Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (2 page)

“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.