Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (19 page)

“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.