Frostborn: The Broken Mage by Jonathan Moeller Page A

marveled at it. Ridmark was a deadly fighter, as were the Swordbearers, and all of her companions were capable in a battle. Even Jager, with his loud mouth and cocky smirk, did not lack for courage when put to the test. Yet together, with their combined strengths, they were absolutely lethal. They had defeated the Artificer and escaped the Warden by the thinnest of margins, but that margin had been enhanced by their abilities working in tandem. She felt a surge of pride as Ridmark killed another Mhorite, dodging around the warrior’s swing to land a crushing blow with his strike. He had turned them into a unified group, and she wondered what he might do if they survived, if he returned to Andomhaim a hero who had restored the Keeper and saved the High Kingdom from the Frostborn…
    Then the shaman started casting a spell, and Morigna cursed, shoving aside her musings. Bloody light blazed around the gaunt shaman as he drew in power, and Morigna started a spell of her own, intending to flood the shaman with column of acidic mist. 
    Antenora acted first. 
    Throughout the fighting she had stood motionless, black staff in her right hand, her left hand cupped over the end of the staff. Now she removed her hand, and even across the battle Morigna saw the sudden glare of a fist-sized fireball, a ball that seemed to grow brighter and hotter as it spun above the ancient sorceress’s staff. Antenora thrust her staff, sending the fireball hurtling through the air. It shot over the battle in a lazy arc and landed a foot or so before the Mhorite shaman. 
    The resultant explosion made the Dormari Market as bright as day for an instant, filling the cavern with the roar of thunder. For a moment the battle stopped as the combatants turned to look at the roiling fireball that danced where the Mhorite shaman had stood a second earlier. The fire faded away just as quickly, leaving a massive charred spot upon the stone floor, a spot that contained absolutely no trace of the shaman. 
    Antenora, Morigna had come to realize, did not believe in doing things halfway. 
    The fighting soon ended. The surviving Mhorites had been thrown into disarray by Ridmark’s ambush, and the fiery death of their shaman demoralized them further. They started to flee, but Ridmark and the others ran them down. A few Mhorites nearly got away, but Morigna used her magic to knock them over, and Mara finished them off one by one. 
    Silence fell over the Dormari Market, and Morigna climbed from the ruined shop as the others joined Ridmark.
    “Good fight,” rumbled Kharlacht, cleaning the blood from the blade of his greatsword. 
    “None of us were even injured,” said Calliande as the white glow faded from her hands, “though I wish we could have avoided this fight entirely.”
    “As do I,” said Caius. 
    “It was necessary,” said Ridmark. “Now we can head deeper into Khald Azalar without Mournacht knowing exactly where we are. Check…”
    “Ridmark!” said Mara.
    Morigna followed Mara’s pointing finger and whispered a curse.
    A blaze of torchlight glimmered further down the gallery leading to the Gate of the West, and the faint tramp of boots came to Morigna’s ears, followed by the harsh rasp of shouted commands. It was the sound of more Mhorite warriors.
    A lot of Mhorite warriors. 
    “Ah,” said Antenora. “I regret to note that the light from my fire may have been visible for some distance, and if there were additional Mhorites in this complex...”
    “They saw it,” said Calliande, voice grim. 
    “Gray Knight, we should probably run,” said Antenora.
    “Agreed,” said Ridmark. “Go! To the Citadel of the West!” 
     
    ###
     
    The sound of the charging Mhorites became louder, and Ridmark ran faster, sprinting around the Travelers’ House, the others following him. 
    He rebuked himself. They had needed rest, true, but they should not have stopped. He should have insisted they press further into Khald Azalar before resting. For