Frostborn: The Iron Tower (4 page)

At last they stood before Sir Paul Tallmane’s pavilion, its rich cloth rippling in the breeze rising from the fire. The black dragon sigil of Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon, hung from its pole. The pavilion was dark and deserted, and Ridmark saw no sign of any guards or foes.

Yet his instincts still screamed that something was amiss. 

“What are we waiting for?” said Jager. “Let’s get this done.”

He started forward, and Ridmark blocked him with his staff.

“Wait a moment,” said Ridmark. “Something is not right.” 

He looked around, trying to find what had triggered his instincts. Yet he saw nothing amiss. His eyes swept over the walls of the pavilion, the nearby tents, the grass around the pavilion. The grass had been tramped down by the weight of boots and hooves. But at the edge of the pavilion, at the base of its wall, he saw a score of deeper imprints. 

Like footprints, but deeper. 

As if something invisible stood there, driving the grass into the earth. 

Even as the peculiar thought crossed his mind, he saw more indentations appear in the grass.

Footprints appearing out of nowhere, as if invisible men walked towards him.

And with a stab of alarm Ridmark realized his mistake.

###

“There!” bellowed one of the knights, pointing. 

An instant later the men-at-arms charged with a shout, shields raised, swords drawn back to strike, and four crossbowmen leveled their weapons. Calliande started to cast a spell, white fire blazing to life around her fingers, and the crossbowmen shifted aim towards her. 

But the instant of distraction gave Morigna the time she needed to work a spell of her own.

She reached through her staff, and her thoughts touched the wood of the crossbows, and she felt their heft and grain. The staff’s power thrummed through her, and she commanded the wood of the bows to break and shatter. The crossbows snapped with loud cracks, the weapons disintegrating, and the bowmen stumbled with shouts of alarm. But the swordsmen kept charging, and Kharlacht, Gavin and Caius rushed to meet them. 

Calliande gestured, the white fire blazing brighter, the light seeming to sink into the others, and suddenly they moved faster. Calliande’s magic enhanced their speed and strength, so long as she maintained the spell, and Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin it to good use. Kharlacht shot forward in a blue-armored blur, his massive greatsword swinging, and one of the knights fell dead to the grass, his head rolling away to splash into the creek. Caius’s mace slammed into the knee of a man-at-arms, and the man fell with a scream. Gavin slammed his shield into the face of a knight, rocking the older man, and before his foe could recover the boy drove his orcish sword into a gap in the knight’s armor. 

The attackers fell back, dismayed by the ferocity of the onslaught, but soon recovered. The crossbowmen threw aside their ruined weapons, drew their swords, and rushed into the fray. The knights and men-at-arms recovered their poise. For all of the skill and magically-enhanced prowess of Kharlacht and the others, they were still outnumbered. They would be surrounded and cut down.

So Morigna acted. 

She slammed the end of her staff against the earth, calling upon more magic. Her will commanded the ground beneath the boots of her foes, and the earth rippled and undulated like water in a pond. The shock knocked the men-at-arms and knights from their feet. Kharlacht and the others seized the opportunity, and three men died in as many heartbeats. 

Yet the rest scrambled to their feet, and Morigna readied another spell.

###

Ridmark watched the footprints approach, his mind calculating the possibilities. 

“We have to move,” hissed Jager. “Now! Have you lost your mind?”

Ridmark hefted his staff, stepped forward, and swung, aiming for one of the approaching sets of footprints. His staff whistled through empty air…and then slammed into something unseen with a loud crack. 

A column of shadow and darkness swirled, and a gray-skinned figure appeared. The figure was a little under five feet tall, and wore armor of a peculiar dark metal that seemed wet while somehow drinking the light. His skin was the gray of granite, the same color as Caius’s, and his head had been shaved of every last hair.

His eyes were like pools of darkness, pits into an utter void, and he held a sword of the same peculiar black metal in his right hand.

“What the hell is that?” said Jager, stepping back and drawing his sword and dagger. 

“A dvargir,” said Ridmark, his staff leveled and ready. Just as the dark elves were to the high elves, so were the dvargir to the dwarves. Long ago they had turned from the worship of the dwarven gods of stone and silence to worship Incariel, the great void of the dark elves. The dvargir had received power over shadows and darkness, granting them the ability to become invisible. They revered Shadowbearer as a prophet of the great void, as did the Enlightened of Incariel.

Little wonder Paul had been so confident. Tarrabus had been willing to deal with the Mhorite orcs, so why not the dvargir? Tarrabus, or perhaps even Shadowbearer himself, must have dispatched the dvargir to guard the soulstone. 

The dvargir recovered from Ridmark’s blow, raising his sword.

“There’s just one…” started Jager.

Darkness rippled around the tent, and a score of the dvargir appeared.

They had been guarding Paul’s pavilion the entire time.

Ridmark cursed himself for a fool. 

One of the dvargir stepped forward. He looked older than the others, the gray skin of his face scored with deep lines, his black armor adorned with stylized reliefs wrought in crimson gold. Ridmark recognized the armor of a Dzark, the dvargir equivalent of a knight and a minor nobleman. Likely the Dzark had been dispatched to guard the soulstone, and the other dvargir were his retainers. 

“It seems the prophet of the great void was right to send us,” said the Dzark in accented orcish. “It is only just that you know the name of your slayer, Gray Knight. I am Tzoragar, a Dzark of Great House Klzathur of the city of Khaldurmar, and I am your death. Kill them both!”

The dvargir surged forward, weapons raised.

###

Morigna unleashed another spell, throwing the knights and men-at-arms to the ground, and Kharlacht and Caius killed two more.

But their efforts were in vain. Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius, augmented by Calliande’s magic, had held their own against the first wave of men-at-arms and knights.

But the rest of Paul Tallmane’s men were waking up. Paul stalked back and forth behind them, bellowing commands, and as his men recovered from the spell they rushed into the fray. A group of them had the wit to raise their crossbows, and Morigna swept her staff before her, calling upon its power and sending her thoughts into the wood of the bows.

The weapons shattered, but the crossbowmen shook off their surprise, drew swords, and charged. 

Kharlacht, Gavin, and Caius fought back to back, their weapons rising and falling. All three of them had taken minor wounds, and they could not hold for much longer. The sheer press of numbers would soon overwhelm them. Morigna raised her staff, ignoring the exhaustion in her mind from working so much magic so quickly, and considered what spell to use…

“Morigna!” roared Kharlacht as his heavy blade clove the skull of a man-at-arms. “Now!” He kicked the dead man from his blade and whirled to face another attacker. “Now! Clear the way!”

She knew what he meant. 

Again she summoned earth magic, commanding the ground beneath the melee to ripple and fold. A distortion shot through the ground, flowing around Kharlacht and the others and flinging the men-at-arms and knights from their feet. Yet more of the men awoke from Morigna’s spell, charging towards the melee. 

It was time to retreat. Morigna hoped Ridmark had secured the soulstone from the pavilion. Yet she heard the sounds of fighting from the center of the camp, saw dark figures darting around the pavilion. Had Paul left guards over the soulstone? Morigna wanted to help Ridmark, but if she tried to get past the men-at-arms, they would kill her.

Ridmark was on his own. 

But if any man could escape that camp, it was Ridmark Arban.

“Run!” shouted Kharlacht, sprinting away from the fallen men-at-arms.

Calliande gestured, the white light blazing round her, and gestured again. Her magic burst out, touching Morigna, and she flinched with alarm. But it was only another augmentation spell, one to make them faster.

Kharlacht ran for the trees, Gavin and Caius running on either side of Calliande, and Morigna turned and followed them. 

###

The dvargir charged, bellowing war cries in their harsh tongue, and Ridmark sprang to meet them. 

His staff blurred, and his first blow knocked the nearest dvargir warrior from his feet. Ridmark pivoted and brought the steel-clad end of his weapon hammering down, and he heard the dvargir’s skull crack. He kept moving, and his next blow knocked a dvargir warrior from his feet and into the path of two others, and for just a moment the attack faltered, surprised by Ridmark’s ferocity.

But it would not last. They were dvargir warriors, skilled and fierce, and they would overpower him.

“Run!” said Ridmark. 

Jager needed no prompting. He sprinted away from the pavilion, and Ridmark followed suit. For all their skill and strength, Ridmark had one advantage over the dvargir. His longer legs let him run faster and cover more ground. If he could reach the woods, he could escape. But what about Jager? He would not leave the halfling thief behind to be slaughtered by Tzoragar’s warriors. Ridmark risked a glance over his shoulder, but could find no sign of Jager. Had he fallen already?

He turned his head and saw Jager ahead of him by a good dozen paces. Ridmark sprinted from the camp, the dvargir in pursuit, and vanished into the forest.

###

“Anything?” said Calliande.

Morigna did not open her eyes. “Let me concentrate.” 

Her mind reached to the half-dozen ravens she had bound, and she sifted through their thoughts. The smell of burnt wood and spilled blood filled their nostrils. They knew that men had been slain, that a feast of dead flesh awaited them…

Morigna sighed and opened her eyes, rubbing her aching temples. 

“Well?” said Kharlacht. 

They had returned to the ravine, leaving Sir Paul’s camp behind. Their horses and supplies waited, untouched. Sir Paul’s men had not found the ravine, and Morigna and the others had eluded their foes in the forest.

But there was no sign of Ridmark or Jager.

“They are not pursuing us,” said Morigna.

Caius frowned. “Truly? That makes no sense.”

“They have broken camp and headed south to the road,” said Morigna. “From what the ravens could tell, they seem to be heading for the Iron Tower with all haste.”

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “Did you see any sign of Ridmark?”

“No,” said Morigna. She scowled. “But Paul's men had dvargir with them.”

A flush of anger went through Morigna. The dvargir had murdered her parents before her eyes all those years ago. Granted, they had been acting at the command of the Old Man, and Coriolus had met his just reward at the hands of the trolldomr Rjalfur. 

But she still hated the dvargir.

“Dvargir?” said Calliande.

Morigna bit back her annoyance. “Did you not hear me? At least a score of dvargir warriors. I know what they look like. They must have been concealed in the pavilion, or used their powers to turn invisible and lie in wait for anyone attempting to take the soulstone.”

Caius nodded. “That explains why Paul was so lax. He thought the dvargir would be enough to protect the soulstone.”

“Perhaps the Gray Knight escaped with the stone,” said Gavin. 

“No,” said Calliande. “If he had, then Paul would have sent his men in pursuit. He wouldn’t dare go back to Tarrabus, not after having failed at Aranaeus. He must still have the soulstone.”

“And Ridmark, as well,” said Caius.

A flicker of fear went through Morigna. She had never met Sir Paul, but the others had spoken of his hatred for Ridmark, and she had seen hints of his true character in Jager’s tales. If Ridmark had fallen into Paul’s hands…

“I do not believe that,” said Morigna. “He would not have been taken captive by such a fool as Paul Tallmane.”

“Who was not such a fool as we believed,” said Calliande. “Not if he was clever enough to hide the dvargir among the pavilion.” She shook her head. “We should have realized it, we should have seen it…”

“Oh, so this is my fault?” said Morigna.

Calliande’s eyes narrowed. “I did not say that.” 

“I was the one who scouted the camp,” said Morigna. 

“If you feel the need to rebuke yourself for it,” said Calliande, “do not let me stop you.” 

“This argument is pointless,” said Kharlacht. “In battle something always goes awry. We must decide how to proceed.”

“We must retrieve the soulstone,” said Calliande. “It cannot fall into the hands of Shadowbearer.”

“No,” said Morigna. “We must first discover if Ridmark has been taken captive or not.”

Calliande opened her mouth, and the argument likely would have continued, but a voice cut them off.

“He’s not.”

Morigna spun and saw Ridmark walking towards them, Jager trailing after. Both men looked tired, their faces and clothing damp with sweat. 

“You escaped,” said Calliande, relief going over her expression.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “By the skin of our teeth.”

Jager snorted. “The dvargir have stumpy little legs. And I have a great deal of experience running from men who want me dead.”

“Given your charm, I am sure of it,” said Morigna.

He flashed his grin at her. 

“It was my fault,” said Ridmark. “I knew something was amiss. I was sure of it. Yet I pressed onward anyway. My only credit is that I manage to realize the trap at the last moment before I walked into its jaws.”

“Did the foe pursue you?” said Kharlacht, reaching for his sword.