Frostborn: The False King (33 page)

The arrow shaft scraped against the wall as he fell.

That hurt. A lot. 

When Ridmark’s vision cleared he was sitting on the step, staring at the trail of bloody footprints he had left behind him. Functioning with the arrow wound was bad enough. Functioning with the arrow jutting from his leg was impossible. Likely the arrowhead had been barbed, and pulling it out would tear his calf to bloody shreds. 

Which meant he only had one option.

“Damn it,” muttered Ridmark, grasping the arrow shaft with both hands.

He gave it a sharp, yanking twist, breaking off the shaft.

Another wave of agony rolled through him, and his vision turned white from it, but he forced himself to start crawling up the stairs, and then used the leg bone to drag himself to his feet. His right foot felt wet, and he wondered if he had stepped in water, but he looked down to see his foot glistening with blood, the footprints stark against the white stone.

That wasn’t good. Ralakahr could already use scent to track him. If he was leaving bloody footprints…

Even as the thought crossed his mind, a roar echoed from further down the stairs.

Ralakahr was coming for him.

Chapter 19: Hunter and Prey

Again Third reappeared, the blue fire shimmering in her eyes.

“Nothing up that passageway,” said Third. 

Gavin waited, Truthseeker ready in his hand. The sword gave off a steady pale gleam, a reaction to the ancient dark magic within the Labyrinth. The others stood at the edge of the balcony-lined hall, weapons or spells at the ready. Camorak had been pressed into carrying Ridmark’s staff, axe, dagger, cloak, and armor. When they had found the items in the previous chamber, Gavin had been certain that the manetaurs or some creature of the Deeps had torn Ridmark to shreds. Yet there had been no blood or bones in that chamber, and any predator that killed Ridmark would have left traces. 

Curzonar concluded that Ridmark had encountered manetaurs, likely Kurdulkar’s warriors and that the manetaurs had decided to hunt Ridmark. Alone, unarmed, and unarmored, Ridmark had absolutely no chance against the manetaurs, and Gavin feared that Ridmark was already dead. 

He feared what that would do to Calliande. 

She had slipped into the role of the Keeper, calm and collected and cool, but her eyes were like shards of lightning, and Gavin knew her well enough to see the fear and rage there. If Kurdulkar killed Ridmark, Calliande was going to kill the manetaur Prince, no matter what the cost.

Gavin had promised Antenora that he would help protect Calliande, but he did not know if he could protect the Keeper from herself. 

“Then by process of elimination,” said Calliande, “it has to be that way.”

She pointed her staff at one of the remaining passageways.

“Yes,” said Third. “I saw blood on the balconies. I think the Gray Knight was there, and I think he was wounded.”

The skin near Calliande’s eyes tightened. “Then we will hope the corridor leads upward. Lead on. Keep scouting.”

Third nodded and vanished in a pillar of blue fire, and Calliande headed across the floor of sigil-marked tiles, keeping to the tiles that Third had proven safe. 

Gavin followed with Antenora and the others, Truthseeker ready in his hand. 

He didn’t know if they could save the Gray Knight…but if they could not, Gavin could certainly avenge him. 

###

For a moment sheer pain and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Ridmark, and he almost didn’t rise.

He was so tired. Hadn’t he fought enough? Hadn’t he lost enough? Aelia and Morigna and Heartwarden, he had lost them all. He had fought and fought to keep the Frostborn from returning, and he had failed. Perhaps it was time to lie down and accept defeat. He had done his best. Calliande would…

Calliande.

He had promised to help her, to see her to this end of this, and he couldn’t do that if Ralakahr tore out his heart.

Ridmark heaved to his feet, wobbling, the stone of the stairs hot from the heat radiating from the cylindrical chamber. He stumbled a step, noting that he left bloody footprints, but only from his right leg. None of the blood had gotten on his left foot, not that it mattered. The footprints would lead Ralakahr right to him, and Ridmark had no way to clean off the blood or even to stop the bleeding.

He blinked, sweat stinging in his eyes.

Footprints…

Ralakahr would go where the footprints led him…even if they led him to the wrong place.

An idea blazed through Ridmark’s mind like a thunderbolt, and he turned and ran up the spiral stairs as fast as he could manage, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. At least the damned arrowhead was no longer sinking in deeper with every vibration of the shaft. He came around the last twist of the stairs and entered another round chamber. The stairs continued upward, but an archway in the wall revealed another bridge of white stone crossing the cylindrical chamber.

He ran through the archway and onto the bridge for five or six steps. 

Then Ridmark turned and hopped on his left foot back to the stairs, his right arm outthrust and clutching the leg bone for balance. He must look absolutely absurd. Perhaps if Ralakahr found him, the manetaur khalath would be paralyzed with laughter and Ridmark could club him to death with the bone. 

He hopped up the stairs, every motion making him want to scream with the pain in his leg. He managed to get up three revolutions up the spiral steps when he heard the click of Ralakahr’s claws against the floor in the chamber below. Ridmark froze, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. If Ralakahr realized the trick, then it was over. Ralakahr would storm up the stairs, and rip Ridmark apart in the cramped space. 

But the manetaur did not come. 

The trick had worked. 

And Ridmark had gained himself maybe a minute. 

He ran up the stairs as fast as he could manage, entering a chamber identical to the first. Another archway opened onto a bridge crossing the shaft, the hot air flowing into the chamber. Ridmark hobbled onto the bridge and looked down. He saw dozens of other bridges below him, outlined in the hot glare of the molten stone at the bottom of the shaft. 

He also saw Ralakahr prowling across the bridge one level down, an arrow resting against his bow as his head swung back and forth. Ridmark hesitated, judging the angles. He needed Ralakahr to move forward just another few yards. If he kept from looking up for just a little while longer…

Ralakahr glided forward, his head tilting down. Likely he thought Ridmark had been desperate enough to leap from the bridge to one of the lower levels. Or perhaps he thought that Ridmark had thrown himself into the lava for a quicker death than Ralakahr would inflict. A flicker of grim amusement went through Ridmark. If he made a mess of this and didn’t kill himself in the process, Ralakahr would be so enraged that the manetaur would kill him quickly. 

Ralakahr came to a stop, his head turning. Then he went motionless, and Ridmark could guess Ralakahr’s thoughts. Ridmark hadn’t gone down. What if he had somehow gone up? 

Ralakahr started to look up, and Ridmark jumped.

It was fifteen feet from the edge of his bridge to Ralakahr, and for a horrifying instant, Ridmark thought that he had misjudged his leap, that he would miss Ralakahr and plunge into the lava far below, or that he would smash into one of the bridges and shatter every bone in his body.

But he had not misjudged his leap, and he slammed into Ralakahr’s back. Ralakahr almost went over the edge of the bridge with a startled roar, his paws clawing at the floor for balance. The shock ripped the breath from Ridmark’s lungs, a fresh jolt of agony shooting up his wounded leg, but he recovered an instant before Ralakahr did. 

And in that instant, Ridmark heaved himself onto Ralakahr’s shoulders, wrapped his legs around the manetaur’s neck, and started squeezing as hard as he could.

His wounded leg howled with pain. 

Ralakahr let out a startled roar, which was a mistake because Ridmark’s legs coiled like a steel band around his neck and the manetaur could not replace the air. Ralakahr staggered back and forth, bow still clutched in his hands, and Ridmark kept squeezing. He began beating at Ridmark with his bow, trying to dislodge him. Ridmark ducked his head, the heavy bow bouncing off his head like a club. After five or six blows Ralakahr cast aside his bow and reached up, sinking the claws of both hands into Ridmark’s legs.

Fresh pain filled him, and Ridmark forced himself to keep squeezing. He ducked closer to Ralakahr and wrapped his arms around the manetaur’s thick neck, squeezing with every bit of strength that he could muster. 

Ralakahr started to panic. 

The manetaur staggered back and forth, raking at Ridmark with his claws, his movements growing more frantic, more desperate, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath. Ridmark hung on for dear life, the musky stench of the manetaur’s fur and the coppery odor of his own blood filling his nostrils. Again and again, Ralakahr’s claws slashed across Ridmark’s back and legs and arms, and every blow felt as if he had been stabbed, fresh pain rolling through him, the hot wetness of his blood flowing down his skin as Ralakahr started tearing him to shreds.

He squeezed harder.

Then he heard a grisly crunching noise, and suddenly something gave way in Ralakahr’s throat.

A mad spasm went through Ralakahr’s limbs, and the manetaur reared back on his hind legs, his forelegs and arms lashing at the air. Ralakahr lost his balance and fell to the side, and the impact knocked Ridmark from the manetaur’s shoulders. He rolled, coming to one knee, his entire body a blaze of agony, and saw Ralakahr twitching, his hands slapping at his throat. 

An axe rested at the manetaur’s belt. 

Ridmark ripped the axe free, raised it over his head, and brought it down with all his remaining strength.

He had aimed for Ralakahr’s neck, but his shaking arms threw off his aim, and instead the blade buried itself in Ralakahr’s head. The manetaur gave one last shuddered and went motionless, blood leaking from his nostrils and mouth. 

Ridmark staggered back a step, then another.

Both feet, he noted, left bloody footprints. 

He also saw the dozen deep, bleeding gashes on his legs. 

Right about then his legs stopped working, and Ridmark collapsed. He was dimly aware that he was in agony, but it didn’t seem to matter. Blood loss, that had to be it. He suddenly felt very cold, despite the heat rising from the lava. There were worse ways to die than from massive blood loss. At least he would soon lose consciousness. 

His mind swam, seeming to come unraveled. 

“Burn with me,” he whispered.

What an odd thing. Why would he say that? A poor choice for last words.

“Gray Knight?” 

Mara stood over him. 

No, not Mara. It was another woman, taller than Mara, pale and gaunt and black-haired and black-eyed. Blue fire glimmered in the veins of her hands and face. 

Third looked as astonished as Ridmark had ever seen her.

“You killed the manetaur with your bare hands?” Third said.

“No, no,” croaked Ridmark. “The axe helped.”

Third’s usual cold mask dissolved into a grimace. “I must move you. This will be painful.”

She seized his shoulder, and blue fire dissolved the world.

Ridmark fell forever.

###

Calliande looked around the round chamber, the heat from the lava blasting over her face. She wondered how many slaves had died in the vast cylindrical chamber beyond the archway, how many had been killed in the traps or burned in the lava at the bottom of the pit. 

She didn’t want to know. 

She just hoped Ridmark was not among them. 

“The Labyrinth is vast,” said Tazemazar. “We could search for weeks and never find anyone.”

“We will look until we find him,” said Calliande.

“We may need to return to Shakaboth for supplies,” said Tazemazar. “We only have enough food for a few more days.”

“I know,” said Calliande, the fingers of her free hand tight against the handle of the dagger at her belt. Ridmark was still alive. That she knew beyond all doubt. Yet the last few contacts of the spell had been tenuous. As if her magic was having trouble find him.

Or as if he was growing weaker.

“We shall stay,” said Calliande, her voice strange in her ears, “until we are certain that he is dead.” 

“Aye,” said Caius. “We shall.”

His face was grave. He, too, was losing hope.

“If the manetaurs drove him into this maze without weapons,” said Kharlacht, “he would seek a defensible location. Perhaps…”

Blue fire flashed, and Third appeared in the center of the chamber. Usually she stood upright when she reappeared, but this time, she was stooped over, both her hands grasping the shoulders of a man…

Calliande’s free hand flew to her mouth before she could stop it.

Third grasped Ridmark’s shoulders. He was naked and covered in blood, a maze of vicious gashes across his legs and sides and chest, and he had to be dead, and for a moment her mind froze with horror…

Then she saw the muscles of his chest clenching as he drew breath.

“Keeper,” said Third, “hasten, he…”

Calliande sprinted to Ridmark, all but pushed Third out of the way, and dropped to her knees. The magic of the Well came roaring at her call, and she forced it through the mantle of the Keeper. White fire blazed up the length of the Keeper’s staff and around her left hand, and she put her hand upon Ridmark’s forehead, the skin damp and clammy beneath her fingers.

The power leapt from her, and she felt his wounds as if they were her own.

Calliande gritted her teeth, fighting back a shriek of agony. He had been badly hurt. There were arrow wounds in his flesh, and one of them…

“Camorak,” she rasped. “His right calf. Quickly! I can’t close it while the arrowhead is still in the flesh.” 

Camorak nodded, drew a dagger from his belt, and cut out the arrowhead from Ridmark’s leg with calm, practiced movements. Calliande felt the pain of it in her own right leg, and a shudder went through her, but her grip upon the magic did not waver.