Frostborn: The Iron Tower (29 page)

Then Mara was past the fighting, watching as Ridmark and Paul whirled around each other in a lethal dance. Paul’s speed and strength were terrifying, and only Ridmark’s superior skill had kept him alive for so long. 

But it would not, she thought, keep him alive for much longer. 

“Paul Tallmane!” Jager’s voice rang out, and Paul’s head turned toward him. Jager ran to Ridmark’s side, his sword and dagger pointing at the Constable of Iron Tower. “Remember me? You wanted to kill me for years! Now’s your chance, you murderous dog.”

Paul sneered. “Do not think to taunt me, worm. Once I kill the Gray Knight, I will deal with you. Slowly and painfully.”

“Go,” said Ridmark, his face glistening with sweat. “You needn’t die alongside me.”

Mara crept forward, sliding her daggers from their sheaths. Another dazzling blast of white flame shot across the courtyard, followed a column of acidic mist. The shadows pulsed and hardened around Paul, dispelling the magical attacks. 

“So you have some tricks with shadows,” said Jager. “How terrifying. For your next act, will you pull a rabbit from a hat? Or some cards from your sleeves?”

Paul growled. “Enough!” He lifted the sword in both hands. “Perhaps I will deal with you before…”

Mara sprang upon his back, her legs wrapping around his waist, and buried her daggers in his exposed armpits. Paul’s snarling threat dissolved into an agonized scream, and hot blood soaked into his blue tabard. He spun, the back of his armored fist slamming into Mara’s face, and the power of the blow ripped her from his back and into the wall. She slumped to the ground with a groan, blood flowing from her lip and nose, her head ringing with pain. The shadows boiled up within her in response to the pain, but she concentrated, forcing them back with the aid of Calliande’s spell.

She saw Jager running at her as Ridmark charged Sir Paul.

###

Ridmark whipped his staff around, and Paul raised his shadow-wrapped sword with a snarled curse.

But this time, even with his shadow-enhanced power, Paul was not fast enough. Ridmark’s blow struck his armored shoulder with a clang. Paul stumbled with a groan of pain, and before he recovered his balance, Ridmark’s staff hammered into his cuirass with enough force to leave a crease.

Paul still possessed inhuman strength and speed, but that power was bound to the flesh of a seriously wounded man. A trick of crimson blood leaked from Paul’s lip, and Ridmark wondered how deep Mara had sunk her daggers. He wondered if Paul’s blow had killed Mara, or if the pain would cause her to lose control and transform. 

Paul swung his sword with both hands, bellowing in fury, but winced in pain as the movement tugged at his wounds. The swing went awry, and Ridmark dodged and swung the staff with both hands. The steel-capped end of the weapon struck Paul’s right knee, and Ridmark heard something crack. Paul screamed again, and Ridmark went on the offensive. He struck again and again on Paul’s left, forcing the Constable upon his wounded leg. Ridmark launched high blow after high blow, forcing Paul to raise his arms to block, tearing at the wounds in his armpits. The Third Circle of the Initiated granted inhuman speed and strength, but not the ability to heal wounds. 

Then Paul stumbled, his face going gray.

Ridmark’s staff hammered down onto Paul’s wrists, and the crack of breaking bone filled his ears. Paul shouted, the sword tumbling from his numbed fingers, the shadows flickering into nothingness. Calliande flung another blast of white fire at him, and this time the spell shattered the darkness. Paul fell backwards with a clatter of armor, his face contorted with pain.

Ridmark raised his staff for a killing blow.

“Wait,” rasped Paul, raising his ruined hands. “Wait! I…I yield. I yield! I yield, damn it!” 

Ridmark hesitated and looked around, wondering if Paul was trying to distract him.

But the battle was over. Crowlacht’s men had overwhelmed the Enlightened men-at-arms, killing most of them and forcing the rest to surrender. Calliande and Morigna hurried to Ridmark’s side, while Caius and the others oversaw the surrender of the prisoners. Jager ran to Mara, and helped her to stand. Her face was bloody, but she was alive, and her inner darkness seemed under control. 

“Yield,” croaked Paul. “I… I yield.”

“Are you hurt?” said Calliande. 

Ridmark shook his head, trying to catch his breath. If not for Mara’s and Jager’s intervention, he would likely be dead. 

“Thank you,” said Ridmark as Jager helped Mara forward.

Mara wiped the blood from her face and offered a tired smile. “Given the risks you have run on my behalf, it seemed only just.”

“The dvargir,” said Paul. “The dvargir…the dvargir will…”

“The dvargir are dead,” said Mara. “I saw Kharlacht cut down their Dzark.”

“Here, hold still,” said Calliande, white light flaring around her hands. She put her palms to Mara’s temples, and Mara gasped, the bruises and the cuts vanishing from her face as Calliande winced.

“Thank you,” said Mara.

Calliande looked at the twitching Paul. “Do you want me to heal him?”

Ridmark hesitated. Paul was in too much pain to draw upon the power of the shadows. But if he was healed…

“Kill him,” said Morigna and Jager in near-unison. They gave each other a suspicious look, and then Morigna kept talking. “He is too dangerous to leave alive. If he recovers, he will try to kill us, summon Shadowbearer, or contact Tarrabus Carhaine.”

“While it pains me to admit it, I agree completely with Morigna,” said Jager. “And he deserves it. He let my father take the blame for his crimes.”

“No,” muttered Paul. “No, it is a trick. I…I won’t listen. You’re trying to trick me.”

He was delirious, likely from blood loss. 

“We can keep him asleep,” said Calliande.

Morigna frowned. “Mercy?”

“No,” said Calliande. “He is a witness to the corruption of the Enlightened. Ridmark, if we send him to Comes Corbanic, or to Sir Joram and Dux Gareth…they can use him to expose the Enlightened before the High King. The Enlightened are a cancer within the realm, but if they are unmasked, the loyal nobles and uncorrupted Magistri can drive them out.” 

“He deserves to die for what he has done,” said Jager.

“I do not contest that,” said Calliande. “He killed your father, Jager…but how many other fathers has he killed? How many sons and brothers? How many more will the Enlightened kill? If he is to die, then let his death bring down the Enlightened.”

“That…makes sense,” said Jager. “I leave it in your hands, then.”

Ridmark nodded and rested the end of his staff on Paul’s throat.

The Constable’s black eyes fixed on him, terrified and full of pain. 

“Tell me where the soulstone is,” said Ridmark, “or I’ll kill you here and now.”

Chapter 19 - Reborn

Paul could not believe this was happening.

It was not possible. Shadowbearer himself had made Paul an Initiated of the Third Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel. He had jumped from a hundred-foot balcony and survived. He had moved with speed and strength beyond anything a mortal man possessed. 

Yet the damned Gray Knight and his damned companions had still defeated him. 

And now he was going to die.

That halfling rat would kill him in vengeance for his stupid fool of a father. Or Ridmark’s pet sorceress would kill him out of prudence. And even if Ridmark spared him, Paul had failed. The exile would take the soulstone with him and depart. Tarrabus Carhaine valued loyalty above all things, but even he would never forgive a failure of that magnitude. 

And Tarrabus’s wrath would pale next to Shadowbearer’s vengeance.

Perhaps it would be better if Ridmark killed him right now.

“But there is no need,” said the Artificer, his rasping voice hissing inside of Paul’s skull, “for you to die here. There is no need at all. Not when my power can bring you victory and elevate you above all men.”

“It’s a trick,” said Paul, “I know it is a trick.”

“It is no trick,” said Ridmark. The cold steel of his staff’s end tapped Paul’s throat. “Tell me where the soulstone is, or I’ll kill you right now.”

Paul looked at Ridmark, at the hard blue eyes and the grim face, and a fresh wave of terror rolled through him. The Gray Knight was going to kill him. He had known that since Aranaeus, had he not?

Paul did not want to die.

“The great hall,” said Paul, his voice trembling. “The curule chair. The dvargir were guarding it.”

The sorceress’s lip twisted with contempt. 

“Jager, Mara,” said Ridmark. “Go get it.” A dry note entered his voice. “I trust you remember what it looks like.”

Jager offered a wry grin. “All too well.”

Both the halfling and the assassin walked out of Paul’s field of vision. 

“It is not too late,” said the Artificer. “Take my power. I cannot bestow it upon you without your permission. Give me permission. Let me power enter you, and you shall destroy your foes.” 

“The Iron Tower is ours, Gray Knight,” said a towering orc in steel plate. “What shall we do with this one?”

“Sir Marcast?” said Ridmark. “He fought valiantly on our side, and turned against Paul once the truth was known.” 

“I urge you to keep the Constable alive, Gray Knight,” said Marcast. Paul turned his head, saw the damned traitor standing with Ridmark. “Your story of the Enlightened…I would not have believed it unless I saw Sir Paul’s powers with my own eyes. The thought that this…this cult has spread among the nobility…”

“And the Magistri,” said Calliande. 

“It is shocking,” said Marcast. “You will require proof, and Sir Paul can provide proof.”

That thought made Paul quail. Dying in battle was one thing. Getting chained up and dragged through the realm like a trophy, forced to testify against the Dux and the Enlightened…that thought was far worse. 

How his father would have laughed, if the damned old fool was still alive. 

Though Shadowbearer and Tarrabus would likely have Paul killed long before it came to that. 

“Fool,” said the Artificer. “Will you die when your salvation is at hand? Take up my power and save yourself, or lie down and become a prisoner of your foes.”

Paul shuddered and closed his eyes.

The Artificer’s voice compelled him, fascinated him…but he knew, deep in his bones, that it was a trap. A trick.

But he really didn’t have any choice left, did he?

###

Morigna kept a wary eye on Sir Paul, ready to summon her power at the slightest hint of a threat. 

But Paul Tallmane was beaten, his face going gray, his surcoat sodden with blood. The man looked unable to stand, let alone capable of summoning powers of darkness. In fact, he looked on the verge of death. 

“If you want to keep him alive,” said Morigna to Calliande, “you had better heal him soon. I do not think he will last much longer without aid.”

“You’re right,” said Calliande. “Can you put him to sleep?” Morigna nodded. “Use a weaker version of the spell. He’s lost enough blood that if the spell is too strong, it will likely kill him.” 

Morigna opened her mouth to argue that she knew what she was doing, but decided not to pursue it. Calliande had a point. Morigna could put too much power into the sleeping mist and kill Paul. And, perhaps, that would be for the best. Ridmark might think to expose the Enlightened of Incariel before the realm, but Morigna doubted the proud lords of Andomhaim would heed him. They might even try to kill him for having the temerity to make such an accusation.

All of which could be avoided if Morigna “accidentally” killed Paul now.

“We found it!”

Jager and Mara emerged from the great hall. The soulstone rested in Jager’s right fist. Morigna shivered at the sight of it. Even without summoning magic, Morigna could sense the power within the pale crystal, the vast potential.

It was dangerous beyond anything she had ever encountered. 

“Since I stole this from you, my lady Magistria,” said Jager, performing an elaborate flourishing bow before her, “it seems only just that I return it to you.” 

“Why, thank you, Jager,” said Calliande, accepting the soulstone and returning it to a leather pouch on her belt. “I am glad to have it back.” 

“Now let’s find that bracelet and get the hell out of here,” said Jager. 

“It’s in the tower of iron,” said Mara. “I don’t know how to get inside.”

“We will secure the Tower and empty the treasury,” said Ridmark, which brought a frown from Marcast. “Crowlacht and his men need to be paid, and any prisoners liberated from the cells. I suspect many were imprisoned unjustly.” 

“We’ll find a way into the tower of iron and keep the Artificer’s spirit at bay,” said Calliande. She looked at Morigna. “First, though, I need to heal Paul. He cannot expose the Enlightened if he’s dead.”

“Very well,” said Morigna. She decided to put Paul to sleep for now. Perhaps he would be useful later. She gestured with her free hand, and purple fire blazed around her fingers.

Paul looked at her, his black eyes hardening and deepening until they seemed like pits into a bottomless black void. 

###

“Yield to me,” said the Artificer. “Surrender to me, and I shall give you the power you need to crush your foes.”

Paul hesitated, his pulse throbbing in his ears. Perhaps there was another way out. Surely the dvargir had not all been slain. But Paul was wounded, his hands broken, his body crippled. He was at the mercy of his foes. 

And he had no way to protect himself from the retribution of his masters. 

“If you have my power,” said the Artificer, “no one shall ever harm you again. You can destroy your foes. You can make your masters your slaves. Take up my power, and you shall be invincible. But if they take you outside of the Iron Tower, you will be outside of my reach…and your fate will be your own.”

The black-eyed sorceress gestured, purple fire crackling around her fingers.

“Fine,” said Paul. “Fine. Do it. Do it!”

“Then I have your permission?” said the Artificer.