Frostborn: The Iron Tower (17 page)

Well, the short gray-faced fools would learn otherwise when the Dux came into his full power. 

“I trust you are well?” said Tzoragar. 

“I am not,” said Paul. “A prisoner escaped from the Iron Tower in our absence, and the exile is prowling around outside my walls.” He wanted to blame the dvargir, but there was no possible way to do so. Additionally, the dvargir were as prickly as their dwarven cousins, and would likely challenge Paul to a duel. After having seen the Dzark fight, Paul had no wish to face him in battle. 

“These are serious matters,” said Tzoragar. “But they are concerns for your lord, not for my kindred or for the prophet of the great void. The soulstone shall be kept secure until the prophet arrives to claim it. The dvargir, the greatest servants of the great void and its prophet, shall see to that.”

Paul felt himself scowl. “And the Constable of the Iron Tower and the Dux of Caerdracon.”

“Of course,” said Tzoragar. “You played some small role in the prophet’s victory, and that should not be dismissed.”

Paul pointed at the Dzark. “It was my lord the Dux of Caerdracon who secured the soulstone, not the dvargir of Khaldurmar. The Iron Tower is his fortress, and I am its Constable. Not Tzoragar of Great house Klzathur.” Their featureless black eyes widened as he spoke. Good – perhaps the little bastards would at last respect his authority. “And when the Master arrives, I shall make sure that he knows who exactly delivered the soulstone to him.”

“You can speak to the prophet yourself,” said Tzoragar. 

Paul blinked, and then his eyes widened. Had Shadowbearer arrived at last? 

He turned, his eyes sweeping over the great hall, but it was empty.

“Look down,” murmured Tzoragar. 

Paul did and saw nothing but the flagstones of the floor and his shadow.

His shadow…which was pointing towards the hearths.

He shivered with sudden fear. “Master?” 

His shadow began to rotate around him, slowly, like a wolf circling its prey, and a voice filled Paul’s ears.

Or two voices, to be precise. One was deep and melodious and beautiful, far deeper than any human tone. The other was an inhuman, alien buzz, metallic and hideous, a voice than sent an icy shiver through Paul. Yet the two voices spoke in perfect harmony, and Paul had heard both those voices come out of the same mouth.

“Master,” he said, dropping to one knee, and the dvargir followed suit.

The shadow rotated around Paul.

“Tell me,” said Shadowbearer at last, “have my wishes been carried out?”

“They have, Master,” said Paul. “Tarrabus Carhaine, the Dux of Caerdracon, has obtained the soulstone for you. It is now secure in the Iron Tower. You need only arrive to claim it.”

He desperately hoped it was soon. Shadowbearer would sweep Ridmark from his path like chaff. Paul had once hoped to kill Ridmark himself…but watching Shadowbearer do it would be just as enjoyable.

Better, even, since Paul would not expose himself to any risk. 

“Good,” said Shadowbearer. Paul’s shadow twitched, seeming to turn toward the dvargir guards. “And the dvargir I sent reached you?”

“We have, great prophet,” said Tzoragar, his voice a bit hoarser than usual. “We are honored to have been chosen as the stone’s guardians.” 

“You have both done well,” said Shadowbearer. “I shall arrive to take the soulstone in eight or nine days.”

Paul blinked. “Nine days, Master?” That was nine days Ridmark had to work mischief. Nine days Ridmark had to think up some clever stratagem.

The damnable exile was good at clever stratagems. 

“There is no need for haste,” said Shadowbearer. “The threshold will lie open for another year, the moons and the stars in the necessary configuration. The work can be done at any time during that year.” A note of cold amusement entered the strange voice. “But…you are concerned, my lord Constable?”

“Ridmark Arban,” said Paul. He remembered some of the things Shadowbearer had discussed with Tarrabus. “And the Magistria who calls herself Calliande.” 

His shadow went motionless at that. Paul did not fully understand why Shadowbearer hated Calliande so much. He had not been privy to all of the Dux’s and the Master’s conversations. But he knew Shadowbearer wanted Calliande dead. 

“What about them?” said Shadowbearer, the shadow starting to revolve around Paul once more. 

“The Dux left a trap for them in Coldinium,” said Paul, “but they seem to have evaded it. A prisoner escaped from the Iron Tower, and yesterday my men fought Ridmark and his followers in the forest. I fear that Ridmark has some cunning plan to steal the soulstone.” He swallowed, knowing that he was about to take a risk. “Master, if you could arrive…sooner rather than later to claim the stone, I believe that would be for the best.”

Sweat trickled down his jaw. One did not question Shadowbearer and live.

But Shadowbearer seemed to have forgotten him for a moment.

“Ardrhythain,” hissed the Master. “If not for his meddling, I could be at the Iron Tower within the hour. How he has hindered me! But not for much longer. No. I shall have my freedom!” 

“Master?” said Paul.

The shadow spun faster and faster. 

“Tell me, Paul Tallmane, Constable of the Iron Tower,” said Shadowbearer. “Answer a question for me. And for your sake, answer truly. For if you lie to me, I will kill you here and now.”

Shadowbearer was not here, but Paul had no doubt the ancient wizard could work his death from any distance. 

“Of course, Master,” said Paul, more sweat trickling down his face, his heart a thunderous drum in his ears. “I am yours to command in all things.”

“Could you defeat Ridmark Arban?” said Shadowbearer.

Paul hesitated.

“Answer!” 

“No,” said Paul, the word dragging from his throat.

“Why not?”

“Because he is stronger than I am,” said Paul, the admission seeming to burn him. “Because he is smarter than I am. Because he is a better warrior.” 

His shadow went motionless.

“A true answer,” said Shadowbearer. “Good. There are others stronger and smarter than you, Paul Tallmane, but you have been loyal. And your loyalty shall be rewarded.”

“Master?” said Paul. 

“You are of the Enlightened of Incariel, but you are not one of the Initiated,” said Shadowbearer.

“No,” said Paul. 

“You have earned the title,” said Shadowbearer. “The power of Incariel shall enter you. Initiated of the First Circle gain the power to sense magic. Initiated of the Second Circle gain the power to break spells, defend themselves from magic, and to attack wielders of magic. Those of the Third Circle gain all these powers, and also the ability to make themselves faster and stronger. As of this moment, you are an Initiated of the Third Circle.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Paul, stunned. “I shall…”

Before he spoke another word, his shadow boiled up from the ground and wrapped over him.

And Paul screamed.

Agony flooded through him, his limbs turning to flame, darkness filling his vision. He collapsed to the floor, twitching and writhing, lightning bolts of pain shooting up and down his nerves. The darkness sank into him, deeper and deeper, and he felt as if he floated in a vast void.

A void that watched him, its tentacles tearing deeper into him. 

A voice thundered from the darkness, louder than the loudest storm Paul had ever heard. It was Shadowbearer’s voice, but the inhuman, buzzing, alien half of his voice, not the melodious and beautiful voice.

“And now,” rasped the alien voice, “you are mine. Now and forever, you are mine.”

The darkness faded away, and Paul found himself lying upon the floor, the dvargir looking down at him. 

“Back away,” commanded Tzoragar. “The blessings of the great void can often be…overpowering.”

Paul rolled to his feet, his dizziness passing. 

He felt cold, so cold, as if ice had sunk into his veins. 

But stronger than he had ever been. 

His shadow was still pointing the wrong way, but he felt…connected to it, somehow. As if it had become another appendage. 

“You are now,” said Shadowbearer, his dual voice hissing from Paul’s shadow, “an Initiated of the Third Circle. You will find yourself stronger. Put this power to good use, Initiated, and deliver the soulstone to me when I arrive.”

His shadow rippled, flickered, and pointed in the right direction once again. 

Paul and the dvargir stood in silence for a moment.

“You are now one of the blessed of the great void,” said Tzoragar, a hint of awe in his voice. Paul found that gratifying. “You have the strength and power to crush your enemies.”

“Do I?” said Paul, and by instinct he reached for his shadow. The power flooded him, and he hammered his boot into the floor.

The flagstone shattered into dust beneath his foot, the stone splintering. The blow should have broken Paul’s leg, but he felt no pain, felt nothing but the freezing cold of the void. He drew his sword and saw shadows swirl around it at his command, shadows to leach away the life and strength of his foes. 

Paul felt himself laugh.

He no longer dreaded his meeting with Ridmark Arban.

Now he looked forward to it…and how sweet it would be to break the Gray Knight.

And as he looked forward to it, a voice filled his head.

“I am the Artificer,” hissed the faint voice, “and if you heed me, you shall rule the world.”

Paul knew he ought to have been alarmed. 

But for some reason the voice fascinated him. 

Chapter 12 - Persuasion

Three days later, as they traveled the final few miles to the walls of Vulmhosk, Morigna decided to talk to Calliande.

The group made their way through the forest in a long column, leading the pack horses in a line. Ridmark took the front, and both he and Kharlacht frequently vanished into the trees to scout. Morigna had bound a dozen ravens and set them to circle over their heads, watching for any foes. Gavin and Caius walked in the center of the column, weapons ready if any attackers appeared. Jager walked with Mara, and they had spent most of their time together over the last three days. 

Both Mara and Jager likely knew that they would never see each other again. 

Calliande walked in the rear, lost in thought, her blue eyes distant. As ever, she wore her leather jerkin, trousers, boots, and a green cloak, the dwarven dagger at her belt. The Magistria showed no sign that she noticed Morigna’s approach.

“One would think,” said Morigna, “that a Magistria ought to pay better attention to her surroundings. Otherwise foes might surprise her.”

“One would think,” said Calliande, “that if you want to talk to me, you would get it over with already. You’ve been pacing back and forth for an hour. And will not your ravens see any foes?”

“Not even ravens,” said Morigna, “are infallible.”

“Oh?” said Calliande, meeting Morigna's eyes for the first time. “An important lesson, then.”

“You have to talk to him,” said Morigna.

“To who?” said Calliande. 

“Ridmark,” said Morigna.

Calliande hesitated for just a moment. “About what?” 

What had she thought Morigna would ask? “You have to change his mind.”

Still Calliande frowned. “Concerning what?”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse, Magistria?” said Morigna. “About Mara.”

Calliande nodded. “You think she cannot be saved, then.” 

“I know she cannot,” said Morigna. “I would like it to be otherwise. And while I am at it, I shall also wish for Nathan and my parents to be returned to life. That has just as much chance of happening.”

“Then you want to kill her,” said Calliande.

“I do not want to kill her, but I think it necessary, both for our sakes’ and for hers,” said Morigna. “You think that as well.”

“I did,” said Calliande.

“Then what changed your mind?” said Morigna. 

“You already know,” said Calliande. “Ridmark.” 

“Why?” said Morigna. “The facts have not changed. Mara is still too far into her transformation. Or she is at risk of being possessed by the Artificer. If either fate comes to pass, we shall have to kill her. But we changed our minds because Ridmark made a little speech.”

“He pointed out the truth to us,” said Calliande. “We do not know the future beyond all doubt.”

“We have a good idea of it,” said Morigna.

“We do, but we could be wrong,” said Calliande. “I don’t know how Mara’s transformation works, how the Artificer’s magic works, and neither do you. Perhaps the bracelet can hold it in check. Think of the day before you met us, the day before we found you fighting the Old Man’s undead near the orcish ruins. Did you have the slightest inkling that in a month’s time you’d be traveling to Vulmhosk with the rest of us?”

“No,” said Morigna, grudgingly. Calliande had a point. “But this is different.”

“How so?” said Calliande. 

“Because she is dangerous,” said Morigna. “If you had been sleeping or away when Mara started to transform, she would have killed us or we would have killed her. And if Ridmark had not knocked that weapon out of her hand, the Artificer would have overwhelmed us.”

Calliande narrowed her eyes. “Then why haven’t you killed her yet? Or tried to?”

“I have not yet decided,” said Morigna, “I am…”

“Oh, but you have,” said Calliande. “You would have done it already…but Ridmark doesn’t want you to do it. So you haven’t. Which is why you are talking to me. You don’t want to defy him, so you hope to change his mind.”

For some reason, a wave of anger and embarrassment went through Morigna. 

“I will do as I think best,” said Morigna.

“Of course,” said Calliande with a smile. “Which is doing what Ridmark thinks best, apparently.” She shrugged. “But why should that bother you? He saved your life. He saved my life. He is often right about such things.”

“Often, but not always,” said Morigna. “His judgment is compromised if something reminds him of his dead wife. Do you not remember Imaria Licinius?”

A flicker of shame went over Calliande’s face. “Better than you, I expect.”

“That man would defy death to the bitter end,” said Morigna, “but Imaria threw Aelia’s death in his face, and he stopped resisting. He could not save his wife from Mhalek, so instead he saved us and everyone else who crossed his path.”