Frostborn: The Iron Tower (18 page)

“And now he is trying to save Mara,” said Calliande. 

“And I do not think he can,” said Morigna. “We need to get the soulstone back and continue to Urd Morlemoch. I think if we try to save Mara, we shall only get ourselves killed.”

Calliande shrugged again. “We are going to storm the Iron Tower anyway. If we can retrieve Mara’s bracelet in the process, there is no harm in the attempt. And why ask me to change his mind? Talk to him yourself.” 

“He listens to you,” said Morigna.

“He also listens to you,” said Calliande. “You have spent enough time with him lately.”

“That is because I am the best scout and tracker we have,” said Morigna.

“Then talk to him while you two are off scouting together,” said Calliande.

Morigna raised an eyebrow. Was Calliande actually jealous?

Another burst of embarrassed anger went through her. Morigna had lived alone in the Wilderland for years. She needed no one, and needed the approval of no one. Certainly she did not require the approval of Ridmark Arban or Calliande. Yet she was discomforted to realize that she cared what Ridmark thought of her. And she was even more discomforted to realize that she felt pleasure at Calliande’s annoyance. 

Damn it all, she was thinking like a child. That could get her killed. 

“You have been with him longer,” said Morigna. “He listens to you. You can change his mind. And I wonder why you have not…”

“Have not what?” said Calliande. 

Lured him into bed, Morigna almost said, but some scrap of wisdom made her keep the comment to herself. Ridmark would not pursue any woman, that was plain. He still blamed himself for Aelia’s death, but that had been over five years ago. Surely he did not wish to be alone for the rest of his life. Maybe he simply required some persuasion. 

Perhaps Calliande was unwilling to do that.

Morigna thought that foolish.

“Why you have not persuaded him that stopping the Frostborn is more important than saving Mara,” said Morigna. 

Calliande sighed. “Fine. We shall talk to him together. Perhaps the fact that we agree on anything will shock him into action.”

Morigna blinked, and then laughed. “Very well.”

###

“How are you?” said Ridmark.

“Well enough,” said Jager. The halfling’s mask of cheer did not surprise Ridmark. Jager had faced death in Tarrabus’s domus with a joke, and would likely die with a jest upon his lips. There were worse ways to cope with fear. “It is a fine and lovely day, and I am walking through the forest with a beautiful woman at my side. What more could any man want?”

Mara laughed. “Perhaps a walk through the forest without the constant risk of agonizing death?”

“Bah,” said Jager. “A man should not be greedy.”

“I am as well as can be expected,” said Mara, her smile fading. “I’ve…had a few bad moments. I can still hear the songs.” 

Ridmark nodded. “We should reach Vulmhosk within the hour.”

“This Smiling Otto,” said Mara. 

“He hardly ever smiles,” said Jager.

“Will he help us?” said Mara.

“I think so,” said Ridmark. “I have the means to persuade him.” 

“And then you will raise an army and wage war upon the Tower,” said Mara. “All to save me.”

“If it will make you feel better,” said Ridmark, “if you had been killed when the Artificer tried to claim you, I would take the same steps now. Shadowbearer cannot have the soulstone.” 

“All because of that ring,” said Mara, and Jager looked away.

Ridmark shrugged. “If it wasn’t Jager, it would have been someone else. Shadowbearer would not have stopped until he killed us and took the stone.” He looked up, saw Kharlacht and Caius heading towards him, Gavin trailing after. “Pardon me.”

“Of course,” said Mara, and Ridmark walked further up their line, joining Kharlacht.

“Well?” said Ridmark.

“Many tracks, and recent,” said Kharlacht. “All of them heading toward Vulmhosk.”

Caius frowned. “Do you think Tarrabus sent men to attack Vulmhosk?”

“I doubt it,” said Ridmark. “Likely Tarrabus neither knows nor cares that Smiling Otto’s boat carried us to Coldinium. And the men of the Iron Tower regularly buy supplies from Otto’s men.”

Which was central to Ridmark’s plan. 

“All the tracks are coming from the west,” said Kharlacht.

“West?” said Gavin. “Kothluusk is in that direction. More Mhorite orcs? Comes Corbanic said that the Kothluuskan orcs were stirred up.” 

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. Mournacht was still out there, and Ridmark had no doubt that the shaman would one day seek vengeance for his defeat in Coldinium. 

“Warbands from Vhaluusk,” said Caius.

“Or creatures from the Torn Hills,” said Kharlacht. A tribe of mutated orcs lived within Urd Morlemoch, orcs that worshipped the Warden as a god. Sometimes the Warden sent them to collect items or people he found interesting. Though Ridmark could not imagine what the Warden might find interesting in a place like Vulmhosk. 

“We will deal with them when we arrive,” said Ridmark. “And if they are mercenaries, all the better. We can hire them for the attack on the Iron Tower.”

“I hope you have the money, then,” said Gavin. 

“We have little enough in the way of coin,” said Caius.

“You could always offer to pray for the mercenaries,” said Kharlacht. 

“Alas, while my prayers would be heartfelt,” said Caius, “I fear that mercenaries would not accept them as payment. Though it…”

He fell silent and turned his head.

Morigna and Calliande walked towards them, together. That set off a warning in Ridmark’s head. The Magistria and the sorceress rarely, if ever, agreed on anything, and never spent time together unless they could help it. Some of that stemmed from their differing personalities and beliefs. Some of it was Ridmark himself. 

“Calliande, Morigna,” said Caius. 

“Brother Caius,” said Calliande. “Might we borrow Ridmark for a moment?”

Gavin raised his eyebrows, turned, and coughed. He was trying not to laugh, damn him. 

“By all means,” said Caius. “Though if you are in agreement on a matter, I wonder if it is a sign of the imminent return of the Dominus Christus to judge the living and the dead.”

“That mouth of yours, friar,” said Morigna, “will get you in trouble yet.”

Caius smiled. “It was getting me into trouble long before you were born.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Though if it starts raining blood and the sun turns to ashes, I shall be alarmed.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “We’ll talk. Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin. Watch for foes. And for the sun to turn to ashes.” Gavin coughed, still trying to hold back a laugh. “And get Gavin something to drink before he chokes to death.”

Gavin turned bright red, and Ridmark walked ahead of the others until they were out of earshot, Morigna and Calliande following him.

“Well?” said Ridmark, turning to face them. “What is it?”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” said Morigna. 

“No,” said Ridmark. He paused. “Which idea?”

“Raising an army and attacking the Iron Tower,” said Calliande.

Ridmark shrugged. “Battle is always a risk. So many things can go wrong. The Iron Tower is too well-guarded for us to infiltrate. Even if Paul is lax, the dvargir guards will not be. All it will take is for one guard to sound the alarm, and then we will be killed. We have one chance to get the soulstone back, and we cannot waste it.”

“I don’t dispute that,” said Calliande. “But…we may be taking an additional unnecessary risk.”

“Which one?” said Ridmark.

“Mara,” said Morigna. 

“What about her?” said Ridmark.

“She is dangerous,” said Calliande.

“I know that,” said Ridmark. 

“She could lose control of herself and transform,” said Calliande, “or fall victim to the Artificer again.” 

“I know this already,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande. She sighed. “Yes, I suppose you do. I…”

“Enough,” said Morigna, her voice hard. “I will be blunt. I do not think Mara can be saved, and I think you offer her false hope. Better to kill her now before she transforms and loses herself. You know that as well as I do, but your guilt over Aelia’s death is clouding your judgment.”

Ridmark stared at her, his fingers tapping against his staff. Morigna swallowed, a muscle twitching in her jaw. He could not tell if she was frightened or angry. Perhaps both. 

“You think this, too?” said Ridmark.

“I think,” said Calliande, “that she may have a point.” 

Morigna rolled her eyes. “How forceful.” 

“What of it?” said Ridmark. He felt himself growing angry. “Shall I walk up and beat her to death now, or shall we wait until we get to Vulmhosk so she can have one last drink?”

“No,” said Calliande. “But…”

He pointed at Morigna. “Or do you want to do it? You could shoot her. Burn her alive in acidic mist. What is stopping you?”

Morigna said nothing. 

“Well?” said Ridmark. “You keep saying that I blame myself too much for Aelia’s death, both of you.”

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “You cannot save everyone.”

“I know that,” said Ridmark. “Did you think I had forgotten? I was there. I saw her die.”

“Then you are trying to save Mara,” said Morigna, “because you could not save Aelia. It will not bring her back…”

“I know that,” said Ridmark, his voice harsher than he intended. “Do you think me a fool? I failed to save her. I deserve this.” He jabbed a finger at his left cheek. “Nothing I do will ever bring her back, will ever make up for it. You can tell me to forgive myself, to move on from the past, but…”

He fell silent, staring to the south. Through the trees he saw the ruined tower of Vulmhosk, the light glinting off the waves of the Lake of Battles. They were almost there. Yet that was not what had caught his attention. 

The smell of blood…

“Ridmark,” said Morigna. “I do not have the right to tell you what to do. But, please. Do not destroy yourself over guilt.”

“It was not your fault,” said Calliande.

“Quiet,” said Ridmark, looking around. “Both of you.”

“We deserve that,” said Calliande.

“No,” said Ridmark, “there’s something wrong.”

He turned in a circle, staff ready, and spotted the head.

It was the head of an orcish man, and lay at the base of a tree, blood spilling into the earth. The neck was a ragged stump, the flesh and vertebrae shredded. The orcish man’s head hadn’t been cut from his neck. 

It had been torn by brute strength. 

A few heartbeats later he saw the orc’s body, or at least pieces of it, lying scattered against a nearby tree. He shot another glance at the palisade surrounding Vulmhosk, and saw that the gates were closed, that crossbowmen and archers waited ready atop the ramparts. 

“What is it?” said Calliande.

“Look,” said Morigna, pointing with her staff as purple fire crackled to life around her fingers. Calliande saw the severed head, her blue eyes widening. The others caught up to them, and weapons slid free of scabbards when they saw the dead orc. 

Ridmark chastised himself. He should have been paying better attention. He should not have let Calliande and Morigna distract him. 

“God and the saints,” said Gavin, shield and sword in hand. “What could do that?” 

“Nothing we want to meet,” said Ridmark, scanning the trees. A flicker of motion caught his eye, but when he looked, he saw nothing there. 

His suspicion hardened into certainty, and he cast aside his staff and drew the dwarven war axe from his belt. 

“Calliande,” he said, “augment our weapons, now.” She nodded and began the spell. “Morigna. Your spell to detect dvargir?”

Again he saw a rippling, a distortion in the air. This time it was heading towards him. 

“Aye,” said Morigna. “Dvargir did this?”

“No,” said Ridmark, looking around for any other distortions. The axe flared with white light in his hand as Calliande finished her spell, the haft vibrating against his fingers. “Worse. Brace yourselves.”

Morigna finished her spell. “Ridmark! There are six of them! I think…”

The blur shot forward, and Ridmark sidestepped, swinging the axe with both hands. The glowing blade cut through the air, and then struck something solid, black blood flying out of nothingness. A hideous snarl rang out, and Ridmark ripped the axe free and struck again. 

And as he did, the blur vanished, and his foe became visible. 

The creature looked like a ghastly hybrid of wolf and ape, rising nearly eight feet tall when it stood upon its hind legs. Its eyes burned like coals, and its black fur hung off its gaunt frame in greasy, spiky ropes. Thick muscles covered its arms and legs, and bubbling slime dripped from its fang-lined muzzle.

It was an urvaalg, one of the war beasts of the dark elves. They were faster, stronger, smarter, and far more vicious than normal wolves. Additionally, they had the ability to blend with their surroundings, becoming nearly invisible as they stalked their prey. Worse, they were immune to normal steel, and were almost impossible to kill without the aid of magic.

Fortunately, Ridmark had the enchanted axe and Calliande’s spells.

Unfortunately, a half-dozen urvaalgs surrounded them.

Ridmark sprang forward before the wounded urvaalg could recover, the axe flashing in his hands. The blade sank deep into the urvaalg’s right knee, and the creature stumbled with an enraged roar, going to all fours. Ridmark yanked the axe free and brought it down with both hands. He drove the blade into the urvaalg’s neck, just behind its head, and the creature went limp, the black slime of its blood leaking onto the forest floor.

But the other five urvaalgs charged, snarling and snapping.

###

Morigna cast another spell, fury fueling her magic. 

She hated urvaalgs. An urvaalg had killed Nathan Vorinus, ripping him to shreds before her eyes, and she had barely managed to kill the damned thing before it had killed her. Worse, her magic did no lasting harm to an urvaalg. She could hurt them, but an urvaalg regenerated injury so quickly that they could shrug off mortal wounds. Only a Soulblade or the magic of the Magistri could kill an urvaalg.