Frostborn: The World Gate (37 page)

Crimson fire snapped from his fingers. Kharlacht started to dodge, but the spell clipped him on the side. The raw power of Mournacht’s magic spun him into the air, and Kharlacht struck one of the menhirs and bounced off, falling in a limp heap to the ground. 

At last Gavin recovered his balance, blood dripping into his eyes, and charged at Mournacht with the other two Swordbearers. Mournacht slammed the end of his axe against the ground, and a ring of crimson fire erupted from him. Gavin lifted Truthseeker and called upon the sword’s power, and a white shell of light shimmered into existence around him as the fire rolled past, the sword’s magic repelling Mournacht’s attack. The fire winked out, and Gavin started to attack.

But Mournacht was already on him. 

The Mhorite seized Gavin’s throat and lifted him high, his iron fingers sinking like spikes into Gavin’s neck. Gavin tried to strike with Truthseeker, but Mournacht flung him as if he weighed nothing. Gavin soared through the air and landed against the ground.

He felt bone snap, something exploded inside his head, and everything went black. 

###

The temptation to use the stolen dark magic was nearly overwhelming.

Morigna kept that temptation in check. Almost certainly if she used the dark magic again, Shadowbearer and Imaria would find a way to exploit it. Not that Shadowbearer needed any additional advantages.

He was winning.

He was too fast, disappearing and reappearing all over the circle in the blink of an eye, and Calliande could never strike him with her spells. Morigna had cast spell after spell, and Antenora’s blasts of flame had burned away all the grass within the circle, small fires crackling here and there, but neither fire magic nor earth magic had touched Shadowbearer. Nor had it reached Imaria. The traitorous Magistria did not have Shadowbearer’s powerful wards, but she too could travel through the shadow of Incariel, and she would not stay still long enough for any of Morigna’s spells to reach her. 

Calliande was visibly exhausted, her arms trembling, her blue eyes bloodshot as she cast spell after spell. By contrast, Shadowbearer seemed to have no limit to his stamina. The hideous burns across his face should have left him too crippled by pain to function, yet he didn’t seem to feel the pain.

Or he felt the pain, and simply did not care. 

Imaria reappeared next to the altar, throwing out her hands and sending a cone of hazy shadow towards them. Again Calliande had to stop and cast a warding spell, the white fire driving back the haze of the shadow. That stole her strength for a vital instant, slowing her long enough to keep her from attacking Shadowbearer. 

Morigna risked a glance at Mournacht, cursing her uselessness. Caius, Kharlacht, and Gavin were all down, and she could not tell if they were stunned and dead. Ridmark, Constantine Licinius, and Arandar continued fighting Mournacht and the Weaver. Arandar had been wounded on the temple and shoulder, blood trickling down his armor, though he had not slowed. The Weaver flowed around them like a shadow, shifting form again and again and keeping the Swordbearers from focusing their attention upon Mournacht. 

They were losing, and Morigna could do nothing to stop it. Her magic was simply not powerful enough. All her life she had sought power, and at the moment of final crisis, she was not strong enough. 

Which was darkly amusing, because Morigna knew she possessed greater physical strength than Imaria. She was taller than Imaria, and had spent years living alone in the Wilderland, hunting and fishing for her food. Once she had gotten her hands on Imaria in Dun Licinia’s keep, it had been easy to overpower the traitorous Magistria. 

But there was no good way to exploit that strength. Imaria’s magic let her travel too fast, and nothing Morigna could do would slow her down. The shadows protected her from the mists Morigna could conjure, and she traveled away before Morigna could fold the earth beneath her feet. She carried nothing of wood that Morigna could control, and when Morigna commanded the roots to entangle her, the shadows broke that spell after the briefest moment. 

A moment…

Morigna blinked as an idea came to her.

Perhaps the briefest moment would be enough to defeat both Imaria and the Weaver. 

Imaria was transporting herself in a loose circle about Calliande, Morigna, and Antenora. She was clever enough to never reappear in the exact same place twice, but there was a definite pattern to her movements. If she was close enough to the Weaver when she reappeared…

“Antenora,” said Morigna in a low voice as power snarled back and forth between Calliande and Shadowbearer. “When I cast my next spell, attack the Weaver with as much power as you can muster.”

Antenora shook her head, her staff burning like a torch in her right hand. “He moves too quickly. I cannot hit him.”

“I think this will slow him down,” said Morigna, gripping her staff as Imaria vanished once again. “Be ready.”

She waited for a few heartbeats, her muscles tight. Ridmark and Constantine and Arandar wheeled around Mournacht, the Weaver circling them. Constantine attacked Mournacht, but the Mhorite shaman parried the swing and shoved. The Swordbearer staggered back and the Weaver struck, his talons reaching for Constantine’s throat. Constantine managed to dodge, but the Weaver’s talons ripped down his right leg, opening it to the bone. Constantine fell, his wounded leg giving out beneath him, and landed hard upon his back. The Weaver jumped after him, rising up to land the killing blow.

Right about them, Imaria reappeared, starting to cast another spell.

She was standing only three or four yards from the Weaver. 

“Now!” shouted Morigna, calling her own magic. 

She threw all the power she could gather into the spell, channeling it through her staff and reaching into the ground. Instead of calling forth a few large roots, she summoned as many as she could, and dozens of thin roots burst from the ground, reaching up to entangle Imaria and the Weaver. The Weaver staggered for a half step, pulling free of the entangling roots, and Imaria scowled, and for an instant her attention turned to the roots. 

That instant gave Morigna time to cast another spell. 

She folded the earth, but this time she rippled the ground beneath her own boots. The motion drove her forward, and she managed to keep her balance atop the heaving ground, like a boat riding a wave towards shore. Imaria looked up, her green eyes widening, and began another spell. 

Before she finished, Morigna drew back her staff and swung it the way that she had Ridmark do countless times before.

Ridmark was better at it, but Morigna’s aim was true. The tip of her staff caught Imaria across the chin, and the Magistria’s head snapped backwards. She spun around, tripped over the hem of her robe, and stumbled. 

Morigna slammed into Imaria. Her momentum drove Imaria backwards, and they both fell to the ground, the impact bouncing the staff from Morigna’s hands. Imaria snarled and started to cast a spell, shadows gathering around the hands that clutched at Morigna’s arm.

So Morigna punched her in the face. 

To judge from the shocked expression, no one had ever punched Imaria before. 

Imaria squawked and began her spell again, and Morigna heaved herself up, her knees pinning Imaria’s arms in place, seized Imaria’s neck, and began to choke her while slamming the back of her head against the ground. Imaria’s face darkened as she struggled for breath, her hands clawing at Morigna. Yet Morigna was the stronger, and she held Imaria in place as the Magistria struggled and clawed, her face growing darker and her eyes wider. 

Brilliant fire flashed past them, and Antenora’s blast of flame slammed into the Weaver as he pulled free from the roots. Morigna glimpsed the Weaver staggering, the fire chewing into him, and his form erupted into thousands of black threads.

Constantine staggered to his feet and half-stabbed, half-fell at the Weaver’s altering form. The soulblade ripped into the mass of black threads, and the burning blade severed thousands of them at once. The whole mass jerked backwards, reforming itself into the form of the white-robed old man. This time that Weaver looked gaunt and ragged, his blue eyes wild, his face almost gray with shock and pain. Constantine staggered after him, Brightherald waving in his hand, and the Weaver retreated.

For the first time, there was a hint of fear upon his face. 

The Weaver dissolved into strands of shadow again, reforming into a nightmarish winged creature. He leaped into the air, wings beating, and vanished away to the south. Constantine staggered one more step and collapsed, lying upon his face. 

Imaria gagged, and Morigna forced her thumbs into the woman’s throat. Just a little more, just a little more, and Imaria would not get up again. Then Morigna could aid Ridmark, and…

Imaria’s back arched, her whole body heaving, and shadows erupted from her in all directions. The shadows sank into Morigna, a horrible chill spreading through her. Then her hands slapped against the ground as the shadows swirled around her. 

Imaria had traveled away, but the shadows still chewed at Morigna. 

She tried to rise, but unconsciousness took her. 

###

Thunder boomed and flames howled as Calliande and Shadowbearer continued their furious duel. 

Ridmark could not spare a thought for that.

Constantine, Gavin, Kharlacht, and Caius had all fallen, dead or stunned or wounded. Fury drove Ridmark on despite the grating exhaustion in his limbs, his staff flying in his hands, the sigils glowing as they reacted the shadows gathered within Mournacht. Arandar still fought on, bleeding from a dozen minor hits, Heartwarden a brand of white fire in his hand. Morigna lay motionless upon the burned grass, her staff a few inches from her outstretched hand. Ridmark could not tell if she was alive or dead. 

If she was dead, he would make Imaria pay, no matter how long it took or how much it cost. Though he dared not turn any of his attention from Mournacht. 

If Morigna was dead, Ridmark might join her soon enough. 

“This is the end, Gray Knight!” roared Mournacht. “The void shall claim you. How I have looked forward to seeing you die in agony!”

“Then why?” said Ridmark, watching the towering warlord and trying to catch his breath, sweat burning in his eyes. “Then why am I still alive? Can you do anything other than boast of my death?”

In answer Mournacht pointed his axe at him, crimson fire surging down its length. 

Ridmark had expected the attack and he threw himself to the charred ground, the blast of blood sorcery hurtling over his head. He rolled to his feet, staying ahead of Mournacht’s next attack, and dodged again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bolt of bloody fire shoot past the altar, no doubt to fizzle out against one of the menhirs or the slope of the Black Mountain itself. 

Instead, the spell veered to the left, pulled towards the altar and the soulstone upon its surface. The crimson fire vanished into the pillar of blue flame.

As if the mighty spell powering the opening gate had sucked in the dark magic for itself.

Calliande had said that her Sight did not work properly here due to the vortex of dark magic snarling around the circle of menhirs. Did that mean it would drain away any dark magic that came near the altar?

What if something of dark magic actually touched the altar?

An idea came to Ridmark.

“Arandar!” said Ridmark, and the bleeding, battered Swordbearer looked at him. “Altar!” 

Arandar looked at Mournacht, at Ridmark, and then understanding went through his eyes. He nodded, raised Heartwarden, and charged at Mournacht, his soulblade flying through a masterful display of sword work. Mournacht parried the Swordbearer’s attacks, and Ridmark struck, whipping his staff at Mournacht’s legs and arms. Mournacht snarled and drew back his hand for another spell, a blast of shadow-wreathed crimson fire bursting from his fingers. Ridmark stepped behind Arandar, and the older man raised Heartwarden, the soulblade’s fury deflecting the dark magic. Ridmark kept moving, and this time his staff connected with Mournacht’s forehead, snapping the orcish warlord’s head back. Mournacht stumbled, and Arandar attacked, hammering at Mournacht’s chest with heavy strokes. His third attack connected, and Heartwarden tore a smoking gash across the orc’s ribs, a gash that did not heal as fast as the other wounds Mournacht had taken. 

Mournacht bellowed in fury, and in answer to the attack he simply punched Arandar in the head.

Arandar’s head snapped to the left, accompanied by the sound of collapsing metal. The Swordbearer fell to the ground, a massive dent into the left side of his helmet. Ridmark did not know if the blow had killed Arandar or not. 

There was no time to find out. Their attack had driven Mournacht within a few feet of the altar. Ridmark sidestepped, driving his staff across the back of Mournacht’s knees. The staff bounced from his hands with the force of the blow, but Mournacht stumbled closer to Ridmark.

The warlord raised his axe to end the fight, and Ridmark threw himself at Mournacht, his shoulder slamming into the Chosen of Mhor’s stomach. He heard the breath explode from Mournacht’s lungs, and Mournacht fell backwards. 

Right against the side of the altar. 

Mournacht screamed, the shadows ripping from him to sink into the altar, the glyphs of fire upon his chest and arms dimming as the great spell sucked away his power. Pain exploded through Ridmark as the barest edge of the blue fire touched him, and he rocked back, trying not to scream. 

Yet his hands remained steady, and he yanked the dwarven war axe from his belt and brought it down with all his strength. 

The blade struck Mournacht’s forehead and sank deep into his skull.

Mournacht, the warlord of Kothluusk and the Chosen of Mhor, slumped lifeless against the side of the altar, his black eyes wide with horror, Ridmark’s axe jutting from his head.

Ridmark stumbled back, breathing hard, and looked around for his staff. 

But it was too late.

They had lost. 

Both Imaria and the Weaver had fled, but Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin, Arandar, and Constantine were all motionless upon the ground. Morigna lay about twelve yards away. Ridmark saw that she was still breathing, at least for now, but he did not know how badly she had been hurt. Antenora lay slumped against one of the menhirs, and to judge from the peculiar angle of her arms and legs, Shadowbearer’s magic had flung against the dark stone with enough force to shatter her bones.