Tales of the Frozen City Read online

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD – JOSEPH A. MCCULLOUGH

  THE LEGEND OF FROSTGRAVE

  THE BARGAIN – MATT WARD

  FORGE AND CRUCIBLE – SARAH NEWTON

  THE THIEF OF TIME – JONATHAN GREEN

  SWORD CERULEAN – BEN COUNTER

  THE DEVIL’S OBSERVATORY – M. HAROLD PAGE

  HOMECOMING – MARK A. LATHAM

  IN DARK PLACES – M.J. DOUGHERTY

  BEST SERVED COLD – KAREN MCCULLOUGH

  TIME TO SPARE – DAVID A. MCINTEE

  THE COLDER STARS – DUNCAN MOLLOY

  MIND OVER MATTER – GRAEME DAVIS

  FOREWORD

  It’s hard to say exactly where ideas come from. In the case of Frostgrave, the Frozen City, it began with my search for a suitable setting for a fantasy skirmish wargame I was writing for Osprey. I had many discussions about it with the game’s editor, Phil Smith. We knew that it needed to be someplace exotic, some place that had a bit of inherent magic. We discussed all the classic possibilities – lost desert cities, vast temple complexes in the jungle, even an underground world. All of these have long traditions in fantastical fiction, but were discarded for one reason or another.

  I can’t remember who first mentioned the idea of a ‘frozen city’, but once it was out there, my imagination couldn’t let go of the idea. A few years ago, I booked a romantic weekend getaway for me and my wife to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. With its incredibly preserved medieval old town and its large Russian Orthodox churches, I figured it would be a wonderful place to visit. In my enthusiasm, however, I failed to do the proper research and booked the trip in February, when the average temperature is -10˚ Celsius. As it turned out, the temperature never got that high during our trip...

  It snowed about a foot the night we landed in Tallinn and turned that beautiful, medieval city into something truly magical. True, we could only see it in short bursts, exploring in wonder, until our freezing fingers and numb faces forced us into a coffee house. Because of the snow, the city was quiet and seemed empty, almost as though it had frozen over and been forgotten.

  Well, I’m not saying that Frostgrave is based on Tallinn, exactly, but I am sure that trip had a profound influence on my creation of the Frozen City. Now, with the game released, I hope people will find a similar enchantment in the setting and tell their own stories of adventures amongst the ruins.

  It’s amazing to see this collection of stories based on something I created, and to read tales set in Frostgrave that I could never have imagined. Hopefully, this collection is only the beginning and we will all see many more stories of the Frozen City.

  THE LEGEND OF FROSTGRAVE

  Long ago, the great city of Felstad sat at the centre of a magic empire. Its towering spires, labyrinthine catacombs, and immense libraries were the wonder of the age and potions, scrolls, and mystical items of all descriptions poured forth from its workshops. Then, one cataclysmic night, a mistake was made. In some lofty tower or dark chamber, a foolish wizard unleashed a magic too powerful to control. A storm rose up – an epic blizzard that swallowed the city whole, burying it deep and leaving the area as nothing more than a vast, frozen wasteland. The empire was shattered and its magic faded. As the centuries came and went, Felstad passed from history to legend and on into myth. Only a few wizards, clinging to the last remnants of magic knowledge, still believed that the lost city had ever actually existed. But their faith was rewarded.

  After a thousand years, the fell winter has passed. The snows have receded, and Felstad has been uncovered. Its buildings lie in ruins, overrun by undead creatures and magic constructs, the legacy of the empire’s experiments. It is an evil, dangerous place. To the few hardy souls who inhabit the nearby villages, the city has acquired a new name – ‘Frostgrave’ – and is shunned by all right-thinking people. For those who seek power and riches, however, it is an unparalleled opportunity, a deadly maze concealing secrets of knowledge long forgotten...

  THE BARGAIN

  Matt Ward

  Markos risked a glance around the flank of the pillar, into the ruined cloister. Reinhart’s twitching corpse lay half-hidden in a bloodstained snow drift, the spear that had taken his life still lodged in his chest. A dozen skeletons stood around the body, shreds of barrow-garb twitching in the wind.

  The midnight wind grew in pitch. It whistled through the gaping holes in the roof, driving gusts of snow across the cloister and rattling the few surviving stained glass windows.

  Damn Reinhart, anyway! He’d been supposed to scout the monastery before signalling the rest of the company to follow. Now the captain and his men were dead, and Markos was alone. All because Reinhart hadn’t paid attention.

  That wasn’t true, Markos knew that. Reinhart had been a perfectly competent sword-hand, a veteran of twenty expeditions. No, it wasn’t fair to blame him, but Markos wasn’t feeling particularly fair. Cold, frustrated, and more than a little afraid, but not fair.

  Markos risked another glance around the pillar. As one, the skeletons turned to look in his direction, a dozen fleshless heads swivelling towards the pillar.

  Draga! They’d follow him all across the city now they’d noticed him – Markos had seen it too many times before. Press on to the temple, or flee to safety? That was the question. There was no choice, not really. It might be weeks before he could round up enough hirelings to attempt another expedition, weeks in which someone else might find the place. Of course, Markos had no idea how he’d defeat the guardian alone...

  Markos reached into his pocket and closed a hand around the ruby amulet. He felt the warmth of its magic melt away the cold, and a little of his fear. It was all he’d been able to recover before the temple’s guardian had driven him away. It had been his touchstone ever since. He could even have sworn that the amulet was alive, after a fashion. If he could just unlock its secrets... And there were others like it in the temple. He had to get back there. He just had to.

  Markos scrabbled in the snow with his free hand, numbed fingers seizing on a fist-sized lump of rock. Holding tight, he let the magic well up inside him, and sent it flooding through his fingers. At once, the rock began to glow. Markos smiled. Sometimes the simplest spells were the best. He counted to three and stepped out from behind the pillar.

  ‘Here, catch!’

  Markos lobbed the rock. The lead skeleton stared blankly at it, then disintegrated as a deafening explosion shook the cloister. Markos saw two more blown apart by the shockwave, heard fragments of bone clacking off the walls. The others were knocked off their feet. They’d be on their feet soon enough, but every delay was welcome.

  It was less than fifty paces to the heavy oak door at the cloister’s end, but Markos was breathing hard by the time he reached it. He told himself that it was the snow dragging at his heels, and not that he was unfit.

  Outside, the snow gleamed in the moonlight, an alabaster expanse broken only by a path of ice-sheathed slabs, rugged headstones, and spread-winged statues with curled horns and leering faces. Beyond, through the fitful blizzard, the familiar, jagged shapes of Frostgrave’s ruins reached skyward, like the shattered teeth of some long-dead behemoth. In the middle distance, just before the point at which swirling snow swallowed everything in sight, Markos glimpsed a rooftop statue many times his height, its arms reaching up towards the heavens. The temple was closer than he’d thought.

  Spurred on by that cheering thought, Markos’s next step wasn’t as cautious as it should have been. His only warning was a sudden crackling of ice. Then the slab beneath his feet fell away, taking him with it. With a yelp of surprise, he fell forward, clawing for purchase on the ice. His breastbone slammed into the rim of the newly-opened pit, t
he shock of it nearly jarring him loose.

  Markos kicked uselessly against the pit’s sides. He could feel his grip slipping as the ice began to melt from the heat of his fingers. He was disgusted with himself: the simplest of traps, and he’d fallen for it, quite literally. And then there were the skeletons to consider. Even now, they could be out of the cloister, lining up a spear thrust on his spine. He jerked his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the door. Too late, he realised his mistake. The sudden motion broke his tenuous grip.

  ‘No!’ Heart pounding, Markos slid backwards into the yawning pit.

  A pair of gloved hands locked around his wrists, bringing him to a sudden halt.

  Markos looked up. His rescuer was a dark-eyed woman clad in pale travelling leathers and a white cloak, her red hair billowing back and forth in the wind. Her face was familiar, but he’d never been close enough to catch the scent of magic about her. It was bitter and cloying, like that practised by summoners.

  ‘You should watch where you’re going, enchanter.’ The words tripped off her tongue like music played in a minor key.

  ‘Get off me!’ The words were instinctive, and escaped before Markos recognised their foolishness.

  ‘That’s not very grateful of you. But if that’s what you want... ’

  He felt her grip slacken. ‘No, wait!’

  She arched an eyebrow in amusement, then hauled him up out of the pit.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to stay here. I’ve got “friends” right behind me.’

  ‘Me too.’ She gestured away down the hill. ‘Some idiot set off a loud bang, awoke every grave-born for miles around.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Goodbye.’ Turning his back on the woman, Markos set off through the graveyard, more careful of his step than before.

  The woman followed him. ‘Not very friendly, are you? I thought perhaps we could help each other out.’

  Did she not take a hint? ‘I’ve no interest in working with a thief.’

  Markos risked a glance behind. His pursuers had at last emerged from the monastery. The skeletons were hardly visible through the snow, but he knew that wouldn’t matter. The eyes of the dead saw the world differently to those of the living. He increased his pace.

  The woman laughed. ‘A thief. Is that what you think I am?’

  ‘You were creeping around outside my home the night before last, and the one before that. So yes, I think you’re a thief. You’re just not a very good one.’

  If she was offended, she hid it well. ‘Does that mean you’ve something worth stealing, then?’ When he didn’t answer, she scowled. ‘Oh, alright. Yes, I’ve been watching you. Yes, you’ve something I want, but I thought we could bargain for it.’

  ‘And what could you possibly have that I’d want, thief?’

  ‘Redelle,’ she corrected. ‘Well, I did just save your life, but I suppose we’ll consider that a gesture of good will.’ She paused, clearly weighing something in her mind. ‘Look, I know you’re going to the Temple of Mitara, just like I know that you can’t defeat its guardian alone. Admit it: you could use my help.’

  Her words gave Markos a moment of pause. She wasn’t telling him everything, he was certain of that. And yet... He’d not yet learnt the temple’s name. If Redelle had, maybe she knew other things.

  ‘And what would I have to pay you?’

  ‘Not much,’ she said. ‘Just that ruby amulet you carry. One treasure in exchange for many. It’s a good deal.’

  It was indeed, as much as Markos hated to admit it. Again, he was struck by the idea that Redelle knew more than he did. Why that amulet in particular? There were others just like it in the temple. On the other hand, if he refused, there was every likelihood that she’d try to steal it – probably off his dead body after she killed him, if it came to that. Better to keep her where he could see her. It was that or kill her first, but instinct told him that such a confrontation would leave him too weary to face the guardian with any hope of success.

  He nodded. ‘Agreed. We have a bargain. Your help, for the amulet – but only once the guardian is defeated.’

  * * *

  Wary of treachery, Markos tried to keep Redelle in sight while they travelled through the ruined streets. Despite his vigilance, she vanished from his sight on too many occasions – though she always appeared again just as Markos was on the brink of calling out to her. Each time, he blamed the white cloak and chided himself for overreacting.

  Markos glimpsed the skeletons through the blizzard several times, never close enough to offer further danger, but never far enough away to let him hope they’d found some other prey. He never caught sight of those who’d been pursuing Redelle.

  Before long, they’d reached the long, winding stair that led into the temple.

  ‘You need only distract the guardian,’ he told Redelle. ‘I’ll do the rest.’

  She offered a mock bow, in the process almost slipping on the ice-crusted black marble. ‘Your wish is my command, enchanter.’

  The temple’s precincts were as dilapidated as Markos remembered. Most had suffered collapses in the past, and were strewn with piles of icy rubble. The outer sanctum was the first chamber they entered that still had a roof. Its marble walls were graven with ancient runes and stylised depictions of long-forgotten warriors.

  ‘These walls used to shine,’ Redelle said, running her hand over the stone. ‘A pity. Are you ready?’

  By way of answer, Markos heaved the inner sanctum’s door open, and passed inside.

  The chamber beyond was just as he remembered. It wasn’t a large room, perhaps twenty yards square, but it was at least sixty tall, crowned by a vaulted glass ceiling that had somehow survived the passing centuries. A golden altar lay in the room’s centre, flanked at each compass point by a statue of a kneeling woman. Each of the figures had a gem-crusted stave clasped in its right hand, and three wore amulets about their necks. The fourth amulet was missing, or nearly so – it already lay in Markos’s pocket. The other artefacts were heavy with enchantment. They had to be. The room was thick with magic: layers and layers of ancient spellcraft blurring and blended together through proximity to one another. It was intoxicating.

  At the back of the room stood a fifth statue. It was larger than the others, and fashioned in the form of an armoured knight, bearing a sword longer than Markos was tall. Except it wasn’t a statue at all, but a golem – the temple’s guardian. Markos shuddered at the memory. The last time, he’d had a full company with him, but they’d all been weary from the fight with Frostgrave’s other denizens, and in no shape to fight a construct of that size. They’d barely escaped with their lives, and with only the amulet to show for their troubles. Things would be different, this time.

  Markos nodded to Redelle. She walked to the side of the amulet-less statue, and plucked the staff from its hands. At once, the guardian awoke. Blue fire blazed from its carved visor, and the great killing sword came up. It lumbered towards Redelle, each step grinding against the flagstoned floor. In response, she raised the staff, and sent a tongue of flame hurtling across the chamber. It splashed across the golem’s chest, leaving scorch marks in its wake, but still the golem advanced.

  Redelle backed away, luring the guardian to the far corner of the room. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

  Markos reached into his pocket, and produced a curl of parchment tied with a single black ribbon. It had cost him a month of searching, and no small amount of coin, but at the moment it was priceless. Unfurling the scroll, he began to read.

  ‘Senall, voc no ren ti.’

  His vision blurred as the magic welled up through him, the syllables of the incantation shaping it into usable form. On the other side of the room, the golem hacked down at Redelle. She darted aside, and the sword slammed into the floor, shattering a dozen flagstones.

  ‘Desca ryn vall, torak.’

  Distantly, Markos realised that the golem was ablaze, Redelle’s fires so
mehow finding purchase on its stony hide. But brighter than the fire was the blue spark of the guardian’s tiny mind, revealed by the spell.

  ‘Segorvi, malak!’

  The guardian froze in place as Markos seized control of its mind. For a moment, the enchanter felt inexpressibly heavy, as if the golem’s limbs were now his own. Then the spark of its mind winked out, and Markos’s consciousness returned to his own body. He blinked away a brief moment of confusion, and brushed the dusty remnants of the scroll from his fingers. The golem remained frozen in place.

  ‘Took you long enough,’ said Redelle.

  She didn’t look at all out of breath, Markos noted, despite her exertions. The staff looked at home in her hands, as if it had been made for her.

  ‘Don’t complain,’ he said, reaching the altar.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she said archly. ‘Why do you look so disappointed?’

  ‘Those words of command should have given me control of the guardian, not destroyed it.’ He shook his head and grimaced. So much for being able to haul the golden altar away – he’d needed the guardian to lift it. ‘Never trust a merchant.’

  ‘Now who’s complaining?’ Redelle asked. ‘And speaking of trust, I think you owe me something.’

  Markos scowled. He couldn’t have done this alone – he’d never have completed the incantation without being pulverised. Still, now the moment was here...

  ‘A bargain is a bargain,’ Redelle said softly.

  ‘Yes... Yes, it is.’ She’d kept her part, he ought to keep his. With a grunt, Markos reached into his pocket, produced the ruby amulet, and slid it across the altar towards her. ‘Here, and... thank you.’

  Redelle smirked. ‘No enchanter, thank you.’

  Quick as a snake, she raised the staff, and brought its heel down on the amulet. There was a brilliant flash of light, then darkness.

  * * *

  ‘Wake up, enchanter.’

  Markos opened his eyes, trying to ignore the pounding in the back of his head. A woman was sitting on the edge of the altar, one leg crossed over the other. It was Redelle, and yet... not Redelle. Her features were the same, but paler than before, and her once-dark eyes now blazed red. Her cloak and leathers were gone, replaced by a dress of rippling flame that curled and puddled around her feet. She made for a beautiful sight, he had to admit, but it was the beauty of a forest fire, or a waking volcano – best admired from a distance, or better yet, in memory.