lords and masters of this world…and you have defiled yourself by taking a halfling as your lover?”

He screamed the final sentence with such force that Gavin’s ears threatened to split from the noise.

“Husband,” said Mara. “There is a difference, father. Though I expect that a man who has enslaved as many women as you have over the millennia may not be capable of seeing the difference.”

“And perhaps the Traveler is right to criticize me as vermin,” said Jager with that insouciant smile. His deep voice fairly buzzed with amusement as he stared at the Traveler. “After all, I have stayed hidden within Nightmane Forest for centuries as my kindred were slaughtered and enslaved. I am so equated with cowardice that my peers named me in mockery of my inability to leave my moldy old forest.” He tapped his lips with his free hand. “Wait, wait. I may be confused. Am I still talking about myself? Or some doddering old fossil in gaudy armor?”

Morigna stared at him with her jaw hanging open. Gavin had to admit he sometimes found Jager annoying, but the halfling did not want for courage. He shared a look with Arandar and Kharlacht and Caius, and the older men raised their weapons. Gavin supposed that there had been no way to avoid this fight. They would either defeat the Traveler’s minions and escape or die fighting

He waited for the Traveler to erupt with rage, for the Anathgrimm and the urvaalgs and the urdhracosi to attack.

Instead the Traveler went motionless, the rage and fury draining from him.

“Very well,” he said, his voice toneless and dead again. “A new bargain for you, Sir Arandar. You will give the half-breed and her pet halfling to me, and I shall teach them new meanings of suffering. In exchange…”

“You’ll let us live?” said Arandar. “Is that it?”

“You are correct,” said the Traveler. “In addition…I will not make you watch as I torture my prisoners to death in front of you.”

Morigna stiffened. “Prisoners?”

Gavin knew what she thought, and he shared her fear. The Traveler must have found Ridmark and Calliande and taken them captive. The Traveler beckoned, and the ranks of the Anathgrimm parted. Gavin braced himself, expecting to see Ridmark and Calliande in chains.

Instead he saw five short figures with bags over their heads, clad in elaborate armor of bronze-colored metal, their wrists bound with rope behind their backs. Bright scratches and splashes of blood marred their armor of dwarven steel. Whoever they were, they had put up a fight. Gavin wondered what dwarves had been doing in the Vale of Stone Death. Perhaps Khald Azalar was not abandoned after all. Or perhaps the dwarves had come here in search of lost relics from the ruins. The dwarves of the Enclave of Coldinium had mentioned that they purchased relics from the treasure hunters of Vhaluusk. Maybe the dwarves had decided to cut out the middlemen.

Instead, they had run into the Traveler and his minions.

“Dwarves,” said Caius. “You brought them with you?”

“I found them here,” said the Traveler, his malevolent gaze turning to Caius. “They thought to visit the ruins of their lost forefathers. Instead they found me, and they shall serve me with their deaths. Are they known to you, apostate? Oh, yes, I know what you are. A son of the khaldari who turned against the gods of stone and silence to pray to the Dominus Christus. Do you think it will comfort my prisoners to see you before they die?” He beckoned, and several of the Anathgrimm stepped forward. “Or perhaps they are known to you already.”

The Anathgrimm orcs yanked away the bags, revealing the gray-skinned faces of dwarves. All of them looked young, at least young by the standards of dwarves, with black hair and eyes like polished stone. Gavin did not recognize four of them. The fifth dwarf, though, he knew. The dwarven warrior had black hair and a close-cropped black beard, his eyes like disks of polished malachite, a red gash marring the gray, granite-colored line of his jaw and forehead. He was a Taalmak, the dwarven equivalent of a knight, in service to the King of Khald Tormen.

“Azakhun?” said Caius, astonished, and Azakhun’s green eyes turned towards Caius.

“My lord Taalkhan?” croaked Azakhun in Latin, shaking his head. “It…it cannot be. What are you doing here?”

“You know each other?” said Arandar, surprised.

“Aye,” said Jager. “We all met at Coldinium. We hadn’t found you yet.”

“The young Taalmak is an acquaintance of yours, I see,” said the Traveler in that dead voice. “All the better. It may amuse you to watch him tortured to death. Or will it displease you? The lesser kindreds do not have the dark elven appreciation for the subtleties of the fine art of cruelty. But the deer that provides the venison has little understanding of the cook’s art, I suppose.”

“You will release them to us,” said Arandar.

“Will I?” said the Traveler. “Perhaps I shall. But only if you surrender my rebellious daughter and her halfling pet to me, so I might properly chastise them for their folly. Then you may take your wayward khaldari and go.”

“You know,” said Arandar, “how I must answer that question.”

“Yes.” Emotion came back into the Traveler’s face and voice, a malicious, terrible glee. “I look forward to watching the answer.”

Gavin adjusted his grip on Truthseeker, taking deep breaths. Around him the others raised their weapons, and Morigna began a spell, purple fire crackling around her fingers. The Anathgrimm drew sword and maces and axes. The wings of the urdhracosi unfurled, and the urvaalgs prowled forward, snarling, their hellish eyes like burning coals.

There were so many of the enemy. Not as many as had been at Urd Morlemoch. Of course, they hadn’t won that battle themselves. Ardrhythain’s power had destroyed the Warden’s creatures, but Gavin doubted the archmage of Cathair Solas would come to their aid this time. He looked at Truthseeker and felt a stab of guilt. Now Arandar’s son and daughter would never know what had happened to their father. They would mourn him for the rest of their lives.

Would anyone ever mourn Gavin? Would anyone in Aranaeus still remember him?

He would never know.

One of the urvaalgs came closer, preparing to spring, and Gavin readied himself. Then the urvaalg stopped and looked towards the dwarven ruins atop the pine-cloaked hill, and Gavin had the distinct impression that the creature was puzzled. Several more urvaalgs looked up, and one of the urdhracosi turned with a frown.

“Father,” said the urdhracos in a voice of inhuman melody and beauty, “something is wrong.”

“Do not be absurd, Second,” said the Traveler. “Attack and…”

Several of the Anathgrimm shouted.

In that instant the hillside started to move, rippling like a banner caught in the wind. For an awful moment Gavin thought a landslide was about to bury them all alive. The rippling looked wrong for that, though, and the ground wasn’t shaking. He glanced at Morigna, wondering if she had somehow cast a mighty spell, but the sorceress looked just as surprised.

Then his eye managed to resolve the rippling motion, and a fresh bolt of fear burned through him.

Trolls.

Scores and scores of trolls raced down the hill on all fours, their scaly hides changing color to match the color of the terrain around them.

Everything happened at once.

Arandar raised Heartwarden and shouted, the Traveler screamed a command, and the trolls crashed into the Anathgrimm and the urvaalgs. The urdhracosi took to the air, and the Traveler began casting a spell. An urvaalg shot forward, jaws yawning as it sprang towards Morigna, and Gavin killed the vile creature with a swing of Truthseeker, the sword thrumming with power as it fought against the urvaalg’s dark magic. His mind raced. Perhaps in the chaos they could seize Azakhun and his warriors and flee…

The top of the hill exploded.

There was a brilliant flash of hellish light, so bright it was as if a second sun had risen in the dwarven ruins atop the hill. The thunderous sound came a moment later, followed by a gale of hot air that howled past him. The earth trembled beneath his boots, and bits of burning debris rained around him, setting patches of the forest floor aflame as the trolls and the Traveler’s servants fought.

Two thoughts occurred to Gavin at once.

First, he knew how all those fires in the Vale had started.

Second, the trolls weren’t attacking the Traveler’s servants. They were fleeing from whatever had unleashed the firestorm atop the hill, and the Traveler just happened to be in the way.

Which meant that the trolls, the vicious, formidable trolls, found the Traveler less frightening than whatever enemy hunted them atop the hill.

Gavin wondered what that creature would think of him and his friends.

Chapter 10: The Prince

Ridmark ran through the trees.

Again that mighty roar rang out, proud and furious, answered by the snarling, rasping cries of the trolls. There were at least two or three, to judge from the cries. How many manetaurs did the trolls face? Ridmark had only heard one so far. A single manetaur was a formidable foe, a whirlwind of muscle and fang and claw, and unlike the lupivirii that manetaurs did not disdain the use of weapons. Yet the manetaurs did not have the trolls’ hideous vitality, and the trolls would wear down the manetaurs sooner or later.

Ridmark darted around a tree, coming to the edge of a clearing, and saw the fight.

A single manetaur stood in the center of the clearing, war axes in both hands. The manetaur was a good two feet taller than Ridmark, and the flanks and limbs of his leonine body were heavy with muscle. Over its human-shaped torso the manetaur wore a cuirass of crimson steel, a helmet upon his head, and a coat of crimson mail over his lower body that looked a great deal like the barding of a knight’s horse. The helmet concealed his mane, but a dyed crimson crest rose from the helmet, making it look as if his mane had been painted the color of blood. The manetaur seemed uninjured so far, but his flanks heaved with the draw of his breath, and a faint shudder went through his muscled arms.

Three trolls moved around him in a slow, wide circle. All three of the trolls bore hideous axe wounds that shrank even as Ridmark looked, their jaws snapping as they snarled at the manetaur. Ridmark guessed the trolls’ tactics easily enough. One of them would dart in, attacking, and draw the attention of the manetaur. The others would rush him until the manetaur’s fury drove them back, and then they would retreat out of reach until their wounds healed and they attacked again. It was a devilishly effective plan.

So. Three trolls.

“Calliande,” he murmured. “Your augmentation spells. Can you do anything else while you concentrate upon them?”

She shrugged, watching the circling trolls. “Simple things. Nothing complex. What do you have in mind?”

“Give me everything that you can,” said Ridmark. “Then set something on fire and start making torches.”

“You have a plan?” she said, raising her hands, white light glimmering around her fingers.

“I really hope so,” said Ridmark.

She sighed, put her hands on his chest, and cast her spell. White light flared around him, sinking into his flesh, and at once he felt stronger and faster. Calliande usually divided her power among them all, but now she could put everything into him, and it made him feel almost superhuman. He quickly crushed the feeling. For all that she accused him of recklessness, he rarely acted without a plan, and overconfidence could kill a man faster than any sword.

One of the trolls rushed towards the manetaur, and Ridmark moved.

He shot forward, the ground blurring beneath his legs, the staff of Ardrhythain gripped in both hands. The trolls started to turn, but their full attention had been upon the manetaur, and they did not react to Ridmark until it was too late. He swung the staff, all his strength and Calliande’s magic driving the blow. The staff slammed into the nearest troll’s right leg with enough force to turn the knee to pulp, yellowish slime splattering from the damaged limb. The troll let out a shocked scream of furious pain, its massive jaws snapping, and its leg gave out. Ridmark whipped the staff around and turned the top half of the troll’s skull to mush, and the creature toppled over.

At once the devastating wounds Ridmark had dealt the troll began to heal.

The other two trolls spun and charged. Ridmark dodged, and even with the tremendous speed granted by Calliande’s magic, he barely managed to stay ahead of the trolls’ claws and fangs. The trolls spread out on either side of him, driving him back. Ridmark managed to land a few hits with his staff, but not enough to do any serious damage.

Fortunately, the manetaur was a cunning enough warrior to take advantage of the distraction.

The manetaur sprang forward in a blur of crimson armor and golden fur. He buried the axe in his left hand between the shoulders of the troll on Ridmark’s right, and the creature let out a furious, howling snarl, its thick tail lashing at the manetaur like a whip. The manetaur danced aside with contemptuous ease and swung the axe in his right hand once, twice, three times. The heavy blade sliced the troll’s head from its shoulders in a burst of slime, and the gray-scaled body collapsed to the ground, thrashing and twitching.

Thick bubbles appeared in the stump of its neck as the troll began growing a new head.

Ridmark spun, landing heavy blows on the troll on his left. The creature fell back, looking back and forth between Ridmark and the manetaur. Yet the troll that Ridmark had crippled earlier regained its feet, its wounds almost healed. The manetaur whirled with fluid grace, his axes spinning as he loosed a challenging roar. One axe took off the troll’s right hand, and the severed appendage flopped and twitched like a disoriented spider as it spun through the air. The other axe ripped through the thick hide of the troll’s belly, its viscera spilling forth and flooding the air with its stench. Neither wound seemed to bother the troll very much, and it shoved its entrails back into its torso with the stump of its right hand and kept slashing at the manetaur with its left.

Ridmark ducked under the slash of a troll’s claws and thrust his staff. The butt of the weapon slammed into the troll’s neck with a hideous crunch, and the troll stumbled, choking and wheezing. He swung his staff again, and the length of black wood slammed into the troll’s temple with another crack. The creature wobbled, and Ridmark sidestepped and struck again, catching the troll behind its knees. Its thick tail struck Ridmark across the chest, knocking him back, but the troll fell and thrashed, shaking its head as its unnatural vitality healed the damage to its skull and windpipe.

The troll the manetaur had beheaded previously got back to its feet, its new head wet and glistening. The troll the manetaur had been fighting lay in a bloody heap, its hands regenerating and its wounds shrinking, so the manetaur whirled to face the new threat. Ridmark and the manetaur had held their own against the trolls, but that would not last. They had no way to kill the trolls or even permanently injure them.

Fortunately, Ridmark had no intention of remaining here.

He risked a glance back and saw a spreading fire. Calliande had started a blaze at the base of one of the pine trees. She thrust a branch into the fire, its end taking flame.

“Manetaur!” shouted Ridmark.

The manetaur turned, his eyes like brilliant golden coins. Ridmark felt a twinge of unease beneath those predator’s eyes, but he did not look away. One did not show weakness in front of a predator.

“We cannot prevail!” said Ridmark. “Not with the weapons we carry.”

Belatedly he hoped that the manetaur understood Latin. Yet the golden eyes shifted to Calliande and her fire, and the manetaur nodded. Ridmark sprinted for the flames, and the manetaur followed with easy, loping strides, yellow slime dripping from the blades of his axes.

A moment later all three trolls were in pursuit.

Ridmark reached the trees and spun, his back to the fire. The manetaur loosed a furious roar at the trolls, so loud that it felt like a solid thing against Ridmark’s ears. The trolls faltered for a moment, but their serpentine eyes did not turn from Ridmark and the manetaur.

“Calliande,” he said. “The burning branches. You will know when to use them.”

She nodded and picked one up. The manetaur glanced at her, shrugged, and then turned back just as the trolls charged. Ridmark ran to meet them, the manetaur loping forward. Two of the trolls veered towards the manetaur, while Ridmark met the third. He spun his staff through a blurring series of attacks, landing hits upon the troll’s wrists and elbows. Its claws raked across his torso, and though the blow hurt, his armor of dark elven steel turned aside their razor edges. At last the troll stumbled, and Ridmark dropped his staff, yanking the dwarven war axe from his belt.

Three swings later, he had the troll’s head off its shoulders.

“Calliande!” he shouted.

She ran forward, a burning branch in her hand, and shoved it into the glistening yellow stump of the troll’s neck. There was a harsh sizzling noise, and the tiny head that had started to grow from the wound shriveled. Ridmark ran to aid the manetaur. The leonine warrior had dealt heavy wounds to both trolls, but the creatures kept driving him back, pushing him towards the spreading flames. Ridmark attacked from behind, sinking his axe into the nearest troll’s neck. He ripped the blade free, and the manetaur seized the opening, a sweep of its weapon taking off the troll’s head.

Calliande thrust another burning branch into the ragged neck, and the troll fell to the ground with a wet thump. The manetaur bellowed as Calliande ran back to the fire, and Ridmark and the manetaur faced the final troll. The manetaur drove his axes into the troll’s torso again and again, and Ridmark circled from behind and cut off its head with his axe.

Another burning branch sizzled against the wound, and silence fell over the clearing, save for the crackle of the fire and the manetaur’s heavy breathing.

“Humans,” said the manetaur. His voice was a deep thrum, somewhere between a resonant purr and a mewling growl, the Rs of his words peculiarly extended. “Thank you for your aid. These beasts would have overcome me, if not for your assistance.”

“Your prowess is great, noble Hunter,” said Ridmark, trying to remember what he could of the manetaurs’ code of protocol. “One troll is a fell opponent. Even a Swordbearer would have difficulty holding off three at once.”

He looked at the fallen trolls. They were not dead, and he did not want to linger here. On the other hand, an insulted manetaur might prove more deadly than the trolls.

“Truly,” said the manetaur, drawing himself up. “I am Curzonar, a prince of the Range, son of the Red King Turcontar of the Hunters.”

Calliande blinked, and Ridmark barely kept the surprise off his face. Curzonar was a son of the Red King of the manetaurs? Of course, the Red King had scores of concubines and sired children with most of them. Likely there were dozens if not hundreds of Princes of the Range. Yet it was still a rank with respect among the manetaurs, which made Ridmark wonder what Curzonar was doing here, so far from the Red King’s Range.

“I am Ridmark son of Leogrance Arban of Taliand of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark, thinking fast. “This is Calliande, a Magistria of the Order.”

“Your mate, then?” said Curzonar, his golden eyes shifting to her.

Calliande turned a little red.

“Ah,” said Ridmark. “No.”

“You are not a Swordbearer,” said Curzonar, “though you move like one. You bear the brand of cowardice,” he growled the word like a curse, “upon your face, yet you fight as fiercely as one of the Hunters. A curious tale.”

“Calliande’s magic gave me strength and speed,” said Ridmark. “The tale of my brand we can tell you later. Forgive me, noble Prince, but we must be away from here. The trolls will not be immobilized for long.”

Curzonar let out a basso growl. “You would have me abandon a hunt? You would have me show my back to the prey?”

“The trolls are not prey, lord Prince,” said Calliande. “The manetaurs are fierce hunters, yes. But are there not fiercer predators upon this world? Does not a pride of hunters fare better than a lone warrior against such foes?”

Curzonar looked at her, at the trolls, and back at Ridmark. “The Magistria speaks wisdom. Let us be gone from this place, and speak further once we are downwind of our foes.”

One the fallen trolls twitched, the slime dripping from its wounds and severed neck.

“Come, if you please,” said Ridmark, walking back to Calliande’s fire. It had spread further, more of the dry needles going in flame. He half-feared they would wind up burning down the entire forest. That was one way to deal with the Mhorites and the Traveler, he supposed. Still, most of the trees looked too well-watered to catch fire easily.

He reached into his belt pouch and drew out a handful of the dried leaves.

Curzonar growled. “What is that vile stench? It is fouler than the trolls.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to get worse,” said Ridmark, dumping the leaves into the flames. “You hunt by scent, true, but so do the trolls, and I fear their noses are keener than yours.” The greenish-gray smoke rose from the fire, filling Ridmark’s nostrils with their scent, and Curzonar let out an offended growl.

“That will prove effective to baffle their noses,” said Curzonar.

Calliande waved a hand in front of her face. “I wish it would baffle mine.”

“Come,” said Ridmark. “We can speak more once I am confident the trolls are not upon our trail.”

He led the way around the clearing to the east, and they headed into the trees.

Chapter 11: The Traitor

As the flames rolled through the dwarven ruin at the top of the hill, as the trolls tore into the Anathgrimm and the urvaalgs, Arandar started shouting commands.

“Mara! Jager! Get the prisoners!” he yelled. “Find them weapons if you can! Gavin, the rest of you, with me! Cut our way out towards the hill!”

“Towards the hill?” said Morigna.

“Aye,” said Arandar. “Whatever’s up there scared off the trolls, and it should scare off the Traveler’s minions. We will escape through the ruins while whatever summoned the fire deals with the trolls.”

Gavin saw several flaws with that plan, not least among them what the Traveler might do to stop them. But he could think of nothing better. Mara nodded, adjusting her grip on her short sword. Morigna raised her staff, purple fire flaring down its length, and Kharlacht and Caius moved to join Arandar.

Gavin took one step after them, and the Traveler acted.

Dark magic pulsed through the air in a furious storm, and blue fire and shadow blazed up the dark elven lord. Gavin spun to face him, raising Truthseeker and calling up its power to ward him from dark magic. He did not know if it would be enough. The Traveler’s power felt tremendously strong.

The blue fire snarled, and to Gavin’s surprise, the Traveler’s power turned in upon itself.

A cylinder of blue light erupted from the ground at the Traveler’s boots, encasing him within it as if he had been frozen in a pillar of crystal. The cylinder shot high into the sky, black lightning crackling up and down its length. The Traveler stood motionless within it, arms folded over his chest, his black eyes surveying the battle. Gavin braced himself for the next phase of the Traveler’s spell, preparing himself for the attack.

Then he realized there wouldn’t be an attack.

The Traveler had encased himself in a ward of surpassing power, one that would likely be capable of deflecting any physical or magical attack. Mara had called her father a coward. The Traveler would shelter behind his wards and watch as his Anathgrimm and urvaalgs struggled against the trolls. If Gavin attacked him, he would likely respond, but otherwise the Traveler would prefer to let his creatures win his battles for him.

That gave Gavin a surge of new hope. They could not have taken the Traveler and his creatures together, but with the Traveler hiding behind his spells and his creatures battling the trolls…they did indeed have a chance.

“Go!” shouted Arandar.

Mara nodded, stepped forward, and vanished in a flicker of blue flame. She reappeared behind one of the Anathgrimm warriors guarding the captive dwarves and calmly opened his throat. Before the Anathgrimm warrior fell to the ground, she had disappeared and reappeared behind the second guard and killed him. By then Jager had reached them, and he started freeing Azakhun and the others, slashing the ropes that bound their wrists and arms.

Arandar charged forward, Heartwarden flashing in his fist. Gavin and the others followed him. A group of Anathgrimm warriors ran towards them, swords and axes in hand. Morigna swept her staff before her, and roots burst from the ground, reaching up to entangle the warriors. The Anathgrimm stumbled, and Gavin reached them first. A warrior tried to get his heavy shield up, but Truthseeker slammed into the bony mask covering the warrior’s features. The thick bone resisted the strike, but the orcish warrior’s head snapped back. That gave Gavin the opening he needed to strike at the orc’s neck, and the Anathgrimm fell.

Around him the others crashed into the Anathgrimm. Caius’s dark elven war hammer smashed both cuirasses and bone armor, and Kharlacht’s greatsword took heads and limbs with his mighty swings. Arandar was a whirlwind of death, Heartwarden writing lines of white fire in the air. Morigna gestured again, and the ground rippled, throwing the Anathgrimm from their feet. The orcish warriors fell back from the weight of the assault.

Another howl caught Gavin’s attention. A pack of six urvaalgs rushed towards them, fangs bared, eyes smoldering like hot coals. He cursed and turn to warn Arandar, but the Swordbearer was in the midst of the Anathgrimm. So were all the others, and none of them had seen the urvaalgs. Gavin could not possibly face down six urvaalgs by himself, not all at once…

Blue fire flickered in the eyes of the nearest three urvaalgs, and the beasts spun and sprang upon the others. The urvaalg pack came to a halt as they fought, snarling and snapping. Gavin looked over his shoulder and saw Morigna with her left hand extended, her face tight with concentration, pale blue fire writhing around her fingers.

Her dark magic had taken command of the urvaalgs and turned them against each other, and she had told Ridmark she would not use dark magic again. Gavin was sure no one else had noticed it. Morigna met his eyes, and he saw such fury there that he was sure she was about to order the urvaalgs to tear him apart. But the rage faded, leaving only defiance in its place.

Perhaps another Swordbearer would have slain her out of hand. But Arandar had not. And without Morigna’s magic they would not have survived Mournacht’s attack, or the Iron Tower, or Urd Morlemoch.

A furious scream filled his ears, and Gavin spun as a troll lunged for him, its maw yawning wide, its talons reaching for his face. Fool! Only an idiot fretted about things in the midst of battle. He snapped his shield up, catching the troll’s talons upon the scarred wood, Truthseeker’s magic giving him to strength to withstand the blow without the bones of his arm snapping like twigs. He struck with Truthseeker, ripping a gash across the troll’s muscled chest and belly, and then opened another tear across its throat.

Morigna shouted a warning, and Gavin jumped back as a column of white mist flowed up the troll. The troll went berserk, roaring and thrashing, its hide sizzling, and collapsed to the ground, trying to quench the acid eating into its flesh. Gavin turned to join the others, striking down another Anathgrimm orc as he did so.

And, suddenly, they were clear of the fighting. Mara and Jager hurried towards them, urging the armored dwarves along. Azakhun half-limped, half-ran at their head, his green eyes wide and a little wild.

“Sir knight,” said Azakhun to Arandar, “I know not who you are, but…”

“We can talk later,” said Arandar. “Run!”

Azakhun nodded and they ran up the hill. A path wound its way around the slope, so smooth that the dwarves of Khald Azalar must have carved it from the stone. None of the trolls followed. Evidently they had learned to fear whatever had summoned the fire atop the hill. The urvaalgs had not learned that lesson, and three of them bounded up the path, loosing their hideous battle screams as they did.

“Keep going!” said Arandar, beckoning to Gavin. “We’ll catch up to you.”

Morigna opened her mouth, closed it, and smirked at Gavin, as if to say that he was welcome to deal with the challenge on his own.

It annoyed him that he had grown so adept at reading her expressions.

The urvaalgs sprang, and Arandar moved first, Heartwarden flashing through a feint. He pivoted with the smooth grace of an expert swordsman and drove the blade down and through the urvaalg’s ribs. The sword blazed with white fire, and the urvaalg screamed once more and died. The second urvaalg charged Arandar, and Gavin intercepted it, splitting its skull in a burst of black slime.

The third urvaalg leapt upon Gavin and drove him to the ground, Truthseeker tumbling from his grasp. The sword’s magic drained from him, and one of the urvaalg’s paws came down upon his left elbow, pinning his shield arm in place. His armor kept its claws from opening his arm, but that would do nothing to stop the urvaalg from biting off his head.

Its jaws yawned wide to do just that, the ghastly rotting-meat stench of its breath filling Gavin’s nostrils.

Gavin knew he should have been frightened, but he mostly felt a dull amusement. He had fought urvaalgs before becoming a Swordbearer and had survived, but now that he had a soulblade, an urvaalg was going to kill him. It was a twisted sort of humor. At least Arandar would be able to take Truthseeker and save his son…

White fire swept before his vision, and the urvaalg went rigid, its paws pressing into Gavin’s arms and legs. Then Arandar drove his boot into the urvaalg’s flank as he ripped Heartwarden free, sending the dying carcass tumbling down the path.

“Thanks,” croaked Gavin. He grabbed Truthseeker’s hilt and staggered to his feet, the sword’s magic filling him with strength one more.

“Thank me once the battle is done,” said Arandar, helping Gavin the rest of the way up.

“That might not be for a while,” said Gavin, and they ran after Kharlacht and Azakhun and the others. None of the battling trolls and Anathgrimm followed them, though Gavin glimpsed the dark shape of an urdhracos circling overhead. Another flash of orange-yellow light burst from the ruins overhead, accompanied by a faint roaring sound.

They reached the top of the hill, the ruins rising over them. It looked a great deal like the fortifications that had surrounded Khorduk, with the same style of curtain wall, watch towers, and central keep. Unlike the fortifications around Khorduk, the wall was cracked and damaged, and one of the keep’s walls had collapsed into a heap of broken rubble. It looked like a boulder Gavin had seen once outside of Aranaeus, a piece of stone the size of an ox that had cracked after a particularly cold winter. Suddenly Gavin realized that was what had happened. The Frostborn had destroyed Khald Azalar, and they must have destroyed this fortress as well. They had used their magic to freeze the wall, shattering it like that boulder outside of Aranaeus.

But he did not see ice inside the damaged wall, but fire.

Fires burned and danced in patches inside the courtyard. A score of dead and burned trolls lay scattered across the ground, smoke rising in wisps from their carcasses. Five living trolls moved in a slow circle around the courtyard, stalking a black-clad figure.

Gavin blinked in surprise.

The black-clad figure was a woman. She wore a long black coat with a heavy cowl pulled up to obscure her face, her hands concealed beneath black gloves. The coat snapped behind her in the hot wind rising from the fires, and beneath the coat she wore heavy boots, black trousers, a long vest that hung to her knees, and a ragged black shirt. A leather belt held a dagger and a variety of pouches, and there were more pockets in the vest.

A staff…burned in her right hand.

Gavin did not see how it was possible. The staff was long and black, carved with peculiar symbols, and those symbols glowed with a harsh yellow-orange light. The staff looked like a burning coal, and flames flickered at its ends, yet the black-coated woman did not burn. Gavin reached through Truthseeker and sensed the magical power raging around the woman. It was elemental magic, similar to the kind Morigna wielded. Yet Morigna commanded the earth and the air, making stone and wind and animals heed her command. The black-coated woman wielded the element of fire.

To judge from the burned carcasses lying scattered around the courtyard, she wielded fire with tremendous power and skill, too.

Yet she was clearly exhausted. She leaned upon the staff, a tremor going through her limbs.

“My God,” said Mara. “Morigna, that’s her. That’s Antenora.”

“How did she get here?” said Morigna.

“We have to help her,” said Mara. “We…”

One of the trolls raced forward, and Antenora leveled her staff. A burst of flame erupted from the weapon and struck the troll on the left arm and shoulder. The creature howled in pain, but the troll kept charging into the fire. Antenora stumbled and fell, and the troll loomed over her for the kill, raising its clawed right hand to strike.

In that moment, Gavin struck.

He acted without thought, upon reflex. Perhaps he could not stand to watch a woman die alone, surrounded by creatures like the trolls. He raced forward, leapt over one of the fires, and landed next to the troll as it started to bring its claws down for the killing strike. Truthseeker sang in his fist, and his stroke separated the troll’s arm from its shoulder. The creature bellowed, its thick neck twisting around as its jaws came at Gavin’s face, and he got his shield up. The troll’s head rebounded from his shield, and Gavin drove his soulblade into the troll’s ribs, seeking for its heart. The troll shuddered and fell to its knees, and Gavin ripped his sword free and took off its head with a single blow.

Another troll rushed at Gavin, and he dodged, trying to get away as its claws raked across his armor. Blue fire swirled behind it, and Mara appeared, spinning as she swung her dark elven short sword with the precision of a needle. The blade ripped across the back of the troll’s knees, and it spun with a roar, reaching for Mara, but she had already traveled away. Gavin drove Truthseeker into the troll’s chest, and wrenched the blade free as acidic mist rolled over the troll, chewing into its wounds.

Gavin spun, and found Antenora staring at him in shock.

Her hood had fallen back. Her face looked…wasted, gaunt, her skin the gray of a corpse, her hair black and brittle. She looked as if she had been dead for a week. Her eyes were a venomous, sulfurous yellow, yet they were wide with wonder as they looked at him.

“A knight,” she said, her voice a worn rasp, as if she had been speaking for hours. She spoke Latin with a peculiar formality, even more archaic than Morigna, and Morigna had learned her Latin from a man centuries old. “A true knight. I have not seen your like in centuries…look out!”

The troll Gavin had beheaded started to rise, its new head wet and glistening with yellow slime. Antenora rolled to her knees, thrusting her palm. A sphere of fire the size of Gavin’s fist burst from her hand, the heat of it making his eyes water, and slammed into the troll’s head. In fact, it ripped through the troll’s head, burning it to cinders.

Gavin turned, but the other trolls were down already, killed by Arandar and the others. Even as Gavin looked, white mist rolled over the trolls, sinking into their wounds.

“Thank you,” rasped Antenora. Gavin held out a hand, and she gripped it as he pulled her to her feet. Her hand was cold beneath the glove, icy cold. “I think you are the first man I have seen for three days who has not tried to kill me.” She looked at the dead trolls. “Assuming those creatures are male.”

“You’re Antenora, aren’t you?” said Gavin.

The yellow eyes blinked. “How can you know this? That is not my name, but that is what I call myself, for I am a traitor.”

Gavin wondered who she had betrayed. “You helped Mara and Morigna escape the threshold of Old Earth.”

She flinched. “You…know them? You are a companion of the Keeper?”

“I guess so,” said Gavin.

Antenora seized his wrist. Given the amount of fire that she had just summoned, it was strange that her fingers were so cold. “You must take me to her, sir knight. You must. I have sought her for fifteen centuries.” There was desperation and fear and hope in her eyes. “Take her to me, please.”

“That might be a problem,” said Gavin. “We don’t know where she is right now. We were separated when the Mhorites attacked.”

“Mhorites?” said Antenora, blinking up at him. She wasn’t as short as Mara, but both Morigna and Calliande were taller than her. “Those creatures with green hides and crimson scars? They spoke a language I knew not, but called out to Mhor when they attacked.” She stiffened, seized her staff, and pointed it. “There is one now.”

Gavin saw that she was pointing at Kharlacht as the others approached. “No, don’t. He’s a friend. He’s on our side.”

“I do not worship the false god and demon Mhor,” said Kharlacht, “but pray to the Dominus Christus.”

Antenora’s yellow eyes flicked to the wooden cross he wore. “Indeed? Well, why not? The Dominus Christus came to all men. Perhaps even the men of kindreds upon alien worlds I never knew existed.”

“Antenora,” said Mara, stepping forward with Morigna. “It is good to see you. You eluded the…ah, the cockroaches?”

Antenora looked from Mara to Morigna and then back again. “I did. You must have been successful as well. Did you save the Keeper?” Again that ancient desperation came into her voice. “You saved her from that sorcerer?”

“We did,” said Morigna. “Though we are not sure where she is at the moment. We were attacked by the Mhorites and separated in the confusion.”

“We must find her at once,” said Antenora. “I…”

Her voice trailed off as she saw Arandar.

“It cannot be,” she whispered.

“Madam?” said Arandar.

“Malahan Pendragon?” Antenora said. “How can you be here? It has been fifteen centuries!” She shook her head. “Forgive me. I was wrong. I was wrong, and I have spent every year of those fifteen centuries since trying to make up for my error.”

“Pardon,” said Arandar, “but I fear you are mistaken. Malahan Pendragon has been in his grave a thousand years. He was one of my ancestors, though. Perhaps I resemble him.”

“Yes,” said Antenora, “yes, that…makes sense. You look…a great deal like him. His very image, in fact. I have…I have a great many questions for you.”

“And we for you, my lady,” said Caius, “but we must be gone from here before our foes regroup.”

Antenora nodded. “The short gray one speaks the truth. We can take counsel once we are clear of here, away from these lizard-beasts and the green-skinned warriors.”

“Aye,” said Arandar, looking at Azakhun. “I suspect we have a great deal to discuss.”

Antenora pointed with her staff, the sigils written upon its length still smoldering. “There is another path there, leading north. The lizard-beasts pursued me from that direction, but I suspect they have retreated now.”

“Let us be gone from here, then,” said Arandar, and he led the way across the ruins, weaving his way around the fires and the dead trolls. Gavin brought up the rear, behind Azakhun and the dwarves, and Mara and Morigna fell in on either side of Antenora. They seemed to trust the strange sorceress, or at least to feel they owed her their lives.

Gavin was not convinced. Antenora wanted to find the Keeper, but why? To atone for some ancient crime?

Or to kill Calliande? She had thought that Arandar was Malahan Pendragon, but Malahan, the first High King of Andomhaim, had died a thousand years ago. How had Antenora survived for so long?

Gavin did not know…but he would not relax his vigilance.

He thought of the dark magic Morigna had wielded in the battle, and his hand tightened against Truthseeker’s hilt.

Chapter 12: Demands Of Honor

Calliande jogged through the forest, following Ridmark and Curzonar.

Ridmark led the way, dodging around trees and weaving around scattered boulders, Curzonar following suit. Calliande was amused to see that even the proud manetaur seemed ready to obey Ridmark. They headed north and east, away from the clearing where they had fought the trolls, the ground sloping down. Calliande realized they were heading towards the icy lake that filled the northern third of the Vale of Stone Death. She wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Both the Traveler and Mournacht had brought armies to the Vale, and armies required fresh water. Perhaps Ridmark thought that any pursuing trolls would run into Mhorite foraging parties.

After an hour Ridmark stopped, holding up a hand as he caught his breath.

“Lord Prince,” he said to Curzonar. “Can you still smell those leaves?”

Curzonar lifted his muzzle and sniffed. “No.”

Ridmark nodded and wiped some sweat from his forehead. “I suspect that we have lost them, though we should remain vigilant.”

Curzonar growled. “A Hunter is always vigilant.” Yet there was no threat to his words. Another memory floated to the front of Calliande’s mind, rising out of the mists of her past. The manetaurs called themselves the Hunters.

Had she known the manetaurs well?

“Beyond all doubt,” said Ridmark, “though I suspect there are as few places as dangerous as the Vale of Stone Death has been the last few days.”

“Indeed,” said Curzonar. “Those leaves you burned. I have rarely smelled such a vile odor. Where did you obtain them?”

“In the Torn Hills to the west of here, not far from the walls of Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark.

Curzonar stiffened, his golden eyes staring at Ridmark. “You lie to me, Ridmark son of Leogrance of Taliand.”

“Do I smell like I am lying?” said Ridmark. “It is well-known that the manetaurs of the Range can smell the sweat when a human is lying.”

Curzonar let out a low, mewling laugh. “You smell of troll slime, sweat, and orc blood. But, no. You speak the truth to me. A strange tale it must be.” He pulled off his helmet and shook his head, his golden mane rippling. Over his head he wore a diadem of red gold, a sign of his rank as a Prince of the Range. “Forgive me. I forget the obligations of honor, and my mind wanders. Without your aid, I would have fallen to the trolls, and I thank you for your intervention. You and the Magistria both.”

“I would not leave anyone to fall to the claws of the trolls,” said Ridmark. “Certainly not a manetaur. Though I confess I was surprised to find a manetaur, and a noble Prince at that, so far from your Range.”

“The demands of honor have driven me here,” said Curzonar, and he growled again. “To the very edge of disaster, it seems.”

“What demands are those?” said Ridmark.

“I do not wish to say,” said Curzonar.

Ridmark raised his eyebrows. “Might I ask why?”

“The Vale of Stone Death has an evil reputation among the Hunters,” said Curzonar. “When the stronghold of the dwarves fell to the cold ones, a great many of the Hunters perished as well, fighting to fulfill the obligations of honor. Since then it has been haunted by trolls and the gorgon spirit bound by the last King of Khald Azalar to…”

Calliande flinched. “The gorgon spirit?” More memories stirred in the mist of her mind, and for the first time she was certain, absolutely certain, that she had been to the Vale of Stone Death and Khald Azalar before. She had known it intellectually, of course. She had put her staff in Dragonfall. Yet for the first time it started to feel familiar.

“You know of it?” said Curzonar, eyes narrowed.

“Maybe,” said Calliande. “I might. I…cannot remember, I fear.”

Curzonar gave a displeased rumble but kept speaking. “In ancient times the stonescribes of the dwarves bound a powerful spirit to the Vault of the North, a small stronghold at the northern end of this Vale. The spirit has the power to turn anyone it sees to stone. The last King of Khald Azalar, I suspect, unleashed the spirit in desperation as his city fell to the Frostborn, and it has roamed the Vale ever since. But I wander from my point.” He gestured with his right hand. “I came to the Vale with my retainers, expecting to deal with trolls and with the gorgon spirit. Instead two armies have descended upon the Vale and are maneuvering for battle, and the trolls have run amok. You shall I understand, I suspect, why I am suspicious that you are here.”

“It is entirely understandable,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps we can come to an accord.”

“What do you mean?” said Curzonar.

“We know why those armies are here,” said Ridmark. “If you tell us why you have come to the Vale, then we can tell you what is happening here.”

Curzonar growled, drawing himself up to his full height, his fur bristling. Calliande had to admit that an angry manetaur made for a formidable sight. “You presume to barter with me, Ridmark son of Leogrance? I am a Prince of the Hunters of the Range, not some bargaining peddler.”

“Not at all,” said Ridmark. “Let us say instead that I suspect we hunt the same prey.”

“Do not the arbiters of the Hunters say,” said Calliande, “that the path of the solitary Hunter ends in death, but the wise Hunter seeks his prey in the company of his comrades?”

Curzonar blinked. “You know something of our ways, then?”

“Apparently I do,” said Calliande.

Curzonar managed to look dubious. “Even for a human female, you are most peculiar, Magistria.”

“You have no idea,” said Ridmark.

Calliande gave him a look.

“You did save my life,” said Curzonar, “and there is a mystery here. Very well. Speak freely to me of your task, and I shall do the same. What has brought such chaos to the Vale of Stone Death?”

“I have, I fear,” said Calliande.

“You?” said Curzonar, the manetaur’s disbelief plain.

“My name is Calliande,” she said, “and I am the Keeper of Andomhaim.”

Curzonar growled again. “Lies. The final Keeper of Andomhaim perished in battle against the Frostborn.”

“No,” said Calliande. “For when the Frostborn were defeated, I learned a dark truth. They had been summoned to this world, just as the dark elves summoned the orcs and the halflings and the others in ancient days. Shadowbearer summoned the Frostborn, and he would do so again when the conjunction of the thirteen moons permitted him to work his spell.”

The mention of Shadowbearer made Curzonar go motionless. Even his tail stopped twitching.

“You’ve met him, then?” said Ridmark.

“Perhaps,” said Curzonar. “Continue your tale.”

“I knew the Frostborn would return, that Shadowbearer would try to summon them once more,” said Calliande. At least, she assumed that she had. “I knew the power of the Keeper was the only way to stop Shadowbearer, and that future bearers of the Keeper’s office might not recognize the danger. So I hid my staff in the depths of Khald Azalar.” Given that she could sense the staff’s presence and that Mournacht and the Traveler had come to claim it, there seemed to be no reason to keep it secret any longer. “I put myself into a deep sleep in a fortress on the borders of Andomhaim, to awaken when the moons aligned and Shadowbearer might try to open the gate and summon the Frostborn once more.”

Curzonar considered this. “Why did you conceal your staff in Khald Azalar? It seems a foolish and risky decision.” He bared his fangs, which sent a shiver of fear down Calliande’s back, but she remembered it was the manetaurs’ equivalent of a smile. “The arbiters of the Hunters would not approve.”

“Because I knew that Shadowbearer would try to kill me,” said Calliande, “or at least render the Keeper unable to threaten him. If I hid myself and my staff in the same place, he might have been able to kill me and claim the staff with one strike.”

Certainly he had come very close to killing her. If not for Ridmark, Shadowbearer would have killed Calliande on the first day she had awakened, and she would have died in ignorance of her identity and her purpose. She felt a surge of gratitude for Ridmark.

Without Ridmark, she would not have gotten very far at all.

“A most implausible story,” rumbled Curzonar. “Yet you smell of certainty. Of conviction. Either you are telling the truth or you are a madwoman who believes your own delusions.”

Calliande shrugged. “Both may be true.”

“Ridmark son of Leogrance,” demanded Curzonar. “Does she speak the truth?”

“She does,” said Ridmark. “I was there on the day she awakened. It was about four months ago, the day blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon.”

“An evil day,” said Curzonar. “An ill omen.”

“It was,” said Ridmark, “but it was more than that. It was a sign of a conjunction of the thirteen moons. For a year and a month after that day, the moons are in the proper position to allow Shadowbearer to open a gate to the world of the Frostborn.”

“Indeed,” said Curzonar. “You, too, have the scent of truth about you. A strange tale…but you believe it, and it explains some things that have happened in the Range. Very well.” He gestured at the trees. “I shall tell you the purpose of my hunt to the Vale.”

“I am eager to hear it,” said Ridmark.

“I am a Prince of the Range, a son of the Red King Turcontar,” said Curzonar. “My father reigns supreme over the Hunters, but he has many sons, and we all compete for power and influence among our kindred. Consequently, there is much violence among us, for only the strongest deserve power.” He shrugged. “I understand the weaker kindreds such as you humans and the halflings find such violence appalling, but hunting and war are in our nature. Perhaps the orcs come the closest to understanding, but even they do not fight as often as we do. I do not boast falsely when I say that my influence and stature among the Hunters is very great, rivaled only by my father and a few others. Among them, my chief rival is my half-brother Kurdulkar.” He growled. “He has grown…strange in the last few years.”

“What do you mean?” said Calliande, an uneasy feeling settling over her. Curzonar’s tale reminded her of Arandar’s tale, how his son Accolon had seen one of the Enlightened of Incariel wielding the powers of darkness.

“We are the Hunters,” said Curzonar, “and we hold to our word of honor. Long ago we signed a pact with your High King, settling the boundary of our Range at the mountains of Caertigris. All other kindred are our proper prey, of course, but some prey are stronger than others. Were we to hunt the subjects of the High King too often, his power would destroy us. So we signed a treaty with the High King, promising not to hunt his subjects, and to grant sanctuary to any of his subjects who visit the trading towns upon our borders.”

“Yet Kurdulkar thinks differently,” said Calliande, taking a guess.

“It is worse than that,” said Curzonar. “Ambition is only right and proper for a Hunter. Yet Kurdulkar is listening to strange and uncouth ideas. Kurdulkar says that we are not strong enough to make the entire world into our Range. Of late he claims that if we follow the power of the dark elves, that if we draw upon the shadows that they once worshipped, we can become strong and hunt the entire world.”

“What?” said Calliande with a chill. That sounded like the Enlightened of Incariel. That sounded identical to the Enlightened of Incariel, in fact. Had something similar to the Enlightened arisen among the manetaurs?

“A prophet has been speaking to Kurdulkar and his followers,” said Curzonar. “A high elf who calls himself the bearer of shadow, with eyes like quicksilver and a shadow that acts of its own will. When he speaks, two voices issue from his mouth. He stinks of corruption and black sorcery. I am amazed that the stench of him does not gag Kurdulkar. Perhaps he has grown inured to it. I have come to smell the same taint upon him and his followers, and rumors among the females claim that Kurdulkar and his followers have begun commanding the shadows.”

“I fear a similar society has arisen among the humans of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. “They call themselves the Enlightened of Incariel. They worship the shadow of Incariel, which in turn grants them powers over darkness. They think to take over the High Kingdom and to conquer the earth and rule it as they please. Shadowbearer is their master.”

“The same sort of folly, I see,” said Curzonar, his alien voice deepening with fury. “I could watch no further as this cancer spread among the Hunters. I challenged Kurdulkar before the Red King’s court, and both my followers and his came to violence. They were clever enough not to use their shadow powers before the arbiters and the Red King. Lest we destroy the Hunters with our conflict, the Red King and the arbiters set a Rite of Challenge before me.”

“What task did they give you?” said Ridmark.

“To come to the Vale of Stone Death and retrieve the sword of Murzanar,” said Curzonar.

“I do not know the name,” said Calliande.

“He was a Prince of the Hunters who lived a century past,” said Curzonar. “Many manetaurs perished in the fighting below the Gate of the West of Khald Azalar, including six Princes of the Range. Murzanar had a dispute with his brother, and as his own Rite of Challenge he came to the Vale of Stone Death to retrieve at least one of their diadems. He never returned.”

“And you were sent to discover what happened to Murzanar, I take it,” said Calliande.

“You guess correctly,” said Curzonar.

“What went wrong?” said Ridmark.

Curzonar loosed a growl deep in his throat. “Many things. We made our way across the High Kingdom and through Vhaluusk easily enough. I had one hundred of my followers with me, and no one was foolish enough to challenge us.”

“I imagine not,” murmured Calliande. Curzonar was formidable enough by himself. One hundred manetaurs together would be terrifying.

“But as we made our way through the High Pass,” said Curzonar, “we faced numerous foes. First the trolls, but we anticipated that hunt. Then the Mhorite orcs, and they fought like devils. After that we fought strange orcs of a kind I have never scented before, armored in bone that grew from their flesh like tumors.”

“Anathgrimm,” said Ridmark.

“The word is not known to me,” said Curzonar.

“Orcs in service to the Traveler of Nightmane Forest,” said Ridmark. “He used his magic to mutate them, to make them stronger and hardier.”

Curzonar spat in disgust. “Wretched dark elves. They sought to enslave the Hunters, but we defied them to the end. Kurdulkar thinks to turn us into a new version of them.” He shook his head again. “We defeated our foes and made our way into the Vale. The survivors of the fall of Khald Azalar said that the final Hunters made their stand at the Vault of the North, so it seemed likely that Murzanar had made his way there.”

“Then you encountered the gorgon spirit,” said Calliande, “did you not?”

“You guess correctly,” said Curzonar, weariness entering his growling voice. “We came to the Vault of the North, a ruin at the edge of the lake near the base of the mountains. Hundreds of frozen statues surrounded it. We entered…and the gorgon spirit issued forth to take us.” He snarled, his hands clenching into fists. “It was wearing Murzanar’s flesh.”

“What?” said Ridmark.

“It is logical, is it not?” said Curzonar. “It is a spirit, and spirits must enter flesh to harm those of flesh. It had taken Murzanar’s body. The arbiters of the Hunters preserve the scents of all the Princes of the Range, and I recognized Murzanar’s scent at once. His eyes shone with green fire, and the light that issued from his eyes turned anyone it touched into a statue.” He growled, his tail lashing with displeasure. “Many of my Hunters were turned to stone, and we had no choice but to retreat shamefully. As we did, bands of trolls attacked us, and the gorgon spirit kept hunting us. The last of my comrades fell a few hours past, and I have been fighting trolls ever since.”

Calliande shook her head, another strange thought coming to her. “Lord Prince, did you notice anything strange about Murzanar?”

“You mean other than the gorgon spirit possessing him?” said Curzonar, something almost like humor in his voice.

“Aye,” said Calliande, thinking hard. God, but she wished she could remember the past clearly! Even if it was horrifying, it would be nice to remember without struggling. “Something like…oh, a jewel, or perhaps a rod or a crown. Something of dwarven make.”

“He wore a helm of dwarven steel, written with glyphs of green fire around the crown,” said Curzonar.

“That’s it,” whispered Calliande, snapping her fingers. “That’s it. I…I remember. I remember it!”

Curzonar gave her a sideways glance, his nostrils flaring. Evidently he still thought her insane, but she did not care.

“Calliande?” said Ridmark.

“I remember,” she breathed. “That helmet, Ridmark. The helmet is the key. The smiths and stonescribes of Khald Azalar made it and bound the gorgon spirit to it. I think…I think Murzanar must have broken into the Vault of the North, put on the helmet, and become possessed by the gorgon spirit. It’s enslaved him ever since. How long ago did you say Murzanar came here? A century?”

“One hundred and fifteen years, to be precise,” said Curzonar.

“And how long has this place been known as the Vale of Stone Death?” said Calliande.

“I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “Kharlacht thought it had been called that for at least a century.”

“What do you propose?” said Curzonar.

“That we find Murzanar and take the helmet, freeing him from the gorgon spirit,” said Calliande. “If we do that, we can save your warriors from imprisonment in stone, lord Prince.” She looked at Ridmark. “We can also give our friends a greater chance.”

“You have other comrades?” said Curzonar.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “We were attacked by Mhorites and separated. We planned to meet at the Gate of the West, but I am not sure that they will be able to find a path through the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, to say nothing of the trolls and the gorgon spirit.”

“If we free Murzanar from the gorgon spirit,” said Calliande, “then their odds are all the higher. Ours, too. We can slip past while the Mhorites, the trolls, and the Anathgrimm fight each other.” She looked at Curzonar, making herself meet those golden lion’s eyes. “And you, lord Prince, will achieve your goal as well. We can free your comrades who were turned to stone, and you can return to the Red King’s court with both the knowledge of Murzanar’s fate and the diadems of any Princes of the Range that are still in the Vault of the North. Then you can stop Kurdulkar before his followers do to the manetaurs what the Enlightened of Incariel have done to Andomhaim.”

“A bold plan,” said Curzonar. “Worthy of a true Hunter. There is one serious problem.”

“The gorgon spirit’s power,” said Ridmark. “If the three of us were turned to statues, it would be a great help to Shadowbearer and his servants.”

Calliande took a deep breath. “I can ward us from the spirit’s power.”

“You can?” said Curzonar, his eyes narrowing.

“I came here centuries ago, before I went into the long sleep,” said Calliande. “I knew what defenses the old Kings of Khald Azalar left around their home. I know how to ward us from the gorgon spirit’s power.”

At least, she thought she did.

“This is a bold plan, worthy of a Hunter,” said Curzonar. “I consent to it…though I am not sure that you do, Ridmark son of Leogrance.”

Ridmark said nothing, staring into the forest, his fingers tapping against the black staff. For a moment she thought some danger in the pine trees had caught his attention, but she recognized the distracted look upon his face. He was weighing the consequences. His heart wanted him to go after Morigna and the others at once. But his mind, the mind an experienced warrior, knew better.

It knew that she was right.

His mind also realized, as Calliande had, that if they helped Curzonar, he could become a capable ally in the future. Even if they stopped Shadowbearer and kept the Frostborn from returning, the Enlightened of Incariel were still powerful. They, too, had to be stopped, as did their fellows among the manetaurs.

He saw her looking and snorted. “You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”

Calliande shrugged. “I’ve had some practice.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “We make for the Vault of the North. Let us leave at once. We can yet cover some ground before dark.”

Chapter 13: The Converts

“Here,” said Morigna, her eyes twitching behind closed lids. “The ravens do not see any foes within three miles of us.”

“Including the trolls?” said Arandar. “Even your ravens might have trouble seeing them.”

Morigna snorted. “Aye, but their camouflage does nothing to disguise their foul stench.”

Gavin said nothing, keeping an eye upon the surrounding forests. They had taken shelter upon a low hill topped with a ruined watch tower. Built of dwarven masonry, the tower’s roof and top third were gone, but the rest stood intact. He felt too exposed here, and wished they could have found a better campsite, but this was the best they could find. At least here they could hold out. If the Anathgrimm attacked, they would draw the attention of the trolls or of the Mhorites, and then Gavin and the others could cut their way free in the chaos.

Or so he hoped.

Perhaps Antenora could blast her way through them.

Though he suspected that Antenora needed to rest. She leaned heavily upon the black staff, its light quenched. Her hood had fallen back, and she looked terrible, her face gray and pale, her yellow eyes like pools of poison. Of course, maybe she always looked that terrible.

“Very well,” said Arandar. “We shall rest here for now.”

“Is that safe, sir knight?” said Azakhun. He had made the run on his own power, but only barely.

“Not particularly,” said Arandar, “but we must rest. We have fought Mhorites, Anathgrimm, and trolls over the last few days, and it seems you have faced as many foes as well. This is as good a location as we are likely to find before we continue to the Gate of the West.”

“You are going to Khald Azalar?” said Azakhun, blinking in surprise. “Where are the Gray Knight and the Magistria?”

Arandar scowled. “We are not certain. We took the High Gate instead of the High Pass, which turned out to be wise, as the High Pass was choked with Mhorites. But a Mhorite shaman triggered the old defenses in the High Pass, and we were separated. We had hoped to reunite at the Gate of the West in a few days, assuming we survive the journey across the Vale of Stone Death.”

Azakhun nodded. “I am in no position to argue with you. Without your intervention, the Traveler would have had us tortured to death for his amusement.”

“I shall lay alarms,” announced Morigna, “and bid the ravens to return to me should they see any foes. That should grant us at least some measure of warning should we come under attack…or if Ridmark and Calliande come across us.”

Arandar nodded. “Do as you think best.” Gavin wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. She gave him a look as she passed him, her eyes flat, but Gavin said nothing.

The others went into the tower, sheltering within the thick stone walls. Gavin was just as tired, but he remained in the archway, looking at the forest. Truthseeker lent him strength, and he could remain on watch as the others rested, just in case the Traveler decided to come after them.

Or, part of his mind murmured, if Morigna did something foolish.

“We must have counsel together, sir knight,” said Antenora to Arandar in her raspy voice. “You must tell me where the Keeper has gone.”

“In a moment,” said Arandar. “We can do nothing else tonight in any event. Soon it will be too dark to see, and I hope the Anathgrimm and the trolls have a pleasant evening hunting each other.”

Antenora did not seem pleased by this, but she nodded and fell silent. Caius and Arandar walked to Azakhun and his retainers.

“We are curious how you came here,” said Caius. “We left you in Coldinium, and certainly did not expect to see you in the Vale of Stone Death.”

“The Taalkaz had a letter from the King of Khald Tormen,” said Azakhun. “The King was concerned by how many dwarven artifacts the orcs of Vhaluusk had retrieved from the ruins of Khald Azalar. The khaldari have not returned to Khald Azalar since it fell to the Frostborn, partly because it is too dangerous, but partly because we simply did not have the numbers to repopulate its halls.”

“But if the Vhaluuskan orcs were able to get into Khald Azalar and find artifacts,” said Mara, “then perhaps the danger in the Vale of Stone Death had lessened, and your people could return.”

Azakhun blinked at her in confusion.

“Oh!” said Mara. “I’m sorry. We haven’t formally met.” She offered the dwarven Taalmak a bow. “My name is Mara, once of Coldinium, but now I am wed to Jager, and together we follow the Gray Knight on his task.”

Azakhun looked at Jager.

“I know,” said Jager. “It is confusing, isn’t it? I’m just that charming.”

“Thank you for your aid, my lady,” said Azakhun at last. Gavin wondered what he made of Mara. Likely he thought that she was a sorceress of some kind. “Your reasoning is also correct. The King believed that if the dangers in the Vale of Stone Death had lessened, we could return and place a colony within Khald Azalar, to one day grow and rebuild the city. Barring that, we could activate the ancient defenses and seal the city entirely, keeping intruders from entering it until we could return in force.”

“So he sent you to assess the danger, then,” said Arandar.

“I volunteered for this task,” said Azakhun, “for the Three Kingdoms of the khaldari were once nine, and to reclaim even one of the lost six would be a great deed. Ten of my men and I departed for the Vale of Stone Death the day after the Gray Knight and his followers set out in pursuit of Sir Paul Tallmane and the stolen soulstone.” He hesitated. “How did that end? Were you victorious?”

“We were,” said Caius. “The Iron Tower was destroyed, Sir Paul slain in battle, and the empty soulstone retrieved. Many of the Tower’s garrison belonged to the Enlightened of Incariel, but those who were not we sent to join the Comes of Coldinium, to lend their testimony to the charges he hopes to bring against Tarrabus Carhaine before the High King.”

“Ah,” said Azakhun. “The first good news we have heard for many days. But to continue my tale. We reached the Vale of Stone Death without incident, but soon faced dire opposition. The trolls came down from the mountains in great numbers, and it was all that we could do to avoid them. Then an army came through the High Pass. Spiny orcs, led by a dark elven lord – the Anathgrimm and the Traveler. Two of my men fell in battle before we could fall back. The fighting between the Anathgrimm and the trolls let us escape, and we tried to make our way back to the High Pass or the High Gate. Alas, we reached the foothills again only as the Mhorites arrived in force, led by Mournacht himself.” Azakhun shook his head, his gray, bearded face weary. “He must have summoned a great force of Mhorite warriors as soon as he left Coldinium. All of Kothluusk must be emptied. We could not possibly elude such numbers, and decided to make for the Gate of the West, brave the dangers within Khald Azalar, and pass under the mountains of Vhaluusk to reach the Gate of the East and the River Moradel.”

“Instead you encountered the Traveler and his minions,” said Arandar.

Azakhun sighed. “Another of my men fell in the fighting, and we were taken captive. The Traveler tortured another one to death in a fit of rage, and had two more thrown to his urvaalgs.” He closed his eyes. “Had you not arrived when you did, we would have suffered the same fate. The Traveler is a madman. The Mhorites at least would kill us as an offering to their bloody god, but the Traveler would have killed us all on a whim.”

That was the most emotion Gavin had ever seen a dwarf show. Caius, of course, laughed and smiled, but the dwarves Gavin had met in Coldinium had been solemn to the point of grimness. Their gods of stone and silence demanded it.

“I am sorry for your losses,” said Arandar.

“There would have been more losses if you had not come along when you did,” said Azakhun. “Why are you here? When last we met, you intended to go to the Iron Tower…and since you were victorious there, I assume you went to Urd Morlemoch as the Gray Knight intended.”

“We did,” said Caius, “and only escaped with our lives by the grace of the Dominus Christus. But there we learned the truth. Calliande is the last Keeper of Andomhaim, and she put herself into a deep sleep in preparation for the dire hour that has now arisen. The omen of blue fire was a conjunction of the thirteen moons, and Shadowbearer has the power to summon the Frostborn to our world again for a year and a month after the conjunction. That is why he wanted to kill Calliande and claim the soulstone for himself. Calliande hid the staff of the Keeper in Khald Azalar in preparation for this day, and we have come here so she can retrieve it. Unfortunately, both the Traveler and Mournacht have come to take the staff, and it would not surprise me if Shadowbearer himself arrived soon.”

Azakhun considered this. “I…see. I feared the omen of blue fire was a sign of momentous events to come, and it appears I was correct. Very well.” He lifted his bearded chin. “We are trapped here with you, and we shall fight alongside you until we can escape.”

The other dwarven warriors murmured their acquiescence.

“We shall be glad for all the aid we can find,” said Arandar. He turned to Antenora. “I understand you seek for Calliande, as well?”

Antenora limped forward, leaning upon her staff, and drew back her hood. In the clear light of the setting sun, she looked even more haggard and corpse-like. The lines of deep scars marked the right side of her jaw and face, as if she had been raked by some huge beast. “I am. You may call me Antenora, if you must call me anything at all.”

“Antenora?” said Arandar. “That is not your name?”

“No,” murmured Antenora. “Long ago, there was a poet named Dante. He wrote of heaven and hell and the realms between, and named the nine circles of hell. In the circle of Antenora he housed the blackest traitors. I took the name Antenora to myself when I heard his poem, for I am a traitor.”

Arandar considered this. “Then you will not tell us your name?”

Antenora shrugged. “I would…but I fear I cannot remember it.”

Morigna slipped through the stone archway, her staff in hand, and watched Antenora.

“Then why do you seek the Keeper?” said Arandar.

“It was a long time ago,” said Antenora. “At the end of Arthur Pendragon’s realm, when his son Mordred rose against him.”

“That was almost a thousand years ago,” said Arandar. “How are you still alive, if what you say is true?”

Antenora’s colorless lips twitched in something that might have been a smile. “Closer to fifteen centuries, actually. I understand that time flows slower upon this world than on Old Earth. What year is it here?”

“The Year of Our Lord 1478,” said Arandar.

“It was 2012 when I left Old Earth,” said Antenora.

“This betrayal,” said Arandar. “I fear you have not yet explained it.”

“No,” murmured Antenora. “It was so long ago. The girl that I was, the girl who was a traitor, died so long ago. All that I am is her regret, living on in sorrow.”

“That is very poetic,” said Mara, her voice gentle, “but it still does not answer the question.”

Antenora sighed. “Fifteen centuries ago, there was the Keeper of Avalon, the guardian of Britannia against the forces of dark magic. I was her apprentice, her student. When Mordred turned to the powers of dark magic, the Keeper sided with the High King.” She closed her yellow eyes. “I sided with Mordred.”

“Why?” said Mara.

“I loved him,” said Antenora. “I was young and passionate and foolish. I thought that he loved me. I thought I was the only one…but there were other women, so many others. Mordred’s son Malahan, your ancestor,” she waved a hand at Arandar, “saw the truth, and he tried to warn me. I laughed at him and called him a fool, and spurned his kindness and his mercy. Then came the Battle of Camlann. In the fighting Mordred betrayed me and left me for dead, taking my power to fight against the High King, but Arthur Pendragon prevailed at the cost of his life.” Her fingers strayed to her cheek.

“What happened then?” said Arandar.

“I did not die,” Antenora said, “but I did not live. Mordred’s powers had cursed me. Food would not sate my hunger, nor water my thirst, and I knew neither pleasure nor pain in my flesh. My magic had been crippled, save for my power over fire. In desperation, I sought out Malahan and the Keeper, to beg their forgiveness for my folly, but they had already gone, departed through a gate to their new world, this world.” She tapped her staff against the ground. “The pagan Saxons overran Britannia soon after, and I despaired for long years. In time I came to my senses, and tried to fulfill the mantle of the Keeper, protecting the people of Britannia from dark magic. Over the centuries I wandered the entirety of Old Earth, fighting the shadows of the dark and seeking magical knowledge, ways I could follow the Keeper and beg her forgiveness.” She shook her head. “I…saw things, sir knight, so many horrible things…”

Gavin said nothing. He had some idea of the things she mentioned. The Warden had showed them in his visions, the terrible engines and machines of war that the men of Old Earth had constructed with their sciences.

“You did this?” said Mara. “For fifteen centuries?”

“Aye,” said Antenora. “I do not remember all of it. Perhaps that is a mercy. The mortal mind…it was never meant to live for so long, and my mind has more memories than it can comprehend. Like too much water poured into a jar. Some of them have spilled away. I cannot remember my name, or the names of my mother and father and sisters. I cannot remember the taste of food or the pleasure of the wind upon my face. There are entire centuries that I have lost. I remember coming to Londinium in 1349…and then the start of the civil war when the Duke of York rose against King Henry in 1460, but I recall but little of the years between.” Her yellow eyes stared off into nothingness. “But my betrayal, my crime, my folly…I remember that as clearly as if it happened this morning. Perhaps it did happen this morning. For it is ever at the forefront of my thoughts. I tried to defend the people from dark magic, and I ever sought to follow the Keeper’s path…and then, one day, I felt the disturbance.”

“The Warden’s gate, was it not?” said Morigna.

“Aye,” said Antenora. “I felt the disturbance of his gate, and crossed into the threshold. I held off the spirit hunters that sought to slay you, and once you had retreated, I followed you. The disturbance had joined together the threshold of Earth and the threshold of this world, and I was able to cross over between them.”

“And then, one presumes, you were able to make your way to the waking world…this one?” said Morigna.

Antenora nodded. “Though not without bitter fighting. That is one of the things I must warn the Keeper against. There is a large army of powerful creatures in the threshold of this world, waiting for someone to let them in.”

Gavin felt a surge of alarm.

“Creatures?” said Arandar. “What manner of creatures?”

“I had never seen their like before,” said Antenora. “They are giants, standing eight or nine feet tall, with skin like frozen crystal, eyes of blue flame, and armor the color of old ice. A deadly chill surrounds them, and if not for my knowledge of fire magic, I would likely have frozen to death in their presence.”

Gavin shared a look with Arandar and Mara and Caius and the others.

“Ah,” said Antenora. “You know of these creatures?”

“The Frostborn,” said Arandar. “Were they the Frostborn?”

“They did not call themselves that,” said Antenora, “but they said that humans knew them as the Frostborn, yes.”

“You spoke with them?” said Morigna. “What did they want?”

“They demanded that I submit to them in vassalage and assist them in the conquest and enslavement of this world,” said Antenora. “As I thought the Keeper would not wish it, I refused and fought my way free.”

“How did you escape the threshold?” said Mara.

“I have the ability to enter the threshold and depart it again,” said Antenora. “I learned it several centuries ago while I studied how to follow the Keeper.”

“Then you can travel as I can?” said Mara, surprised. “That is how my power works, I think. To…bounce off the threshold and skip over parts of the physical world.”

“Aye,” said Antenora. “The power…it took me many centuries of study to master. Yours seems to be in the blood. I could not travel about as quickly as you do, and I need time to rest after each jump. But I think the power works in much the same fashion.”

“As fascinating as this is,” said Morigna, “we may have greater danger to consider, if the Frostborn are indeed lurking upon this world’s threshold.”

“They are,” said Antenora. “I saw the Frostborn, and their servants, creatures they had bred to war as their soldiers. They called them the locusari, insects the size of men that walk upon their hind legs, their limbs shaped into blades. I do not think they were prepared to deal with someone like me, though. I held them off until I could make the jump from the threshold, and after fifteen centuries, I have at last found the world where the Keeper has traveled.” She turned towards Arandar. “You…look so much like Malahan Pendragon, Sir Arandar. His very image. Though he was a much younger man when I knew him. I thought…I thought perhaps for a moment that you were him, and I could ask for forgiveness after so long.”

“The High King Malahan Pendragon is a figure of history to us,” said Arandar. “Almost legend. It is strange to think that you spoke with him in the flesh.”

Caius shrugged. “We met both Ardrhythain and the Warden, did we not? Even Antenora’s fifteen centuries is but a drop in the ocean of time those two wizards have seen between them.”

“I see,” said Antenora, glancing at Kharlacht and Caius and Azakhun, “that this world is full of many strange creatures.”

“I urge you to speak for yourself,” said Caius with a smile. “Humans have always looked strange to me.”

Antenora almost smiled at that. It looked strange on her gaunt, scarred face, as if she had not smiled for a very long time.

“Now that you have come here,” said Arandar, “what do you intend to do?”

“I shall find the Keeper,” said Antenora.

“And when you find her?” said Arandar.

“I will beg for her forgiveness,” said Antenora, “for my betrayal. For my folly.”

“The Keeper will not be the same woman, you know,” said Arandar, and his stern voice grew almost gentle. “Your Keeper, the Keeper you knew, died centuries ago.”

“I know,” said Antenora. “But her office and authority have passed to your Keeper, this woman named Calliande. She can forgive me. The Keeper was my teacher once. Perhaps your Keeper shall be again. And perhaps…perhaps she can release me from the curse, so I can die at last. I have lived too long, Sir Arandar, and seen too many terrible things.”

“Very well,” said Arandar. “Tomorrow, when we depart, you can accompany us.”

“Good,” said Antenora. “Even if you had turned me away, I would have gone in pursuit of the Keeper alone. If you had tried to stop me, I would have fought you.”

“There’s no need for that,” said Mara. “God knows that there are enough things in this valley that want to kill us. We needn’t fight among ourselves.”

“No,” said Arandar.

“On that topic,” said Azakhun, “there is something I wish to ask you, Brother Caius.”

Gavin blinked. Before Azakhun had always called Caius ‘Taalkhan’, which Gavin assumed was some sort of noble title or honorific. Come to think of it, Gavin did not know Caius’s real name. The dwarven friar had taken the name of ‘Brother Caius’ when he had joined the mendicant order.

“Of course,” said Caius.

“Concerning the matters we discussed earlier,” said Azakhun, “on our journey to Coldinium from Vulmhosk.”

Caius looked puzzled, but he nodded. “By all means, proceed.”

“My men and I,” said Azakhun, “wish to be baptized and accepted into the church of Andomhaim.”

Stunned silence answered him for a moment, and then Caius smiled.

“Azakhun, Taalmak of Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “nothing else could give me such joy.”

“What?” said Morigna, her voice flat. She had not bothered to hide her opinion of the church and its teachings, or of the High Kingdom itself. Gavin wondered if Morigna prayed to anything but her own monumental sense of self-regard. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I pondered the things Brother Caius had told me during our travels together,” said Azakhun. “When the Traveler took us captive…we were so close to death. The gods of stone and silence, the gods of the ancient dwarves, taught us to accept our fate in silence, to embrace despair for the end of all things. Yet…I thought of the things Brother Caius had said, and in my desperation I said a prayer to the Dominus Christus. If we were delivered from the Traveler and his torturers, I would accept baptism and join the church.”

“We saved you,” said Morigna, her tone arctic, “not the Dominus Christus.”

“And what tools would the Dominus Christus use to work his will, if not you?” said Azakhun.

“You are certain?” said Caius. “You all chose this freely of your own will, without compulsion?”

“Aye,” said Azakhun, and the others dwarves nodded.

Caius smiled behind his beard. “Then I shall be honored to do so.”

###

Later, as Caius undertook the rite of baptism, Gavin still stood guard at the archway. Arandar and Kharlacht stood as witnesses to welcome the dwarves to the church. Morigna, apparently disgusted by the entire affair, had stalked off into the woods to scout. Mara and Jager stood near Gavin, while Antenora waited some distance away, motionless in her hooded black coat.

“You know,” said Jager in a low voice, “I always thought Brother Caius was a most ineffective missionary, as I did not see him make a single conversion during our journeys. Apparently I ought to have given him more credit.”

Mara shrugged. “It is easier with one’s own kindred, I think. He is a dwarf, and perhaps it is easier for him to preach to dwarves.”

“Well,” said Jager, “I hope it brings them joy. Those old dwarven gods sound too grim for my taste.”

Gavin blinked in surprise. “You never seemed particularly pious.”

Jager laughed. “Just because I am a thief, you mean? Well, I have my sins, as does any man, but that does not make me a worshipper of the old blood gods or that damned shadow Sir Paul Tallmane served. I’ve said many a prayer in a desperate moment, and some of them have been answered.” He squeezed Mara’s hand.

She smiled at him and looked back at the dwarves. “Pebbles.”

“I’m sorry?” said Jager. “Pebbles? You want to throw pebbles at them? Is this some baptismal custom of which I am unaware?”

“No,” murmured Mara, her green eyes distant. “I think we are watching the first pebbles of an avalanche.”

“What do you mean?” said Gavin.

“Andomhaim has stood for a thousand years,” said Mara. “The dwarven kingdoms have been here for at least thirty times that, immutable and unchanging. Yet the faith of the Dominus Christus spread among the orcs and the halflings. Perhaps it is about to spread among the dwarves. Maybe we are witnessing history this day.”

“We’ve already witnessed quite a lot of history,” said Jager. “The Iron Tower and the Artificer, the Warden and Ardrhythain, even the Keeper herself. Frankly, if we live through this, I shall be delighted to never see anything historical again.”

“You would get bored, my husband,” said Mara.

Jager laughed. “Most likely.”

They walked closer to where Caius recited the proper prayers in Latin, leaving Gavin alone. He wondered if Caius would translate the scriptures into dwarven now. Perhaps he would carve it in dwarven glyphs upon stone slabs, though that seemed like it would take centuries…

“Sir knight.”

He flinched, reaching for Truthseeker, and then recognized Antenora’s worn, rasping voice. The ancient sorceress stood near him, still leaning upon her black staff. She still looked terrible, if less tired. Though for a woman fifteen centuries old, Gavin supposed she was quite healthy.

“My lady Antenora,” he said.

The yellow eyes blinked, and she let out a quiet, rasping laugh. “That is most courteous. I was a noblewoman, long ago, though I suppose I no longer have any claim to my family’s lands. I think there is a council estate there now.”

Gavin shrugged, wondering what a council estate was. “It seems wise to be polite.” He hesitated. “Especially when talking to a woman who can shoot fire from her hands.”

“Wise indeed,” said Antenora. “Might I know your name?”

Some part of his mind recoiled in fear, wondering if she could use his name to put a spell on him. But that was ludicrous. He had seen Agrimnalazur in all her terrible glory, the wrath of the Artificer, and the dark grandeur of the Warden. Antenora was not nearly as frightening as any of them. Besides, Truthseeker could likely shield him from any magic she wielded.

“Gavin,” he said. “Once of the village of Aranaeus, south of here. Now I am a Swordbearer, a knight of the Order of the Soulblade.”

“Sir Gavin Swordbearer,” she said. “I thank you for my life.”

“You were doing well enough on your own,” said Gavin. “A single troll was a challenge to defeat, but you put dozens of them to flight with your magic.”

“That was not enough,” said Antenora. “My strength was spent. Had you not come when you did, that lizard-creature…that troll, as you call them, would have slain me.”

Gavin shrugged again. “If I am to be a knight, I am sworn to defend women, children, and the helpless. Even if the woman is not helpless, I suppose the oath still holds.”

“You have not been a knight for long?” said Antenora.

“A few weeks,” said Gavin. “Not long.”

“Do all the knights of Andomhaim bear magical swords?” said Antenora. “That is a weapon of surpassing power.”

“It is,” said Gavin. “Not all knights carry them. Only Swordbearers. Ardrhythain made them for us to fight the urdmordar and the dark elves and other creatures of dark magic. I…” He shook his head. “I know some of the history, but not all of it, and I am not an eloquent speaker. Sir Arandar or Brother Caius could tell you more.”

“The Keeper,” said Antenora. “Have you known her long?”

“About three months,” said Gavin. He snorted. “It seems longer. We have been through many dangers together.”

“What is she like?” said Antenora.

Gavin thought for a moment. “She is beautiful.”

Antenora laughed a little. “That is the first thing a young man would notice.”

“Maybe,” said Gavin. “But…she is brave. She is a Magistria. Her magic lets her heal wounds, but she has to take the pain of the wound into herself to do it. We’ve all been wounded, again and again and again. Yet she never refuses, and has healed wounds until she collapsed from exhaustion. She lost her memory when she awakened, but she never turns back, she never gives up.” Gavin shook her head. “I know she doubts herself. The Keeper wields great power, but I can think of no one worthier to wield it.”

“Thank you,” said Antenora. She was silent for a moment. “I hope she does not kill me out of hand. Not before I can help her.”

“What?” said Gavin. “She wouldn’t do that. Why would she do that?”

“Because I am a traitor and I deserve such a fate,” said Antenora.

“Why did you ask me about her?” said Gavin.

“Because,” said Antenora, “I have rarely seen such a young man look as grim as you, and I wondered what you would have to say.”

She walked back into the ruined tower, and Gavin turned back to watch the darkening forest. What would it be like to live with such guilt for fifteen centuries?

He couldn’t imagine it.

Of course, he thought, if the Traveler and the Mhorites had their way, he wouldn’t live with anything at all for much longer.

Chapter 14: The Vault Of The North

Ridmark did not have difficulty finding the trail to the Vault of the North.

The petrified manetaurs made it easy.

They found the first one soon after leaving their camp the next morning. Not five minutes after setting out, Ridmark saw the peculiar, pale gleam of the transmuted stone the gorgon spirit produced. He stepped forward cautiously, staff in hand, and saw a manetaur standing beneath a pine tree. Or, at least, the statue that had been a manetaur. The manetaur warrior stood reared up on his hind legs, the paws of his front legs raking the air, his hands grasping swords. Two stone orcs stood before him, and despite the colorless stone Ridmark recognized the distinctive facial scarring of Mhorite warriors. The scene was clear enough. The two Mhorites had attacked the manetaur, and then the gorgon spirit had petrified them all.

“Martellar,” growled Curzonar, looking at the petrified manetaur. “A companion of mine from the days of my youth. I had hoped to grant him the honor of falling in battle beneath my own claws, rather than falling to some sorcerous devil.”

“Could the process be reversed?” said Ridmark, looking at Calliande. “Can the statues be turned back into flesh? Or is it like a fire, and the stone is simply the result of the magic that kills them, just as ashes are left behind after a flame?”

Calliande hesitated. “Perhaps. They’re not dead, at least not yet. They’re…in a form of stasis.”

“Like a bear entering hibernation,” said Curzonar.

“Precisely,” said Calliande. “Their need for food and drink in this state is minimal, but it is still there. Eventually they will die, likely in a few months. But if we can find and compel the gorgon spirit, we can order it to reverse the process and restore your followers to flesh and blood.”

“Good,” rumbled Curzonar. “It seems their fates shall be decided with our own.”

Ridmark nodded and kept going.

Twice they encountered groups of orcs making their way through the trees. These orcs were different than any Ridmark had ever seen before, with black bones rising from their green hides to encase their faces and torsos in an extra layer of armor. Likely these were the Traveler’s soldiers, the Anathgrimm. The Anathgrimm warriors seemed in a great hurry, and Ridmark had the distinct impression they were hunting for someone. Morigna and the others, perhaps? That alarmed him, but not perhaps as much as it could have. Gavin and Arandar were both Swordbearers, Morigna wielded powerful magic, and all the others were skilled fighters. He had no doubt they could defeat an Anathgrimm hunting party…but he was not so certain about the Traveler himself.

Curzonar wanted to battle both groups, but Ridmark talked him out of it.

“You are of the Hunters,” said Ridmark, “and a hunter strikes from a position of strength, not charging to his death in a fit of rage.”

Curzonar growled in disapproval, but acquiesced, and Ridmark, Calliande, and the manetaur remained hidden as the Anathgrimm hastened past.

They pressed onward.

Worry and doubt gnawed at Ridmark, and a large part of him wanted to abandon Curzonar and proceed at once to the Gate of the West, or go in search of Morigna and the others. But he knew such a course was folly. Eliminating the gorgon spirit would increase their chances of survival. More than that, he had a responsibility. He had set off five years ago to discover how the Frostborn would return, and to prevent that return if he could. To truly stop them, he would have to find a way to defeat Shadowbearer and his servants in the Enlightened of Incariel…and whatever Incariel-worshipping cult that Kurdulkar had founded among the manetaurs of the Range. Curzonar and his followers could prove powerful allies. Even in the short term, if Calliande was correct and they could reverse the petrification, a war party of manetaurs would help Ridmark and the others cut their way to the Gate of the West.

They reached the lake a few hours after leaving the camp.

From the heights of the ruined watch tower on the mountain slope, the lake had looked like a small pond. From the rocky shore, Ridmark saw that it was miles across, no doubt fed by snowmelt from the mountain peaks above. The cold wind coming down from the high mountains made the water ripple in the sunlight, and Ridmark saw that the mountains surrounded the lake on three sides. Anyone foolish enough to sail upon the waters would find his boat torn apart by jagged rocks beneath the surface.

Fortunately, they would not need to bother with a boat.

A narrow trail made its way between the waters and the western hills. The path had been carved from the stone with the precise engineering of the dwarven stonewrights of old, and here and there Ridmark saw steles marked with dwarven glyphs. He recognized the designs from dwarven ruins he had seen in the Deeps. They were milestones, marking the distance to the Stone Heart in Khald Tormen.

Dozens of statues stood around the start of the path. There were more stone manetaurs there. Ridmark also saw orcs, both Vhaluuskan and Anathgrimm. There were trolls as well, and even some kobolds and dvargir. Ridmark wondered how long the stone images had stood there.

“That is a very narrow path,” said Ridmark. “It would be easy to lay an ambush for us.”

“This is so,” said Curzonar. “Fortunately, the path itself is short. No more than a mile. Beyond is a low hollow at the base of the mountains, containing some dwarven ruins. The Vault of the North lies in their midst. If we encounter Mhorites or Anathgrimm or trolls, we can fight our way through. The gorgon spirit, though…that may be harder.”

“Your nose and ears will are keener than ours,” said Ridmark. “Can you smell it?”

“I can,” said Curzonar, his voice deepening into a disapproving growl. “It smells…rotten. It has inhabited Murzanar’s body for a very long time, and I fear that Murzanar is decaying. I will be able to smell him a long way off.”

“How quickly can you raise a ward against the spirit’s power?” said Ridmark.

Calliande took a deep breath. “Quickly enough. A few seconds. But to ward all three of us will take the bulk of my power, for the spell is complex. If we come under attack, I will be able to ward you against the gorgon spirit, but I will not be able to aid you in the fight.”

“The ward will be aid enough,” said Curzonar. “Perhaps enough to allow us to stand against Murzanar and free him of this curse.”

“Let’s find out,” said Ridmark.

He led the way along the stony shore, past the statues, and onto the path. The path was smooth and level and hard beneath his boots, and he carried his staff slung over one shoulder so it would not tap against the rock, taking care to keep his footfalls quiet. Curzonar’s paws made no sound as he padded forward with liquid grace. Calliande did her best, and could usually move quietly enough in the forests, but every so often her boots clicked against the stone path. She always winced, but Ridmark suspected that it did not matter. The narrow path offered little in the way of cover, and if they came under attack, they would either have to stand and fight or retreat up the steep slope.

But no foes showed themselves, though dozens of statues littered the path.

After a mile, the path took a sharp turn to the west, opening into a small valley at the base of the mountains. Dwarven ruins filled the valley, tumbled walls and crumbling towers standing almost at random. It looked like the other ruins Ridmark had seen scattered throughout the Vale of Stone Death, and it put him in mind of a boulder that had cracked in the deep cold of a bitter winter. The valley ended in a sheer cliff of rocky stone. A large arch, perhaps twenty feet high, had been carved into the cliff, leading to a dark chamber beyond. Massive doors of dwarven steel, impervious to both rust and weather, stood half open, and Ridmark glimpsed the floor of the chamber beyond.

Hundreds of statues stood amongst the tumbled ruins, orcs and humans and kobolds and trolls and other kindreds.

“The Vault of the North,” said Curzonar. He growled and shook his head, the crimson plume of his helmet waving.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Calliande. Can you raise the ward now?”

“I…would rather not,” said Calliande. “The spell will take a great deal of power, and I am uncertain how long I can maintain it. We should wait until we are certain the gorgon spirit is here.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He picked his way over the ruins, making his way past the ancient statues with their expressions of fear and horror. Silence ruled in the little valley, and they reached the great doors without incident. Beyond Ridmark glimpsed a long stone hall, much like the vaulted hall of the High Pass, the walls carved with reliefs and dwarven glyphs. Calliande raised her hand, and a sphere of pale white light appeared over her palm. They stepped into the Vault of the North, and Calliande raised her hand, the white light brightening.

The hall was perhaps forty yards long and twenty wide, the vaulted ceiling supported by thick square pillars adorned with reliefs of armored dwarves. A square dais rose in the center of the hall, supporting a small, elaborately decorated plinth.

Bones carpeted the floor, orcish bones and dwarven bones both.

“There,” murmured Ridmark. “Likely Murzanar found the helmet there.”

“The fool,” muttered Curzonar, picking his way over the bones. “Magic is a business for the arbiters. It is not the place of a Hunter to wield magical relics. He should have left the thing here, or taken it back to the Red King’s court for the arbiters to examine.”

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, casting a spell with her free hand. “Don’t touch that dais. Nor you, lord Prince.”

“Why not?” said Ridmark.

“There are spells on it,” said Calliande. “Active, powerful spells. Look.”

Her free hand moved in a spell, and suddenly hundreds of glyphs began glowing upon the dais and the plinth, shining with the sullen light of a blacksmith’s fire. Ridmark remembered the magical defenses within the High Gate and tensed, but Calliande’s spell had not triggered any wards.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“I think,” said Calliande, her brow furrowing, “I think it is part of the spell controlling the gorgon spirit.” Her frown deepened further. “I think the gorgon spirit itself might be bound within that dais.”

“What?” said Curzonar. “That is impossible. I saw the gorgon spirit attack my Hunters with my own eyes.”

“The helmet,” said Calliande. “I suspect the power of the gorgon spirit is too much for mortal flesh to house, like trying to keep fire in a cloth bag. Think of the dais as a…a reservoir, and the helmet as a channel that pours the spirit into Murzanar.”

“Could you break the spells here?” said Ridmark. “Banish the gorgon spirit back to the threshold or wherever it came from?”

“I don’t think so,” said Calliande. “These spells, Ridmark…they’re complex. Not as complex as what the Warden could do, but close. If I touch those glyphs the wrong way, I think the released energy might turn us all to stone. Or blow up the Vault. A pity Caius isn’t here.”

“He’s not a stonescribe,” said Ridmark.

“He might at least know what some of these symbols mean,” said Calliande. “I don’t.” She shook her head. “Evidently the Keeper of Andomhaim is not trained in the meaning of arcane dwarven glyphs.”

“Lord Prince,” said Ridmark, “can you smell the gorgon spirit?”

Curzonar let out a growl and shook his head. “Yes. And no. This place is heavy with his scent. He is near. Yet…I cannot tell…”

The manetaur took two steps, the slow, controlled motions of a predator whose instincts screamed of danger. Ridmark was not a manetaur, but he had survived in the Wilderland for five years and had been in more fights than he could recall, and he had something of the same instincts. He had the feeling that something was wrong, the same way he had felt before the fight at the Iron Tower, before they had walked into Urd Morlemoch. But what? What was…

A dark thought occurred to him.

The gorgon spirit inhabited Murzanar…and Murzanar, like Curzonar, was a predator. And how did predators prefer to attack?

From ambush.

Ridmark looked up and saw a withered shape clinging to the ceiling.

“Calliande!” he shouted.

Calliande looked up, sucked in a shocked breath, and started casting a spell.

The creature hanging from the ceiling moved.

It looked like a manetaur, albeit a manetaur that had been mummified. Curzonar was heavy with muscle and moved with grace and power. The thing on the ceiling was a skeleton draped in withered, ragged hide, its fur piebald and brittle. It carried no weapons that Ridmark could see and bore no armor, but instead wore a heavy masked helm of bronze-colored dwarven steel.

Glyphs encircled the crown of the helm, glyphs that started to shine with a sharp green light.

“Beware!” thundered Curzonar, drawing his axes. “It is the spirit!”

The gorgon spirit’s legs flexed, and the manetaur flipped off the ceiling and plummeted. Cats always landed on their feet, or so claimed the proverb, and that apparently applied to manetaurs. The gorgon spirit landed upon the dais, its withered legs flexing, and as it did the glyphs upon the dais changed from sullen yellow-orange to the harsh green radiance of the masked helm.

Calliande kept working her spell, the white fire around her fingers brightening.

“Prince Murzanar!” said Curzonar. “I know your scent. You are a Prince of the Range! Free yourself of this vile spirit.”

“Humans,” said Murzanar in a raspy, weak voice as withered as his body. “Humans.” The steel mask turned towards Curzonar. “You…are a Hunter. You should not have come here. You…should not…”

Another voice thundered from the mask, a deep voice like two slabs of stone sliding together. It said something in the dwarven tongue, the harsh syllables thrumming against Ridmark’s ears, and green fire blazed from the eyes of the helm.

The air around Ridmark grew…harder, somehow, and the gorgon spirit’s power closed around him.

###

Calliande drew on all her power, the magic of the Well filling her.

Even with her newfound strength, the spell was demanding. It would take all of her power to ward Ridmark and Curzonar and her own flesh against the gorgon spirit’s petrifying aura. She thought her magic could strike at the spell binding the spirit into the ancient manetaur’s flesh, but she could not ward against the spirit’s power and attack at the same time. The green light washed over them, the mask’s eyes shining like emerald stars, and Calliande cast her spell. White fire sprang from her fingers, sinking into her flesh and reaching out to strike Ridmark and Curzonar. The white light wrapped around them, creating a gentle glow that repulsed the harsh radiance coming from the gorgon spirit.

“Fools!” roared the gorgon spirit. It was speaking the dwarven tongue, and Calliande realized that she could understand it. Evidently she had learned it as the Keeper. She just had time to think it odd that she could understand the dwarven tongue but not read their glyphs, and then the gorgon spirit kept speaking. “Be gone from this place! This Vale is under the protection of the King of Khald Azalar! Turn aside or be destroyed by his power!”

Calliande shuddered, feeling the spirit’s power hammer against her wards. It took every bit of her strength to keep the spirit’s power from transmuting their flesh into lifeless stone. Yet her ward held. She did not think she could have managed to maintain the spell three months ago, but the trials of her journeys had made her stronger.

Ridmark looked at her and nodded in gratitude, and she offered him a weak smile.

She could defend them from the spirit’s power…but she could not help Ridmark and Curzonar against it.

“No,” croaked Murzanar in Latin, once the spirit’s tirade had ended. “No. You…you should not be here. Another Hunter. Another Hunter! I…I have killed so many of them already. You must go. You must go!”

“I am here on a Rite of Challenge,” said Curzonar, “to learn your fate and to bring word of it back to the court of the Red King. I did not know that you had been enslaved by this mad spirit. Come! Remove the helmet and you can be free of it. You can return to the Range, and…”

“The Range?” whispered Murzanar. “I…I do not remember the Range, prince. I do not remember the taste of flesh upon my fangs or the hot blood running down my throat. I do not remember the joy of the hunt, nor the thrill of battle, nor the pleasure of taking mates for my harem. There is only stone. There is only death. I have slain manetaurs. Was it today? Or a thousand years ago? I can no longer remember. I have slain manetaurs in combat, red with tooth and claw, and that is honorable and right. Yet this spirit…this spirit slew others, freezing them in stone, and I cannot stop it. Flee while you still can! It is no dishonor to withdraw before a creature of magic.”

“Cast aside that helmet,” said Curzonar. “You can be free of the spirit! Be…”

“No,” said Murzanar, shaking his masked head. “No. It…I am dead already. You are an intruder. This is the land of the King of Khald Azalar, one of the Nine Kingdoms of the khaldari.” His voice deepened and roughened, the glowing glyphs upon the dais seeming to pulse in time to his words. “You are an intruder. Intruders must be destroyed.” Suddenly he shifted from Latin to the dwarven tongue as the gorgon spirit took control once more. “Intruders shall be destroyed!”

The withered manetaur took a step forward, raising his arms. Calliande glimpsed a leather baldric over his bony chest, holding a sheathed sword against the back of his torso. Then the glimpse vanished as green fire burned to hot life in the eyes of the grim dwarven mask. Again Calliande felt the petrifying power wash out from Murzanar in a wave as the gorgon spirit exerted its will. Again her ward strained and shivered under the pressure, but her magic held.

“How?” snarled the gorgon spirit. “How do you resist my power? All mortal flesh is mine to reshape as I like!” The blazing green eyes turned towards Calliande. “You! You bring magic and defiance into the realm of the King of Khald Azalar. Perish for your impudence!”

Murzanar leapt from the dais and raced towards her, moving with inhuman, terrible speed.

###

Ridmark was ready for the gorgon spirit’s attack.

As the ancient manetaur sprinted for Calliande, Ridmark spun, his staff gripped in both hands. He did not move very fast, but he didn’t need too. He had carefully positioned himself as Curzonar and Murzanar argued, anticipating that the gorgon spirit might try to attack Calliande. Now his foresight paid off. His staff slammed into the manetaur’s front right leg, and the crack of the impact echoed through the stone hall. The force almost ripped the staff from Ridmark’s hands, but he spun with the motion and turned, coming out of his spin to bring his staff down upon the manetaur’s rear right leg.

Murzanar stumbled with a cry of pain.

Curzonar charged into the fray, his axes in either hand, moving so fast he seemed like a blur of crimson and gold. The manetaur Prince’s jaws yawned wide, and he loosed a roar like thunder. He brought both of his axes hammering down in a blow that should have taken Murzanar’s head off his shoulders and opened his ribcage like a book.

But the massive axes rebounded from the withered manetaur’s patchy hide as if it had been made of steel.

Curzonar stumbled with a catlike yowl of frustration, and Ridmark whirled, bringing his staff up for another blow. His staff had been wielded by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain for decades, perhaps centuries, and so much powerful magic had flowed through the staff that its nature had changed. It could wound creatures of magic, like the urvaalgs and the ursaars. Curzonar’s axes were deadly weapons, but they were not magical.

Apparently the gorgon spirit was powerful enough to protect its host from weapons of mere steel.

Murzanar punched, and his fist struck Curzonar’s armored chest with a clang. Murzanar’s arm was like a stick draped in patchy fur, but he struck Curzonar with enough force to throw the bigger manetaur into the air. Curzonar tumbled back a dozen paces and managed to land on his feet.

Ridmark swung at Murzanar, and the manetaur danced aside, his legs crackling and writhing as the gorgon spirit repaired the broken bones. Murzanar turned and lashed at him with a clawed hand, and Ridmark dodged, striking back with the staff. He drove the end of his staff at Murzanar’s sunken chest. Murzanar growled and seized the staff with both hands, yanking Ridmark forward. He let himself get pulled from his feet, twisting the staff as he did, and his weight and his momentum jerked the weapon from Murzanar’s hands. Ridmark hit the floor and spun, bringing the staff down onto Murzanar’s right front leg. Once again the bone cracked, and Murzanar jerked back. Ridmark rolled to his feet as Curzonar stalked forward, axes ready in his fists.

“Your weapon?” growled Curzonar. “It can wound him?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Long story. We live through this, I’ll tell you.”

Curzonar jerked his head to the side as Murzanar backed away, his masked helm twitching back and forth between them. Ridmark saw the strategy at once. Curzonar would attack, holding Murzanar’s full attention. While he did that, Ridmark would strike, hopefully landing crippling blows with his staff.

But Murzanar and the gorgon spirit saw through the plan.

Murzanar thrust out a hand, the gorgon spirit rumbling words in the dwarven language.

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande. “It’s…”

The ground at Murzanar’s feet folded and rippled, as it did in Morigna’s spells, and the rippling wave rolled towards Ridmark. He took his best guess at a defense and fell before the wave reached him, rolling towards Murzanar. The floor heaved and then rose beneath him, the sensation disturbingly like a ship rolling upon the waves. Curzonar had never seen such an attack before, and it caught him flat-footed. Perhaps his two additional legs made him more vulnerable to losing his balance. He stumbled and fell, his armor clattering.

Ridmark kept rolling and came to one knee just as Murzanar loomed over him for the kill. He drove the end of his staff into the Murzanar's belly, and the manetaur’s breath exploded from his lungs. Ridmark used Murzanar’s hesitation to get to his feet and went on a rapid attack, landing hits on Murzanar’s chest and arms and forelegs. The manetaur retreated, trying to block Ridmark’s strikes, at least until Ridmark broke his right arm in two places. Ridmark would not be able to keep up this rate of attack for long, though. Already he felt his breath racing, sweat dripping down his face. His momentum was going to play out, and then the gorgon spirit would heal Murzanar’s wounds and strike back. He hoped to disable Murzanar long enough to take off his head with a blow of the dwarven axe. Yet Murzanar kept retreating, though Ridmark had already given him a beating that would have killed a dozen men.

Then a blow from Ridmark’s staff clipped the side of Murzanar’s helmet. The manetaur reacted out of all proportion to the glancing blow, and the gorgon spirit loosed a howling scream of fury. The glyphs upon the helmet’s crown pulsed and flashed, and the symbols of green fire on the dais and the central plinth flickered.

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande. He saw her standing wrapped in the white fire of her magic. Curzonar wobbled to his feet before her, growling and shaking. “Get the helmet off of him! That’s the link! Get the helmet off…”

Ridmark swung for the helmet covering Murzanar’s head. Again his staff struck the helmet with a ringing clang, and Murzanar stumbled back. Ridmark struck once more, but this time Murzanar dodged, avoiding the sweep of the staff. Ridmark’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get the helmet off of Murzanar’s head. Grappling with the manetaur would be suicide. Perhaps he could hook the end of the staff under the helmet and knock it off. Or if he damaged Murzanar enough, he could draw his dwarven axe and take off the manetaur’s head entirely. He disliked the thought of killing the tormented, enslaved manetaur, but Murzanar himself would likely have welcomed death decades ago.

Murzanar jumped backwards with a crackling of tormented bones and strained muscles. The manetaur soared through the air and struck one of the pillars, hanging thirty feet off the wall like a giant, ragged spider. Ridmark wondered how Murzanar had accomplished that. Likely the gorgon spirit gave him such power over stone that the manetaur could cling to the pillar with ease.

The masked helm turned to the south, looking through the Vault’s opened doors.

“Intruders!” roared the gorgon spirit. “Orcs! Trolls! Intruders upon the King’s dominions! This cannot be tolerated. They shall perish! Perish!”

Murzanar flung himself from the pillar, hurtling towards the floor.

Both Curzonar and Calliande shouted warnings, and Ridmark took a hasty step back, but that proved to be unnecessary. Murzanar struck the floor and sank into it like a man diving into deep waters. He vanished an instant later, the last strands of his ragged mane disappearing into the floor.

“What trickery is this?” said Curzonar, his head whipping back and forth.

“Not trickery,” said Calliande. “The gorgon spirit has mastery over stone, and it must give Murzanar the power to move through stone as easily as air. Something else must have caught the spirit’s attention. Maybe one of the Mhorite shamans started casting a spell, and the gorgon spirit decided that it was a greater threat.”

She lowered her hands and sighed, the pale white light of her ward winking out.

“The gorgon spirit has fled from us?” said Curzonar.

“It appears so,” said Calliande. “Or it simply forgot about us. Murzanar…I suspect his sanity failed long ago, and the gorgon spirit likely does not think in terms that mortals like you and I can understand. I cannot say why it decided to pursue other intruders, only that it did.”

“What will we do now, then?” said Curzonar.

That was a very good question, and Ridmark had no idea how to answer it.

Chapter 15: Children of Mhor

The next morning Gavin awoke to the sound of an argument.

He was not surprised.

Pale gray light brushed his eyes, the sharp smell of pine sap filling his nostrils. It was not quite dawn, the sky still mostly dark, countless stars gleaming in the darkness, the moons shining like pale, multicolored coins. Gavin grunted and rubbed at his neck, feeling the ache in his muscles. He had gone to sleep sitting against the wall of the ruined tower, still clad in his armor, Truthseeker resting across his lap in its scabbard. Dark elven steel was lighter than normal plate, but his shoulders still ached from sleeping in armor. Given the dangers they faced, going to sleep with his armor on and his sword upon his lap seemed wise.

“We should keep to the plan,” said Arandar. His voice was faint.  Gavin realized he was talking to someone on the other side of the tower.

“Ridmark did not anticipate that there would be two armies between us and the Gate of the West,” said Morigna. “Three, if one includes the trolls.”

“It will be easier for him to find us than for us to find him,” said Arandar. “Especially if we make for the Gate of the West and wait there.”

Gavin sighed, started to stand up, and flinched. A dark shadow stood motionless next to him. He reached for Truthseeker, and then his eyes cleared. Antenora stood next to him, hood drawn over her gaunt face, her eyes glinting like chips of yellow crystal in the shadows of her face.

“Gavin Swordbearer,” she said in her thin, raspy voice. “Good morning.”

“How long were you standing there?” said Gavin, blinking.

She thought for a moment. “About six hours.”

“Don’t you need to sleep?” said Gavin, looking around the tower. Mara stood at watch atop the broken wall, gazing over the forest. Jager, Caius, Kharlacht, Azakhun, and his four retainers lay sleeping upon the ground. Morigna and Arandar stood in a corner, speaking in low voices.

“No,” said Antenora. “I don’t need it. Or, rather, I can’t. I haven’t slept since I betrayed the Keeper. From time to time I must rest, to recover my powers, but I cannot sleep.”

She hadn’t slept in fifteen centuries? Little wonder she looked so haggard. At first he was a little disturbed at the thought of her standing over him for six hours, and then realized she was likely guarding the archway.

“That will come in handy,” said Gavin, getting to his feet with a grunt, “if you stay with us. You can keep watch all night, and then start the campfire in the morning with a wave of your hand.”

“The wave is an affectation,” said Antenora. “The true effort involved is in assembling a mental construct to summon elemental force in necessary quantities to…oh.” The yellow eyes blinked. “That was a joke.”

“Not a very good one,” said Gavin.

She stared at him for a moment, and then let out a rasping little giggle. It was…a disturbing sound, really, but so incongruous from the grim sorceress that Gavin laughed too.

Both Arandar and Morigna stopped talking long enough to glare at them, and then went back to arguing.

“Forgive me,” said Antenora. “I…do not often hear jokes.”

“Did they not have jokes upon Old Earth?” said Gavin.

“They did,” said Antenora. “But I stayed away from people, save to defend them from dark magic when necessary.” A black-gloved hand gestured at her scarred, gaunt face. “My appearance, as you can imagine, sometimes inspired violent reactions.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gavin.

Her slim shoulders twitched a bit beneath the heavy black coat. “I deserve worse. Why are those two arguing?”

Gavin lowered his voice. “They do not like each other.”

“Why not?”

“He is a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade and a knight of the realm of Andomhaim,” said Gavin. “She is a sorceress. In the High King’s realm, the only magic allowed by the High King’s law is that of the Order of the Magistri and the soulblades of the Swordbearers. And the Keeper’s magic now, I suppose, once Calliande returns.” He shrugged. “Within Andomhaim, Arandar would be within his rights to arrest Morigna and bring her to the Magistri, or to kill her if she refused.”

“And you do not agree?” said Antenora. She tilted her head to the side. “You do not like her, but you do not agree?”

Gavin shrugged. “I…we have gone into great danger together. She has always kept faith with us.”

“She reeks of dark magic,” said Antenora.

Gavin blinked. “You noticed that?”

“I saw it within her,” said Antenora.

“You…have the Sight, then?” said Gavin, remembering one of the strange powers Mara had acquired after her confrontation with the Artificer.

“Of course,” said Antenora. “I was the Keeper’s apprentice, was I not? Though I do not possess it to any great degree.”

“But enough,” said Gavin, “to see the darkness within Morigna.”

“It is recent, I think,” said Antenora. “I noticed it when I first saw her in the threshold, and it has grown since.”

“She broke one of the Warden’s spells to save our lives,” said Gavin. “I think she pulled some of the dark magic into her. She’s been using it since in emergencies.”

“She should not,” said Antenora. “That kind of power is quite corruptive.” Her thin lips twisted in a scowl. “Do I not know it well? If she uses too much of it, it will start to alter her judgment and even corrupt her the way some of Traveler’s beasts have been corrupted. Then there is no telling what might happen.”

“What will you do?” said Gavin, alarmed. If Antenora decided that Morigna was a threat to the Keeper, there was no telling what the ancient sorceress might decide to do.

“I?” said Antenora, surprised. “I shall do nothing. It is not my place to sit in judgment. If she uses dark magic against me, I shall fight back, but otherwise…no, such a matter is for the Keeper to judge, not me.” She looked at him. “But you are a Swordbearer, are you not? Why do you not act?”

“I…” Gavin hesitated. Why did he not act? “Because we have faced terrible foes together and survived. Because she has kept faith with us. Because…I am not wise enough for such a judgment. I have not been a Swordbearer for very long. Only a few weeks.”

“Who were you?” said Antenora. “Before you became a Swordbearer?”

“The son of the praefectus,” said Gavin, “of a small village called Aranaeus, a long ways south of here. My father was the priest of a vile spider-demon called an urdmordar, and most of the village worshipped her. He repented at the end, and died saving my life from the urdmordar.” A flicker of regret went through him. If Gavin had carried Truthseeker back then, could he have slain Agrimnalazur? Could he have saved some of those who had perished?

“Ah,” said Antenora. “The village lad who became a knight.”

Gavin snorted.

“No, I do not mock,” said Antenora. “It is a story, perhaps, but a good one. I have seen many fighting men over the centuries, Gavin Swordbearer, and you fight well. And few of those fighting men have saved my life.”

“Who were you before you became…” Gavin groped for a delicate word and gave up. “Who you are now.”

She was silent for so long that he thought she would not answer.

“I do not entirely remember,” said Antenora. “I was a nobleman’s daughter, I remember that much. I was rich and pretty and spoiled and vain. The power of the Keeper…I thought it was mine by birthright. Little wonder Mordred seduced me so easily. I was a young fool, and worse, I was a young fool with power.” She shifted her grip on the black staff. “Be grateful that you come from humble origins, Gavin Swordbearer. Perhaps it saved you from making many of my mistakes.”

“How old were you?” said Gavin.

“Eighteen, I think,” she said. “Such a long time ago. But that foolish child died centuries past. All that remains of her is this. A ruin that was once a mortal girl, a ruin that awaits only the forgiveness of the Keeper so it may at last crumble into the peace of oblivion.” She gestured at herself, and then her yellow eyes turned back to Morigna. “The man who leads you, this Gray Knight. Morigna is his lover, yes?”

Gavin blinked. “How did you know?”

“How she speaks,” said Antenora. “How she stands. Do you not see the fear in her? Here, you see, is a young woman who has fallen utterly in love. Her heart is now possessed by another. The Gray Knight holds it in his fist. If he asked it of her, she would fall upon a sword, and die with his name upon her lips. I have seen it many times. I was such a young woman, once.” Her voice was distant, as if she strained to remember something long-forgotten. “It made me a fool. I wonder if it will make her a fool. This Gray Knight of yours must be a remarkable man. I hope he is a worthy one.”

“He is,” said Gavin without hesitation. “He saved my life. He has saved all our lives. He should be a Swordbearer, not me.”

“And yet,” said Antenora, “your great hero takes a woman who wields dark magic as his lover.”

Gavin frowned. “No one is perfect.”

“Indeed not,” said Antenora.

Gavin pointed at her. “He also saved the Keeper’s life. On the day she awoke from her sleep, before she had recovered any of her powers. She would have perished, if not for him, and then you would never have found your forgiveness. You should think on that.”

“You are very loyal, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora. “May I offer counsel?”

“If you must,” said Gavin, trying to keep his voice polite. He expect her to warn him about Morigna, or to say something about Ridmark.

“You should intervene,” she said, gesturing at Arandar and Morigna. Both of them had become visibly angry while Gavin had been talking with Antenora. “The knight and the sorceress are about to come to blows. I do not presume to judge, but I do not think that the Keeper would wish her followers to kill each other.”

She was right.

Gavin took a deep breath and walked across the tower, stepping around the sleeping forms of the others. Arandar’s hand kept jerking towards Heartwarden’s hilt, while Morigna’s fingers tightened against the carved length of her staff.

“Were you not listening?” said Arandar. “I have explained my reasons. Our best chance is to reach the Gate of the West and wait for Ridmark there.”

“That assumes we can even get to the Gate of the West,” said Morigna, pointing at him. “There are too many orcish warriors loose in the forest! That we have gotten this far without getting killed or captured is nothing short of astonishing. How much better do you think our odds will be if we press onward? Especially since the Traveler and Mournacht are both making for the Gate.”

“For all we know Ridmark and Calliande are there already,” said Arandar. “If we start wandering about in circles looking for them, God only knows how many more Mhorites and Anathgrimm we shall have to fight.”

The others were waking up now, watching the argument.

“I know where they went,” said Morigna.

“You think you know where they went,” said Arandar.

“You do?” said Jager, blinking as he stood up. “How?”

“I was out scouting,” said Morigna. “Three miles north of here, I spotted a pair of tracks. A man and a woman, I think, traveling together. They were headed north, towards the lake.”

“North?” said Kharlacht with a grunt. “Why would they go north?”

“My question exactly,” said Arandar. “There’s nothing at the lake.”

“As far as you know,” said Morigna. “Caius! Is there anything in the north of the Vale?”

“Other than the lake, you mean?” said Caius. “I do not know, I fear. When I last visited Khald Azalar, I came through the High Pass and took the road directly to the Gate of the West. I saw very little of the Vale.”

“We were forced to retreat in that direction briefly,” said Azakhun. The others looked at him. “There were some ruins there, but little else.”

“Statues,” said Antenora in her quiet voice.

“Statues?” said Morigna.

“Many, many statues,” said Antenora. “I emerged from the threshold not far from the lake. There are quite a few statues clustered there, and more along a path leading into the mountains along the lake’s northwestern shore. I heard you speak of some beast that could turn flesh to stone, yes?”

“The gorgon spirit,” said Caius.

“I did not encounter the creature,” said Antenora, “and soon came under attack from the trolls in any event. But from the large number of statues there, I suspect that the gorgon spirit makes its lair near the lake, perhaps in a cave or a ruin.”

“All the better reason to stay away from it, then,” said Arandar.

“Ridmark would not go to the lake unless he had a good reason,” said Morigna. “He may require our help.”

“You have no way of knowing if those tracks actually came from Ridmark and the Magistria,” said Arandar. “And you also saw the tracks of a large cat following them.”

“A cat?” said Gavin, thinking of the cats the innkeeper of Aranaeus had kept to keep rats at bay.

Morigna gave him a scornful look. “Something the size of a lion.”

Kharlacht grunted. “I have not heard of lions in the mountains of Vhaluusk. Perhaps one wandered here and began stalking them.”

“In which case, they will need further help,” said Morigna.

“I suspect that the Gray Knight will prove capable of dealing with one stray lion,” said Kharlacht. Morigna answered that with an irritated glare. Perhaps she expected Kharlacht to agree with her.

“The Gray Knight told us to meet him at the Gate of the West,” said Arandar.

“When he knew nothing of the conditions here!” said Morigna, exasperated. “If he had done so, he might not have told us to make for the Gate of the West. Likely he would have tried to find another way into Khald Azalar, perhaps even the Gate of the East on the other side of the Vhaluuskan mountains.”

“He might have,” said Arandar, “but we don’t know for sure. This discussion is futile.” He shook his head. “We can wander in circles looking for Ridmark, or we can make for the Gate of the West and wait for him and Calliande. We should break camp and leave at once…”

“And by what right to do you presume to command us?” said Morigna. “Because you carry Heartwarden, a blade that does not rightfully belong to you?”

Arandar’s eyes narrowed, but his tone remained calm. “Heartwarden does not belong to me, nor to Ridmark, or to anyone else. Nor does Truthseeker belong to Tarrabus Carhaine or Judicaeus Carhaine or even Gavin. The soulblades belong to the Order, to defend the realm from the powers of dark magic. We only hold them in trust for this responsibility.”

“Or do you command us by virtue of your blood?” said Morigna. “Such as it is. The High King’s bastard? Do you expect us to bow and scrape at your every word, no matter how foolish?”

Gavin stifled a wince. Arandar was almost always levelheaded, but the topic of his father was a sore point. The High King had never acknowledged Arandar, and he had risen in the world upon his own courage, from man-at-arms to knight to Swordbearer. The High King had done his bastard son no favors…which had to sting, given that Arandar’s own children were in danger from Tarrabus Carhaine. Uthanaric Pendragon had done nothing to help them, either.

“Have you seen war, Morigna of Moraime?” said Arandar, his voice hard. “I have. Have you led men into battle, knowing that no matter what choice you made, no matter how complete your victory that some of them would die, that you would have to carry the news to their widows and orphans? I have done all this, and I have made decisions when I know that every choice might lead to disaster. Our best choice is to go to the Gate of the West.”

“Perhaps if you had led those men better,” said Morigna, “you would not have created so many widows and orphans.”

Arandar went very, very still.

“Sir Arandar,” said Caius.

“No,” said Arandar. “Maybe she is right. A captain must make decisions in battle with his reason, rather than allowing emotion to cloud his vision.” He pointed at Morigna again. “As you are.”

“What nonsense is this?” said Morigna.

“You are allowing your regard for the Gray Knight to affect your judgment,” said Arandar. “You know we cannot find him. You know as well as I do we need to make for the Gate of the West. Yet you are acting like a lovelorn maiden rushing off into the woods! Do you think Ridmark is running in circles trying to find you? No. He is going to the Gate of the West.” His voice grew harder, colder. “You might have seduced him in a moment of weakness, one he will certainly regret, but he will not let folly twist his decisions as you have.”

Morigna said nothing, but Gavin saw a pulse of pale purple flame in the sigils of her staff, and Antenora took a deep breath, flexing the fingers of her free hand.

“Especially since your judgment might be corrupted by dark magic,” said Arandar.

Morigna snarled. “Is that how it is to be, Swordbearer? The righteous knight against the dark witch?”

“I saw you using dark magic,” said Arandar.

Azakhun and his retainers looked at her.

“I only have that dark magic,” said Morigna, “because I took it when I freed you from the Warden’s trap in Urd Morlemoch. Would you rather I have left you there to rot, Swordbearer? I am beginning to think that would have been the course of wisdom.”

“What is done is done,” said Arandar. “It is what you might do that alarms me. You are wielding the same sort of magic that the Mhorites and the Traveler use.”

“And what concern of that is yours?” said Morigna.

“If we were in Andomhaim,” said Arandar, “then I would have you arrested and turned over to the Magistri without a moment’s hesitation.”

Morigna drew herself up, her tattered cloak hanging lose around her, her eyes blazing.

“Then,” she said, her voice soft and calm and quiet, “do you want to settle our differences right now, sir knight? For I am willing, if you…”

“Shut up!” said Gavin. “Both for you!” They looked at him. “For God’s sake! Are you trying to get us killed? Are you going to stand here bickering until you bring the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm down on our heads?”

“Do not presume to lecture me, boy,” said Morigna. “I…”

Antenora sighed. “The Keeper’s choice in companions, it seems, is perhaps questionable.”

“We need to decide what we’re doing, right now,” said Gavin. “All of us.”

“We should go to the Gate of the West and wait for Ridmark and the Keeper,” said Arandar.

“No,” said Morigna. “We shall go and find them.”

“Fine,” said Gavin. “We all know what you think. Kharlacht?”

Kharlacht frowned. “I believe Sir Arandar is correct. We should go to the Gate of the West and wait. If the Gray Knight and the Magistria do not arrive within two or three days, we should go in search of them.”

“Brother Caius?” said Gavin.

“I agree with Kharlacht,” said Caius.

“Jager?” said Gavin.

“We should move and continue bickering somewhere else,” said Jager, looking over his shoulder. Mara still stood perched upon the wall. As far as Gavin could tell, she had ignored the entire argument. “This is a heist, and only a fool lingers too long in one place during a heist.”

“Heist?” said Morigna. “What idiocy is this? We are not burgling some fat merchant’s strongbox.”

“No,” said Jager, “we’re not. We are burgling a magical artifact of incredible power from the fortified ruins of a dwarven kingdom surrounded by hostile armies. This is burglary on a scale even I, the Master Thief of Coldinium, never dared to conceive. But I still know a thing or two about it. We should move. After that…I am not a captain or a soldier. Both plans seem good to me. Perhaps Morigna could go in search of Ridmark while the rest of us go to the Gate.”

That wasn’t a bad idea, actually. At the very least it would keep Morigna and Arandar from killing each other.

“Taalmak?” said Gavin.

“I fear I must agree with Morigna,” said Azakhun. “The situation is too chaotic. It would be best to find the Gray Knight and the Magistria, withdraw from the Vale of Stone Death, and try to enter Khald Azalar another way. Perhaps if we circle over the Vhaluuskan mountains and use Khald Azalar’s Gate of the East.”

“Maybe Master Jager’s suggestion is best,” said Caius. “Morigna can go in search of Ridmark while we reach the Gate. Once she finds him and Calliande, they can head for the Gate of the West themselves.”

“We are more effective in battle as a group,” said Kharlacht.

“One hardly thinks two Swordbearers of such puissance require my assistance,” said Morigna.

Arandar frowned. “You might need ours. Especially if you run into a group of urvaalgs. Or if one of the Traveler’s urdhracosi takes an interest in you.”

“I can move stealthily enough,” said Morigna.

“Enough to avoid urvaalgs?” said Arandar. “Or trolls, for that matter? If we are attacked by trolls, we might need your acidic mist to put them down.”

“You shall not,” said Morigna. “Antenora’s fire will be far more effective.”

Arandar blinked. “That’s right, isn’t it?” He turned and bowed to Antenora. “Forgive me for neglecting your counsel.”

“I am easily forgettable,” said Antenora, a dry note in her worn voice.

“What do you suggest we do?” said Arandar. “If you are as old as you claim, you have seen more conflict and battle that all the rest of us put together.”

“More battles than you can imagine, I fear,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes flashing, “and fought with weapons of war that could turn this Vale to poisoned ashes.” Gavin remembered the Warden’s visions and shuddered. “But the principles of battle remain the same, though the weapons may change. I am going to find the Keeper, regardless of what the rest of you choose to do. To find the Keeper, it seems best to wait for her at the Gate of the West for her. If she is like the Keeper I knew, she will find her path, though hell should bar the way.”

Caius chuckled. “You may not have met Calliande, but it seems you understand her already.”

Morigna scowled.

“But,” said Antenora, “the sorceress has a point. Mischance rules us all. Some evil fortune might have befallen your Gray Knight and the Keeper. The sorceress should go in search of the Gray Knight and the Keeper while the rest of us follow the knight to the Gate.” She shrugged. “That is my counsel. The rest of you may do as you wish. But if you continue this useless squabbling, then I shall find the Keeper alone.”

“A compromise, then,” said Morigna. “One that satisfies no one, so it must be reasonable. What do you say then, Swordbearer?”

Arandar started to speak, and then blue fire swirled before him, solidifying into Mara. She had her short sword in hand, the blue dark elven armor covering her thin form, and for an absurd instant Gavin thought she had decided to assassinate the Swordbearer. Her face was cold and hard, and…

No. She had seen something.

“You’ve had enough time to argue,” said Mara. “We have to go. A group of thirty Mhorites are headed right for us, and there are more behind them.”

Chapter 16: A Hard Bargain

Gavin moved in haste, affixing his battered shield to his left arm and drawing Truthseeker with his right. The soulblade gave off a pale, shimmering light, with none of the rage it showed in the presence of dark magic. That was good. The Mhorites had brought no shamans with them.

Or the shamans were far enough away that the soulblade had not yet sensed their presence.

“Are they coming for us?” said Arandar. Around him the camp dissolved into chaos as Azakhun’s dwarves donned their armor and Kharlacht and Caius and Jager readied their weapons. Mara disappeared again, no doubt to watch the progress of the advancing Mhorites. Morigna cast a spell, and Gavin glimpsed the flap of dark wings overhead.

He felt a stab of annoyance. Perhaps if she had sent her ravens to watch instead of picking a fight with Arandar, the Mhorites would not have taken them unawares. On the other hand, perhaps Gavin should have been keeping watch instead of observing the argument.

Mara reappeared next to Arandar. “They aren’t. Else they would have brought more warriors. I think their scouts saw this tower and Mournacht decided to seize it as a strong point.”

Arandar scowled. “That means the Traveler must be moving his host as well.”

“Splendid,” said Jager. “Perhaps they’ll slaughter each other and leave us in peace.”

“We should be so fortunate,” said Arandar. He turned to Antenora. “Will you fight alongside us?”

“These Mhorites,” said Antenora. “What are they, exactly?”

“Warriors of the orcish kindred,” said Arandar. “They worship Mhor, one of the old blood gods of the ancient orcs. Mhor delights in slaughter and carnage, and the Mhorite orcs kill in his name. Their shamans are frequently dark wizards of considerable power.”

“The Keeper has faced them before, too,” said Gavin. “We think one of the Keeper’s enemies sent the Mhorites to kill or capture her.”

“Very well,” said Antenora. “I shall do what I can against them.”

“Enough talk,” said Mara. “Sir Arandar, I strongly suggest that we leave right now.”

“From what direction are the Mhorites approaching?” said Arandar.

“From the south,” said Mara.

“We should head east,” said Morigna. “The Anathgrimm were to the southwest when we last met. If they march to counter the Mhorites, we can be well away before the battle starts.”

“Very well,” said Arandar, pulling on his heavy helm. “Let us depart.”

They walked through the archway. Gavin and Arandar took the front, soulblades in hand. Kharlacht and Caius followed, and then Mara and Jager. Morigna and Antenora came after, both women carrying their staffs, and Azakhun and his retainers brought up the back. The five dwarves still had their bronze-colored armor of dwarven steel, though the Anathgrimm had taken their weapons. Fortunately, they had seized weapons in their rapid escape from the battle between the Traveler and the trolls, and now Azakhun and his men carried a mismatched assortment of swords, axes, and maces of orcish make. The Traveler, alas, had not seen fit to arm his soldiers with weapons of dark elven steel. Perhaps it was just as well. Gavin knew firsthand how well armor of dark elven steel held up to abuse, and he would not want to face foes armed with the same metal.

Truthseeker shivered in his hand, the soulstone in the sword’s blade shining a little brighter.

“Sir Arandar,” said Gavin.

“I know,” said Arandar. “A shaman is with them.”

They descended the steep hill and reached level ground, the pine forest stretching before them. Gavin saw dark shapes moving beneath the trees, heard the sound of harsh voices speaking the orcish tongue with Kothluuskan accents.

The Mhorite war party had arrived.

“Now!” shouted Arandar. “Strike quickly. Cut through them!”

Gavin nodded and drew on Truthseeker’s power, filling himself with strength and speed, and hurtled forward. The ground blurred beneath him, and he sprinted into the trees. Beneath the shadows of the pines he saw a dozen Mhorite warriors moving forward, their weapons in hand, the crimson scars of their stylized tattoos stark against the green skin of their faces. They were spread out loosely, and looked wary, but not alarmed.

That was about to change.

Gavin charged towards the Mhorite on the left, bringing up Truthseeker. The light from the sword’s fire fell across the Mhorite’s tusked face, and the orcish warrior snarled and raised a mace. Gavin dodged the mace, Truthseeker lending him speed, and struck. His sword ripped across the Mhorite’s right thigh, and the warrior stumbled. Gavin followed with a quick thrust, driving Truthseeker through leather and wool and into the Mhorite’s chest, and the warrior fell dying to the ground.

He had just ripped the blade free when another warrior came at him, screaming the name of Mhor. Gavin caught the slash of a sword upon his shield, his arm aching from the strike, and then another, and then another. The orc shifted to Gavin’s right, trying to move past Gavin’s guard, and Gavin turned to keep the shield between them. Another Mhorite ran to support Gavin’s foe, and his first attacker’s momentum played out as he stepped to the side to allow the second orc to strike.

Truthseeker’s magic filled him, and Gavin lunged forward, whipping the soulblade around in a blur of white fire. The first Mhorite got his sword up to block, and Truthseeker struck with a resounding clang. The impact wrenched the orc’s arm sideways, and Gavin hammered Truthseeker’s pommel into the Mhorite’s temple. The orc staggered with a bellow of fury, and Gavin wheeled to meet the second warrior’s attack. The Mhorite held a heavy axe, and at the last minute Gavin realized the weapon would tear through his shield like kindling. He threw himself back, and even with Truthseeker’s speed, the edge of the axe clipped his chest. The armor turned the sharp edge, but the weight of the strike knocked him back. The Mhorite raised the axe in both hands for another blow, his black eyes shining red with orcish battle fury, and Gavin ignored the pain and threw himself forward. His hasty slash tore a gash across the orc’s arm, and the blow that would have split Gavin’s skull in two went wild. Gavin dodged and brought Truthseeker around, the blade sinking a third of the way into the Mhorite’s throat. The orcish warrior went into a death dance, and Gavin yanked his sword free and turned as his first attacker rose, sword flying. He parried once, blocked on his shield, parried again, and then saw his opening. Truthseeker stabbed, sinking into the Mhorite’s heart, and Gavin retracted the soulblade, seeking for new enemies.

It always stunned him to realize how little time passed while he was fighting. The heat of combat felt like an eternity.

Arandar had crashed into the orcs like a storm, and four of them lay dead at his feet, Heartwarden shining in his fist. Kharlacht and Caius fought together in smooth unison as they usually did, Caius stunning orcs with blows from his mace, and Kharlacht’s greatsword taking limbs or even heads from the Mhorites. Jager and Mara hung back, keeping watch over the sorceresses, while Morigna cast spells, roots rising from the ground to entangle the Mhorites. Antenora did nothing, though her staff remained grasped in both hands, the sigils smoldering with fiery light. Gavin wondered why she did not bring her powers to bear, and then recalled the firestorms he had seen her conjure against the trolls. Perhaps she could not control her fire with a great deal of accuracy.

Nearby Azakhun and his retainers fought as a unit, moving with the smooth, economical efficiency of warriors who had trained together for a long time. Even with the inferior weapons of Kothluuskan steel, the dwarven warriors held their own. They chanted in the harsh dwarven tongue as they fought, here and there interspersed with a cry to the Dominus Christus and St. Michael. They formed a pillar of defense against the Mhorite orcs swarming through the woods, orcs that…

Gavin blinked as two more Mhorites ran at him, weapons raised.

Mara had counted a warband of thirty orcs, but Gavin was pretty sure he saw more than thirty.

The blast of a horn rang out, echoing through the trees. The nearest orc attacked, chopping his mace down for Gavin’s skull. Gavin got his shield up high, catching the blow, and stabbed with Truthseeker, plunging the sword into the orc’s belly. The Mhorite howled, and Gavin whirled to meet a second warrior’s attack. There was no time to get his shield up to block properly, so he didn’t even try, calling instead upon Truthseeker to grant him strength. He surged forward, slamming the shield before him. The Mhorite stumbled, and Gavin whipped Truthseeker around, driving the sword upon the crown of the warrior’s head. Green blood washed over the crimson skull tattoo, and the Mhorite fell dead at Gavin’s feet as he pulled his sword away.

Another blast of a war horn thundered through the trees, and another.

Gavin saw Mhorites running through the forest, dozens of them. Over the cry and din of battle he heard shouting voices and the tramp of heavy boots. With a surge of cold alarm he realized that the warband Mara had spotted had been just an advance guard. The entire Mhorite host was on the move.

And if Mournacht was moving his army, that meant that the Traveler would move to counter. Gavin and his friends were right in the middle. Had Mournacht and the Traveler been planning to fight over the ruined watch tower?

He shouted and threw himself into the fray, fighting alongside Azakhun and the dwarves. Arandar and Caius and Kharlacht fell back to the dwarves, and blue fire flickered around the edge of the fighting as Mara disappeared and reappeared. She tripped and stabbed and pushed orcs, and Jager darted past the dwarves to land killing blows. The ground rippled and heaved, throwing Mhorites from their feet, and thick clusters of roots burst from the earth to pull them down. Curtains of billowing white mist rolled over them, eating into their flesh with a sizzling hiss.

Yet still they kept coming. They were fighting the entire Mhorite host, and there was no way that Gavin and the others could prevail against so many. Already his arms and shoulders ached, and with a burst of surprise he felt blood trickling down his temple and onto his cheek. He could not even remember taking the hit. The sheer number of Mhorite warriors was pushing them back step by step. Worse, some of the orcish warriors were starting to flank them, circling behind the sorceresses and the dwarves. Morigna shifted her spells in that direction, throwing the Mhorites from their feet, but it would not hold them back for long.

Truthseeker shuddered in Gavin’s fist.

Another Mhorite orc appeared behind the warriors. This orc was thin and wasted, his ribs stark against the green skin of his chest, his arms and torso marked with elaborate ritualized scars. The sigils of his scars began to burn with crimson light, and the orc lifted his hands, his mouth moving as he spoke, red fire and shadow snarling around his fingers.

He pointed at Gavin.

Gavin called upon Truthseeker for protection, and the Mhorite shaman finished his spell. A lance of fire-wreathed shadow burst from the shaman’s hands just as a shell of white light appeared around Gavin. The spell slammed into him, Truthseeker vibrating in his hand, and the impact rocked him back several steps.

It also gave the Mhorite warriors an opening to charge.

Gavin barely got his shield up in time to deflect the first thrust. The blade bounced off the rim of his shield, which gave a second warrior a chance to stab. The sword struck his chest with terrific force, the point deflecting off his armor. The blows rocked him back on his heels, and before he could recover one of the Mhorites swung a mace at him. Gavin jerked back, and the blow that would have turned his skull to mush instead struck his chest.

That hurt. Quite a lot.

He heard something snap and realized that it was one of his ribs. Gavin forced up his shield arm despite the pain in his chest and deflected the next strike of the mace, Truthseeker’s magic giving him the strength to stand fast. He bellowed a wordless battle cry and went on the attack, drawing on his soulblade’s power for speed and strength. Even with the sword’s magic, the agony in his chest still slowed him. He killed one of the Mhorites, but the rest avoided his blows. Behind them he saw the shaman beginning another spell. Gavin did not think he could manage to protect himself from the shaman’s magic while holding off the warriors. Arandar and Kharlacht and Mara and the others were engaged, fighting for their own lives, and could not aid him.

Arandar had told him that in ancient times Swordbearers fell upon the field of battle so often that new Swordbearers were created upon the spot.

Perhaps that would be Gavin’s fate.

He set himself, preparing to charge into the Mhorites, and then a hot wind blew past him.

Antenora stepped past Morigna, her staff extended, the fiery sigils shining brighter. The hot wind was blowing towards her, into her. A small sphere of white light hovered an inch above the top of her staff, painfully bright against Gavin’s eyes. Then he realized that the sphere was actually made of white-hot fire.

The Mhorite shaman raised his hands, bloody fire burning around his fingers, and Antenora thrust her staff at him.

The sphere flew in a straight line from her staff and struck the shaman’s forehead. It burned through his skull like a droplet of molten metal through a sheet of paper, reducing the top half of his head to charred ruin. Gavin expected the sphere to dissipate, its energy spent, but it kept going and struck the earth behind the shaman.

The explosion came a half-second later.

A pillar of fire erupted from the ground with a thunderous roar, and a hot gale roared past Gavin, pine needles and dust rolling through the air. A dozen Mhorites died at once, incinerated in the inferno, and a dozen more ran wailing into the trees, the flames chewing into their flesh. The blast knocked a score of Mhorites to the ground, and the rest froze, staring in shock at the fire. Gavin was shocked himself. He had seen the explosion that Antenora had unleashed in the dwarven ruins near the Traveler’s camp, but standing so close to such a blast…

His combat experience and training overrode his shock, and Gavin charged with a yell, cutting down one of the Mhorites and wounding another before the rest fell back. A dozen pine trees burned, and the scent of smoke filled the air. The fires were spreading rapidly, pooling across the dry needles on the forest floor. All was chaos and blood and fire around him, but everywhere he looked, he saw Mhorites either fleeing the flames or advancing forward to kill him.

“Go!” shouted Arandar, his deep voice rolling over the battle. “Cut through them while we still can!”

Blue fire shivered next to him, and Mara appeared. “We can’t! There are too many of them, Sir Arandar. The entire Mhorite host is upon us.”

Arandar took his own look around the battlefield, his face hardening. “Then we fall back to the west, back towards the High Pass.”

“They’re too close,” said Mara. “They’ll run us down.” Already the blast of more horns rang through the burning trees, hoarse voices barking commands in the orcish tongue. The Mhorites were hunting for them, moving to cut off any route of retreat.

“The tower,” said Gavin. His voice sounded thick, his breath raspy, and he wondered how badly that mace strike had injured him.

“Fall back!” shouted Arandar. “Fall back to the tower!”

“They will surround us there,” said Morigna. “We must go!”

But there was no conviction to her words. She, too, could see the truth.

“The foe shall swarm us the minute we try to enter the tower,” said Kharlacht. “We may need a distraction.”

“Fear not, green warrior,” said Antenora, the sigils upon her staff beginning to burn again. “I shall provide the necessary distraction.”

“Green warrior?” said Kharlacht, nonplussed.

“Well,” said Caius, shaking blood from the head of his mace, “you are.”

“Go,” said Arandar.

The others started up the slope to the ruined tower. Both Caius and Kharlacht had been wounded, and Kharlacht was limping heavily. Arandar brought up the back, Heartwarden in hand.

“Sir Gavin,” he said.

“I’ll keep watch over her,” said Gavin. “We’ll join you shortly. Go!”

Arandar nodded and escorted the others to the tower.

“You shall guard me, then?” said Antenora, her yellow eyes upon the flames spreading through the forest.

“I don’t want an enemy to catch you if your strength is depleted,” said Gavin, remembering the fight with the trolls in the dwarven ruin. “It would be a cruel fate to have spent fifteen hundred years seeking for the Keeper only to die a few miles from her.”

Dozens of Mhorites moved cautiously through the trees.

“It would be no less than I deserve,” said Antenora, taking her staff in both hands.

Gavin looked back and forth. “You did save my life. I couldn’t have shielded myself from the shaman and fought off the warriors at the same time.”

“That?” said Antenora. Another ball of white flame shimmered to life atop her staff. The air rippled around it, the heat beating against Gavin’s face. Antenora was not even sweating. “I would have done it sooner, but it is difficult to gather that much fire at once. It is also difficult to focus and concentrate that much power. Heat follows its own rules of conduction, heedless of the power of magic.” The little sphere of fire grew, swelling to the size of Gavin’s fist. It was bigger than the one that had killed the shaman. “I imagine the Keeper would be annoyed if I accidentally burned all of you to death.”

“I would be, too,” said Gavin.

The Mhorites charged. They would cut down Gavin and Antenora with ease, and then swarm up the hill to storm the tower.

Antenora flicked her staff, almost as if she was shaking droplets of water from it.

The sphere of fire leapt through the air in a white arc and landed in the midst of the charging warriors.

The explosion must have killed at least twenty of the Mhorites, stripping the flesh from their bones and leaving only charred husks in their place. Another score were knocked from their feet by the blast, a gale of hot wind whipping over the hillside. Gavin braced himself against the wind, his eyes and face stinging. A few Mhorites were ahead of the blast, and charged at Antenora. Gavin ran to meet them, trying to ignore the pain in his chest, and caught a thrust on his shield. He twisted, Truthseeker’s point opening the throat of a Mhorite warrior. A sword got past Gavin’s guard, opening a wound upon his left arm. He growled and struck again, taking the hand from the Mhorite that had wounded him, and then stabbing the warrior through the chest.

A third Mhorite charged at Antenora. She wheeled and thrust her staff, and a gout of flame licked from the end, a cone three feet wide and twelve long. It did not burn with the furious intensity of her previous spells, but it hardly needed to do so. The Mhorite screamed in agony as his clothes and hair and skin went up in flame Gavin stepped closer to her. All around them the pine forest burned. He saw hundreds of Mhorite warriors moving beyond the edges of the fire, but for now, the flames kept them at bay.

“We need to go,” he said.

Antenora nodded, wobbled a little, and leaned upon her black staff. “Yes. A…a moment. That took more out of me than I thought.”

“It has to be now,” said Gavin, grabbing her elbow. Even after all the fire magic she had worked, she still felt icy cold through her heavy coat. He felt the eyes of the Mhorites upon him through the flames. Sooner or later one of the warriors would have the bright idea to use a bow. He didn’t know if Antenora had warding spells to repel an arrow, but standing out in the open was not the time to find out.

“Yes,” said Antenora again, and they hurried up the slope, through the archway, and into the ruined tower. Caius, Jager, Azakhun, and the others dwarves were already hard at work, piling some of the loose stones to form a barricade across the archway. Kharlacht leaned upon his greatsword while Arandar rested on one knee next to him, his left hand flaring with white light as he used Heartwarden’s power to heal Kharlacht’s leg. It wasn’t nearly as effective as Calliande’s powerful healing magic, but it would seal the wound and keep Kharlacht from bleeding to death. Gavin took a ragged, burning breath and drew on Truthseeker’s magic. The sword’s power began to heal the agony in his chest and the pain in his arms and legs, but slowly. Calliande said that healing magic always worked better when used upon another, and that also applied to the power of the soulblades.

He didn’t feel much better, but it was better than nothing.

“You are wounded,” said Antenora.

Gavin nodded. Now that the fighting was over, exhaustion crashed into him, and he wanted to sit down, close his eyes, and sleep for a week. That was not possible. They had killed a lot of Mhorites in the fighting, but there many more, and they would want vengeance.

As soon as the fire burned down, they would be back.

“I’ve been hurt worse,” said Gavin. He had taken bad wounds in the fighting at the Iron Tower, and he had nearly died in the frantic final moments of their escape from Urd Morlemoch.

“Ah,” said Antenora. “Your sword contains a healing aura. A most useful ability for a knight, I imagine.”

“Aye,” said Gavin, turning towards Arandar.

“We must be gone from here as quickly as possible,” said Kharlacht, limping a bit on his healed leg.

“It’s too late,” said Mara. “The Mhorites have already encircled the hill. I suspect they’re waiting for the fire to die out before storming the tower.”

“How many are out there?” said Arandar.

“At least five hundred,” said Mara. “More of them are moving through the forest. I think we’re right in the path of the entire Mhorite host.”

“Then we are doomed,” said Azakhun. The dwarven Taalmak accepted the news with his usual stoicism. “There is no way out, and we cannot fight our way free from this trap. It seems were are to die here. It is just as well we were baptized and can commend our souls to the hands of the Dominus Christus.”

“While I applaud your faith,” said Arandar, “we are not finished yet. The Mhorite army is moving west, not east.”

“Why is that significant?” said Azakhun.

“Because,” said Caius, “the Gate of the West is on the eastern edge of the Vale of Stone Death.”

“And Mournacht is here for the staff of the Keeper,” said Gavin. “If he’s going the wrong direction…then he’s marching to fight the Traveler.”

“I suspect as much,” said Arandar. “If we were able to scout further west, I think we would find the Traveler and the Anathgrimm marching to meet the Mhorites.”

“And here we are, stuck in the middle between them,” said Jager. “While I certainly have no objections to watching the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm pound each other to bloody pulp, I would prefer to watch from a much more comfortable seat. Or at least a more distant one.”

“We need only to hold out for a time,” said Arandar. “If the Anathgrimm attack, Mournacht and his followers will be busy. We can cut our way free, and hasten to the Gate of the West without fear of the Mhorites or the Anathgrimm.”

“No,” said Jager. “Though we’ll still have to worry about the trolls and the gorgon spirit.”

“Compared to being trapped between two opposing armies,” said Mara, “that is almost safety.”

Jager grunted. “Almost.”

Morigna sighed. “What other choice do we have? We must hold out.”

“If the sorceress and the knight are in agreement,” said Antenora, “then clearly the situation is dire.”

Arandar ignored the barb. “I don’t suppose you could simply blast a path through the Mhorites?”

“Possibly,” said Antenora. “However, there is a fair chance I would kill all of you in the process. The magic of fire is the only one left to me…and it is not the most controllable power, alas. Once it is summoned, it is most difficult to direct.”

“Better to use your powers against the Mhorites when they try to attack,” said Morigna. She looked at Arandar. “This tower is a strong place. If you and the others hold the Mhorites at the arch, Antenora and I can bring our spells to bear freely upon the slope.”

“Very well,” said Arandar. “We shall hold out until a better opportunity to escape presents itself.”

“It is not,” said Kharlacht, “as if we have any other choice.”

###

The day wore on.

Twice the Mhorites launched raids on the tower, but Gavin and the others were well prepared. Mara kept watch from the tower’s top, while the ravens Morigna summoned circled overhead. As the war parties of Mhorites charged up the slope, Morigna sent ripples through the ground, slowing the orcish warriors long enough for Antenora to unleash gouts of flame at them. True to her word, she did not have enough time to summon the sort of tremendous firestorms she had used earlier. Instead she sent snarling cones of flame through the archway, sweeping them back and forth over the stony ground. The Mhorites caught fire and fled, and the rest retreated, trying to avoid Antenora’s wrath.

Fire was a terrifying weapon. After the second raid, the Mhorites seemed content to watch the tower. Their host encircled the hill, thousands upon thousands of warriors. Mara’s original guess of ten thousand seemed accurate. If the Mhorites met the Anathgrimm, Gavin was not sure who would win. The Traveler wielded mighty magic, but the Traveler was a coward. The Anathgrimm were tough and fanatic fighters, but so were the Mhorites. Jager had been right. Gavin would not have minded watching the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm fight to death.

He just would have preferred to do so from a distance.

“Do your ravens see anything?” said Arandar.

“Quite a few Mhorites,” said Morigna, her eyes moving behind closed lids.

“Any sign of the Anathgrimm?” said Arandar.

Morigna made an irritated sound. “There are numerous trees in the way, sir knight, and ravens cannot see through branches. For that matter, they are frightened of the Anathgrimm, and I cannot compel them to go any closer.”

Antenora turned her head and gazed out the archway.

“Something’s coming,” said Mara from the top of the tower at the same instant.

“Another raid?” said Arandar.

“No,” murmured Antenora. “Some power of dark magic, such as I have not seen for centuries.”

Mara flickered into existence between Morigna and Arandar. “Something armored in dark magic and blood spells. A powerful wizard, I think.”

“The Traveler?” said Arandar.

“No,” said Mara. “I would recognize him at once. This is someone else.”

“Mournacht,” said Gavin.

“Or Shadowbearer,” said Jager, “if he is indeed commanding Mournacht.”

“I doubt it,” said Kharlacht. “Shadowbearer does not like to show himself openly.”

“We may have a problem,” said Morigna. “I cannot ward away Mournacht’s magic, and I doubt Antenora can, either.”

“No,” murmured Antenora. “He is stronger than I am. I can see it.”

Arandar started to say something else, and then a harsh voice rang out from the forest.

“Come forth!” snarled the voice in Kothluuskan-accented Latin. “Come forth! Mournacht, the Chosen of Mhor and the Warlord of Kothluusk, demands that the Gray Knight come forth for parley. Do not cower, Gray Knight! Your safety is guaranteed by the Chosen of Mhor until you return to your ruined tower.”

“The Gray Knight?” said Antenora. “This Mhorite shaman has a grudge against the Gray Knight?”

“And me, too, likely,” said Morigna, “if he remembers that I threw the rats in his face at Tarrabus Carhaine’s domus.”

“Rats?” said Antenora.

“Long story,” said Gavin.

“The Mhorites we fought earlier sought Ridmark,” said Mara. “Mournacht might be here for the staff of the Keeper, but I doubt he would hesitate to settle a grudge along the way.”

“We can be confident that the Gray Knight and the Magistria have eluded Mournacht so far,” said Arandar. “Else Mournacht would not be asking after Ridmark.”

“Now we need only worry that they have been taken by the Anathgrimm or the gorgon spirit or the trolls,” said Morigna.

“Optimistic as ever,” said Arandar. “I shall go out and parley with him.”

“I will come with you,” said Morigna.

“No,” said Arandar. She started to bristle, but Arandar kept talking. “He has never seen me, and if he blames you for the rats as you said, that might enrage him enough to attack on the spot. Additionally, if he does attack, you and Antenora can use your spells to cover my retreat.”

“I will go with you,” said Gavin. “Someone needs to watch your back.”

“How is your side?” said Arandar.

“Better,” said Gavin. That was true, mostly. “If Mournacht does decide to kill us, you and I have the best chance of fighting our way clear. Especially if Morigna and Antenora can distract them.”

“Very well,” said Arandar, drawing Heartwarden. The soulstone in the blade pulsed a little brighter than usual in response to the dark magic around Mournacht. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

Gavin nodded and drew Truthseeker, the soulblade thrumming. They climbed over the barricade and started down the slope. Gavin took care to keep his balance on the rocky hillside, picking his steps carefully. He felt the eyes of hundreds of Mhorites at the base of the hill, the warriors holding swords and spears and axes. A veil of smoke rose from the trees Antenora’s magic had burned, and through the haze Gavin glimpsed more Mhorite warriors.

Far more than they could ever hope to defeat.

He swallowed and tried to keep the fear from his face, tried to keep his face stern and hard as Arandar did.

A dozen Mhorite shamans waited at the base of the hill, gaunt and wasted, their black eyes glittering with fevered madness, sigils of blood-colored light written upon their flesh. In their midst stood a huge orcish man, nearly seven and a half 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 Gavin, the thick blades as wide across as his shoulders. More symbols of bloody fire shone upon the blades, and even without drawing upon Truthseeker’s power, Gavin felt the dark magic surrounding the huge orcish shaman.

Had Mournacht been that strong at Vulmhosk and Coldinium? If Shadowbearer had indeed recruited him, perhaps he had strengthened the Mhorite shaman.

“We have come,” said Arandar, “in response to the renegade Mournacht’s request for parley.”

Mournacht growled. “I am the Chosen of Mhor and the Warlord of Kothluusk. You should speak more gently to me, Swordbearer.”

“Would it bruise your feelings if I did otherwise?” said Arandar, cold and commanding.

“I summoned the Gray Knight,” said Mournacht. “You are not the Gray Knight. I do not know you.” His eyes, hard and black and glimmering with the crimson light of orcish battle fury, turned to Gavin. “You, I know. One of the dogs running after the Gray Knight’s footsteps.”

“Woof,” Gavin said, something defiant flaring within him.

Arandar blinked and let out a quiet laugh.

“Enjoy your japes while you can, dog,” said Mournacht. “The time for jokes shall soon pass.” The black eyes turned back to Arandar. “Who are you?”

“I am Sir Arandar of Tarlion, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade and a knight of the High King’s court,” said Arandar.

“Ah,” rumbled Mournacht. “I know your name. You slew the shaman Qazamhor in the foothills of Kothluusk ten years past, when he thought to make himself Warlord of Kothluusk and turn Durandis to ashes.”

Gavin had never heard that story. But Arandar was not the sort of man to boast.

“Is that why you are here, then?” said Arandar. “To avenge Qazamhor’s death? Your filial piety to your elders is touching.”

“Qazamhor was a fool and deserved his fate,” said Mournacht. “He thought to use the blood moons to make himself the Chosen of Mhor. He was wrong, for I am the Chosen of Mhor, and I shall bathe all the world in blood as a sacrifice to his name!”

The shamans around him snarled their agreement.

“The world is a large place,” said Arandar. “Just how shall you accomplish this?”

“You already know, Sir Arandar,” said Mournacht. “A great power has awakened beneath the mountains, the staff once wielded by the Keeper of Andomhaim. I shall claim that power for myself, and with it I shall sacrifice this world to Mhor.”

“The Traveler might disagree with you,” said Arandar.

“The Traveler!” snarled Mournacht, the crimson glare in his eyes brightening. “The cringing shadow of the Nightmane Forest? He is a relic of the past. The world belonged the dark elves until their folly summoned the urdmordar and brought ruin down upon their heads. Now the future belongs to the sons of Mhor. I shall sweep the Traveler and his pets from my path and trample them beneath my boots. When I do, I shall claim the staff of the Keeper for myself, and all the world shall bow before Mhor.”

“A splendid plan,” said Arandar. “Though I wonder why the great champion of Mhor wastes his valuable time speaking with us.”

Mournacht smiled. It made his scarred face look even more frightening. “Because I have business to settle with the Gray Knight. I know that he and the woman who was the Keeper are with you.”

“Are you so sure of that?” said Arandar. “Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“My scouts have seen the Gray Knight,” said Mournacht. “They have also seen his companions. The ragged sorceress. The impudent halfling rat. The Vhaluuskan orc and the dwarf who worships the pathetic sheep-god of the humans. I know you have taken shelter in the tower.”

“Well,” said Arandar, “I shall pass on your regards. I am sure the Gray Knight will appreciate them.”

“No,” said Mournacht. “The Gray Knight and the Keeper shall surrender themselves to me.”

“And why should they do that?” said Arandar.

Mournacht’s ghastly smile widened. “Because they are fools. Because they care for the lives of others.”

“How shall that induce them to surrender themselves to you?” said Arandar.

“Because if they do not,” said Mournacht, “I shall take the tower by storm. The Keeper’s powers are crippled, and the ragged sorceress is not strong enough to stop me. I shall kill the Gray Knight’s dogs in front of him one by one. I will take the Keeper and the sorceress and hand them over to my warriors for their amusement. I shall cook the halfling on a spit and feast upon his flesh. I will crucify the Vhaluuskan and the dwarf in imitation of their precious god. Any other pets the Gray Knight has acquired I shall treat in the same way. But if the Gray Knight and the Magistria surrender themselves to me, I shall let the rest of you go.”

“Of course you will,” said Arandar.

“The Keeper is a threat,” said Mournacht. “The Gray Knight has irritated me. The rest of you are meaningless. You will fall to Mhor sooner or later. Tell the Gray Knight he must decide now.”

“Very well,” said Arandar. “I will convey your offer to him, and return with his answer.”

He started back up the hill, and Gavin followed. His back itched they climbed, and he feared that the Mhorites would decide to rid themselves of two Swordbearers with a volley of arrows. But the Mhorite warriors watched in silence, and soon Arandar and Gavin climbed over the barricade and back into the ruined tower.

“Well?” said Morigna.

“He’s decided that he is the Chosen of Mhor and is going to bathe the world in blood as an offering to Mhor,” said Arandar.

Mara shuddered. “That sounds like the Red Family.”

“He also wants Ridmark and Calliande handed over to him alive,” said Arandar. “Calliande, so she can’t claim the Keeper’s staff. Ridmark, because I gather the Gray Knight annoyed him at some point in the past.”

Jager grinned. “Ridmark does possess a knack for making enemies.”

Morigna let out a contemptuous little laugh. “He has not realized that Ridmark is not here?”

“No,” said Arandar. “He has promised that if we hand over the Gray Knight and the Keeper, he will let us depart in peace.”

“He will not keep his word,” said Azakhun. “The dwarves of Khald Tormen have fought the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk for many years. They consider themselves free to break a promise given to anyone who is not a servant of Mhor.”

“It does not matter,” said Morigna, “for we do not have Ridmark and Calliande to hand over, and even if we did, we would not.”

“No,” said Mara. “So what do we do now?”

“We wait,” said Arandar. “We have everything to gain by waiting, and nothing to gain by acting. I don’t know how long Mournacht will wait for us to make a decision, but every moment he waits is another moment the Traveler’s army can arrive or the trolls can make trouble. Then we can slip away or even fight our way through in the chaos.”

“Or,” said Kharlacht, “Mournacht will tire of waiting and assail the tower.”

“That is a possibility, too,” said Arandar. “But we can hold them off for a long time. An army is never more vulnerable to counterattack than when it is assaulting a fortified position. The Traveler might take that moment to attack, giving us our moment to escape.”

“Unless Mournacht himself enters the fray,” said Morigna. “His magic has increased considerably in strength since we faced him in Coldinium.”

“He is very powerful,” said Mara. “With the Sight…he has potent dark magic at his command. Far stronger than any of the other Mhorite shamans we’ve seen. He would be a match for Valakoth, at least.”

Gavin swallowed. The First of the Devout, the leader of the Warden’s servants, had almost killed them all during the final battle at Urd Morlemoch.

“So you cannot simply travel behind him and stab him in the back?” said Jager.

“I fear not,” said Mara. “He is powerful enough that I don’t think I could get within ten yards of him. He is also warded against weapons. Neither steel nor dark elven steel could touch him. You’d need a soulblade.”

“We defeated Valakoth,” said Arandar, “and escaped his master, and we can deal with Mournacht. For now, our best course of action is to wait.”

###

An hour later Gavin stood at the barricade, Truthseeker ready in his fist.

“Come forth!” roared the herald for the third time. “This is your last chance, Gray Knight! Come forth with the Keeper and submit yourself to the power of Mournacht! Else your friends shall drown in their own blood!”

“He’s going to be annoyed,” said Jager, “once he kills us all and realizes that Ridmark was never here.”

“Why hasn’t he attacked already?” said Gavin, puzzled.

Arandar turned his head to answer, but Antenora spoke first.

“Because taking the tower will cost many of his warriors their lives,” said the yellow-eyed sorceress, “and he fears this Traveler more than he fears us. If the Traveler attacks while he is trying to seize the tower, it will not go well for him.”

“Precisely put, my lady,” said Arandar. “You know much of war, it seems.”

She shrugged. “I have seen so much war that I cannot remember all of it.”

“Then perish!” roared the herald, and the blast of war horns rang out. A rank of warriors started towards the slope, shields raised and interlocked to stop any arrows or missiles.

“Here they come,” said Arandar, and Morigna and Antenora hastened up the stairs to the top of the ruined tower, ready to bring their deadly spells to bear. Kharlacht, Caius, Arandar, Jager, and Mara all readied their weapons, as did Azakhun and his four retainers. Truthseeker shivered in Gavin’s hand as the shamans began to cast spells behind the warriors. He desperately wished that Calliande was here. Neither Morigna nor Antenora could cast protective wards, and while Truthseeker would shield Gavin from dark magic, the soulblade would not protect the others. He had seen the sort of withering spells Mournacht had used at Vulmhosk, and he shuddered to think of Kharlacht or Caius or Mara falling victim to that kind of magic.

He took a deep breath, setting himself…and then the Mhorites began screaming.

Gavin first thought that Morigna had cast a new spell, that she had summoned up a swarm of mosquitos or bees or something to harass them. Yet a ripple of fear went through the Mhorite ranks, and Mournacht’s furious voice boomed over the charred trees. The Mhorites turned to face a new threat, and Gavin realized that the Traveler must have arrived.

He felt a surge of hope. Arandar’s gamble had paid off. If the Anathgrimm distracted the Mhorites, they could carve their way out…

One of the Mhorites at the base of the hill froze, going motionless.

Strangely motionless…and all the color had leached from him.

Stone. The Mhorite warrior had been turned to stone.

Green light flared in the burned trees, and more screams rang out.

“Brother Caius,” said Arandar. “That…”

“That is the gorgon spirit,” said Caius. “It is here.”

Chapter 17: Unworthy

Ridmark walked to the edge of the little valley, stepping past the statue of a petrified troll, and looked across the lake. The waters remained calm, rippling in the cold wind coming down from the mountains.

The forest beyond the lake, though, looked anything but calm.

A large plume of dark smoke rose from the green pines. At least several acres of the forest had gone up in flames. Ridmark wondered what had happened. Perhaps the Mhorites or the Anathgrimm had figured out that the best way to fight trolls was with fire. Or perhaps Mournacht and the Traveler had met in magical battle and destroyed each other.

Or maybe Morigna and the others were in trouble.

His fingers tightened against the black staff. He wanted to go at once to see what was happening, but the fire was at least five miles away. By the time he arrived, the fighting would be over and done. He had to trust that Morigna and the others could look after themselves, that Arandar knew what he was doing, that they would try to remain hidden and make for the Gate of the West.

Besides, the fire might have nothing to do with them at all. Maybe a Mhorite warrior had accidentally tripped and fallen into his cooking fire.

Yet Ridmark could not make himself believe that.

A soft rasp came to his ears. Curzonar walked towards him, crimson helmet tucked under one arm, his claws tapping the stony ground. It was a gesture of courtesy. Had Curzonar wished it, he could have moved so silently Ridmark would not have heard the manetaur until Curzonar’s jaws closed around his throat.

“Lord Prince,” said Ridmark.

Curzonar gazed at the smoke to the south. “The signs of battle.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, likely.”

“We should act,” said Curzonar.

Ridmark shook his head. “Not yet. I suspect the fighting drew off the gorgon spirit. It will return, sooner or later, and we will have to be ready for it.”

Curzonar considered this for a moment. “I have questions.”

“I thought you might,” said Ridmark.

“Your staff,” said Curzonar. “It is but wood. Yet it could harm Murzanar, and my axes of steel could not. Explain this.”

“This staff,” said Ridmark, “was once carried by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain.”

Curzonar hissed through his fangs. “You lie to me.”

“Do I smell like I am lying?” said Ridmark.

Curzonar moved a little closer and sniffed. “No. How did you acquire this staff?”

“The knowledge we have shared with you about the Frostborn, the Keeper, and Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark, “was acquired at great price. We went to Urd Morlemoch, where the Warden is imprisoned, and challenged him for the knowledge. He told us much that we did not know.”

“That is a place of evil name,” said Curzonar. “Yet clearly you survived.”

“Barely,” said Ridmark. “The Warden’s creatures almost slew us as we made our escape. Ardrhythain aided us, for we sought to stop Shadowbearer, and he has battled Shadowbearer for millennia beyond count. I lost my staff in the fighting, and he gave me this one.” He tapped the weapon against the ground. “I saw him work spells of tremendous potency with the staff, and he carried it long before you and I were born. The magic altered the nature of the staff, giving it the ability to wound creatures of dark magic.”

“A useful weapon,” said Curzonar. He considered for a moment, the cold wind ruffling at his mane and whiskers. “There is something else I wish to know.”

Ridmark nodded. “I thought you might.”

“I have seen you fight with great valor,” said Curzonar. “Far more valor than I would expect of a human, for your kindred are born with neither fangs nor claws nor the keen senses of a Hunter.”

Ridmark took care not to smile at that. “A grievous defect, but we carry on as best as we can.”

“Indeed,” said Curzonar. “I know little of the ways of humans, but I recognize the brand upon your face. A broken sword, the mark of cowardice. How did you acquire it?”

“Because I failed,” said Ridmark.

“You will tell me more,” said Curzonar.

“Why?” said Ridmark.

“Because we are fighting together,” said Curzonar, “and I am trusting the completion of my Rite of Challenge to your wisdom. If you are in fact a coward and a fool, I wish to know now. If you are, I shall go on my own way and find another method to defeat the gorgon spirit and free Murzanar from its grasp.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He stared at the smoke. “It was…five years ago. Five and a half now, I suppose. Do you know the name of Mhalek?”

“I have heard it,” said Curzonar. “Some orcish madman or another.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “He thought himself the incarnation of the old orcish blood gods, and led a great host south from Vhaluusk into the High Kingdom The army of the realm faced him, and its leaders met with him under parley, but Mhalek killed them and attacked.”

Curzonar growled. “A most dishonorable action.”

“I was a Swordbearer then,” said Ridmark, “and I took command of the battle. We defeated the Mhalekites at the Black Mountain, but Mhalek fled southeast to Castra Marcaine. My wife was there, and Mhalek was a sorcerer. He linked himself to her with a blood spell, so when I struck him down, the wound transferred to my wife, and she died as well.”

Curzonar’s growl was so deep it made Ridmark’s skull vibrate. “A most cowardly trick.”

“It was,” said Ridmark.

He started to say something else, and then fell silent. Telling the story had not been as difficult as he would have thought. He still felt guilty for Aelia’s death, still felt pain for it. Yet it felt…different. As if the pain had become a permanent part of him, rather than a raw wound torn across his heart.

What had changed?

Morigna, for one. Ridmark no longer wanted to die in the completion of his quest. And he had learned the truth of the return of the Frostborn…and it had been darker than he could have dreamed. The Enlightened of Incariel were hidden like a cancer within the realm of Andomhaim, and their master Shadowbearer would open the door to summon the Frostborn to this world.

There was far more at stake than Ridmark and his guilt, and he had spent too long brooding upon Aelia’s death. She likely would have rebuked him herself, had she known. There would be far more deaths than hers if Shadowbearer succeeded.

He realized that Curzonar was asking a question.

“I missed that, I am afraid,” said Ridmark.

“The dull senses of humans,” said Curzonar. “Your tale does not explain how you got the brand.”

“There was a man,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus Carhaine, the Dux of Caerdracon, one of the most powerful vassals of the High King. He was in love with my wife, but she chose me over him. He blamed me for her death, as did my wife’s sister. Her father and brothers disagreed, but Tarrabus was powerful, and he brought charges before the High King. His influence was enough to expel me from the Order, strip me of my soulblade, and have me branded as a coward. I did not fight it. I thought I deserved it.”

Perhaps, he thought with a flicker of new guilt, he should have fought his sentence. He could have exposed Tarrabus before the High King’s court. Yet Ridmark had known nothing of the Enlightened of Incariel then, had still thought Tarrabus an honorable but cruel vassal of the High King. Had he resisted, Tarrabus likely would have had Ridmark murdered…and then no one would have been there to help Calliande on the day she had awakened.

“Grief can madden even the stoutest heart,” said Curzonar.

“Truly,” said Ridmark.

“Your slain mate’s sister,” said Curzonar. “What is her name?”

“Imaria, of the House of the Licinii,” said Ridmark. “She is a Magistria of the Order.”

That elicited another growl from Curzonar. “I know her.”

Ridmark frowned. “You do? How?”

“She has visited the Range as an ambassador of Tarrabus Carhaine several times,” said Curzonar. “In particular, she has visited Kurdulkar quite often.”

Ridmark nodded. “If Kurdulkar has turned to the worship of Incariel, that makes sense. Tarrabus Carhaine is the chief of the Enlightened. Perhaps he seeks allies among the manetaurs to prepare for the day he hopes to seize the throne of the High Kingdom for himself.”

Curzonar snarled, his tail lashing with agitation. “This plotting and scheming! Pah! Better to fight and slay each other openly, as Hunters should.”

“It would make matters simpler,” said Ridmark.

“Your story rings of truth,” said Curzonar. “And Ardrhythain would not give his staff to a craven.”

“You know him?” said Ridmark.

“I have never encountered his scent,” said Curzonar, “but the arbiters speak of him. In ancient days, the dark elves summoned us to this world, and we fought for them. Ardrhythain came among us, and we realized that the dark elves had enslaved us, turned our own lust for blood into chains of bondage. We rebelled, and fought any who would enslave us, whether the dark elves, the Frostborn, or the urdmordar.”

“That is well,” said Ridmark. “If the Keeper and I fail, if the Frostborn return, your kindred shall have to fight for your freedom once more.”

“The Keeper,” said Curzonar. “Do you think her plan to trap the gorgon spirit will work?”

Ridmark shrugged. “I am not the Hunter.”

“I know little of magic and spirits,” said the Curzonar. “Yet her scent was full of anxiety.”

“As it should be,” said Ridmark. “The gorgon spirit is a powerful foe. Anyone who did not feel some fear upon facing such an enemy, even if he was one of the Hunters, would be a fool.” He gestured. “I will see if she needs any assistance.”

“Very well,” said Curzonar. “I shall keep watch here, and alert you if any foes approach.”

The manetaur gazed at the narrow path to the forest, and with that, the conversation was over. Ridmark made his way through the small valley of ruins and long-petrified statues and returned to the Vault of the North. The dais and the plinth still glowed with glyphs of green fire, throwing pale, ghostly illumination over the walls and ceiling. Calliande stood at the edge of the dais, her eyes closed, her face stark in the glow from the glyphs. White light played about her right hand as she made small, precise gestures. Her face was tight with concentration, her lips pressed into a hard line. He wasn’t sure what she was doing. Trying to comprehend or unravel the spells upon the dais, most likely.

At last she gave an irritated shake of her head and looked up, blinking.

“Oh,” she said. “Ridmark.”

“I did not mean to interrupt you,” said Ridmark.

Calliande sighed. “You didn’t interrupt anything, I fear. Other than me staring at those spells in uncomprehending stupor.”

“Well,” said Ridmark. “You looked more irritated than uncomprehending.”

“Incomprehension leads to irritation,” said Calliande. She gave a vexed shake of her head. “The dwarven stonescribes were masterful. These spells…I cannot begin to understand them.” She rubbed her face for a moment. “How much do you know about mathematics?”

“A little,” said Ridmark. “Young nobles mostly learn the arts of war and rhetoric. Some history. If you gave me a pencil and an hour, I suppose I could calculate the trajectory of a catapult shot.”

“In terms of magic, what I know how to do is like that catapult shot,” said Calliande. She waved a hand at the dais. “This…this is like constructing a cathedral with a five hundred foot spire.”

“A bit harder than firing a catapult,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande.

She glared at the dais as if it had angered her.

“We’ve done difficult things before,” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Calliande, “but you helped me. You can’t help me with this. Just as you won’t be able to help me with my duties once I become Keeper.”

Ridmark frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I will have to be the Keeper of Andomhaim once I find my staff,” said Calliande, “and it will be my task to defend Andomhaim from dark magic. I will have to stop Shadowbearer. If I do that, I will have to root out the Enlightened of Incariel from the nobility and the Magistri. God only knows what other threats we will face.” She shook her head, her hair brushing against her neck. “Ridmark…what if I can’t do this?”

“The gorgon spirit?” said Ridmark, though he was certain she was no longer talking about that. “If this doesn’t work, then we shall find another way or make one.”

“No,” said Calliande. “What if I am…not able to be the Keeper? What if I am not strong enough? What if I am not wise enough?”

“You already were the Keeper,” said Ridmark.

She gave a bitter little laugh. “Presumably. And when I was the Keeper, apparently I was the kind of woman willing to seal herself away in the darkness for centuries, willing to awake in a world where everyone I had ever known had died.” She looked at him, her blue eyes haunted. “Ridmark…what kind of woman does that? Was I arrogant enough to think I could shape the future long after I should have died? Or was I cold enough and loveless enough to seal myself away from everything I had ever known without a second thought?”

“You loved your father,” said Ridmark.

“The Warden said that he died,” said Calliande. She folded her arms tight against herself. “That he died and I couldn’t save him, and that was why I became a Magistria, that was why I drove myself to become so skilled at healing.” She shrugged. “Maybe he was the only person I had ever loved.”

“You sell yourself short,” said Ridmark.

She blinked, and he was surprised to see tears in her blue eyes. “Do I? Ridmark…I know what I have to do. I have to find my staff, recover my memory, and take up the mantle of the Keeper. But I don’t know if I can.” She shook her head, glaring at the glowing dais. “I can’t even unravel this spell. How I am supposed to stop the Frostborn and guard the realm from dark magic if I can’t even do this?”

Ridmark thought for a moment. “Why do you want to find your staff?”

She scowled. “You know why. To stop the Frostborn, to stop Shadowbearer from bringing them back.”

“And why do you need to do that?” said Ridmark.

Calliande gave him an incredulous look. “Because it is the right thing to do.”

“True,” said Ridmark. “You also need to do it because the Frostborn attempting to return. That implies they aren’t already here. And the reason they are not here is…”

He let her work out the train of thought for herself. “Because they were stopped.”

“Because you stopped them,” said Ridmark. “You heard what else the Warden had to say. The Keeper was the architect of the victory against the Frostborn the first time, along with the Dragon Knight and the Swordbearers of old. All the histories I learned as a child said the same thing. The Keeper united the nations to stand against the Frostborn, to defeat them and drive them back. That Keeper was you, Calliande. You did it once before. I know you can do it again.”

She stared at the floor, blinking hard, and then shook her head and smiled. “You…can give quite the encouraging speech when you set your mind to it.”

“I told you noble children study rhetoric,” said Ridmark. “Besides, you have given me the same speech enough times.”

Calliande blinked. “What? When?”

“Ridmark Arban, stop blaming yourself for your wife’s death,” said Ridmark. “Ridmark Arban, you don’t deserve to get yourself killed. Ridmark Arban, don’t throw your life away in a futile battle.” He smiled. “It’s time I paid you back in your own coin, would you not say?”

Calliande laughed, wiping at her eyes. “Harsh, but fair.”

“And you won’t be alone,” said Ridmark. “We were there for the start of this on the day of the omen of blue flame. We shall see this through to the end, together.”

“Thank you,” said Calliande. She sighed and let out a long breath. “Though if I cannot find a way to deal with the gorgon spirit, it might be moot.”

“If you’re a catapult stone and the spells upon the gorgon spirit are a cathedral,” said Ridmark, “then you’ve one advantage.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a lot easier to knock down a cathedral than to build one.”

She laughed a little at that. “True. The trick is not to get yourself killed when you pull down the cathedral.” She waved a hand at the glowing symbols upon the dais and the plinth. “The spells can defend themselves. I think the dwarves built this as a defense against the sorcery of the dark elves. If I try to dispel the glyphs, if I even try to probe them too deeply, it will trigger a defense.”

“Like the one that killed the Mhorite shaman in the High Gate?” said Ridmark.

“Exactly,” said Calliande. “Or it might turn everyone in the Vault to stone. I can’t be sure which until I try, and I don’t want to find out. If any alien magic touches the glyphs – the magic of the Well, the magic of the dark elves, dark magic, anything – the defenses are triggered.”

“What about dwarven magic?” said Ridmark, frowning.

“That wouldn’t trigger the defenses,” said Calliande. “I think it would instead trigger a…a recall, for lack of a better word, summoning the gorgon spirit back here. Unfortunately, I am not a stonescribe and do not have the ability to work dwarven magic.”

“You may not be a stonescribe,” said Ridmark, “but we do have some dwarven magic with us.”

“We do?” said Calliande.

In answer, he reached for her belt. A strange expression came over her face, and then vanished as he tapped the pommel of one of the two daggers at her side. Specifically, the dagger of dwarven steel the Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave of Coldinium had given her, its blade written with the glyphs of the dwarven stonescribes.

Calliande’s eyes got wide, and she drew the dagger. The glyphs upon the blade flickered with yellow-orange light.

“We do,” said Calliande. “Oh, that’s clever. I should have seen it earlier, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.”

“Someone once told me that feeling sorry for myself was a waste of time,” said Ridmark. “She said it over and over and…”

“I didn’t use those exact words,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath and looked at the glyphs upon the dais. “You should probably tell Curzonar to get back here. I think I know how to summon the gorgon spirit back.”

Chapter 18: Dark Magic

Gavin held Truthseeker and watched the chaos outside the tower.

The gorgon spirit seemed to be turning the Mhorites to stone at random. Already a dozen pale statues stood scattered at the base of the hill, and the rest of the Mhorites were withdrawing. Gavin could not see the gorgon spirit, and realized that he had no idea what such a creature would look like. Was it invisible and immaterial? Or did it have a physical body?

If the creature attacked the Mhorites, well and good. But the gorgon spirit would not discriminate. It defended the Vale in the name of the King of Khald Azalar, and the gorgon spirit would view both the Mhorites and Gavin and his friends as intruders.

“Brother Caius,” said Arandar. “What will the creature look like?”

“I do not know,” said Caius. “I have never seen one, for they are unleashed only in the most dire circumstances. It would require a body, that I do know. Likely it has possessed one of the Mhorites.”

“We should go,” said Kharlacht. “We sought a distraction, and here it is.”

“It will do us little good to escape the tower only for the gorgon spirit to turn us to stone,” said Morigna.

“My soulblade can likely protect me from its power,” said Arandar, “and Gavin’s as well. When the time comes, we shall go first, and draw the creature’s attention if necessary. I just want to see what the thing looks like before…”

A gaunt shape moved through the trees, bronze metal flashing in the afternoon sunlight, and Gavin saw the gorgon spirit.

It was one of the strangest creatures he had ever seen. It had the lower body of a lion, albeit a lion that had almost starved to death, its ribs visible beneath the patchy fur. The creature had the torso and arms of a man, its upper body just as emaciated and wasted as its lower. A sword rested in a leather baldric over the creature’s back, and a full helm of bronze-colored dwarven steel concealed its head. A ring of dwarven glyphs, written in green fire, encircled the crown of the helmet, and the eyeholes of the masked helm flashed with green light.

Every time those eyeholes flashed with green light, another Mhorite warrior turned to stone.

“What is that?” said Gavin. “I’ve never seen a…a half-man, half-lion creature like that.”

“Manetaur,” said Arandar. “From the plains of the east, a place the manetaurs call their Range. They are absolutely deadly in battle. I wonder how the gorgon spirit possessed a manetaur. We are a long way from the Range.”

“Observe,” said Antenora. “The creature’s power is limited. It can only turn one of its foes to stone at any given moment.”

“That is a relief,” said Mara. “I feared it could simply glance in our direction and turn us all to stone.”

"Though it is able to do so quickly," said Morigna as more warriors turned to stone.

A group of Mhorite warriors found their courage and charged at the gorgon spirit, attacking with swords and spears. It did little good. The withered creature wore no armor, yet the swords shattered against its hide and the spears splintered against its ribs. The gorgon spirit whirled, the eyes of its helm flashing, and one of the Mhorites turned to stone. It reached out with one clawed hand and ripped the head off a second. Its front legs lashed out and slammed into the chest of another Mhorite, and Gavin heard the sound of all the Mhorite warrior’s ribs snapping at the same time. The orcish warrior tumbled across the smoking ground like a rag doll and went limp. Three more turned to stone in as many heartbeats, the gorgon spirit's eyes blazing with green flame.

Mournacht himself roared a battle cry and stalked forward, raising his massive axe. The gorgon spirit whirled to face him, its eyes blazing with emerald light. Mournacht staggered in mid-stride, the symbols of bloody fire shining upon his chest and arms as his warding spells turned aside the gorgon spirit’s powers. The gorgon spirt went rigid, the light in its eyes shining brighter, and Mournacht staggered forward step by step. Another Mhorite warrior lunged at the spirit, and it reached out and tore off the Mhorite’s head, its deadly gaze never wavering from Mournacht. The other Mhorite shamans raised their hands and unleashed bolts of bloody flame and shafts of shadow at the gorgon spirit. The symbols upon its helmet shone brighter, and none of the destructive magic touched the creature.

“We must go,” said Kharlacht. “This is likely to be our best chance.”

“Aye,” said Mara. “We…”

She frowned and looked up.

“Oh,” she said.

“What is it?” said Arandar.

Gavin followed Mara’s gaze and saw a dark shape circling over the tower, a slender, black-armored woman with great wings spreading behind her like leathery sails.

One of the Traveler’s undhracosi.

He braced himself for the creature’s attack, but instead it banked and flew away to the west.

“A scout,” said Mara. “The Traveler will come as soon as he realizes the Mhorites are distracted with the gorgon spirit.”

“Then we go now,” said Arandar, lifting Heartwarden. The soulblade shimmered with white fire in response to the dark magic and blood spells raging outside the tower. “We head east, towards the mountains on the far side of the Vale. Cut down anyone in our path, and stay together. If we get separated, we may not be able to come back for you.”

The others nodded, drawing weapons or preparing spells.

“May God be with us,” said Caius, and Azakhun and the other dwarves murmured agreement.

“Go,” said Arandar, and he stepped around the barricade and set off at a jog around down the slope, and Gavin and the others followed.

Mournacht and the gorgon spirit remained locked in battle. The gorgon spirit seemed unable to penetrate Mournacht’s protective wards with its power, but neither could Mournacht’s spells harm the spirit. Even his massive black axe seemed unable to wound the creature. The lesser shamans continued flinging volleys of useless spells.

Horn blasts rang from the west, deeper and longer than the horns the Mhorites preferred to use. The Anathgrimm and the Traveler’s creatures were coming. If they struck while Mournacht struggled against the gorgon spirit, while the warriors themselves were disorganized, the Traveler’s army might well win the day.

A shout rang out, and a group of Mhorite warriors ran at Gavin and the others.

Gavin drew on Truthseeker’s power and attacked before the Mhorites could reach them. The Mhorites did not anticipate his speed, and Truthseeker sank into the nearest Mhorite’s neck with a burst of green blood. Gavin ripped the soulblade free, caught a hasty sword thrust upon his shield, and attacked again, killing another Mhorite. The remaining warriors closed around him, and then the earth at his feet rippled, throwing the warriors to the ground. Arandar killed three Mhorites in as many heartbeats, Heartwarden’s power combining with his skill and experience to make him a whirlwind of death. Mara flickered in and out with pulses of blue fire, slashing the throats of the stunned Mhorites before they regained their feet. Kharlacht and Caius and Jager and the others cut their way through the Mhorites, and a moment later they broke through.

A Mhorite shaman turned to face Gavin, eyes wide and wild, red flames swirling up his arms. The shaman thrust out his hands, and Gavin shouted and raised Truthseeker. The spell hammered into him, struggling against the sword’s light, but Truthseeker’s power held fast. The shaman snarled and started another spell, but a sphere of white fire shot past Gavin’s shoulder. It struck the shaman and exploded in a burst of howling flame. It wasn’t as powerful as the spells that Antenora had used previously, but it was enough to send the shaman’s smoking corpse tumbling across the ground.

The gorgon spirit’s masked head snapped around, and for a moment Gavin thought Antenora’s magic had drawn the creature’s attention.

But it kept turning, looking to the north.

“Intruders!” it snarled, its voice deep and alien. The gorgon spirit took several running strides forward, leaped into the air, and then just…sank into the earth, sinking into the ground as if it was water instead of dirt and stone.

For a moment silence fell, and Mournacht whirled, the massive axe in his right hand. His eyes fell upon Gavin and narrowed. Gavin braced himself, his mind racing. Whatever had drawn away the attention of the gorgon spirit had left them to face Mournacht and his army alone. Could Gavin and his friends cut their way free? Or should they flee back to the tower?

Another blast of an Anathgrimm war horn rang out, shattering the silence, and battle cries echoed through the forest. Gavin saw Anathgrimm warriors running from the west, and a dark shape plummeted from the sky, falling towards Mournacht. The urdhracos opened her jaws and spat a cone of flame at Mournacht, and the huge shaman snarled, sweeping his axe before him in a massive two-handed swing. The sigils written upon his chest and arms disrupted the fire, shattering it in a cloud of blazing embers, and his axe crunched through the urdhracos’s chest. The creature let out an agonized wail and collapsed in a heap to the ground.

An urdhracos was one of the most powerful creatures of the dark elves, and Mournacht had just dispatched one without difficulty. The huge shaman began bellowing commands in the orcish tongue, and the shamans and warriors gathered around him, gathering to face the charge of the Anathgrimm.

It seemed Mournacht considered the Traveler a greater threat than Gavin and the others.

“Go!” shouted Arandar, and they stared running to east, ashes and cinders grinding beneath their boots. A Mhorite warrior charged at them, screaming, and Kharlacht dispatched him with a sweep of his massive greatsword. Behind them rose the sounds of a gathering battle, both the Anathgrimm orcs and the Mhorite warriors screaming threats and curses, steel clanging on steel, the crackle and hiss of deadly magical spells. Another sound stabbed into Gavin’s ears, a hideous, snarling shriek like tearing metal.

The battle cry of an urvaalg.

“Sir Arandar!” he shouted.

Arandar shot a look over his shoulder, and Gavin followed suit. He spotted a score of rippling blurs behind them, moving through the trees with inhuman speed. Urvaalgs could turn almost invisible when they felt like it, save for a faint rippling in the air.

To judge from the rippling, there were a lot of urvaalgs behind them.

“Stand and fight!” said Arandar, turning. “We cannot outrun them.”

They came to a stop, and Antenora whirled and leveled her staff. A gout of flame shot across the distance and struck the blurs, and snarls of fury rang out. The blur resolved itself into a pack of at least thirty urvaalgs. A wave of dread went through Gavin. Truthseeker and Heartwarden could kill urvaalgs, and the weapons of dark elven steel could wound them. Yet thirty urvaalgs all at once, without the aid of Calliande’s magic, would be a challenging fight.

Maybe even an impossible one.

“Gavin, with me!” shouted Arandar. “The rest of you, a shield wall! Keep the sorceresses clear!”

Gavin nodded and sprinted at the urvaalgs, Arandar at his right. He drew on as much of Truthseeker’s power as he could, the soulstone shining like a star. The sword seemed almost joyful to go into battle against creatures of dark magic, and despite the danger, some of that mad joy sank into Gavin’s mind. This was a good fight, a righteous fight, to rid the world of the tainted beasts of corrupted magic that the dark elves had created.

He could not tell if it was the sword’s thought or his own, and decided that it did not matter.

The urvaalg pack turned towards them, black talons tearing at the earth. Morigna shouted something, and the earth beneath the front row of urvaalgs rippled, knocking them from their paws. A score of urvaalgs lost their balance, and the beasts behind them crashed into the fallen urvaalgs, the pack dissolving into disordered chaos for an instant.

An instant was all that Gavin and Arandar needed.

He struck with Truthseeker, the sword’s power roaring up his arm, and took the head from an urvaalg. Black slimed spurted from the stump of the urvaalg’s neck, and Gavin spun and plunged the soulblade home into another urvaalg’s chest. Around him the stunned urvaalgs regained their feet, and thick roots erupted from the earth, seizing their legs and pulling them back down. Gavin took the head from another urvaalg in a flash of white fire, and a ball of flame shot over his head and fell into the back rows of the urvaalg pack. He shielded his eyes as the fireball exploded, setting a half-dozen urvaalgs aflame. The horrible smell of burning flesh and fur filled his nostrils, and the beasts screamed in pain and rage. Arandar moved closer, and the two Swordbearers fought back to back. Morigna and Antenora unleashed their magic on the urvaalgs, keeping them unbalanced and distracted, and Gavin and Arandar carved their way through the beasts, Truthseeker and Heartwarden blazing with white fire. In the midst of the melee blue fire flickered, and Mara appeared behind the urvaalgs, using her short sword to hamstring them with the precision of a surgeon. Arandar or Gavin then dispatched the crippled urvaalgs before they recovered.

They were winning. Gavin split the skull of another urvaalg with a furious blow from Truthseeker, something between exultation and terror warring inside of him. Thirty urvaalgs, and they were winning…

A tremendous roar thundered through the forest.

Gavin turned, fearing that the gorgon spirit had pursued them. Instead he saw a dark shape lumbering through the trees, moving with tremendous speed despite its bulk. It looked like a twisted combination of a diseased grizzly bear and an ape. It was an ursaar, one of the most powerful and vicious creatures of the dark elves. When a pack of urvaalgs had come near Aranaeus, the villages had fled behind the walls and barricaded the gates. If an ursaar had ever come to Aranaeus, it could have ripped down the gates and killed everyone in the village.

It was charging right towards Antenora and Morigna.

Morigna turned, and knotted roots burst from the earth to entangle the ursaar. They did not slow the creature in the slightest, the roots snapping and ripping apart. Antenora threw a gout of fire across its flank, setting its fur aflame, and the ursaar howled in fury. Yet it did not stop or falter, and Morigna threw herself out the way. Antenora tried to do so, but she was a second too slow, and the ursaar’s massive paw sent her flying. Azakhun and the dwarves shouted and attacked the ursaar, Kharlacht and Caius and Jager behind them, but the dwarves only had weapons of orcish steel, and their blades did nothing against the ursaar. Their armor turned aside its dagger-like claws, but the strength of its slaps sent them tumbling through the air like toys.

“Gavin!” said Arandar, killing another urvaalg. “Go! I’ll hold here!”

Gavin sprinted at the ursaar, calling upon Truthseeker for speed. Mara appeared behind the ursaar, raking her short sword across its rear hind leg, but the creature’s hide was simply too thick for her to penetrate. Kharlacht, Caius, and Jager scattered around the ursaar, striking with their weapons. Kharlacht’s greatsword opened a massive gash across the ursaar’s right side, and Jager carved a smaller wound, but Caius’s war hammer simply bounced off the creature’s thick ribs. The ursaar spun, roaring, and Kharlacht and Jager dodged away from its massive talons. Already the wounds they had dealt the creature were shrinking. Caius slugged the creature with his hammer again, but the heavy weapon bounced off the ursaar’s hide. It must have hurt, though, because the ursaar spurn to face Caius, jaws yawning wide to bite off his head.

It was a perfect distraction.

Gavin brought Truthseeker down with all his strength, aiming for the ursaar’s thick neck. The creature jerked back at the last moment, and the soulblade carved a smoking gash down the ursaar’s right front shoulder. The ursaar reared back with a furious scream, both of its paws slapping for Gavin. He jumped out of the way and opened another gash on its chest with Truthseeker. The ursaar howled in enraged fury and surged forward. Gavin threw himself to the side with all of Truthseeker’s speed, hit the ground, and rolled. A clawed paw came down maybe an inch from his face. Gavin kept rolling, came to one knee, and slashed with Truthseeker. The blade sank deep into the ursaar’s leg, and the creature jerked back with a furious snarl. Gavin got to his feet and stabbed, hoping to slip Truthseeker between the ursaar’s ribs and into its heart. The soulblade plunged into the ursaar’s flesh, smoke rising from the wound, and again the great beast screamed in fury. It ripped free of the blade, glowing eyes narrowed as it stared at him, and Gavin backed away, his heart pounding. Would it try to trample him again? Or would it come after one of the others and lure him in, hoping to take his head off?

White light flashed, and a tiny sphere of fire struck the side of the ursaar. The sphere sank into the ursaar’s flesh, burning a hole as wide as Gavin’s palm as it did. The ursaar screamed, and through the gaping hole in its side Gavin saw its fluttering lung. He lunged forward, driving Truthseeker with all his strength, and plunged the soulblade into the charred hole. The blade sank into the crosspiece, blazing with white fire, and the ursaar screamed again, rising upon its hind legs. The soulblade jerked out of the wound, and Gavin stumbled back, trying to catch his balance before the ursaar crushed him like an insect.

Kharlacht struck from the left and Caius from the right. The orcish warrior swung his greatsword like a woodsman felling a tree. Caius brought his dark elven war hammer down in a precise, careful swing, striking the ursaar’s left hind knee, and the snap of shattering bone filled Gavin’s ears. The ursaar fell with a furious roar as its rear legs buckled beneath the attack.

Gavin raised Truthseeker over his head and brought it down once, twice, three times. By the fourth strike the ursaar was probably dead, but Gavin wanted to make sure. On the sixth blow the misshapen head fell from the thick neck, black slime pouring from the wound. Gavin did not let the carcass settle, but turned back to the others with a sick feeling. There was no way Sir Arandar could have held off that many urvaalgs by himself, and they had likely torn him apart while Gavin fought the ursaar.

Azakhun and his retainers lay sprawled across the ground, some stunned, some wounded. Gavin hoped that none of them were dead. He saw no sign of Morigna or Antenora. Kharlacht, Caius, and Jager sprinted across the battlefield, making for the writhing mass of urvaalgs twenty yards away. White fire flashed in their midst, and Gavin saw Arandar standing tall, his armor splattered with both his own blood and urvaalg slime, Heartwarden shining as he fought on. Mara flickered into existence behind an urvaalg, hamstrung it, and Arandar killed it with a slash of Heartwarden.

He was still alive. Then Gavin realized that half of the urvaalgs were fighting the other half. His stomach twisted with alarm. It had to be Morigna. She had taken control of the urvaalgs as she had done at Urd Morlemoch and the foothills, and commanded them to fight their fellows. Likely she had just saved Sir Arandar’s life. But she had never taken control of that many urvaalgs at once, and he didn’t know how much dark magic she had to use to work such a feat…

“Gavin Swordbearer!”

Antenora hurried out of the trees, her staff smoldering in her hand.

“Your sword,” said Antenora. “Can it dispel hostile magic?”

“Aye,” said Gavin.

“Come quickly,” she said. “You are needed.”

He hesitated, but Arandar and the others were holding their own against the urvaalgs. So Gavin nodded and followed Antenora past the ursaar’s smoking carcass, around a tree, and into the shade beneath the branches of a massive pine.

He stopped in shock.

Morigna stood there, her staff clenched in her right hand, her left hand outstretched. Her teeth were bared in a snarl, and blue flames writhed around her fingers and up and down her staff. Shadows crawled around her body, and her black eyes…

They had gone utterly black. It was like looking at the Warden’s eyes, or the Traveler’s. Truthseeker flared in Gavin’s hand, as if the sword was confronting a creature of dark magic.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps Morigna had done…something to herself. The Enlightened worshipped Incariel and received powers over darkness. Maybe Morigna had accidentally done the same thing to herself.

Or, a dark part of his mind wondered, maybe she had done it to herself on purpose. All her endless talk about power, how faith and law were only masks for power…

“Morigna,” he said, fingers tight against Truthseeker’s hilt.

She did not answer.

“The dark magic in consuming her,” said Antenora. “I suspect she summoned it to enslave the corrupted beasts and lost control. Such is always the fate of humans who try to wield dark magic. I would recommend killing her.” She shrugged. “But if your sword truly has the power to dispel hostile spells, that may yet save her.”

Gavin hesitated. Part of him knew that killing Morigna, if she had plunged so far into dark magic, was probably a good idea. The rest of him recoiled with disgust at the thought. He took a deep breath, drawing on Truthseeker’s magic.

Morigna’s bottomless black eyes focused upon him, and her snarl intensified.

“Swordbearer,” she said, her voice hollow, dead. “You were plotting against me the entire time, were you not? I thought as much. I…”

Gavin slapped the flat of Truthseeker’s blade against her stomach and released the power. The sword’s magic washed over her, shattering the spells of dark magic. Morigna stumbled back with a scream, the shadows vanishing, the blue fire winking out. She shuddered, blinking, and the void vanished from her eyes as they returned to their normal color. Her free hand flailed out and caught the trunk of the pine tree, and to his shock she looked…frightened. Like a lost child.

“I…” said Morigna.

She shuddered, fell to her knees, and threw up.

“I went too far,” she whispered, once her stomach had emptied itself. “I…I should not have done that. It almost consumed me. You were right. I…”

“Shut up,” said Gavin, grabbing her arm and pulling her up. “We have to go. Quickly.”

Morigna nodded, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and stumbled alongside Gavin and Antenora. A bolt of fear went through Gavin. Morigna’s dark magic had almost devoured her, but it had turned the urvaalgs against each other. Had the urvaalgs returned to the Traveler’s control when Gavin broke the spell? Had he just doomed all his friends to a bloody death beneath the urvaalgs’ claws?

They emerged from the pine trees, and to Gavin’s relief, he saw that Arandar and the others were all still alive. Most of them had been wounded, but everyone had survived the fight. Arandar moved among them, using Heartwarden’s power to heal their wounds.

“Oh, God be praised,” said Mara. She looked tired and strained, her green eyes ringed in dark circles, but she was unhurt. “You’re still alive.”

“Aye,” said Gavin. “Barely.”

“That was good work with the ursaar,” said Arandar.

Jager grinned. “Though after facing down an urvuul, I suppose an ursaar is a small challenge.”

“I’d rather not face either,” said Gavin, stepping forward. Jager had a nasty gash on his left arm, and Gavin raised his free hand and drew on Truthseeker’s power to close the wound.

“Thanks,” said Jager, grimacing and flexing his fingers. “The damned urvaalg nearly took my head off.”

“We must go,” said Azakhun, leaning upon his orcish sword like a cane. “We might have fought our way free, but we cannot linger.”

“Aye,” said Arandar. He looked at Morigna. “What happened to you?”

She gave him a sickly little smile. “I overexerted myself.”

Arandar grunted, his eyes narrowed, but said nothing else.

“We must go,” said Azakhun again.

“Yes,” said Arandar, shaking his head, “but I think it’s too late.” He pointed. “Look. See there?”

“More Mhorites,” said Jager, squinting through the pine trees.

“No,” said Arandar. “Not Mhorites. Anathgrimm warriors.”

Morigna frowned, took a step forward, and leaned on her staff to keep from pitching over. “But…that is to the east. The Mhorites are behind us. Which means…”

“Which means that the Traveler flanked Mournacht,” said Arandar. “And that means we are trapped between two armies about to begin a battle.”

Gavin looked around. Every one of his friends looked exhausted, and many had taken wounds, even if the soulblades’ power had healed them.

And now they were trapped between two armies within no chance of escape.

Chapter 19: Lures

“You are certain,” said Curzonar, “that this plan will work?”

“Not at all,” said Calliande, scrutinizing the symbols of pale white light she had written upon the Vault’s floor.

“Good,” said Curzonar. The manetaur prince’s lips curled back from his fangs in a fearsome snarl. Of course, the manetaurs’ leonine faces did not convey expressions as a human face did. They had angry snarls, or threatening snarls, but this was a pleased snarl.

“How is that possibly good?” said Calliande, looking at the symbols. They glowed in a ring between the Vault’s massive doors and the dais.

“Only a coward fights without risk,” said Curzonar, “and only a craven goes to battle when victory is utterly assured.”

“I thought that the manetaurs preferred to hunt from ambush,” said Ridmark. He stood a short distance away, staff in hand, his gray elven cloak seeming to blur with the shadows of the Vault every time he moved.

“Of course,” said Curzonar. “But there is no hunt without danger. The prey may turn and fight. Hooves can open a throat just as readily as claws and fangs. Chance might rule any battle. And we hunt a prey more dangerous than ourselves by far.”

“Truly,” said Ridmark.

Calliande cast one final spell, checking the wards she had layered across the floor. The idea had come to her as she examined the dwarven glyphs. She could not carve symbols into rock and enchant them as the stonescribes did, but she could cast wards. Usually she had to concentrate to maintain those wards, feeding her power into them, but that was when her wards were over living flesh. She had bound power into the blades of her friends, but then dismissed it as soon as the fighting was over.

It had never occurred to her to try casting a ward upon an object.

To her surprise, the ward held without her concentration. The dwarven stonescribes had prepared their wards and spells carefully, and consequently their glyphs endured for millennia. Calliande’s hasty wards would last no more than a day at most.

But that was enough for what she had in mind.

She hoped.

“We’re ready,” said Calliande. Ridmark nodded, and Curzonar moved closer to her. It still amazed her how the big manetaur could move in absolute silence. “I should cast the warding spells over all of us now.”

Ridmark frowned. “I’ll be the only one confronting the gorgon spirit, and you may need to bring your powers to bear.”

“There is no telling what might happen when the spirit arrives,” said Calliande. “It might ignore you. It might try to kill you. Or it might run right past you and attack us. We can’t take the chance. It can petrify you an instant, far more quickly than I can cast my wards. Better to be prepared now.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark, and Calliande cast a spell, drawing upon all her power. White fire sprang from her fingers, wrapping around her and Ridmark and Curzonar, sinking into their flesh and leaving behind a faintly visible shell of white light. It looked like a fragile shield, but it would deflect the gorgon spirit’s power.

“Go,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. “Count to three hundred, and then begin.”

“God go with you, Ridmark,” said Calliande.

“If the god of the humans rewards courage,” said Curzonar, “then he shall be with us today.”

“Let us hope you are right,” said Ridmark, and jogged for the doors to the Vault as Calliande started counting. Ridmark entered the ruins in the little valley and disappeared from sight. Calliande turned and walked to the side of the dais, the weight of the warding spell heavy upon her mind, her heart beating faster with fear. Odd that the prospect of a fight should still frighten her. She had seen many fights in the three and a half months since she had awakened, and as the Keeper she must have seen terrible battles. Yet the fear persisted. Perhaps it was just as well. Perhaps only overconfident fools and madmen went into battle without fear.

The glow of the wards pulsed in time to Calliande’s heartbeat, and she reached three hundred.

At once she knelt next to the first step of the dais, drawing the dwarven dagger from her belt. The weapon shivered a little in her hand, as if responding to the presence of the glyphs upon the stone. Calliande pressed the dagger to one of the green-glowing glyphs and sent a flicker of power through the blade, as much as she could spare while holding the ward in place.

The result was impressive.

A sound like a clanging gong came from the plinth, and the smooth stone floor shuddered beneath Calliande’s knees. The glyphs upon the dais went from harsh green to fiery yellow-orange, and another clanging noise filled her ears. More glyphs blazed to life upon the ceiling, and for a horrified instant Calliande was sure that she had miscalculated, that the glyphs were about to destroy her just as they had destroyed that Mhorite shaman in the High Pass.

Instead a third clang rang out.

Her gambit had worked. She had summoned the gorgon spirit back to its lair. Calliande scrambled to her feet and took several quick steps to the side, moving behind the dais and the plinth. Curzonar moved as well, concealing himself behind one of the massive doors of dwarven steel.

Calliande waited. The dais was between her and the doors of the Vault of the North. The ward trap she had cast upon the floor lay between the dais and the doors. When the gorgon spirit returned, it would likely head straight for her…and walk right into the magical trap.

And then she would see if the spell would be strong enough to hold it.

###

Ridmark stopped at the edge of the lake, gazing across the waters to the narrow path and the forest.

The thick plumes of smoke he had seen earlier had thinned, though black streaks still rose against the blue sky. Either the fire was still spreading, or someone had started new ones. That troubled Ridmark, but the sounds coming to his ears, even over the faint splash of the lake’s waters, concerned him a great deal more.

He was almost positive he could hear the sound of a battle.

There was no sound like it in the world. The tramp of charging boots, the clang of blade upon armor and helmet and shield, the furious cries and the terrified screams of the wounded. It was a sound a man never forgot…and Ridmark suspected he could hear it from across the lake.

A mere skirmish wouldn’t make that much noise. The only possible explanation was that the Traveler and Mournacht had at last led their hosts to battle. How many warriors did the dark elven lord and the Mhorite shaman have between them? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Ridmark wondered where Morigna and the others were. Hopefully they had gotten well clear of the battle and were drawing near the Gate of the West. With the Mhorites and the Traveler’s soldiers locked in battle, it would be an ideal time to run for the Gate. Even the trolls would be drawn to the fighting, ready to pick off stragglers and consume them…

A green flash caught his eye, and Ridmark pushed aside his worries.

He had his own battle to fight.

A blurring shape moved along the path, and Ridmark spotted Murzanar. The glyphs upon the crown of his helmet blazed with emerald fire, and the withered manetaur moved so fast that it seemed as if a comet of green fire trailed from his forehead. Calliande had been right. The presence of the dwarven dagger’s magic had been enough to summon the spirit back to the Vault. Of course, they had summoned it once before by accident, and it had left again anyway. Ridmark did not know what instructions the King of Khald Azalar had given the gorgon spirit, but it seemed bound to defend Khald Azalar. That meant it would likely choose more urgent threats over weaker ones.

Twenty thousand battling orcish warriors were a far greater threat than Ridmark, Calliande, and Curzonar.

Which meant Ridmark had to keep the gorgon spirit’s attention here.

He ducked around a ruined column, sprinted past a broken wall, and pressed himself against the rock wall of the valley, not far from the end of the path. The gorgon spirit would not see him there, and Ridmark risked a quick look. Murzanar charged forward with haste, and Ridmark braced himself, both hands closing tight around his staff.

He threw himself forward, swinging the staff.

His timing was perfect. He came out of concealment just as Murzanar entered the valley. His aim was less perfect. He had been hoping to break one of Murzanar’s legs, but the ancient manetaur reared up in surprise, and the black staff struck Murzanar across the side. Ribs snapped, and Murzanar let out a watery snarl of pain.

Then the gorgon spirit took control.

“Intruder!” it thundered, and green light blazed in the eyeholes of the helmet. The spirit’s terrible power felt like a physical pressure against Ridmark’s face, but the white glow of Calliande’s ward repelled the deadly force.

“Murzanar!” said Ridmark, lashing out with the staff. He caught the manetaur in the front right shoulder, and Murzanar flinched. “Remember me?”

The growl that came from the dwarven helmet was much less watery this time.

“I got away,” said Ridmark. “Gorgon spirit! Did not the King of Khald Azalar command you to defend this Vale from all intruders! You are failing in your task!”

He backed towards a ruined wall, stepping around a statue of a petrified manetaur, and Murzanar stalked after him. Against green light blazed from his eyes, and again the power of Calliande’s magic turned the attack aside.

“The intruders shall be destroyed,” said the gorgon spirit.

“Will they?” said Ridmark. “You’ve done a splendid job so far. The Vale is infested with intruders!” He stepped around the wall, making sure to keep it between him and Murzanar. “Better catch up! You’re falling behind.” Murzanar prowled forward, his grace and silence all the more terrifying with his emaciated form. “But I cannot blame you for failure, not when you are bound into such a pathetic physical form.”

Murzanar went motionless, a twitch going through his shoulders.

“What?” spat the manetaur.

“If you had possessed an orc or a dwarf,” said Ridmark, “I’m sure you would have swept the Vale clean of foes by now. But instead you possessed Murzanar. Perhaps he was a mighty and noble Hunter once, but if such a day ever existed, it passed long before I was born. Long before my grandfather was born, probably. I…”

A deep growl came from the helmet. “Be silent, human.”

“I suppose the King of Khald Azalar could not blame you for your failures, spirit,” said Ridmark. “Given that you inhabited a broken husk of a manetaur that cannot even kill one single human. Look at me!” He shook the staff at Murzanar. “I am a madman with a stick, and you still haven’t managed to kill me or turn me to a statue.”

Murzanar’s growls redoubled in intensity, his claws unsheathing from the tips of his fingers. They were not as large as the claws upon his lower paws, but they nonetheless looked quite sharp.

“Perhaps if the gorgon spirit had possessed a stronger host, it would have already prevailed over me,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps if it had possessed a kobold…”

That did it.

The manetaurs were fierce and strong, but nonetheless possessed of a terrible and unyielding pride. They could not abide challenges to that pride, and insults and mockery could drive them to deadly fury. Murzanar, even after decades of bondage to the gorgon spirit, even with his mind and body deteriorating, still possessed the furious pride of a manetaur prince.

The green light in his eyes sputtered, and Murzanar sprang forward, claws reaching for Ridmark’s face. Ridmark jumped back over the wall, rolling beneath the furious sweep of Murzanar’s claws. He hit the ground, scrambled to his feet, and took off running as Murzanar recovered from his leap and whirled. The manetaur let out a furious roar and raced after Ridmark, moving with the inhuman speed granted by the gorgon spirit.

Ridmark glanced over his shoulder, cursed, and sprinted faster. Murzanar surged after him, withered legs blurring over the uneven ground. Ridmark was fast for a man his size, but he had fought a lot of creatures that were a lot faster than he was, and he had realized that they did not handle sudden turns very well. He waited until Murzanar was only a few yards behind him, and threw himself to the right, jumping over an uneven wall. Murzanar snarled in fury and skidded to a halt, his claws raking at the ground, and turned his larger body to pursue Ridmark.

“Is that the best you can do?” shouted Ridmark, and he made himself laugh with derision. “I would have more to fear from a mewling kitten! Shall I leave out a bowl of warm milk so you can lap it up in your dotage?”

The answering scream of rage threatened to deafen him.

Ridmark had indeed captured Murzanar’s attention, and the manetaur’s offended pride should hopefully override the gorgon spirit for a short time. Murzanar would follow him right into Calliande’s trap.

Or he would rip off Ridmark’s head.

He sprinted for the gates of the Vault of the North.

###

Calliande heard the furious roars.

She had fought an urdmordar and been possessed by the Warden’s malevolent spirit, but something about a manetaur’s roar sent a chill down her back. It was a visceral fear of being dragged into the dark by some hulking creature to be devoured alive. At the moment, it was an irrational fear, given that the gorgon spirit was much more likely to turn her to stone.

Or that Murzanar was likely to kill Ridmark before he reached the Vault of the North. She wished she could have used some of her power to enhance his speed, yet all her magic went into maintaining the ward. Ridmark thought he could use the obstacle course of the ruins to avoid the furious manetaur.

She hoped he was right.

Then Ridmark burst through the doors of the Vault, running at a full sprint.

Murzanar was right behind him.

Ridmark was fast, but Murzanar was faster. The withered manetaur let out a furious roar and slashed with his right hand, and his claws raked across Ridmark’s back. There was a hideous metallic squeal as the claws scraped against the dark elven armor that Ridmark wore beneath his jerkin. The impact sent Ridmark hurtling forward, and he stumbled, lost his balance, and rolled onto the warding sigils Calliande had drawn upon the Vault’s floor.

Murzanar sprang into the air with inhuman strength. Ridmark shoved himself backwards, rolling onto the dais itself. At once the glyphs blazed with piercing emerald light, the power of the spells reaching up to turn him to stone. Calliande’s ward flared to life around him, and she felt the strain in her mind as the ancient magic struggled against her power.

Yet her spell held, and Ridmark jumped off the dais as Murzanar struck the floor like a thunderbolt. The withered manetaur turned to pursue Ridmark, and for a dreadful moment Calliande was sure that she had failed, that her trap would not hold either Murzanar or the gorgon spirit.

Murzanar took one step forward, and then the floor erupted with white fire.

Both the manetaur and the gorgon spirit screamed in pain and fury. A sigil of white flame shone beneath Murzanar’s paws, and bands of light held him bound like chains. Green light flared from the manetaur’s eyes and the dwarven helm, but the white fire swallowed it.

Calliande felt a wave of terrified exhilaration. Her spell had worked. It had trapped the gorgon spirit.

She did not know how long it would last, though. Already she felt the power weakening.

“Quickly,” rumbled Curzonar, running from behind the door. “Get the helmet off of him!”

Murzanar roared again, spasms going through his spindly limbs.

Ridmark nodded and stepped forward. His left boot touched the edge of the glowing white sigil, and the entire thing flickered and almost went out. Murzanar jerked forward a few inches, his claws flashing in the light.

“Stop!” said Calliande. A dark thought occurred to her. “If anyone steps on that, it’s going to disrupt the spell.”

“Then,” said Curzonar, “how are we supposed to get that cursed helmet off?”

That…had not occurred to her.

“I don’t know,” said Calliande, cursing herself as a fool. “I didn’t think your presence would disrupt the spell.”

“Leave me,” rasped Murzanar. “Damn you, leave me! Leave me! I am cursed, I am a slave to this dark power. Leave me before I destroy you, too!”

“Maybe,” said Ridmark, a strange look coming over his face, “maybe he can take the helmet off himself.”

Curzonar gave him an incredulous snarl, shrugged, and looked at the trapped manetaur. “Murzanar! Heed me! I am Curzonar, Prince of the Range and son of the Red King.”

“Yes,” croaked Murzanar. “Your…your scent. You are of the lineage of the Red King. I can smell it. Though…I suppose the Red King must have been slain and replaced many times since I left the Range. Fool, fool, fool. I should never have come here. I should…”

“It is not too late,” said Curzonar. “You can free yourself. Take off the helmet.”

“I…I cannot,” said Murzanar. “I cannot remember how. I cannot remember what it was to live, to not have the spirit’s rage filling my mind. To live, and not be trapped in this endless death.”

“You can be free,” said Curzonar, “and yet die as a true Hunter, not a thrall of that damned spirit. Take off the helmet. Take off the helmet and free yourself.”

Murzanar hesitated, his clawed hands twitching towards the bronze-colored helmet.

Then the green light flared in his eyes, and Calliande’s trap shattered.

“Perish!” roared the gorgon spirit as Murzanar sprang towards Ridmark.

Chapter 20: The Enemy Of My Enemy

“Well,” said Jager. “Now what?”

That was a very good question. Unfortunately, Gavin did not have an answer.

All around them rose the sound of battle, though for a moment they were in an island of calm. Dead urvaalgs carpeted the nearby ground, the thick black slime that served as their blood leaking into the earth. A troop of Anathgrimm orcs ran to the west. Gavin tensed, raising Truthseeker, but the orcish warriors kept running, their faces grimmer than usual behind their masks of black bone.

They were going to fight Mournacht and his Mhorites. Mournacht and the Traveler were more afraid of each other than they were of Gavin and his friends, and that fact was the only reason that Gavin and the others were still alive.

“Morigna,” said Arandar. “Can you call your ravens? We need to have a look around.”

“I shall try,” said Morigna. She was even paler than usual, her face and hair damp with sweat. Her usual cocksure arrogance had vanished, and she looked unsettled, even afraid. “But I warn you, I…may not be able to control the ravens. They come after the fighting to feast upon the carrion, and are wise enough to avoid the battle before it is over.”

“Do it anyway,” said Arandar. “We cannot stay here, and the more we know about the position of our foes, the better chance we have of getting away.”

Another dark shape shot overhead. One of the Traveler’s urdhracosi, likely going to scout the Mhorite host. After Mournacht had killed the first urdhracos so easily, perhaps the others would hold back from the fighting.

Morigna closed her eyes, muttering under her breath as she worked a spell. Gavin looked at her, reaching through Truthseeker, but did not sense any dark magic. He glanced at Antenora, saw her staring at Morigna with those unsettling yellow eyes. She had looked exactly the same as she unleashed her fiery magic at her foes, and Gavin wondered if she was about to kill Morigna. Antenora claimed to have defended the people of Old Earth from dark magic for fifteen centuries, and Morigna had just used a lot of dark magic. If Antenora killed Morigna, God only knew how Ridmark would react…

The yellow eyes shifted to him, and Antenora shrugged and looked back at Morigna.

“I will take a look around,” said Mara.

“It is risky,” said Jager.

“We’re in the middle of a battle,” said Mara. “Risk is relative. I’ll be quick.”

“Go,” said Arandar. Mara vanished in the usual swirl of blue fire, and Arandar turned his attention to Azakhun’s dwarves, using Heartwarden’s power to heal at least some of their injuries. Gavin hurried to join him, using Truthseeker’s magic to the same purpose. Azakhun had broken his right arm, and Gavin managed to heal it, the sword’s magic compelling the bones to knit. The soulblade’s power was not as effective as Calliande’s healing magic, but it also did not force him to feel the pain of the wounds he healed. He did not know how Calliande could stand to do it over and over again, to feel the pain of all those wounds.

Every so often Gavin saw an urvaalg racing through the trees, or a pair of Anathgrimm scouts hurrying along, but they never stopped to fight. He knew that couldn’t last. Sooner or later either the Traveler or Mournacht would decide to get rid of them before moving on their main enemy.

Mara reappeared next to Arandar, her face grim.

“What have you found?” said Arandar.

“You were right,” said Mara. “It looks like the Traveler stole a march on Mournacht. While Mournacht was attacking us, the Traveler flanked him, got behind the Mhorites to the east.” She shook her head. “If the Traveler had attacked then, he would have swept the Mhorites away.”

Arandar frowned. “What stopped him? The trolls?”

“No,” said Mara. “His own cowardice, likely.” Her lip twisted with disgust. “He could have had victory…”

“But victory is never certain in battle,” said Arandar. “There is always the risk of defeat, of ill luck.”

“Aye,” said Mara. “I think that gave Mournacht the time to get his army turned around. He’s facing the Anathgrimm now, formed up for battle. I couldn’t find Mournacht himself, though.”

“He is at the ruins of the tower,” said Morigna, eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. “He is directing his warriors and shamans from there.”

“Wait,” said Jager. “That puts the Traveler between Mournacht and the Gate of the West. Why doesn’t he just run for the Gate? He could get to Khald Azalar first and hold it against Mournacht indefinitely, I should think.”

“Cowardice again,” said Mara. “A bolder man might have done it. My father would never leave a living foe at his back. He’ll try to destroy the Mhorites before heading for the Gate of the West.”

“Might he send his soldiers to their deaths and make for Khald Azalar while they distract the Mhorites?” said Kharlacht. “That is the sort of tactic a dark elven lord would employ.”

Mara shrugged. “He might. But I don’t think he will. He didn’t leave the Nightmane Forest for centuries. He won’t go anywhere without his guardians.” She shook her head, pale blond hair sliding before her green eyes. “And he isn’t moving. His song hasn’t changed.”

“Song?” said Antenora.

“Long story,” said Gavin.

“We cannot stay here,” said Jager. “If we do, we’ll be ground to pulp between those two armies.”

“We cannot fight our way out,” said Morigna, opening her eyes. “There are simply too many Mhorites and too many Anathgrimm, to say nothing of the urvaalgs and the urdhracosi.”

“But the battle hasn’t begun yet?” said Jager. “Has it?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mara. “Not properly, anyway. Some skirmishes between scouts, but the main hosts haven’t advanced yet.”

“Then,” said Arandar, “it seems that our best course of action is to start the battle for them.”

“What do you intend?” said Kharlacht.

“Lady Mara,” said Arandar. “Which way is the Traveler himself?”

“That way.” Mara pointed to the east, as confidently as if Arandar had asked her to point to the sun.

“The tower is to the southwest,” said Arandar. “We drifted a bit north while fighting the urvaalgs, but I think we can make our way back to the tower with little difficulty.”

“Back to the tower?” said Morigna, some of her usual asperity reasserting itself. “None of us is strong enough to overcome Mournacht, not even you, Sir Arandar. Nor all of us together, I fear.”

“No,” said Arandar, “but I’d wager the Traveler is strong enough to challenge Mournacht.”

Caius sucked in a breath. “Then you mean to attack Mournacht, draw him out…and lead him right to the Traveler.”

“Precisely,” said Arandar. “Then we make our escape while they try to kill each other.”

“Well,” said Caius. “It is the sort of audacious madness the Gray Knight would attempt.”

“Antenora,” said Arandar. “How quickly can you set a tree afire?”

“One of these pine trees?” said Antenora. “Quite quickly. No more than a few seconds each, if I concentrate. The sap burns quite quickly at a high enough heat.”

“Good,” said Arandar. “We shall engage Mournacht and force him to pursue us. Antenora will burn the trees around us to cover our retreat, and we shall lead Mournacht to the Traveler and his guards. When they fight, we shall escape to the east.”

Gavin saw any number of problems with that plan. It assumed they could escape Mournacht. The orcish shaman and his followers might just kill them all. Or the Traveler’s minions might kill them first. Or any number of a thousand other things might go wrong.

But he could think of nothing else to do.

“Let’s go,” said Arandar, adjusting his shield.

###

A few moments later the ruined watch tower came into sight.

Gavin stepped forward, cinders and charred pine cones crunching beneath his feet. Hundreds of Mhorite orcs stood at the base of the tower’s hill. Messengers hastened back and forth, and in the distance he heard the tramp of boots as the Mhorite host arrayed itself for battle, preparing to charge the Traveler’s Anathgrimm.

A group of towering orcish warriors stood separate from the others. These orcs wore black plate mail, heavy swords in hand and massive shields upon their left arms. The cuirasses had been embossed with the crimson skull of Mhor, and their faces were hidden beneath masked helms wrought in the shape of crimson orcish skulls.

They had to be Mournacht’s personal guards.

Mournacht stood in their midst. He carried that huge axe like a staff in his right hand, its blade shining with crimson sigils. Mournacht bellowed a steady stream of commands to his messengers. Gavin wondered how the Mhorites would fare in battle against the Traveler’s host. The Anathgrimm were better armored, and the urvaalgs fiercer…but the Traveler was too passive. He would cower behind his wards while Mournacht led his men into battle personally, screaming battle cries to Mhor and killing with that enormous axe.

Mournacht hadn’t seen Gavin and the others yet, likely thanks to the haze of smoke still rising from the trees that Antenora had burned in their retreat.

“Antenora,” said Arandar.

She nodded and flicked her staff, a ball of white fire soaring through the smoke to slam into Mournacht. It exploded into small column of spitting flame. Mournacht did not even so much as blink, and the fire vanished as the sigils upon his chest and arms shone brighter. The shaman turned, his black eyes narrowed.

“Mournacht of Kothluusk!” roared Arandar at the top of his lungs, raising Heartwarden over his head, its white fire blazing through the smoke. “I, Arandar of Tarlion, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, name you coward and craven! Come forth and do battle with me, or slink behind your guards like the dog that you are!”

“Ah!” Mournacht’s voice boomed like a thunderclap. “I see the Traveler subverted you. Very well.”

He turned and spoke a command, and one of the black-armored warriors lifted a war horn and blew a long blast. Answering blasts came from the north and the south, and suddenly the thunderous noise of ten thousand orcs bellowing battle cries filled Gavin’s ears. The Mhorite orcs, all of them, started marching forward in tight formation.

Mournacht leveled his axe and pointed the weapon at Antenora. Her yellow eyes got wide, and she took a hasty step back as bloody fire snarled around the twin blades. She could unleash tremendous destruction with her magic, but Gavin suspected that she had no way of warding herself from hostile spells.

“Get behind me!” he shouted, putting himself in front of her and drawing upon Truthseeker’s power.

A blast of blood-colored fire ripped from Mournacht’s axe with a howling sound and slammed into Gavin as Truthseeker flared.

He did not remember what happened over the next few seconds.

When he came to himself he was stumbling backwards, clutching Truthseeker’s hilt with his right hand, Mournacht’s magic snarling around him. The soulblade shuddered in his hand like a dying thing, and Gavin only managed to stop himself from falling by grabbing at a small pine tree. The crimson fire leapt into the tree, withering it to a dead husk, and at last Mournacht’s magic faded.

The orcish shaman was hideously powerful…and Gavin had a creeping suspicion that Mournacht had not even used his full strength for the attack.

He realized that Antenora was staring at him with wide eyes. More urgently, he also realized that the entire Mhorite line was charging, Mournacht at their head, his black-armored guards flanking him.

“Run!” shouted Arandar, pointing to the east.

Gavin caught his balance, turned, and sprinted after the others. Antenora swung her staff as she ran, throwing fireball after fireball. The spheres did not seem nearly as hot or as focused as the ones she unleashed with adequate preparation. Yet they were hot enough to set the pine trees ablaze as they ran, and soon Antenora left a trailing of burning pine trees behind her as she ran.

“Keep going!” said Arandar, jumping over a tangled root and around a tree trunk. “We’re…”

A pair of urvaalgs burst from behind one of the burning trees. Morigna turned and gestured, roots rising from the earth to slow them. The urvaalgs staggered, clawing free of the roots, and Gavin brought Truthseeker down in a white flash. He took the head from the nearest urvaalg, and Arandar struck the second creature, driving Heartwarden through its black heart.

Behind them the Mhorites charged.

“Go!” said Arandar, ripping Heartwarden’s shining blade from the urvaalg’s carcass. Antenora set another tree ablaze and kept running, her long black coat billowing out. Morigna turned and cast a spell, and a thick curtain of white mist rose from the forest floor in a broad arc, cutting off the Mhorites and Mournacht from sight. It was a less potent spell than her acidic mist, a fog that put anyone who breathed it into a light sleep. Hopefully it would slow the Mhorites a little…

Red fire flashed in the mist, and it faded away as the black-armored warriors kept running. Mournacht sprinted in their midst, crimson flame blazing around his outstretched left hand.

Morigna cursed and ran, and Gavin followed her.

Suddenly they broke through a line of trees, and Arandar came to a stop, Caius and Kharlacht and Jager at his side, Azakhun and his dwarves bringing up the back as Mara flickered into existence next to them. Gavin urged Antenora and Morigna forward, breathing hard, but both sorceresses stopped.

Hundreds of Anathgrimm warriors filled the small clearing. A score of crouching urvaalgs waited before them, snarling and snapping, the crimson light of their eyes shining with hellish fury. Gavin spotted Zhorlacht and a dozen other Anathgrimm wizards, ghostly blue fire playing about their hands.

In the midst of the warriors waited the Traveler.

The dark elven lord sat atop a massive ursaar as a mailed knight might sit astride a warhorse. 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. The Traveler sat in a saddle of black leather, resplendent in his fine armor, his cloak thrown back. He carried a sword of blue steel in his armored fist, the blade writhing with shadow and ghostly blue flame. The Traveler’s bottomless black eyes sank into them, and his white lips rolled back from his white teeth in a snarl.

Then he smiled, but the snarl returned an instant later, a strange tremor going over his gaunt features.

“Sir Arandar of Tarlion the traitor,” said the Traveler in his voice of inhuman beauty, his words dripping with amused glee. “So you have returned to me at last.”

“I have kept my oaths to God, the High King, and the Order,” said Arandar. “I fail to see how I am a traitor.”

“Disobedience!” screamed the Traveler, his good humor vanishing. “Traitor! I commanded you to slay Mournacht and lay the worm’s head before my feet! Prattle about your God and your High King all you wish, Sir Arandar of Tarlion, but I alone am the true god of this world, and you have disobeyed me!” He shuddered, and his voice went cold and dead and clinical. “Perhaps you were in league with Mournacht all along. Yes, I see it clearly now.” His armored ursaar let out a long, vibrating snarl. “All from the beginning. You were plotting against me from the start. The bearer of Incariel’s shadow, the dwarves of Khald Azalar, Sir Arandar of Tarlion, and Mournacht, all plotting together to destroy me. A pity for you that I am too strong to be conquered.”

“You should prepare,” said Arandar. “Stronger foes than us are coming to destroy you.”

“No,” said the Traveler in that calculating voice. “You have instead brought prizes to my reach, Sir Arandar. My wayward daughter.” Mara glared at him, but the Traveler’s face remained a cold mask. “And two most peculiar wielders of magic. The sorceress of fire, her magic originating from another world…and the sorceress twisted by dark magic.”

“I doubt you have the wit to use our skill,” said Morigna. Her voice quavered only a little. “You are a relic of a forgotten age, a dusty anachronism.”

The Traveler’s cold eyes shifted to her, and malicious glee crept back into his empty expression. “Both of you will be of use to me. The sorceress of fire…her magic is of another world, and sufficient torture and dissection shall yield its secrets unto me. I came here to claim the Keeper’s staff, but the secrets of her power shall be a pleasant bonus. As for the twisted sorceress…she has used enough dark magic that her womb will likely birth an urdhracos, and for a human animal she is not completely unpleasant to the eye. She would make an enjoyable concubine.”

“Try it and see what happens,” said Morigna.

“I am warning you,” said Arandar, “you are in danger. A more powerful foe approaches.”

“And you shall be of use to me as well, Sir Arandar,” said the Traveler. Gavin felt a crawling chill as the Traveler’s void-filled eyes swept over him. “Your soulblades shall make fine trophies in my treasuries at Nightmane Forest, and I shall recall fondly the agonies of your death every time I look at them.” He beckoned with his free hand, the Anathgrimm shifting. “Take the sorceresses alive. Also take my wayward daughter and her pet halfling rat. I shall enjoy disciplining her by torturing the rat to death in front of her.”

“Charming,” muttered Jager.

“I have no need for the others,” said the Traveler with an airy wave of his hand. “Kill the rest of them.”

The Anathgrimm started forward, and the first of the black-armored Mhorites burst into the clearing.

The Traveler’s glee hardened into fury at once. “Treachery! Faithless knight! You led these rebel slaves here? You permitted them to make war against your lord and god?”

“You,” said Arandar, “are not my god, nor anyone else’s.”

Mournacht ran into the clearing, more of the black-armored guards following him, but came to an abrupt stop when he saw the Traveler. He raised his arm and shouted a command, and the guards halted around him.

For a moment the Anathgrimm and the Mhorites stared at each other, even as the sounds of the battle rose around them.

“What have we here?” said Mournacht, taxing his axe in both hands.

“A rebellious slave worshipping a ragged superstition,” sneered the Traveler, his voice full of wrath.

Mournacht spat, his black eyes filled with the red light of battle fury. “And I see a ragged ghost, a relic of a world dead and forgotten. You had your time, dark elf. It is time for you to fall into the dust of history with the rest of your kin.”

“Fool,” said the Traveler. “You think yourself your own man? You are still a slave, even if you know it not. I see the haze of stolen magic about you. You are the puppet of the bearer of Incariel’s shadow. What has he promised you? What lies has he poured into your ears? Heed him and you shall go down the path to destruction, as my kindred did in ancient days.”

“Do not threaten me, you haggard shadow,” said Mournacht. “The staff of the Keeper shall be mine, and a new age comes to the world. I shall bathe this world in blood as an offering to Mhor, and I shall be more than happy to start with you.”

“Impudent slave,” said the Traveler, his face twisted with fury. “Fall upon your knees before your god and beg forgiveness before I…”

Mournacht’s expression did not change. One hand came off the haft of his axe, and a bolt of screaming crimson fire burst from his palm and hurtled towards the Traveler. The dark elven lord gestured with his free hand, and the cylinder of blue light Gavin had seen earlier reappeared, erupting from the ground to encase both him and his ursaar mount. The blast of blood sorcery struck the cylinder with a tremendous clanging sound, and the backlash of dark magic made Truthseeker blaze brighter in response. That same spell had hurtled Gavin backwards like a leaf in a storm, but it did not even make the Traveler blink.

“Kill them!” screamed the Traveler. “Kill them all! Kill them and bring me that rebel shaman’s head!”

“Kill them!” howled Mournacht, shaking his axe over his head. “Kill the Swordbearers, kill their followers, and kill the dark elf’s mutant dogs!”

The two bands of orcish warriors roared and charged at each other, and both the Traveler and Mournacht began casting spells.

Gavin spun, his mind racing. Arandar’s plan had worked. The Traveler and Mournacht were fixed upon each other. If they moved now, perhaps they could get away before…

But that hope died in his heart.

To the north he saw nothing but Anathgrimm warriors and Mhorite orcs locked in battle. Mhorite shamans and Anathgrimm wizards cast spells at each other, the urdhracosi circling overhead. He looked to the south and saw the same thing. The Traveler and his minions charged from the east, and Mournacht and his guards from the west.

They were trapped.

Most Swordbearers, he knew, died in battle. Gavin had only lasted a few weeks. Though he supposed with grim humor that he had been a Swordbearer for the rest of his life.

Kharlacht took his greatsword in both hands, and Caius raised his mace. Jager kissed Mara upon the lips, and then they stood side by side, dark elven short swords in hand. Azakhun and his retainers lifted their stolen orcish weapons, saying quiet prayers to the Dominus Christus. Purple fire crackled around the length of Morigna’s staff, and Antenora struck her staff against the ground, the sigils flaring to sullen light. Arandar lifted Truthseeker, the soulblade shining, and Gavin saw the quiet regret on his face.

He would never get to see his son and daughter again.

“A heroic last stand,” muttered Jager. “How dreadfully trite. I do hope no one makes a song of this.”

“Perhaps they shall make you the hero of it,” said Morigna.

“Songs are never accurate,” said Jager.

“Defend yourselves,” said Arandar.

The Anathgrimm and the Mhorites closed around them, and Gavin and the others struck as one.

Chapter 21: Lion and Knight

Murzanar sprang at Ridmark, claws extended, but he was already moving.

He threw himself out of the way and hit the ground, rolling away from the withered manetaur’s rush. Ridmark came to his feet and spun as Murzanar tried to turn and swung his staff. He thought about trying to hit a leg or an arm, but instead he aimed for the manetaur’s head. The helmet was the key, the way the gorgon spirit had bound itself to Murzanar’s flesh. If Ridmark could get the helmet off of Murzanar’s head…

The staff slammed into the side of the helmet. Murzanar’s head snapped back, the manetaur letting out a furious snarl. Ridmark dodged to the side as Murzanar slashed at him, striking blow after blow at the helmet. The manetaur stumbled, the eyeholes of the helmet blazing with green fire. If Ridmark could just hook the end of his staff underneath the helmet’s edge…

The gorgon spirit roared and Murzanar shot forward. Ridmark dodged, but too slow. The razor-sharp claws raked across his chest, the dark elven armor keeping them from ripping his flesh to shreds, but the gorgon spirit’s sheer strength drove him to the floor. He crawled back, hearing Calliande shout something, and Murzanar stalked after him, ready to kill.

Another roar filled the Vault, and Curzonar sprang at the withered manetaur.

Murzanar thrust his left hand with contemptuous ease. He had faced Curzonar before, and both the gorgon spirit and Murzanar knew that Curzonar had no weapons effective against the gorgon spirit’s power.

So it took the gorgon spirit entirely by surprise when Curzonar raised Ridmark’s enspelled dwarven axe and brought it down.

Murzanar realized the danger at the last minute and jerked his arm back, but not before the dwarven axe sheared through his arm at the elbow. The withered manetaur let out a horrible shriek of shocked pain, and a spattering of crimson blood fell from the stump of his arm. Curzonar struck again as Murzanar jerked back, and this time the dwarven axe’s keen edge opened a long gash down Murzanar’s ribs. Curzonar roared something in the snarling tongue of the manetaurs and kept attacking, driving Murzanar back step by step. Ridmark recovered his feet, his chest aching from the blow, and seized his staff. He ran after the battling manetaurs, hoping to strike from Murzanar’s injured side.

One of Murzanar’s legs crumpled as he retreated, and Curzonar roared in triumph and raised the axe over his head, ready to bring it down and end the fight.

The eyeholes of Murzanar’s helmet blazed with green fire, and the gorgon spirit’s deeper voice drowned out Murzanar’s groaning snarl. Murzanar charged as Curzonar started to strike, closing before Curzonar could properly aim his blow. Curzonar managed a glancing hit across Murzanar’s right shoulder, but the gorgon spirit drove Murzanar’s remaining fist into Curzonar’s armored chest. Curzonar went hurtling through the air, both of his arms and all four of his legs flailing for balance. He hit the floor and skidded into one of the columns.

Ridmark attacked before the gorgon spirit could recover, his staff a blur. He struck the gash Curzonar had left in Murzanar’s chest and shoulder. Murzanar stumbled across the space that Calliande’s warding trap had occupied. Ridmark hoped that some lingering magic yet remained there, something to hold or at least hinder the gorgon spirit, but nothing happened.

No matter. He would do without it.

He struck again and again. The missing arm left a critical hole in Murzanar’s defense, one that Ridmark exploited without mercy. He rained blows upon Murzanar’s front left leg, and at last he heard a bone snap, and the manetaur stumbled with a scream of fury.

Ridmark grabbed the lower edge of the dwarven helmet with his left hand. The metal felt cold beneath his fingers, and something like an electric shock shot up his arm. The glyphs upon the crown began to pulse wildly, and Ridmark shoved, trying to pull the helmet over Murzanar’s head. He felt the manetaur’s leathery, gaunt hide against his fingers, felt the brittle, crumbling fur.

The helmet started to slide up, and Murzanar backhanded Ridmark across the chest. The blow knocked Ridmark back, ripping the helmet from his grasp, and he drove the end of his staff against the floor to keep his balance. Murzanar stepped forward, wobbled a bit, and almost collapsed, his injured leg dragging, blood dripping from the stump of his left hand. Ridmark heard a clatter of armor as Curzonar pulled himself off the floor, the dwarven axe ready in his hand. Perhaps getting the helmet off Murzanar would be unnecessary. The gashes Curzonar had carved across the ancient manetaur’s torso were shrinking, but slowly, and the severed left arm was not healing at all. Maybe they could simply kill Murzanar outright. Though Ridmark was not sure if the gorgon spirit could control Murzanar’s corpse.

Murzanar roared in defiance, his cry deepening into the gorgon spirit’s rumbling snarl, and leapt backwards. Ridmark realized what was happening and ran forward, but the gorgon spirit was too fast. Murzanar struck the floor six yards away and sank into the stone, vanishing without a trace.

The gorgon spirit had escaped.

He turned just as Calliande ran for the dais.

###

“Be ready!” said Calliande, going to one knee and drawing the dwarven dagger from its sheath. The strain of holding the warding spell in place weighed upon her mind. When Ridmark had stepped on the dais, the power of the ancient dwarven glyphs had almost overwhelmed the ward, and it had taken all of Calliande’s strength to hold the spell.

“Be ready for what?” said Curzonar. “Our quarry has escaped us!”

“Aye,” said Calliande, “but he’s going to be back very soon.”

“You can call him back?” said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded. “Are you ready for another round?”

“Always!” roared Curzonar.

She hoped they were. Ridmark looked unharmed, but he was breathing hard, and a faint twitch went through his left arm every time he drew breath. Had he broken a rib? Curzonar was bruised from his fall, but still looked full of fight. She wished she could have healed them both, and considered dropping the wards long enough to do that. But she dared not take that risk. The gorgon spirit might be watching, waiting for her to lower her defenses. The spirit itself did not seem terribly clever, but underestimating one’s enemies was often a fatal error.

Ridmark nodded. “There may be limits to how much physical punishment Murzanar can take and keep functioning, even with the gorgon spirit’s help. If we injure him badly enough, perhaps we can get the helmet off of him.”

Calliande took a deep breath and pushed the dagger’s tip into the nearest glyph.

###

Again the Vault of the North shuddered, the glyphs upon the dais going from green to fiery orange. Ridmark stepped back, ignoring the pain in his chest and left shoulder, his eyes sweeping the Vault. He saw no sign of Murzanar, but he knew that would not last. As before, he looked at the ceiling, anticipating attack from above, but the vaulted ceiling remained smooth and unbroken. Murzanar was insane and hagridden by the alien spirit in his flesh…but he was still a predator.

A Hunter of the Range would not use the same attack upon prey that had already escaped him.

Ridmark looked at the floor and saw the smooth stone start to ripple beneath his boots.

“Curzonar!” he yelled, throwing himself to the side. “Beneath us!” The manetaur prince took the hint and dodged.

It was just in time. A half-second later Murzanar erupted from the floor as smoothly as a trout leaping from a lake. The manetaur landed where Ridmark had stood earlier and loosed a furious roar, but Ridmark and Curzonar were already moving. Ridmark struck the helmet with his staff, and Curzonar sank the axe into Murzanar’s sunken torso. As he retracted his weapon, Ridmark saw that Murzanar’s wounds from the earlier fighting had healed entirely, that the severed arm had regrown. Perhaps when immersed in stone, the gorgon spirit had more power to heal its host.

At all costs they had to keep Murzanar from retreating again.

“Perish!” thundered the gorgon spirit, green fire blazing in the helm. “Perish!” The pressure of its power screamed against Calliande’s ward, white light flaring around Ridmark. “This is the realm of the King of Khald Azalar. Perish!”

Ridmark struck again, and Murzanar leapt into the air, landing several yards away. The green fire faded a bit in the helm, and the mask looked back and forth between Curzonar and Ridmark.

“Why are you still here?” said Murzanar, his voice quavering. “Fools. Fools! I cannot stop myself! I do not know how you baffled the spirit’s power, but you must go! Flee before I slay you!”

“I am a son of the Red King and a Prince of the Range of the Hunters!” said Curzonar. “I do not flee.”

“Then you shall die!” shrieked Murzanar. “You shall die when I tear you apart. You shall die when your protective spell fails and the spirit within me freezes your flesh into stone!”

He attacked, and Ridmark went to the left and Curzonar to the right. Curzonar swung the dwarven axe, and Murzanar jerked to avoid the blow. Ridmark thrust his staff, the end of the weapon clanging off the side of the dwarven helmet. Curzonar seized the other manetaur’s instant of disorientation, and his axe clipped Murzanar’s flank. Again Murzanar’s roar hardened into the basso thunder of the gorgon spirit’s fury, and green fire blazed behind the helmet. The ground rippled and snapped at their feet like a banner caught in the wind, but this time both Ridmark and Curzonar were ready for it. Ridmark threw himself to the side, jumping over the worst of the distortion, while Curzonar roared and sprang into the air. He soared forward and crashed into Murzanar, clawing at the helmet. Murzanar struck back, knocking the axe from Curzonar’s hand, and reared up on his hind legs. His clawed hands and legs raked and slashed at Curzonar, and Curzonar answered in kind, his hands grappling at Murzanar’s arms, his forelegs raking at Murzanar and tearing the leathery hide to bloody shreds. They looked almost exactly like two lions battling over prey.

Ridmark started forward to join the fight, and then stopped.

The glow in the helmet’s glyphs was sputtering, and the same flicker went through the glyphs upon the dais. Had Curzonar loosened the helmet? No, it was still firmly in place stop Murzanar’s head. Neither the dwarven axe nor the black staff of Ardrhythain had damaged the helmet.

He shot a look at Calliande.

“It’s his memory!” she shouted. “He’s remembering his life before he came here!”

Ridmark blinked, wondering why that was significant.

Then he looked at Murzanar’s wasted, withered form and remembered how the ancient manetaur had said that he could not remember the excitement of the hunt or the taste of meat or the thrill of battle. The manetaurs were fierce and deadly creatures, and most of them died in battle, either in dominance challenges with each other or with foes from other kindreds. Murzanar had been trapped in the Vale of Stone Death for over a century.

Was the fight with Curzonar reviving long-forgotten memories?

Curzonar and Murzanar broke apart, circling each other.

An idea came to Ridmark. Perhaps he could not defeat Murzanar in battle, but there were weapons other than wood or steel.

“Do you remember, Murzanar?” shouted Ridmark, and the masked helm twitched in his direction. “Do you remember the last time you fought a rival like this? Fang to fang and claw to claw?”

“Be silent,” snarled Murzanar. “You are a human! You understand nothing of our ways!”

“I am not a manetaur,” said Ridmark. “I am not one of the Hunters. But neither are you!”

Ridmark heard Murzanar’s fangs clash behind the masked helmet.

“Do you remember the hunt?” said Ridmark. “To chase down your prey and slay them with your jaws? No! All you have done for decades is turn your enemies to stone, to freeze them in images of cold rock. When have you last tasted the hot blood of your prey?”

Curzonar and Murzanar kept circling each other, violent twitches going through Murzanar’s gaunt frame.

“No,” said Murzanar. “No. Intruders…intruders must…I am…I am…” His voice dissolved into an incoherent snarl.

“You were a Prince of the Range, a Hunter, a son of the Red King,” said Ridmark. “Do you not remember what that means?”

Curzonar looked back and forth between Ridmark and Murzanar, his golden eyes narrowed.

“I…am a Prince of the Range,” rasped Murzanar. “I…remember. It was…so long ago. I came here. A Rite of Challenge. That helmet.” A groan of despair came from beneath the bronze-colored mask. “That damned helmet. I should never have touched it. So many decades. The spirit rules me, I cannot…fight it. I cannot fight it!”

“You cannot fight it,” said Ridmark. “There is another way.”

“What, then?” said Murzanar.

“Submit,” said Ridmark.

Murzanar snarled, his claws scraping against the floor. “You dare to demand that I submit to you, human? I am a Prince of the Range!”

“Not to me,” said Ridmark, jerking his head at Curzonar. “To him.”

Murzanar whirled to face the younger manetaur.

“He is a Prince of the Range,” said Ridmark. “He is a son of the Red King, your blood and kin. He has challenged you and fought you. Submit to him, and you can be free of the gorgon spirit.”

“By killing me?” said Murzanar, his voice a faint rasp.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “You have far outlived your natural span, my lord Prince. You should have died a century ago. Would you rather live as you have for another century, another ten centuries? Or would you rather die as a Hunter should?”

For a long, terrible moment Murzanar said nothing, his body twitching, the glyphs upon the crown of the helmet flaring and sputtering. A steady growl came from him. No, two growls. One was Murzanar’s raspy, weary voice. The other was the gorgon spirit’s ominous rumble. The helmet blazed with green fire, the ghostly emerald flames working down Murzanar’s neck and shoulders. Ridmark was certain that the gorgon spirit was going to overwhelm the ancient manetaur, that the spirit would shatter Murzanar’s mind.

But the gorgon spirit’s angry rumble faded, and Murzanar’s voice rose in a cry of despair.

“It has been a century!” said Murzanar, falling to his knees. “A century of bondage, a century of killing! But it has not been the proper killing of a Hunter, not the noble slaying of prey. Again and again I have turned my foes to stone with my gaze. I did not kill them with my fangs as a Hunter should. No! I turned them to stone! I did not even taste their blood and their flesh! It is a dishonorable way to kill. Dishonorable! For so many years I have killed this way, years and years and years piled up like bones within a grave.”

“You can end this,” said Ridmark. “You know how.”

“No,” said Murzanar. “Not you. Not a human. You, prince of the Range. You must do this. I am defeated. You defeated me.”

“Yes,” said Curzonar, his deep voice solemn.

“Do it quickly,” said Murzanar. “I cannot…I cannot hold back the spirit for much longer. Do it now. Slay me as a Hunter should be slain.” His head twitched towards Ridmark. “Does this shock you, human? It is the way of the Hunters. It is a grave dishonor to die of old age. Most of us fall in battle, whether against the prey or each other. I have lived for too long. Slay me, prince of the Range, and let me die as a…as a…”

His voice deepened, the green light of the helmet brightening.

Curzonar moved with the speed of a serpent, his jaws closing fight around Murzanar’s exposed throat. There was a crunching and tearing sound, Murzanar’s body going rigid, his claws scrabbling against the floor. Curzonar jerked his head back in a spray of crimson, and the motion sent the helmet tumbling from Murzanar’s head and rolling across the floor.

For the first time, Ridmark looked on Murzanar’s face.

It was gaunt and weary, his mane little more than a few ragged tufts, his eyes filmy, half his whiskers missing. Yet there was no pain in his cloudy eyes, only gratitude, only relief at last. He shuddered once and collapsed to the floor in a ragged bundle of splayed limbs.

Silence fell over the Vault.

Curzonar straightened up and shook his head, droplets of blood flying from his fangs.

“A worthy death,” said Curzonar. “I will return and tell it to the arbiters. They should know how he died.” He reached down and removed Murzanar’s baldric, taking the ancient sword. “He overcame the spirit in the end.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

“How did you know?” said Curzonar.

Calliande stepped to join them, the white glow vanishing from her fingers as she released her warding spell.

“Know what?” said Ridmark.

“What to say to him,” said Calliande. Curzonar nodded, the plume of his helm wavering.

Ridmark shrugged. “I understand despair.”

Calliande looked at him with wide blue eyes.

He ignored the question in them. “Thank you. Without your magic, we wouldn’t have lasted five seconds against the gorgon spirit.”

“I wonder if it released any of its victims,” said Calliande. “Your fellows, lord Prince.”

“We shall find out,” said Curzonar, looking at the dwarven helmet. “What should we do with that thing?”

“Leave it,” said Calliande. “Don’t touch it. I fear…I fear that if you do, the gorgon spirit will inhabit you at once.”

“I fear nothing,” said Curzonar, but he took a prudent step back.

“Those doors,” said Calliande, pointing at the massive doors of dwarven steel. “If we close them behind us, I think the locks in the doors will engage. Hopefully no one will ever come here again.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark, eyeing the helmet. “I would not want that power to fall into the hands of the Traveler or Mournacht. Especially if they could control it.”

“What of Murzanar’s remains?” said Calliande. “Should…do you want them to lie here, lord Prince? He was a kinsman of yours.”

“No,” said Curzonar. “The Hunters do not bury our dead as you humans do. Let us instead take him outside and let the scavengers take him. That is as it should be for a fallen Hunter.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He handed Calliande his staff, and together he and Curzonar carried Murzanar’s corpse towards the door.

“I am in your debt, Ridmark Arban the Gray Knight,” said Curzonar. “You aided me and permitted me to wield your weapon of war. Without your aid, I would have failed in my Rite of Challenge, and Kurdulkar would have prevailed. How shall I repay you?”

They stepped back into the sunlight, and Ridmark heard growling voices.

Manetaurs, dozens of manetaurs, prowled the ruins of the little valley.

It seemed Murzanar had indeed released his people before he died.

“How shall you repay me?” said Ridmark. “I might have an idea or two.”

###

Calliande watched as Curzonar roared commands to his warriors.

The manetaurs responded to his voice and gathered before the closed doors of the Vault of the North. Some of them had golden fur like Curzonar, while others were more tan, or a dark gray or black. All carried a variety of spears and swords and axes, and wore armor of chain mail or steel plate. They spoke with Curzonar in the manetaur tongue for a while, and Curzonar told them what had happened since they had been turned to stone.

“Speak Latin,” said Curzonar, “in deference to the Gray Knight and the Keeper of Andomhaim. For without their counsel, we should not have escaped the gorgon spirit’s magic.”

“Lord Prince,” rumbled one of the manetaurs, his Latin thick and slurred. “What shall we do now? You have learned of Murzanar’s fate, and retrieved his sword. The arbiters in the Red King’s court shall recognize its smell. We can return to the Range at once and show that cringing jackal Kurdulkar what it is to challenge you.”

The deference of the fierce manetaur warriors to Curzonar surprised Calliande, but then she supposed that it should not. The manetaurs were like the lupivirii, savage and violent, driven by their instincts. But unlike the lupivirii, the manetaurs could set aside their instincts and follow their intellects, rather than their instincts dragging their intellects. Yet for all that, Curzonar was still the dominant male of this group, and the warriors would defer to him.

Until one of them decided to challenge him for dominance. But Calliande hoped that would not happen until after they left the Vale of Stone Death.

She wondered if the Vhaluuskan orcs would give the vale a new name now.

“We shall return to the Range,” said Curzonar, “but first we shall aid the Gray Knight and the Keeper. For they are on a hunt of their own. The same darkness that Kurdulkar serves has infected the realm of Andomhaim. The Keeper goes to retrieve her staff from the darkness of Khald Azalar so she might wage war against the bearer of shadow.”

“Is this any concern of the Hunters?” said another manetaur, bearing his fangs. “Let the humans fight each other. So long as they do not challenge us in the Range, that is no business of ours.”

“But it is,” said a third manetaur. “Recall the lessons of the arbiters. In the days of our fathers, the Frostborn waged war against the realm of Andomhaim. For if the Frostborn prevailed, the arbiters decreed, all the world would be gripped in eternal winter, and both hunter and prey would perish forevermore. The Keeper summoned us to the hunt against the Frostborn, and both the Red King and the arbiters decreed that we should hunt alongside the men of Andomhaim.”

“This argument is sound to me,” said Curzonar, and the second manetaur lowered his eyes in submission.

“Lord Prince,” said Ridmark, stepping forward, “we would be glad of your aid, and the aid of your Hunters. The Keeper and I must reach the Gate of the West on the eastern side of this Vale. Additionally, our companions are somewhere in the forest. The Hunters of the Range are the finest hunters upon this world, and with your help we shall find them quickly.”

“Very well,” said Curzonar. “Hunters! Let us go forth.”

###

Ridmark walked with Calliande and Curzonar as they made their way south along the narrow path, the lake on their left and the pine forest stretching away to the south. Great plumes of black smoke rose from the forest, and the sound of clashing soldiers had grown louder. A battle was underway.

Ridmark wondered who was winning.

He wondered where Morigna and the others were. Hopefully they were waiting at the Gate of the West, a long way from the battle.

More manetaurs joined them as they walked south. Curzonar’s first running battle with the trolls and the gorgon spirit had scattered his Hunters across the northern end of the Vale, and now those Hunters returned to him. By the time they reached the shore and the edge of the pine forest, nearly eighty manetaurs followed the Prince.

Ridmark’s mind worked through the possibilities. One manetaur had been able to hold his own against three trolls. What could eighty manetaurs together do against a foe?

Another manetaur came out of the forest. This one looked familiar, and Ridmark realized he had seen the manetaur as a statue.

“Martellar!” said Curzonar. “It pleases me to find your scent.”

“As do I, my lord Prince,” said Martellar. “It pleases me to find the scent of anything, truth be told. I feared I would never again taste the scent of the living wind.” He looked at Ridmark and Calliande, curious. “What are those humans doing with you?”

“They helped me to defeat the gorgon spirit and liberate you from the stone,” said Curzonar.

Martellar grunted. “Perhaps that explains it, then.”

“Explains what?” said Curzonar.

“The peculiar group I saw fighting the orcs,” said Martellar.

“What group?” said Calliande. “Please, explain.”

Martellar shrugged. “When I was freed from the stone, I found myself in the midst of a battle between two armies of orcs. One army had peculiar crimson tattoos upon their faces, and the other looked mutated, their bones outside of their flesh. Between them was a curious band – two Swordbearers of Andomhaim, some humans wielding elemental magic, a halfling, and several dwarves.”

Ridmark frowned. Several dwarves? Had Arandar and the others found dwarves in the Vale of Stone Death?

“Where were they?” said Ridmark. “Were they still alive when you escaped?”

“They were,” said Martellar, “but they will not be for long. They are trapped in the midst of the battle. The red orcs and the mutant orcs are focused upon each other, but sooner or later they shall cut down the Swordbearers and their companions. Likely the Swordbearers shall leave a mountain of corpses to serve as their cairns, for the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade are puissant warriors, but they shall fall in the end.”

Ridmark turned to Curzonar. “I know how you can repay that debt.”

Chapter 22: Hunters

Gavin’s arms throbbed with exhaustion.

Blood dripped into his left eye from a cut over his brow, but he did not dare spare any of Truthseeker’s power to heal it. He lost his battered shield at some point, and now wielded his soulblade with both hands, using it to both strike and to parry. He had more wounds on his arms and legs, and his chest and stomach throbbed from the pounding his dark elven armor had taken. The armor had held, but sooner or later the pounding would turn his guts to mush.

Around him the battle raged like a storm of blood and screams.

The Mhorite host surged against the Anathgrimm orcs. At first the battle had been like something on a tapestry, with the soldiers advancing in orderly lines, but it had dissolved into screaming chaos, with a thousand individual duels taking place around Gavin. The Anathgrimm maintained their formations somewhat better than the Mhorites, but not by much. The Anathgrimm were better armored, but the Mhorites fought with greater ferocity, and most of the Mhorite warriors carried a mace or a hammer in addition to a sword or an axe, negating the Anathgrimm orcs’ advantage of armor.

Spells snarled back and forth as the Mhorite shamans and the Anathgrimm wizards battled. Blue fire struggled against crimson, and waves of shadow rolled over the battlefield. Urvaalgs raced through the melee, targeting Mhorite warriors. The Mhorite shamans answered by casting spells that spread coronas of bloody fire around the swords and axes of their warriors, permitting them to kill the urvaalgs.

But even that was overshadowed by the duel between the Traveler and Mournacht.

The Traveler and his ursaar mount remained encased in that cylinder of blue light. Gavin suspected that the Traveler would have been content to remain within his wards, to watch the battle play out around him.

Mournacht had not given him that option. The huge shaman flung bolt after bolt of blood fire at the cylinder. The Traveler’s wards had dispersed them all, so Mournacht had taken his axe and charged, wreathing the weapon in dark magic. That, apparently, had the power to penetrate the Traveler’s wards. The Traveler had responded, charging his ursaar at the huge shaman. Evidently all of his magical power had gone into raising his wards, because the Traveler did not use any magic against Mournacht. They fought hand to hand, blue sword against black axe as the ursaar snarled and snapped. Mournacht’s own warding sigils burned hot against his green hide, and the two sorcerers dueled, both their faces twisted with murderous rage.

But all that, the duel, the battle, the carnage around him, was only secondary to Gavin’s mind.

He fought desperately to protect his friends.

Dead Mhorites, Anathgrimm, and urvaalgs lay piled around them. Two of Azakhun’s retainers were down, dead or wounded, Gavin did not know. Azakhun and his remaining men stood guard over them, killing any Mhorites or Anathgrimm that drew too close. Arandar moved in a circle around them, his shield a tattered ruin, his armor stained with blood both green and crimson. Kharlacht, Caius, and Jager fought together, all of them wounded. Even Mara had been hit, clipped across the shoulder as she disappeared a half-second too fast.

Morigna and Antenora stood in the center. Antenora had abandoned all attempts at subtlety and simply flung head-sized balls of fire at any warriors that drew too near. Both the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm had learned to fear her. Morigna cast spell after spell, roots reaching from the ground to entangle warriors or billowing clouds of white mist rolling over them and sending them into unconsciousness.

So far they had held. So far they had kept either the Anathgrimm or the Mhorites from killing them. But they had not been able to move, and they remained trapped between the warring armies. Cutting their way out of the battle to safety would have been impossible. The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm were packed too closely together. It had taken Gavin and the others everything they had to defend themselves, and they had been barely able to keep from being swept away. Only the battle had kept the Anathgrimm or the Mhorites from killing them all.

That was about to change.

The Mhorites were winning. Their furious attack pushed back the Anathgrimm formations. Step by blood-drenched step the Mhorites were driving their enemies from the field, and Gavin suspected the Traveler would soon flee, withdrawing his army to reform closer to the Gate of the West and prepare another battle.

And when that happened, Gavin and the others were going to die. The Mhorites would overwhelm them in short order, or Mournacht and his shamans would turn their attention from the Traveler and his wizards.

Another Mhorite came at him, howling in fury. Gavin gripped Truthseeker’s hilt in both hands and drew upon the sword’s magic, its power filling the exhausted muscles of his arms. The Mhorite warrior had a sword, and Gavin parried three times before the warrior overextended himself. He struck the Mhorite on the sword arm, and before the orcish warrior recovered, he slashed Truthseeker across his throat.

The warrior fell, but a second Mhorite struck from the side, bringing a mace down towards Gavin’s face. He jerked back, the head of the mace blurring past his face, and the weapon struck him in the chest. His dark elven armor held, but pain exploded through his chest, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Gavin retreated, trying to catch his breath, trying to keep his balance, but the Mhorite pursued him with relentless determination.

Something white and bright flashed past Gavin, the heat of it pushing against his face, and struck the Mhorite in the head. The warrior let out a horrible scream, his voice mingling with the sizzle of burning flesh as his head went up in flames. Gavin caught his balance and swung Truthseeker, putting the Mhorite out of his misery.

He saw Antenora with her staff extended, and nodded his thanks to her.

“Lady Mara!” shouted Arandar, ripping Heartwarden from the carcass of yet another urvaalg. “You must withdraw. Go to the Gate of the West and tell the Gray Knight what happened here.”

“Yes, you must go,” said Jager. He was limping badly from a cut across his left leg. “There is no need for you to die here.”

“I cannot,” said Mara, her green eyes darting back and forth as she watched the surging tides of the battle. “The last set of wards the Traveler cast…they’re blocking my abilities.” Blue light and crimson fire flashed and snarled as Mournacht and the Traveler continued their fight, the ground around them burning in the force of their magic. “If I could get a few hundred yards away, I might be able to…but not here.”

“So be it,” said Arandar.

“That is it, then?” said Morigna, her voice trembling with fatigue. “We are to die here?”

“It seems so,” said Kharlacht, his greatsword and armor glistening with blood.

A ripple went through the jagged lines of the Anathgrimm, and they started to fall back, shields raised, spears stabbing as they tried to keep the furious Mhorite assault at bay. The Mhorite warriors roared and charged forward, eager to force a breach.

They would roll right over Gavin and his friends. Even if they had been fresh and rested, with Antenora and Morigna at full strength, they would not have been able to stand against so many Mhorites. Now, with the sorceresses exhausted and all the fighters wounded, they would not be able to hold for long.

Gavin lifted Truthseeker with his aching arms and took a deep, burning breath, preparing himself for the end.

###

Calliande gave Martellar a dubious look.

“I’m not entirely sure about this,” she said.

“Fear not, my lady Keeper,” said Martellar in his gravelly, mewling voice. “It shall be an honor to bear you into battle. You are at least equal in honor and rank to an arbiter of the Hunters.” He considered for a moment. “Perhaps even more so.”

“We must hurry,” said Ridmark. He already sat atop Curzonar’s back, just behind the manetaur’s front legs. Somehow he looked at ease. “If Morigna and the others are trapped in the battle, they will need our aid as soon as possible.”

He was right.

Calliande took a deep breath, gripped Martellar’s arm, and pulled herself onto the manetaur’s muscular back. Martellar’s legs shifted a bit as she settled her weight upon him, but the manetaur showed no sign of discomfort. Likely she did not make much of a burden for a creature of Martellar’s strength. She adjusted her balance, and to her surprise found that she knew how to sit without falling.

Evidently she had ridden a manetaur warrior into battle before.

“You are comfortable, Keeper?” rumbled Curzonar.

“We are going to the hunt, lord Prince,” said Calliande. “That is no time for comfort.”

A rumble of approval rose from the gathered manetaurs.

“Good,” said Curzonar. “Hunters! This day we hunt the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm!”

The growl of approval grew louder, and Curzonar drew his axes, holding one in either hand.

He gestured, and the manetaur pack surged forward, and Calliande remembered something else she had forgotten about manetaur warriors.

They could move damned fast.

She let out a startled yelp, but kept her balance as Martellar shot forward like an arrow from an archer’s bow. The manetaurs raced into the trees with terrifying speed, the wind streaming past her face. They were moving as fast as a galloping horse. In fact, they were moving faster than a galloping horse. A horse could not have run this fast through the pine forest without tripping and breaking a leg. The manetaurs had no such problems. Their broad paws gripped the ground with surety, and they easily jumped over roots and darted around trees.

It was terrifying. The sight of a manetaur hunting party bearing down upon its prey would have been frightening beyond measure. But it was also exhilarating. Calliande had never moved this fast, at least that she could remember. To her surprise, she let out a whoop, and Ridmark looked back at her and grinned.

The manetaurs kept running, the forest blurring around them, and the sounds of battle grew louder against Calliande’s ears.

###

Ridmark adjusted his grip on Ardrhythain’s staff, his gray cloak streaming behind him.

Everywhere he saw the signs of battle. The earth had been churned into mud by the tramp of iron-shod boots. Here and there arrows jutted from trees, a discarded shield or broken sword dropped into the mud. Then they came across corpses, Mhorite and Anathgrimm both. The murmur of battle rose to a soft roar, and more and more dead orcs lay strewn across the ground.

They passed a hill topped with a broken dwarven watch tower, running through stretches of forest that had been burned to cinders, the trees themselves reduced to skeletal pillars of charcoal. Puffs of ash rose from the manetaurs’ paws as they ran. Ridmark spotted the carcasses of slain urvaalgs and felt a surge of hope. The only thing that could have killed urvaalgs was a soulblade, which meant that Arandar and Gavin themselves were likely still alive.

Were Morigna and the others? Cold fingers of dread clutched at him as he thought of her dying in battle against the orcs.

Then, all of sudden, the battle was in front of them, loud and chaotic and violent.

The Mhorites struggled against the Anathgrimm, screaming and dying and killing. A pillar of blue light rose from the heart of the battle, encasing a figure in blue dark elven armor riding an ursaar like a horse. Dark magic crackled and writhed around the armored figure, and Ridmark was willing to wager that the dark elf was the Traveler himself.

A shock of recognition went through Ridmark as he saw Mournacht. The orcish shaman seemed stronger than their last fight in Coldinium, the sigils upon his chest and arms burning brighter. Mournacht wielded a huge double-bladed axe of black steel, the blades wreathed in bloody fire, and he was locked in a duel with the Traveler, the ursaar wheeling and spinning around him as the Traveler struck with a sword of blue steel.

There, in the center of the battle, Ridmark saw Morigna and the rest of his friends.

The white fire of soulblades flared in the dark tide of charging Mhorites. He glimpsed Morigna and Kharlacht and Caius, all of them bloody and wounded. There were others he did not know. A half-dozen dwarves in bronze-colored armor? Perhaps Arandar had found them in the ruins. There was a dark-coated figure Ridmark did not recognize, a black-haired woman, who carried a staff that blazed with fiery light.

All of that he put aside until later.

Somehow they were still alive, but not for much longer. The Anathgrimm were falling back beneath the Mhorite assault, and Morigna and the others were about to be swept aside.

“Curzonar!” said Ridmark. “I think it’s time we made our presence known. It’s only sporting for the prey, wouldn’t you say?”

Curzonar roared as the top of his lungs as he charged forward, and the other manetaurs followed suit.

###

Truthseeker crashed into the Mhorite’s shield, knocking the scarred orcish warrior back. Gavin kept up the furious attack, battering at the Mhorite’s shield, chips of wood flying from it. The Mhorite howled a curse in the orcish tongue and used a tactic that Gavin himself had often employed, swinging his shield like a club. Even with Truthseeker’s power, there was no way Gavin could block such a blow, so instead he jumped back. The heel of his boot caught on the uneven ground and he stumbled, giving the Mhorite an opening. The warrior’s sword stabbed into Gavin’s side, bounced off the plates of blue steel, and skidded into his right leg, opening another cut. Pain flooded through him, and Gavin snarled and slashed Truthseeker to the side, deflecting the orcish sword. He tried to launch a riposte as Ridmark and Kharlacht had taught him to do, but his wounded leg seized up, and he desperately tried to keep his balance.

Gavin managed to keep from falling, and the Mhorite warrior grinned behind his tusks and drew back his sword for the kill.

A thick root burst from the ground and wrapped around the Mhorite’s leg, jerking him back. Gavin seized the chance and slashed, burying Truthseeker into the warrior’s neck. The Mhorite fell, and Gavin stepped back, his leg throbbing, the pain joining all the other wounds he had taken in the fight. He looked back at Morigna. Her face was haggard and glistening with sweat, but she nodded to him.

For some reason he laughed a little as he turned back to face the Mhorites, his leg still trembling. Morigna would quite likely be one of the last people he ever saw, and they didn’t even like each other very much. The thought was funnier than it should have been, and Gavin realized that it was likely because he was growing lightheaded from blood loss.

He risked a final look over his shoulder. Kharlacht and Caius still fought back to back, though Gavin could not tell if they had to lean on each other for support. Heartwarden shone like a white torch in Arandar’s fist, starkly illuminating the blood spattered across his armor and surcoat. Mara and Jager stood side by side, swords ready, while Azakhun and his men stood guard over their wounded. Morigna and Antenora both leaned upon their staffs. Antenora looked even grimmer than usual, her gray skin more pallid, the yellow color of her eyes even more pronounced.

They had fought well, but it was over. Already Gavin heard the next charge of the Mhorites.

He turned to face them, intending to die with Truthseeker in his hand.

Then the roar rang over the battle, and a ripple of surprise went through both the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm. It came from the north, and Gavin looked in that direction. It did not sound like the urvaalgs’ bloodcurdling shrieks, and both the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm warriors looked surprised. Had the trolls gathered in force and decided to descend upon the battle? Though the cry did not sound like the trolls’ snarling voices.

It sounded like a lion’s roar.

Gavin blinked in surprise as the first manetaur burst from the trees. For an awful instant he thought that the gorgon spirit had returned. Yet the gorgon spirit had been a withered, emaciated shell, little more than a skeleton draped in ragged fur. This was a manetaur in full glory, proud and strong, running with the speed of a galloping horse through the battlefield.

Dozens of manetaurs erupted from the trees and charged into the battle, swords and axes and spears in hand.

###

Calliande looked over the battlefield, her stomach clenching.

The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm had torn into each other with vigor, leaving the ground carpeted with corpses. The Traveler and Mournacht hammered at each other, armored in their wards, and even without using a spell she sensed the sheer power both the dark elven lord and the orcish shaman wielded against each other. Mournacht seemed to have become stronger, far stronger, than he had been in Coldinium. That confirmed Calliande’s suspicion that he had become an emissary of Shadowbearer. Qazarl had been stronger than he should have been, too.

She spotted Arandar and Gavin and the others in the heart of the battle, not far from where the Traveler and Mournacht dueled. They did not look to be in good shape. She flexed her fingers, feeling the magic of the Well shimmering just below her thoughts. Calliande could still heal them, could keep the wounds from killing them through blood loss and infection.

Assuming the orcish warriors did not kill them first.

She started to say something to Ridmark, but then Curzonar roared. The other manetaurs followed suit, their roars so loud that her ears threatened to burst. The sound even drowned out the noise of the battle, and thousands of shocked orcish faces turned in their direction.

In that moment of hesitation, Curzonar and his warriors charged.

Martellar surged forward beneath Calliande, and in that instant she remembered why the manetaurs had their own realm, why the High King of Andomhaim treated with the Red King of the Range as an equal rather than a vassal or a foe.

The manetaurs were the Hunters…but they were also brutally effective warriors.

Snarling and roaring, they stampeded into the charging Mhorites. The manetaurs moved as fast as galloping horses, and they hit the Mhorite ranks with the force of a charge of knights. Mhorites fell to the ground, trampled beneath the clawed paws of the manetaurs. Martellar held a sword in his right hand and a shield upon his left arm, and he struck with the sword as he ran into the fray, hewing the heads from the orcs with every step. The battle dissolved into chaos around them as they charged, roaring and striking. The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm fled at their approach, baffled fear on their faces.

Calliande could not fault them for that. If a pack of manetaurs had charged at her, she would have reacted in the same way. It was likely that neither Mhorites nor the Anathgrimm had ever seen a manetaur before, either, and had no idea how to fight them.

They broke into the heart of the battle, the Traveler’s column of blue light blazing to Calliande’s left, and she saw Arandar and Caius and the others staring up at her in shock.

###

Gavin blinked, and for a brief moment wondered if his mind had snapped, if he was hallucinating in the final moments before death.

The manetaurs had torn through the battling orcish armies like a thunderbolt. To Gavin’s astonishment, he saw Ridmark riding upon the back of a manetaur in splendid red armor, his black staff in hand. Calliande rode another manetaur, her expression caught halfway between exhilaration and terror. Ridmark leapt from the manetaur’s back and charged into the fray, his staff whirling and flickering in his hands. He killed a Mhorite, the staff licking out to crack the warrior’s skull and smash his windpipe in quick succession. An Anathgrimm warrior charged with a bellow. Ridmark slid around the blow with fluid grace and struck again, his staff hooking the Anathgrimm orc behind the knees. The warrior fell, and Ridmark brought the end of his staff down upon the warrior’s temple. There was a crack of shattering bone, and the Anathgrimm jerked once and went still.

An urvaalg bounded out of the press, snarling, and darted for Ridmark. Gavin shouted a warning, and Ridmark spun as Gavin ran to aid him.

It didn’t matter. Before Gavin could hobble more than two steps a blast of white fire shot between them and screamed into the urvaalg. The creature of dark magic shrieked as the flames chewed into it. Gavin turned his head as Calliande jogged over to join them, her eyes wide, her mouth pressed into a tight line, more white fire dancing around her fingers.

“Is that her?” Antenora walked towards Gavin, both hands clamped around her staff, her yellow eyes fixed on Calliande. “Is that…is that the Keeper? After so long, is that the Keeper?”

“Yes,” said Gavin.

Antenora let out a little cry and started forward. Calliande turned towards Antenora, her eyes narrowed with suspicion, her hand raised in the beginning of a spell.

“Wait! She’s a friend,” said Gavin. “I think. We really should get away before we talk about anything.”

Calliande nodded, stepped forward, and placed her hands on Gavin’s temples. Before he could protest her fingers shone with white fire and a cold wave washed through Gavin. She gritted her teeth as his pain flooded into her. Then the icy sensation faded, and Gavin felt better. She had not healed all of his wounds, but she had closed the worst of them.

“Later,” said Calliande. “I can see to the rest of your wounds later. First I need to get the others on their feet.” She hurried over to Kharlacht, summoning more magic.

“How?” said Morigna, her voice caught between disbelief and wonder. “I feared you were dead, that Mournacht or the Anathgrimm or the trolls or that damned gorgon spirit had caught you. Instead you arrive at the head of an army of manetaurs!” Her voice trailed off, and it was one of the very few times Gavin had seen Morigna at a loss for words. “How?”

“Long story,” said Ridmark. He pulled her close, kissed her hard upon the lips, and then broke away. “We have to go, all of us.” He looked at Azakhun and blinked in surprise. “My lord Taalmak. I suspect you have a long story of your own.”

“Truly,” said Azakhun.

“Gray Knight,” said Arandar. “I am pleased to see you, but I fear you have joined us in death. We cannot cut our way out of the battle.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “But we can flee and let the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm cut each other to pieces. Perhaps Mournacht and the Traveler will even do us a favor and kill each other.”

Mara snorted, leaning a little on Jager’s arm. “My father has never done a favor for anyone in his life.”

“And he’s lived for millennia,” Jager pointed out.

“Your…new friends,” said Caius, blinking up at the manetaurs. “They will permit us to ride them?”

“This is Curzonar,” said Ridmark, gesturing at the red-armored manetaur he had ridden into the battle, “a Prince of the Range, a son of the Red King Turcontar of the Hunters. Calliande and I had the honor to aid him against the gorgon spirit, and in exchange, he has agreed to help us against the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm. He and his Hunters will carry us away from the battle. Neither Mournacht’s followers nor the Traveler’s soldiers can match the speed of a manetaur warrior, and we can escape while they continue their fight.”

“Hurry,” said Calliande in a tight voice, looking at the column of blue light rising against the sky. “Mournacht hates you, Ridmark, and when he figures out that…”

“Warriors of Kothluusk!”

The voice thundered out of the sky. It was Mournacht’s voice, amplified to inhuman volume through a spell.

“The Gray Knight!” Fury filled Mournacht’s words. “The Gray Knight has come! Take the Gray Knight and kill his companions. Bring…”

A snarling sound drowned out Mournacht’s threat, and then the Traveler’s deep voice rang over the battlefield.

“The Keeper!” he said. “The Keeper is among us, but bereft of her powers. Bring her to me. Bring her to me! Kill all the others!”

“Right,” said Ridmark. “It’s time to go.”

Gavin nodded and limped towards one of the manetaurs.

###

Ridmark climbed back upon Curzonar’s back, shooting a glance at the warring orcish armies.

The Traveler and Mournacht might have commanded their hosts to attack Ridmark and his companions, but so far that had amounted to little. The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm were starting to pull apart, but neither side could withdraw without the other attacking. Both the Traveler and Mournacht continued their furious duel.

That would not last. It was past time to be gone.

“Which way, Gray Knight?” said Curzonar.

Ridmark looked at the mountains to the east.

“Southeast,” he said. “Towards the road.” With luck that would get them away from the battle and close enough to the Gate of the West that they could reach Khald Azalar before Mournacht or the Traveler.

Curzonar roared a command to his Hunters, and they surged forward, clawing and slashing their way through the battle. The Mhorites and the Anathgrimm warriors, following the commands of their masters, tried to stop them, but it was too no avail. The manetaurs were too fast and too strong, and the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm kept attacking each other whenever the chance presented itself. Had both orcish armies cooperated, had the manetaurs stood and fought, it would have been a slaughter.

But the orcish warriors did not cooperate, and the manetaurs raced away, covering the ground with ease.

“Ridmark!” Morigna’s voice came over the rush of the wind.

He twisted around and saw a dozen urvaalgs break free of the battle and pursue them. Ridmark cursed and considered their options. The urvaalgs could outpace the manetaurs, and the manetaurs carried no weapons capable of harming a creature of dark magic. Arandar and Gavin did, but both Swordbearers were exhausted and wounded, and stopping to fight would be disastrous…

Calliande twisted around, raised her hand, and started casting spells. A burst of white fire leapt from her fingers and struck the leading urvaalg. The creature howled in agony and collapsed, white flames chewing into its flesh. She destroyed a second urvaalg, and then a third, and the rest of the creatures slowed, hesitating as they recognized the danger.

“Antenora!” shouted Morigna. “Now!”

Ridmark saw the strange black-coated woman thrust her staff, a small white sphere hovering above it. Her gray, gaunt face was tight with concentration, her brittle black hair blowing about her head in the wind of the manetaurs’ speed. The staff flared with fiery light, and the ball of white light shot from the end of the staff, soaring over the backs of the manetaurs.

It landed in front of the hesitating urvaalgs and exploded with a white flash and a roiling fireball. The nearby trees went up in flames, and the urvaalgs scattered, screaming as their fur burned. Normal fire would not kill an urvaalg, but it would hurt them and discourage them from pursuit.

The manetaurs ran on, leaving the battle behind.

Chapter 23: An Apprentice

“Here!” called Ridmark. “This should be far enough for now.”

Calliande looked around. The manetaurs had been running for an hour, though towards the end they had dropped off to a steady lope, their sides heaving and foamy sweat dripping down their manes. They had reached the road through the center of the Vale that she had seen from the mountains. Like most dwarven engineering, it had survived the centuries well, still flat and level despite the fall of Khald Azalar two and a half centuries ago. The pine forest around them was quiet. They were far enough from the battle that the forest was silent, the only sound the cool wind rustling through the pine trees.

“Aye,” said Arandar, sliding from the back of a manetaur, “but I suggest we do not linger here. Whoever wins that battle will be after us soon enough. And I doubt either Mournacht or the Traveler are strong enough to annihilate the other. The loser will pursue the victor in short order.”

Calliande glanced at Morigna, expecting the usual acidic commentary for any of Arandar’s suggestions. But Morigna was quiet, dark circles ringing her eyes. Perhaps she was too tired for argument.

“Sir Arandar is correct,” said Ridmark, catching his balance after he jumped off Curzonar’s back. He looked up at the red-armored manetaur. “I assume that you shall be departing now?”

“You assume correctly,” said Curzonar. “With the armies fighting to the north of us, the way through the High Pass shall be clear. My Hunters and I will withdraw through the High Pass and return to the Range.” He tapped the hilt of Murzanar’s ancient sword upon his back. “My task is completed. My Rite of Challenge has been successful, and I must return to the Range to deal with Kurdulkar and his treachery.”

“We cannot convince you to continue with us?” said Calliande. “Your aid would be helpful in Khald Azalar.” With the help of the manetaur warriors, she might have a better chance of reaching Dragonfall and reclaiming her staff.

She might have a better chance of keeping Ridmark and the others alive.

“I fear not,” said Curzonar. “I have already been away from the Range for too long, and I fear what evil Kurdulkar may have worked in my absence. You have your task, Keeper, and I have mine.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” said Ridmark. “Without your aid, we would not have been able to save our friends.” His eyes strayed to Morigna has he spoke.

“Thank you for your aid, Ridmark of the Arbanii, Gray Knight,” said Curzonar, and he offered a deep bow from the waist to Ridmark. The gesture looked peculiar on a manetaur, but the other Hunters followed suit. “Without your help, the gorgon spirit would have slain us all, and only our stone images would remain. You even convinced Murzanar to fight against the spirit.”

“He died,” said Ridmark, “as a manetaur should.”

“Aye,” said Curzonar. “Nor would he have done so, without you. I remain in your debt, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Should you ever come to the Range, you may travel freely under my protection, and should you have need of my assistance, you need but ask.”

Ridmark bowed in turn to the manetaur prince. “I thank you, my lord Prince. I suspect we shall meet again, if we are successful in our tasks.”

“If I may, lord Prince,” said Azakhun, stepping forward. “If you would allow, my warriors and I wish to accompany you from the Vale of Stone Death.” He looked from Arandar to Calliande and Ridmark and back again. “Your timely arrival saved us from the Traveler and his servants. I would aid you in your quest to recover the Keeper’s powers, if I could, but my other duties bind me. I must return to Khald Tormen and inform the King of what has passed here. With the Kothluuskan orcs stirring, the Traveler marching from Nightmane Forest, and the Keeper returned to earth, it seems that war is inevitable. The dwarves of Khald Tormen must be warned.”

“They must,” said Caius, “but I fear your welcome to the Three Kingdoms may not be as warm as you might like. They did not react well when I followed the way of the church.”

Calliande blinked. Caius had converted Azakhun and his retainers?

“Nevertheless” said Azakhun. “I have my duty, no less than the lord Prince has his and you have yours. If you would consent, lord Prince, we shall travel with you, at least until the southern edge of Vhaluusk. Many foes are abroad, and there is greater safety in numbers.”

“Very well,” said Curzonar. “There is no enmity between your kindred and mine. You may travel with us.”

“You should go at once,” said Ridmark. “I do not know how much longer the battle will last, but the sooner you are gone, the better chance you have.”

“You speak wisdom,” said Curzonar. “Farewell, Ridmark of the Arbanii, and farewell Calliande, Keeper of Andomhaim.” Calliande shivered a little to hear the title. “May the winds be favorable and your footsteps swift.”

“And may your prey be slow and fat,” said Ridmark.

The manetaurs rumbled with approving laughter.

“Go with God, Taalmak Azakhun,” said Caius.

Azakhun and his warriors bowed. “And with you, Taalkhan.”

The dwarves mounted the manetaurs once more, and Curzonar roared a command. The manetaurs whirled and raced away to the west, making for the High Pass. Soon they vanished from sight, leaving Ridmark and his companions alone on the road.

“Why does he always call you Taalkhan?” said Jager. “That’s a noble title of the dwarves, is it not?”

“It is,” said Caius, fingering the wooden cross that hung from his thick neck.

“Well,” said Jager, “there’s a tale that begs telling.”

“Not today,” said Caius. “Someday, perhaps. Not today.”

“Nor right now,” said Ridmark. “Let us follow Curzonar’s excellent example and be gone from here. We can exchange news and tales once we are well out of Mournacht’s and the Traveler’s reach.”

Calliande nodded in agreement, and the others turned to the east.

“Wait.”

The voice was harsh and worn, as if the speaker had not had a chance to rest for a very long time. The strange black-coated woman walked towards Calliande, staff in hand. A flicker of alarm went through Calliande, and she gathered power for a ward.

The woman froze, her sulfurous yellow eyes wide. She was short and slight, not much taller than Mara, and would have been pretty, if not for her gaunt, corpselike face and yellow eyes.

And she was afraid of Calliande.

“Wait,” said Calliande. “You…I know of you. You’re Antenora, aren’t you? The woman who helped Mara and Morigna in the threshold?”

“She is,” said Mara, “and she would very much like to speak with you.”

“The Keeper,” said Antenora, her voice fading to a soft, trembling rasp. “I have been seeking the Keeper…I have been seeking the Keeper for a very long time. For fifteen centuries, ever since Arthur Pendragon’s realm fell to the pagan Saxons of old.”

“I see,” said Calliande, uneasy. Had Antenora been plotting revenge all that time? Had the Keeper in Malahan’s time offended Antenora in some way? Fifteen centuries was a long time to keep a grudge.

“You are the Keeper?” said Antenora.

Calliande hesitated. Whether she wanted it or not, she was the Keeper. She had a duty, and she needed to carry it out.

“I am,” said Calliande.

To her utter astonishment, Antenora fell to her knees, and her yellow eyes filled with tears.

“After so long,” said Antenora. “After so long, I have found you at last. I need to ask this of you.”

“What?” said Calliande. “What do you need to ask?”

“Forgive me,” whispered Antenora.

For a moment Calliande was baffled. What had Antenora done that she required forgiveness of Calliande? She started to ask, but the story came pouring out of the kneeling woman.

“Long ago, I was the apprentice of the Keeper upon what you call Old Earth, in Arthur Pendragon’s realm of Britannia,” said Antenora, the words tumbling over her colorless lips. “I should have heeded her. Instead I let Mordred Pendragon seduce me, and in my folly I sided with him. I saw my idiocy, but it was too late. Arthur and Mordred fell in battle, and I was cursed. I lost all my magic, save for the power of flame, and I was cursed to live and never die. I tried to atone for my folly, I tried to defend the people of Britannia and Old Earth from dark magic, but I sought away to follow the Keeper here to her new world. Then at last I encountered Morigna and Mara upon the threshold, when the Warden opened his gate, and I could follow.”

“How?” said Calliande. “How did you follow?”

“The Warden’s spell joined the threshold of this world and the threshold of Old Earth,” said Antenora, “and then I slipped between them.”

“She has the ability to pass between the material world and the threshold,” said Mara. “Apparently that is how my own power works, and how the Traveler and other powerful wizards are able to block it. I think their wards protect them from attacks from the threshold, which is why I can’t use my power near them.”

“I see,” said Calliande. “Antenora. So you came here and…then went to find me?”

“I did,” said Antenora. “I did not know where to start, but it did not matter, for I soon came under attack.”

“Without her aid,” said Arandar, “it is entirely possible the Traveler would have killed us all when we first faced him.”

“Keeper,” said Antenora, “you must be warned. The creatures you call the Frostborn are coming.”

Calliande felt a chill. “What?”

“On the edges of this world’s threshold,” said Antenora. “The Frostborn are there, accompanied by creatures they call the locusari, soldiers bred for war. They are waiting for someone in the material world to open a gate for them. Once they realized I could shift from the threshold to the material world, they tried to capture me and use my power for themselves, but I fought them off and escaped here.”

“I see,” said Calliande, sharing a grim look with Ridmark. A year and a month after the omen of blue fire. That was how long Shadowbearer had to open a gate to the world of the Frostborn. Nearly four of those months had passed, but if the Frostborn were waiting and ready to strike…

Calliande’s quest had become all the more urgent. She had to find her staff and recover her power as soon as possible, had to defend the empty soulstone from Shadowbearer for another nine months. There was no one else to do it.

If she failed, the world would fall to the Frostborn.

“Will you forgive me?” said Antenora. “Will you release me of this curse and let me die at last?”

Calliande started to answer…and then fell silent, her mind working.

Antenora might be useful.

Calliande had seen the fiery power the ancient sorceress wielded against the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm, and she knew how difficult it must have been to summon and control elemental fire with such precision. Antenora might have lost all magical power save for that of fire, but she had developed that to a staggering degree of skill. God only knew what dangers awaited them in Khald Azalar itself, and Antenora’s powers might prove invaluable.

If Calliande was to be the Keeper, then she would need all the help she could find.

“Not yet,” said Calliande.

Antenora tilted her head to the side, blinking.

“For one, I do not know how to release you from the curse,” said Calliande. “I lost my memory when I hid my staff, and we must first retrieve my staff from Dragonfall. We might have need of you, Antenora.”

“I am a traitor,” said Antenora. “What use could you possibly have for me?”

“You are powerful and brave,” said Calliande. “Perhaps you made a poor choice long before anyone here was born. But since then you have defended Old Earth for fifteen centuries, crossed the gulfs between the worlds, and saved the lives of my friends. How many others can boast of such deeds of valor? Dark magic threatens this world.” A flash of inspiration came to her. “You were the Keeper’s apprentice upon Old Earth in the days of Malahan Pendragon? Then be my apprentice. And once we are victorious, once the threat of the Frostborn has ended, if it is within my power I shall end your curse and set you free to die.”

Antenora said nothing, her face twisting, and for an instant Calliande thought the woman would explode into rage. Or perhaps she would simply walk away.

No. It was hope that twisted Antenora’s face, a long-sought hope that she had found at last.

“Yes,” Antenora whispered. “Yes. I will follow you to whatever end, Keeper. Let me atone for my crimes. Let me…let me try to make up for what I have done…”

“In a way,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice, “you are the reason that we are all here.”

The yellow eyes blinked in surprise. “Gray Knight?”

“If you had not betrayed Arthur Pendragon,” said Ridmark, “perhaps he would have lived and defeated the pagan Saxons. Malahan would have felt no need to lead the survivors of the High King’s realm through the Keeper’s gate to this world. The realm of Andomhaim partly exists because of your choices, and you have as much right to defend it as any of us do.”

“You speak wisdom,” said Antenora in her raspy, worn voice.

Calliande smiled at him. “He often does.”

Antenora rose. “I shall follow you, Keeper. What are your commands?”

Calliande looked at Ridmark.

“We should keep moving,” said Ridmark. “The further we can get before the sun goes down, the better.”

“Agreed,” said Calliande, and Antenora walked to her side.

She took a deep breath. It seemed that she was indeed the Keeper, whether she wanted to be or not. It would be her responsibility to stop the Frostborn, to protect the realm of dark magic, and Calliande vowed that she would be equal to the task.

She looked at Ridmark.

At least she would not have to do it alone.

###

After the fighting of the last few days, Gavin found it almost absurdly peaceful to walk through the quiet forest on the smooth road.

He did not relax his vigilance. It would have been a wretched fate to have escaped the battle only to fall prey to a hungry troll or a stray urvaalg. Gavin walked among the others with Calliande and Arandar, sharing the work of healing. He was glad he was able to do so, that Truthseeker’s power let him taken some of the burden from Calliande. Every wound he healed was one that Calliande did not have to endure.

“There,” he said, lowering his hand. Morigna blinked at him, rubbing her arm. He wasn’t entirely sure how her right arm had been wounded, and neither was she. The battle had gotten chaotic towards the end. “How is that?”

“Better,” said Morigna. She would not meet his gaze. “Thank you.”

Gavin nodded and stepped back.

“For everything,” said Morigna.

He blinked in surprised.

“How badly were you hurt?” said Ridmark to Morigna. He looked as surprised as Gavin felt.

“I…lost control of the situation,” said Morigna. “If Gavin had not struck when he had, I would have been killed.” Her face twisted up as if she had just swallowed something bitter.

“Swordbearer,” said Ridmark, his face grave. “Thank you.”

Gavin nodded once and walked to the back of the group. Everyone was on their feet and walking, and that was probably the best they could do for now. Not even magical healing could overcome fatigue. Antenora walked at the rear of the group, her staff tapping against the road.

“I don’t suppose that you need any healing?” he said.

A smile flickered over her lips. “It wouldn’t work on me. I heal on my own, eventually, though the process is not pleasant. I wish to ask you a question, as there wasn’t a chance for it earlier.”

“We were rather busy,” said Gavin.

“Indeed,” said Antenora. She looked at Morigna and Ridmark. “The woman. The sorceress, the Gray Knight’s lover. You do not like her.”

Gavin hesitated, and then decided to tell the truth. They had been through so much danger together that Antenora had earned it. “Yes.”

“Why not?”

“She is arrogant and overly sure of herself,” said Gavin, “and uses dark magic. She is abrasive and unpleasant and critical. She…” The realization came to him. “She reminds me a lot of my stepmother.”

“Ah,” said Antenora. “Your stepmother was an unpleasant woman?”

“She worshipped an urdmordar, a spider-demon, and almost fed my entire village to it,” said Gavin.

“Yet you saved the sorceress,” said Antenora. “Why?”

“Because,” said Gavin. “Because…well, I don’t like her, but she hasn’t betrayed us, certainly, and she’s helped us. The Gray Knight would be upset if she was slain, and…”

“No,” said Antenora. “That is not the real reason.”

“Oh?” said Gavin. “You know the real reason?”

“It is far simpler than you think,” said Antenora. “For you are Gavin Swordbearer, and you protect people. That is your nature. That is what you do, and that is why you saved her.”

Gavin opened his mouth to argue…and then closed it again.

She was right. He had thought that he didn’t know who he was any longer, that the destruction of Aranaeus and becoming a Swordbearer had made him lose himself, but he was wrong. He had left Aranaeus in hopes of going to Castra Marcaine and finding help to protect Aranaeus. He had followed Ridmark to protect Aranaeus. And after he had left Aranaeus, he had taken up Truthseeker to protect his friends.

He was a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade now…but that had not changed anything about him. He still wanted to protect people. Truthseeker just gave him more ability to do so.

“For a woman who constantly calls herself a traitor,” said Gavin, “you are very wise.”

“I am not,” said Antenora. “But I have spent many centuries watching humanity…and I have seen men like you before, Gavin Swordbearer. Not many. But some. You could stand in their company without shame.”

“Thank you,” said Gavin.

They kept walking.

Chapter 24: Gates of Ruin

Two days later, Ridmark and the others reached the eastern edge of the Vale of Stone Death and looked upon the Gate of the West of Khald Azalar.

“Good Lord,” said Jager, blinking up at the massive Gate. “Brother Caius, your kindred certainly know how to make an impression.”

“That,” said Caius, “we do.”

The road ended at a broad cliff of gray stone, and the Gate of the West yawned before them.

Two massive reliefs of armored dwarves had been carved into the cliff, rising nearly three hundred feet above the ground. Elaborate carvings and glyphs covered the face of the cliff between the two reliefs, and Ridmark had no doubt that they 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 has been sealed by massive doors of dwarven steel, but now the doors lay in twisted ruin upon the ground. More ruins lay scattered below the Gate, once a small citadel in their own right, now smashed and broken.

The Gate was the single strongest fortification that Ridmark had ever seen, yet the Frostborn had broken through it anyway.

Ridmark turned and looked back at his friends.

To the west he saw the pine forest stretching away. There was no sign of Mournacht or the Traveler, but he knew that would not last. Someone would have won the battle, and the victor would race to the Gate of the West. They had perhaps a day of lead time, maybe a little more, likely less.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark. “This is it?”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “It is. I can feel the staff of…I can feel my staff. It’s in there. Dragonfall at last. Ridmark. Thank you. I would never have come this far without your help.”

“Without your help,” said Ridmark, “we all would have died months ago. And do not thank me yet. We still have to find your staff. I imagine Khald Azalar is quite large.”

“It is,” said Caius. “I fear I have only seen the upper levels, the King’s audience hall and the outer barracks. I never saw the inner court or the foundries or the Gate of the East. If Dragonfall, this tomb of the dragons, was a secret of the King of Khald Azalar, he hid it well.”

“Then we shall find it,” said Ridmark.

“Fortunately,” said Jager, “I am have some experience breaking into places I should not be.”

“We noticed,” said Kharlacht.

“Speaking of which,” said Caius, “we should check for traps. The Gate would have had defenses, both magical and mechanical. Some of them might still be functional.”

“I will check for spells,” said Calliande. She offered a nervous little smile. “It will give me something else to think about.”

The others moved off to scout, and Ridmark found himself standing alone with Morigna.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said.

She shook her head. “The fighting…it was difficult. Ridmark.” She looked up at him, her expression tired. “I was afraid. I do not like to admit to it, to weakness…”

“I know,” he said. She had been raised to revere power above all else, to believe that strength was the only thing that mattered.

“But I was afraid I would never see you again,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “I was…I was willing to do things I should not have considered to save you. I…”

Morigna fell silent and looked away.

“I know,” said Ridmark. “We shall see this done, you and I. Together.”

She hesitated. “I…used dark magic, Ridmark. Several times. I could not think of anything else to do.”

“I know,” said Ridmark.

Morigna blinked. “You do?”

“You haven’t complained about anything for days,” said Ridmark, “and the only thing that could achieve such a miracle is guilt, so…”

“I am trying to be serious,” said Morigna, “and you are making jests?”

“I thought you might have used dark magic,” said Ridmark. “We all have temptations.”

“And what would you know of temptation?” said Morigna.

“Despair is a temptation, is it not?” said Ridmark. "I gave into it for years."

Morigna looked away. “I suppose one cannot argue with that.”

“You don’t have to face it alone,” said Ridmark. “I will be with you to the end.”

She blinked several times and then nodded, and her usual mocking expression returned. “Well. If we are to see this done, one suspects we ought not to dawdle here.”

“No doubt,” said Ridmark, and they rejoined the others.

“No wards,” said Calliande.

“No mechanical traps, either,” said Jager, and Caius nodded.

“I traveled into the hall,” said Mara. “There is no one within. If any creatures have made Khald Azalar their home, they are not nearby.”

Ridmark nodded. “Then let us see this done, and return the Keeper to Andomhaim at last.”

He started forward, leading the way into the darkness of Khald Azalar.

Epilogue

The archmage of the high elves who had once been named Tymandain and now called himself Shadowbearer stood in the midst of the Mhorite horde, unseen and unnoticed. It required only a minor spell to keep the orcish vermin from seeing him, even their pathetic shamans. That was just as well, since any significant expenditure of power would draw Ardrhythain’s notice, and Shadowbearer could not afford that, not now.

Both disaster and ultimate victory teetered just within his grasp.

He was so close to freedom, so very close. The empty soulstone had eluded his reach. His servants had failed to kill Calliande again and again. Worse, the Keeper had learned of her identity and had learned the location of her staff. If she recovered her memory and staff, Shadowbearer would not be able to kill her.

She might be able to kill him.

If she recovered her power, he would have to retreat and fade into the shadows, waiting another two hundred and fifty years before the thirteen moons returned to the proper configuration. Some part of him, the part of his mind that was still his own, thought this was for the best. There was no need for haste.

The shadow within him screamed in fury at the delay.

Yet Shadowbearer could still have the victory. Calliande had not yet recovered her power. If he found her, killed her, and destroyed her staff…everything would fall into his hands. He could ensure that no new Keeper arose to challenge him. The empty soulstone would be in his grasp, and he could open the gate to summon the Frostborn to this world once more.

And then he would be free, and this world and every other world would be his forevermore.

Victory was within his grasp. He needed only to make the necessary preparations.

His mind reached out, touching the shadows, seeking the darkness he had bound to the souls of his followers. His will found one particular woman, her soul filled with hatred and rage and a thwarted desire for vengeance. That alone would have made her useful, but she also had considerable magical power.

Shadowbearer’s will gripped hers, and even through the hundreds of miles separating them, he felt her startled surprise.

“Master?” said Imaria Licinius.

Imaria Licinius, daughter of the Dux of the Northerland, sister to the slain Aelia Licinius Arban. She was a Magistria of the Order, strong with the magic of the Well…and she hated Ridmark Arban with a hatred almost as black as the shadow of Incariel itself.

Almost.

She would serve Shadowbearer well in this matter.

“I have a task for you, Imaria Licinius,” said Shadowbearer, his will carrying his words to her mind. “Go at once to Dun Licinia and lodge as a guest of Sir Joram Agramore. Await my further instructions after you arrive.”

“It shall be done, master,” said Imaria. “Might I ask why?”

“To arrange the death of Ridmark Arban and all those who travel with him,” said Shadowbearer.

He sensed the excitement that went through her. “It shall gladly be done, master.”

“Is the Weaver with Tarrabus?” said Shadowbearer.

“He is, master,” said Imaria.

“The Weaver is to accompany you as well,” said Shadowbearer. “If Tarrabus protests, tell him that this is my express command.” Tarrabus had had his chance to take the soulstone and to kill Calliande, and he had failed. Now some of Shadowbearer’s other servants would have their chance to earn his favor.

“I shall,” said Imaria. “Ridmark Arban will perish, master.”

“Yes,” said Shadowbearer, and broke the connection.

He turned his attention to Mournacht and his shamans, who stood discussing the best course of action. The Mhorites had driven off the Anathgrimm warriors, but they had not destroyed them, and Mournacht had been unable to kill the Traveler. A shiver of fury went through Shadowbearer. The Traveler was a miserable coward, a worm hiding beneath a stone. To have his interference now, at this late stage, was infuriating.

But not for long, though.

Ardrhythain might have been able to detect Shadowbearer’s power anywhere in the world, but the troublesome archmage could not detect Shadowbearer’s power when he bestowed a portion of it upon Mournacht. It made Mournacht stronger, much stronger, and it also made the orcish shaman much easier to control.

In fact, Mournacht’s conscious mind had not even realized Shadowbearer’s presence.

He channeled some more power into Mournacht, making the shaman even stronger.

Very soon, Mournacht was going to find and kill Calliande. Then Shadowbearer would at last be able to take the soulstone and summon the Frostborn to this world once more.

And then…and then…

His smile widened further.

And then this world would burn in darkness forevermore.

THE END

Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE GORGON SPIRIT. Look for Ridmark's next adventure, FROSTBORN: THE BROKEN MAGE, to appear in 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.

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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, and Ghost in the Razor, along with the short stories Ghost Sword, Ghost Price, Ghost Relics, Ghost Keeper and Ghost Nails.

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, and Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit, along with the short stories The Orc's Tale, The Mage's Tale, The Thief's Tale, The Assassin's Tale, and The Paladins'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 story The Ransom 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

You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page.

Table of Contents

Description

A brief prologue

Chapter 1: Blur

Chapter 2: Prey

Chapter 3: Khorduk

Chapter 4: The High Gate

Chapter 5: Swordbearers

Chapter 6: The Vale

Chapter 7: Anathgrimm

Chapter 8: Stone Death

Chapter 9: Lord of the Dark Elves

Chapter 10: The Prince

Chapter 11: The Traitor

Chapter 12: Demands Of Honor

Chapter 13: The Converts

Chapter 14: The Vault Of The North

Chapter 15: Children of Mhor

Chapter 16: A Hard Bargain

Chapter 17: Unworthy

Chapter 18: Dark Magic

Chapter 19: Lures

Chapter 20: The Enemy Of My Enemy

Chapter 21: Lion and Knight

Chapter 22: Hunters

Chapter 23: An Apprentice

Chapter 24: Gates of Ruin

Epilogue

Other books by the author

About the Author