The High Lords
Date: 2020-03-26 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction
Description: After losing his wife and his honor, Ridmark Arban the Gray Knight set out to stop the return of the malevolent Frostborn. He failed. Now the gates of ruin have been thrown open, and the Frostborn and their armies threaten to overthrow the High Kingdom. Only Ridmark stands in their way. Distrusted by his countrymen and broken by grief and loss, he will nonetheless show the Frostborn why the Gray Knight is the most feared warrior of the age. Or die trying…
Publisher: Azure Flame Media, LLC

FROSTBORN: THE HIGH LORDS

Jonathan Moeller

Description

After losing his wife and his honor, Ridmark Arban the Gray Knight set out to stop the return of the malevolent Frostborn.

He failed.

Now the gates of ruin have been thrown open, and the Frostborn and their armies threaten to overthrow the High Kingdom.

Only Ridmark stands in their way. Distrusted by his countrymen and broken by grief and loss, he will nonetheless show the Frostborn why the Gray Knight is the most feared warrior of the age.

Or die trying…

Frostborn: The High Lords

Copyright 2016 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published February 2016.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

A brief author’s note

At the end of this book, you will find a Glossary of Characters and a Glossary of Locations listing all the major characters and locations in this book. Note that the Glossaries contain spoilers for the previous nine books of the Frostborn series.

A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link.

Chapter 1: Frost and Blood

One hundred and forty-two days after it began, one hundred and forty-two days after that day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban stood in the great hall of Dun Licinia’s keep and stared at the corpse of Morigna.

“Ridmark,” said Brother Caius.

Ridmark didn’t hear him.

Around him the keep’s great hall erupted into chaos. Knights and men-at-arms shouted orders to each other, and pale blue light shone through the great hall’s narrow windows. The sounds of panic and alarm came to Ridmark’s ears as the townsmen noticed the blue light. Somehow the world gate had opened. Ridmark had killed Shadowbearer, had watched the ancient, malignant wizard die with all his vile plans.

Yet somehow the world gate had opened. Apparently not all of Shadowbearer’s plans had died with him.

At the moment, Ridmark did not care.

“Ridmark,” said Caius again.

Ridmark ignored him, ignored the sounds of panic, and stared at Morigna.

Her black eyes were open, unblinking, the pale blue glow of the ghostly fire from the mountain reflecting in them. She was fully dressed, which did not surprise him. After they lay together, sometimes she became restless and went for a walk alone. Even in the dangerous wilderness, she had done that.

Here, in the safety of Dun Licinia, it had killed her.

Something had opened her throat, and another wound had been torn into her chest. Either wound would have been fatal. He could not tell if she had struggled, yet no alarm had been roused, which meant that someone had killed her instantly and quietly.

He hadn’t even known.

“Ridmark,” said Caius once more.

“I will find Calliande,” said Kharlacht, his voice harsher than usual. “Perhaps she can do something.”

She couldn’t. Calliande’s magic, backed by the power of the Keeper’s mantle, could heal almost anything. She couldn’t raise the dead, and Morigna was dead.

Ridmark’s hands had tightened into fists.

Morigna had been murdered, and Ridmark knew who had done it.

He had seen claw wounds like that before. The Weaver had killed Morigna. That meant Imaria was here as well.

Ridmark could not look away from Morigna. Despite the noise rising from the town, it seemed as if the world had ceased to exist, that only Ridmark and Morigna’s body remained. Some part of him knew it was the shock of finding her dead.

And he knew that when his mind snapped into focus, the fury was going to burn through him like a storm.

He felt it building already, like poison about to burst from a corrupted wound.

Ridmark Arban was going to find Imaria Licinius and the Weaver and kill them both.

###

Calliande, the Keeper of Andomhaim, stood rooted with horror at her window.

Her window overlooked the courtyard, the Black Mountain rising away to the north like a massive shadow. A slender pillar of harsh blue fire stabbed upwards from the foothills, slashing across the darkness like a blade. To Calliande’s Sight, the pillar blazed with tremendous magical power, and she saw the vortex of power pulsing around the base of the mountain. It was a maelstrom of dark magic, dark magic that seemed somehow familiar…

“Impossible,” she whispered.

Shadowbearer was the only wizard who could have opened a world gate in the circle of standing stones below the Black Mountain, and Shadowbearer was dead. Ridmark had killed him with Heartwarden, putting an end to his millennia of corruption.

Then how had the gate opened?

Calliande shook her head, stepping back from the window. This was utterly impossible. Shadowbearer was dead, and even if some other wizard had the power to open a world gate, he needed the empty soulstone, and Calliande still had the stone…

She looked at the small table next to her narrow bed and flinched.

The soulstone was gone.

“Antenora,” said Calliande. “The soulstone. Where is it?”

The other woman shook her head. Once, a long time ago, Antenora had been a beautiful and wild young woman, willful and proud and reckless. Fifteen centuries of wandering in search of redemption had taken that from her. Her face was gaunt and gray, her eyes a harsh shade of yellow, and her long, hooded black coat made her look like a specter of death.

At the moment, she looked just as startled as Calliande felt.

“I do not know, Keeper,” said Antenora. “I last saw it with you when you went to sleep.” Antenora had no need of sleep, and usually spent her nights guarding Calliande’s door. “No one entered your chamber, I swear it.”

Calliande looked at the window, which was large enough to allow someone entry. Had someone crept into her room and made off with the empty soulstone? It seemed impossible, yet the world gate was open.

A tremor went through her. She had fought against Shadowbearer and the Frostborn her entire life. She had spent two hundred years asleep below the Tower of Vigilance to prevent him from bringing the Frostborn back. Calliande had lost everyone she had ever loved and everything she had ever known to defeat Shadowbearer.

And she had failed.

She had utterly, profoundly failed, and her sacrifices, and the sacrifices of all those who had helped her, had been in vain.

For a moment utter despair crushed her.

“Keeper,” said Antenora, “what shall we do?”

Calliande looked at her apprentice.

“Yes,” said Calliande.

They had to act right now. The world gate could not have been open for more than a few moments. The Frostborn and the various enslaved kindreds they used as soldiers would start moving through the gate, preparing a bridgehead for their invasion. If Calliande acted at once, perhaps it was not too late. The vassals of Dux Gareth Licinius, the fighting men of the Northerland, were still gathered at Dun Licinia, and Mara’s Anathgrimm camped outside the walls. Together they made a formidable army, an army that had defeated the Mhorite orcs. If they marched at once, if they made for the Black Mountain, they could seize the gate and hold it long enough for Calliande to collapse it.

But only if they acted immediately. The Frostborn were deadly warriors, and they knew their danger just as well as Calliande did. Their Order of the Vanguard would strike at once.

In fact, they were likely preparing to attack Dun Licinia right now.

“Yes,” said Calliande again, forcing resolve into her voice that she did not feel. “We have to seize the gate so I can collapse it. If we rouse all of Dux Gareth’s men and all of the Anathgrimm, we can attack and hold the gate before the main force of the Frostborn arrives.”

“Can we?” said Antenora. “I faced the locusari upon the threshold, and they were fell creatures. The Frostborn woman Arlmagnava wielded potent spells.”

“All the Frostborn wield magic,” said Calliande, “and the locusari are some of their weaker servants. Yet we have no other choice, Antenora.” She turned to the chest that held her clothes. “If we do not stop the Frostborn now, the war will last years, even decades. And the High Kingdom might not even win it.” With Shadowbearer’s defeat, Calliande thought she had the time to root out of the sinister Enlightened of Incariel. Now, with the world gate open…she did not think Andomhaim could face the Frostborn and prevail, not with the Enlightened consuming the realm like a cancer. “So we must win today. I…”

The door to her room swung open, and a young man in chain mail stepped inside. He had curly brown hair and brown eyes, and the sheathed soulblade Truthseeker rested at his belt, blazing with power to Calliande’s Sight.

“Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora.

Gavin hesitated, a flicker of embarrassment going over his face, and Calliande remembered that she was dressed only in her shift. Then Gavin’s expression hardened. He was only sixteen years of age, but he had come a long way from the reckless boy Calliande had first met outside of Aranaeus.

“You must come at once,” said Gavin. “It…

“The world gate, I know,” said Calliande. There was no time to waste, so she pulled on her green tunic and her trousers as she talked. “We have to attack as soon as possible. Can you find the Dux and tell him to rouse his men? Mara needs to go to the Anathgrimm, and…”

“Aye,” said Gavin, “but it’s Morigna, and…”

Kharlacht stepped into the room behind Gavin, already wearing his armor of blue dark elven steel, his massive greatsword strapped to his back. The orcish warrior always looked grim, but today his expression behind his tusks was bleaker than usual.

“Morigna is slain,” said Kharlacht.

The words hit Calliande like a physical blow. “What?”

“Someone slew her in the great hall,” said Kharlacht.

For an instant Calliande was too stunned to react.

Had whoever taken the soulstone also killed Morigna? That made no sense. Morigna was dangerous, but she was nowhere near as powerful as Calliande. Why had they killed her and not Calliande?

But Morigna had carried a piece of the Warden’s magic within her. If she was slain, that dark magic could be trapped within the soulstone and used to empower the gate. Calliande realized that was why the dark power of the gate seemed familiar. It was the same dark magic that Morigna had carried, amplified and augmented a thousand times over.

Then her thoughts turned to Ridmark.

Ridmark Arban, who had not been able to save his wife from Mhalek. Ridmark, who had spent five years wandering the Wilderland seeking to stop the return of the Frostborn, driven by his grief and despair.

Ridmark, who had fallen in love with Morigna.

“We’ll have to tell Ridmark,” said Calliande, rubbing her face. “It…”

“He already knows,” said Kharlacht.

Calliande nodded, pulled on her boots, seized her green cloak, and took up the worn staff of the Keeper. Without another word she rushed out of the room, the others following. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps the wounds were not too severe. Maybe Calliande could yet heal Morigna.

Maybe she could keep Ridmark from plunging into his well of destructive grief once again.

She sprinted down the stairs as fast as she could manage.

A strange sort of confusion hung over the great hall. Knights and men-at-arms stood at the windows and the doors, and Calliande heard shouts coming from outside. It seemed the entire town had seen the blue fire. That was good. The Dux and the Anathgrimm would be awake and preparing for action. Yet despite the tumult, everyone in the hall spoke in low voices.

It was respect for the dead.

Morigna lay in her own blood on the floor, her throat cut, a wound in her chest. One look told Calliande that it was too late. Caius stood over her, his balding head bowed, his wooden cross gripped in both hands as he spoke a silent prayer. Arandar waited next to the dwarven friar, his face as hard and set as it was when he went into battle.

Ridmark gazed at Morigna. His blue eyes were blank, and his face could have been carved from stone. He was motionless, yet his hands were curled into fists at his sides, the knuckles shining white against the skin.

As she approached, he seemed to come to himself, and his eyes met hers. He looked calm, so utterly calm, and that frightened her. Calliande had such an expression before when men fell into a grieving rage so profound that it took them to a sort of cold, lucid madness.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark.

“Oh, God, Ridmark,” said Calliande. She wanted to touch him, to comfort him, but she had endured enough losses of her own to know that no comfort was possible. “I’m sorry. It’s too late. I can do nothing for her.”

“I know,” said Ridmark, still calm. “It’s not your fault.”

“I don’t know who did this,” said Calliande, “but…”

“Imaria did this,” said Ridmark, looking at Morigna again, the cold around him seeming to deepen further. “Imaria Licinius and the Weaver. The Weaver’s claws left wounds like that. The soulstone is gone, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “I don’t know how.”

“Imaria took it and left,” said Ridmark. “She killed Morigna in vengeance. Out of spite. No other reason.”

Calliande started to say that Imaria had likely killed Morigna to trap the Warden’s stolen dark magic, but stopped herself. It would not help.

She stared at Ridmark, at a loss about what to do. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, yet she had grown used to deferring to Ridmark’s judgment. He took command of a crisis as easily and as naturally as a bird taking to the air. She had never seen him…frozen like this.

But she could not blame him.

Calliande looked at Morigna’s staring eyes and shivered. Morigna hadn’t deserved that. She hadn’t deserved anything remotely like that. To have escaped Coriolus and the Warden and Shadowbearer only to fall to Imaria’s petty spite…

“My lady Keeper,” said Arandar, snapping Calliande out of her dark reverie. “We should take Morigna’s body from here.” He glanced at Ridmark, who seemed not to hear. “But after that we should act at once. If the world gate has opened, the entire realm is in terrible danger.”

“Agreed,” said Calliande, glancing at Ridmark once more. “We…”

A blue blur shot through one of the hall’s windows and landed upon the floor, claws rasping against the stone.

###

Ridmark had encountered many strange creatures in his travels, but he had never seen one like this.

It looked like a praying mantis, albeit a praying mantis the size of a hunting hound. Its carapace was a vivid shade of blue, and its eyes were like faceted, polished black stones. Twin gossamer wings rested against its back, and its antennae waved before its head. Its forelegs ended in serrated blades the length of a short sword, and its middle and hind legs ended in claw-tipped, flexible fingers. The creature could likely wield weapons with its middle and rear legs, though the serrated blades on its forelegs were deadly enough.

Ridmark had never seen a creature like this, but he recognized it nonetheless. Antenora had described such creatures to Calliande after she had encountered them in the threshold.

“A locusari scout,” said Calliande. “Stay back, all of you. Stay back! It…”

Two more of the scouts flew through the window and landed next to the first, their heads rotating back and forth, their eyes glinting like gems.

Ridmark had dropped his staff with the shock of Morigna’s death, but he picked it up. The length of black wood had been carried by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain for centuries, and was lighter and stronger than a normal weapon. It felt…right in Ridmark’s hand.

It matched his mood.

He had once heard sorrow described as freezing rain, but the sorrow within him now seemed indistinguishable from rage. Morigna had been taken from him, and the fury of it filled his veins like molten iron. The staff gave him an outlet for that rage, and there were targets readily at hand.

Ridmark was angry enough to kill for the rest of his life.

Of course, if someone had opened the world gate, the rest of Ridmark’s life might be measured in hours.

That thought did not displease him.

The locusari scout in the center scuttled forward and lifted its head.

“Query,” it said in a voice like tearing metal, its mouthparts vibrating as they produced an approximation of human speech. The locusari spoke Latin with a dull, flat inflection. “You will identify your leader.”

“Identify yourself first,” said Calliande, the staff of the Keeper beginning to glimmer with white fire in her fist.

The locusari rotated to face her. “This one is a scout drone of the Ninth Storm Legion of the Dominion of the High Lords, before whom all creation shall bow. Query: you shall now identify yourself.”

“I am Calliande of Tarlion, Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Calliande, “and I fought the Ninth Storm Legion long ago.”

“You are known to this drone,” said the locusari. “You therefore possession sufficient rank to hear our message. This world is now part of the Dominion of the High Lords. You will lay down your arms, open your gates, and voluntarily surrender to the High Lords. Otherwise blood shall be shed.”

“Return to your masters,” said Calliande, “and tell them that we will not surrender.”

The locusari made a clicking noise. “That is…”

“God’s teeth!” thundered one of the men-at-arms, striding forward with a mace. “Shall we bandy words with a giant insect? What will it do, threaten to buzz in our ears?” He raised the mace.

“Get back!” said Calliande, staring to cast a spell.

The locusari was fast. It whirled in a blue blur, rearing up on its hind legs, and its forelegs swept across in a horizontal blow. The strike opened the throat of the man-at-arms, and he fell to his knees, blood sheeting down his tabard. The locusari scouts exploded into motion with metallic shrieks, surging forward to attack. Two of them lunged at Calliande, and Ridmark saw the blurs as more locusari flew into the windows.

In that instant, Ridmark moved.

He shot forward, whipping his staff around, and caught one of the locusari scouts across the head. The impact sounded exactly like crushing an insect beneath his boot, albeit much louder. The locusari, for all its speed and strength, was not heavy, and Ridmark’s blow sent it tumbling backwards, its head caved in. The second locusari let out a horrible metallic scream and twisted with inhuman speed, lunging at Ridmark.

But he had already started moving. He had fought many creatures faster and stronger than humans, and he had noticed that the faster something could move the less quickly it could change direction. The creature’s lunge missed him by a few inches, and Ridmark brought his staff down. He caught the locusari across the wings, crushing them, and the insect-like creature hit the floor with a shriek of fury. It started to turn, but Arandar was already moving, and Heartwarden came down with a flash of steel, Ridmark’s head pulsing with pain from his broken bond with the soulblade. Heartwarden bisected the thrashing locusari, and the creature’s halves fell away from each other, leaking a thick yellowish slime onto the flagstones.

Around Ridmark the hall exploded into violence as the men-at-arms and knights attacked. The locusari scouts might have been quick and deadly, but they were fragile, and could not stand against the swords and maces of the men of the Northerland. In a matter of moments a half-dozen locusari scouts had been slain, and three more escaped, leaping out the windows to fly away on their buzzing wings.

Antenora lowered her staff, the sigils cut into the dark wood smoldering with the fury of her magic. Ridmark was glad they had ended the fight before Antenora could bring her spells to bear. If she lost control of her fire, she might have killed everyone in the hall. Morigna’s spells would have been useful against the locusari, calling roots to pull them down or stunning them with sleeping mist…

Morigna.

He looked back at her corpse and shiver of pure, uncontrolled fury and grief went through him.

“All of you, quickly!” said Calliande. “To your posts. Quickly! The Dux will sound the alarm soon, and we must be ready. The Frostborn are coming for Dun Licinia. We must be ready to meet them.”

The men had been looking for someone to take charge, and the knights and men-at-arms hastened for the doors. Calliande looked at Ridmark and hesitated for a moment.

“Ridmark,” she said. “I am going to the northern forum. I will be needed there. You…”

“I will join you shortly,” said Ridmark. “I must attend to something first.”

She started to answer, but he turned away. He knelt over the dead man-at-arms and pulled away the man’s cloak. The dead man-at-arms had no further need of it, and in truth they might all join him soon enough.

He took the cloak, knelt next to Morigna, and closed her eyes. He wrapped her body in the cloak, picked her up, and carried her away from the great hall.

###

Sir Arandar of Tarlion, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, watched the Keeper as Ridmark carried Morigna from the hall. Arandar could see the war upon Calliande’s face as plainly as lines drawn upon a map. She wanted to go after Ridmark, to comfort him, but her duty was plain. The Frostborn had returned, and the Keeper’s power was needed to throw them back.

Calliande was torn between her heart and her duty.

Arandar understood that. He understood that far, far better than he might have wished.

Though with a feeling of heavy dread, he realized it might not matter. They had undertaken the quest to stop the return of the Frostborn, and they had failed. Calliande’s plan to seize the world gate was a sound one, but it was the only plan they had left.

It would likely fail.

Yet they would do what they had to do. They would do their duty.

Even if they failed.

Calliande stared after Ridmark as he vanished through the door leading to the keep’s chapel, a muscle working in her jaw.

“Keeper,” said Arandar, and her blue eyes snapped to him, full of pain. “You said it yourself. We must act at once. The Dux and the Comes will have gone to the wall, and…”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “Yes, you are right, Sir Arandar. I will go at once.” She paused for one more instant. “I must ask a favor of you.”

“Of course,” said Arandar.

“Stay with Ridmark for the moment,” said Calliande. “Make sure that…”

“He does not slay himself in his grief?” said Arandar.

He understood that notion, too. It had occurred to him more than once.

“He won’t,” said Calliande. “Not Ridmark. Nothing would make him give up. Not even this. But in his grief…he might throw himself into the foe. He would leave a hundred of them piled around him, but in the end…”

“Very well,” said Arandar. “We will both join you soon.”

“Thank you,” said Calliande, and she headed for the keep’s doors, Kharlacht, Gavin, and Antenora following her. Brother Caius stepped to Arandar’s side, his face grim.

“A dire day,” said Caius.

“Aye,” said Arandar, and a flash of insight came to him. “But you’ve seen a dire day or two in your time, I would wager.”

The old dwarf smiled a little, his gray, granite-colored skin creasing with wrinkles. “So have you. Come, then. Let us help the Gray Knight through his dire day. For if we are to prevail, we will need his aid.”

Arandar looked out the window at the distant pillar of blue flame.

Even the Gray Knight’s help might not be enough to overcome the storm that had come to Andomhaim.

Chapter 2: Scouts

Arandar stepped into the chapel, Brother Caius following.

Dun Licinia’s keep was small, and the chapel was even smaller, barely large enough to hold twenty standing men. A few candles burned near the altar, throwing shadows across the stone walls. Arandar supposed that the keep’s priest had been saying evening prayers before the town had been called to arms. A wooden crucifix hung over the altar, the image of the dying Dominus Christus upon it carved with exquisite skill. Ridmark stood at the altar, and he had laid Morigna’s wrapped corpse before it.

The cold expression upon the younger man’s face unsettled Arandar.

Arandar knew loss all too well. The plague had carried off his wife six years past. The magic of the Magistri was capable of healing many injuries, but their spells were powerless against certain illnesses, and the disease that had taken Isolde had been one of them. Arandar knew the grief and the pain all too well.

Isolde had not, however, been murdered. Arandar had raged, but there had been no one to rage against. There had been no one upon whom to take revenge. Isolde’s body had gone the way of all mortal flesh, albeit sooner than Arandar had hoped. Her death had been a natural one, and Arandar had no doubt that they would one day stand before the throne of the Dominus Christus together.

Morigna had been murdered.

Looking at Ridmark’s face, Arandar could not shake the feeling that something terrible had been born this day. Ridmark Arban had already been a fearsome warrior. Grief over his wife’s death had driven him to seek to stop the return of the Frostborn. The grief of Ridmark Arban had created the Gray Knight.

What would his rage create?

For a moment all three men stood in silence.

“Did Calliande send you,” said Ridmark at last, “to make sure I don’t kill myself?”

“Yes,” said Caius.

Ridmark made a sound that might have been a snort, or perhaps a snarl. “No. She need not fear that. If I die today, it will not be from my own hand.” He took a deep breath, a shudder going through his shoulders. “Dun Licinia is likely to fall, is it not?”

“We do not know that,” said Caius.

“But it is probable,” said Arandar. From his own experience of grief, he suspected Ridmark would prefer the hard truth. “The Frostborn would be fools not to strike hard and fast to secure their foothold.”

“Then Dun Licinia will fall, and we shall have war without end,” said Ridmark. “This room, this chapel, is going to be Morigna’s tomb. I am never going to see her again. So a moment is all I need. A moment to say farewell.” He looked at Arandar and Caius, his eyes cold and hard and blue and dry.

Arandar would have been less unsettled if Ridmark had been weeping hysterically.

“One moment,” said Ridmark. “Then I shall go to the battle, and kill until I find Imaria Licinius and the Weaver. She will show herself, if only to gloat. Then I shall kill her, or she shall kill me.”

“We may yet have victory,” said Caius.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but I will have vengeance first. Do you think her soul was saved, Brother Caius?”

“Morigna’s?” said Caius.

“She always spurned the church,” said Ridmark.

Caius shrugged. “No one can say for certainty. She would have been baptized as a child, and that sacrament never loses its virtue. She might have turned to the Dominus Christus in her final moments. We cannot read the hearts of other mortals.”

“Do you tell yourself that to comfort yourself?” said Ridmark. “When you think of whoever it was you lost? It was a death, was it not? A death that drove you from Khald Tormen and to Andomhaim and the church.”

Caius let out a long sigh. “It was. Yet I cannot comfort myself with such a thought. I was the first of my kindred to be baptized. Do not blame yourself for this, Ridmark…”

“I don’t,” said Ridmark. “I know what Calliande thinks. Aelia’s death was my fault. This,” his head bowed for a moment, “this…was not my doing. I could have done nothing to save her.” He looked up again, and Arandar thought his eyes looked colder than ever, the scar sharper against the hard lines of his face. “But I can avenge her.”

“She was a brave and valiant companion,” said Caius. “She followed you without fear, and strode into dangers that few in Andomhaim have ever imagined, let alone faced. She loved you, Ridmark, and she would not wish for you to die.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “And I did not wish for her to die. But she did.” He straightened up, as if something had finished forming itself within his mind. “And I shall honor her memory by piling the corpses of her murderers at my feet.”

He stooped and drew aside the cloak covering the body, and Arandar saw Morigna’s sharp features for the last time. There had always been a tightness there, a wariness, save occasionally when she looked at Ridmark. Now her expression had relaxed for the final time, and she looked peaceful.

And she looked so young. Her tongue had been so sharp that Arandar had forgotten that she had been only twenty years old. He had never completely trusted her, but a pang of regret went through him.

She should not have died like that.

And if the Frostborn returned, she would be far from the last to die.

Ridmark kissed her once and then rested his forehead against hers. For a long moment he remained motionless, and neither Arandar or Caius spoke. Then Ridmark pulled the cloak over Morigna’s face and straightened up, and Arandar had the sense that a different man stood there. A harder, colder man.

If Imaria Licinius ever fell into his power, she would regret it bitterly.

“Come,” said Ridmark Arban. “There is killing to be done.”

He walked from the chapel and did not look back.

###

Ridmark jogged through the streets of Dun Licinia, his staff in hand and his dwarven axe at his belt. He had taken Morigna’s dwarven dagger. Perhaps someday he would have the chance to use it upon Imaria and the Weaver. Caius and Arandar followed him. The dwarven friar had his mace in hand, and Arandar had drawn Heartwarden, the soulblade glimmering with pale white light. Ridmark felt the pain of his broken bond to the sword, but he did not care.

In fact, he welcomed it. It helped keep him focused, keep his mind clear.

Right now his mind grappled with a serious problem.

Namely, how to save Dun Licinia.

There was an excellent chance that the town was doomed. The Frostborn had fought Calliande once before, centuries ago, and they would realize that she posed the greatest danger to them. Some of the locusari scouts had escaped from the great hall of the keep, and they would return to the Frostborn with news that Calliande was here. For that matter, Ridmark had no doubt that locusari scouts flew overhead, out of sight from human eyes, and they might have spotted Calliande heading to the northern wall. Once the Frostborn knew that Calliande was here, they would strike for Dun Licinia with everything they had. In fact, if Ridmark was in command of the Frostborn, if he had possessed flying scouts like the locusari, he would have…

He skidded to a stop.

Around him militia spearmen ran for the northern wall. The northern wall, where Dux Gareth and Sir Joram and Sir Constantine would rally their forces.

“Oh,” said Ridmark as the answer came to him.

“What is it?” said Arandar. Both Arandar and Caius looked at Ridmark as if he was about to explode.

It was, he had to admit, a fair assessment.

“The locusari scouts can fly,” said Ridmark. “So they’re going to try and land inside the town and open the gate. Not the northern gate, since the army gathers there. But the southern gate…”

“Will be lightly manned,” said Caius, “and the men there will never have fought locusari before.”

“We’d better run,” said Ridmark.

He turned and sprinted, boots slapping against the cobblestones, Caius and Arandar keeping pace behind him. A few of the militiamen heading towards the wall gave him odd looks, but Ridmark did not stop to explain. If the Frostborn assailed the northern wall, every man would be needed there.

Except, of course, for those manning the town’s southern gate.

“Who holds the southern gate?” shouted Ridmark.

“Sir Tagrimn Volarus!” said Arandar. “He tired of the feast, so the Dux sent him to guard the wall.”

That was good. Sir Tagrimn Volarus was old, cantankerous, and unpleasant. He was also a tenacious warrior and a skilled captain who permitted no laxness among the men under his command. In the battle against Mournacht’s forces, he had wielded his massive steel war hammer as easily as if it had been made of paper, smashing Mhorite and dvargir and kobold skulls right and left.

But old Sir Tagrimn had never fought the locusari before, and even a veteran warrior was at a disadvantage when facing an unknown foe.

Ridmark burst into the southern forum. This part of the town seemed deserted, the shops lining the square dark and silent. The gates were still closed and barred and locked, and Ridmark saw the glimmer of torchlight in the narrow windows of the octagonal watch towers flanking the gate.

For the moment all was quiet.

Ridmark knew that would not last.

“Sir Tagrimn!” shouted Ridmark at the top of his lungs. “Sir Tagrimn, to arms! To arms! The gate is threatened!”

He cast a wary glance at the sky.

The door to the eastern watch tower swung open and Tagrimn Volarus stalked out. The old knight was a balding keg of a man, and he wore battle-scarred armor, a massive scowl on his face.

“Ridmark Arban?” said Sir Tagrimn. “What the devil is going on? The town is in an uproar and the Dux has sounded the call to arms.”

“Someone opened the world gate,” said Ridmark. “I don’t know how. The Frostborn have come forth and are marching for the town.”

“What?” said Tagrimn.

Ridmark looked up again. “The Frostborn have creatures called locusari. They can fly, and I think some of them are going to try and open the southern…get down!”

Ridmark shoved Tagrimn back a step, which was the only thing that saved both of their lives.

A heartbeat later the blue blur shot past them, the creature’s serrated forelimb sweeping like a scythe’s blade. It would have taken off both their heads in one blow. The locusari scout swooped around for another pass, and Ridmark caught a glimpse of the creature’s unblinking black eyes. Then he swung his staff, and the impact shattered the creature’s head. It flipped over him with a weird buzzing noise and slapped into the wall. Tagrimn bellowed and raised his steel war hammer, whipping it over his head with a whooshing noise, and the weapon slammed into another airborne locusari, sending it tumbling to the ground.

“To arms, lads!” roared Tagrimn. “To arms! The gate is attacked!” Four locusari scouts landed before the closed gate, and the creatures scuttled towards it, reaching for the crossbar. The gate was controlled by a mechanism within the watch towers, but the locusari might not know that. Or they might be strong enough to batter their way through by brute force. Ridmark was not sure which, and he did not want to find out.

Shouts of alarm came from the watch towers as the men within them took up their weapons, and more blue blurs shot overhead as descending locusari made for the windows. Ridmark sprinted for the gates, whipping his staff around, and attacked. A sweep of his staff knocked the nearest creature upon its back, pinning its wings in place. Before the locusari could right itself, Ridmark brought his staff down, crushing its head. A second locusari came at him, and Ridmark dodged, swinging his staff with enough force to leave a crease upon the creature’s gleaming carapace. It stumbled, and Ridmark’s next blow crushed the creature’s head between his staff and the gate.

A third locusari attacked, and Arandar took off its head with a smooth blow of Heartwarden. Both head and body bounced away, dripping yellow slime. Caius struck with his mace, crushing the left rear leg of another locusari. The creature staggered, and Tagrimn bellowed and brought his war hammer down with both hands.

The locusari might have been the size of a hunting hound, but Tagrimn’s hammer collapsed the creature as easily as a smaller insect. The hammer crushed its midsection, and the creature’s limbs twitched several times, its antennae waving, and then went motionless.

“God and the apostles,” snarled Tagrimn. “Insects? I’ve fought Anathgrimm and dvargir and kobolds and God knows what else, but now I have to fight giant damned insects?”

“Worse is coming,” said Ridmark. “Those creatures were but the scouts of the Frostborn host. Hold the gate, Sir Tagrimn. I think we may have to flee through the southern gate before much longer.”

Tagrimn’s scowl deepened. “The situation is that dire?”

“Not yet, Sir Tagrimn,” said Caius. “The Keeper means to convince the Dux to strike for Black Mountain at once, to seize the world gate before the Frostborn can come forth in force.”

“I fear the Keeper is optimistic,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps she is right, but I suspect instead that the war with the Frostborn is about to begin anew. If we fail, we will need to flee the town and join the forces of the High King and the other nobles.”

Tagrimn nodded. “And we will need to hold the southern gate for our retreat.”

“And to hold it,” said Arandar, “against any attempts to seize it by the Frostborn. If the Frostborn strike through the southern gate as they assail the northern wall, then we shall both lose the town and any chance of escape.”

“Aye,” said Tagrimn, and he spat upon the half-crushed carcass of the locusari. “Well, let the winged devils try to take my gate, and I’ll crush them like the vermin they are.”

“Do you need our assistance?” said Ridmark.

“Likely not,” said Tagrimn. “So long as the Dux keeps a reserve in the central forum. I can summon aid if we need it. You’d best make for the northern wall, Gray Knight. If the fighting is hottest there, you’ll be needed. And your witch woman as well, if you can rouse her.”

“Yes,” said Ridmark. He wished there were more locusari nearby to kill. “Her skills would have been useful.”

A blast of trumpets rang out, echoing through the forum. It was the Dux’s trumpeters, calling his men to arms. Likely Dux Gareth and Sir Joram were at the northern forum with Calliande, preparing to launch their assault upon Black Mountain.

Or preparing to meet the advance of the Frostborn.

They needed his help, and even in his rage and grief Ridmark would not abandon them.

Besides, he suspecting that keeping near Calliande would bring him to the Weaver and Imaria sooner rather than later.

“God go with you, Gray Knight,” said Tagrimn.

Ridmark wasn’t sure about that. Perhaps God had abandoned them. The moment before a battle was not the place to voice such thoughts, however.

“And you, Sir Tagrimn,” said Ridmark, and he hurried from the southern forum, Arandar and Caius following.

###

Again the blast of the trumpets rang out, and Arandar kept running. He saw militia companies moving towards the wall with haste, archers and spearmen both, and wondered if the Frostborn had launched an attack upon the wall. Perhaps the Frostborn would use a horde of locusari scouts to swarm the battlements, but Arandar doubted it. He had never encountered the Frostborn before, but he had read the histories and the chronicles of the realm, and he knew that the Frostborn commanded far deadlier slaves than their locusari scouts.

They would see those servants soon enough…and according to the histories, the Frostborn themselves had been fell and deadly, at least as potent as an urdmordar. Arandar had helped Ridmark and Calliande fight the urdmordar Rhogrimnalazur at Urd Cystaanl, and it had been a brutal fight that he had no wish to repeat.

To face an army of creatures with the power or Rhogrimnalazur was not a pleasant thought.

Ridmark skidded to a stop, looking up at the sky.

Arandar knew what that meant, and he ducked, raising his shield over his head and drawing back Heartwarden to strike.

An instant later a band of locusari scouts fell from the sky, and Arandar’s arm jolted as one of the creatures raked its scythe-like forelimbs across his shield. He staggered back from the impact, but the creature wobbled in midair, its transparent wings blurring as it fought to recover its balance, and Arandar slashed. Heartwarden’s white-flashing blade split the creature in two. Caius swung his mace like a club, knocking the locusari out of the air, and for an absurd moment Arandar remembered his son playing a ball game with the other pages in the courtyard of the High King’s Citadel in Tarlion.

Ridmark wheeled in the midst of the locusari, three of the creatures circling and buzzing around him. For an instant Arandar was sure that the younger man was overmatched, but Ridmark was too fast. He stepped into the attack of a locusari, catching the scythe-like forelegs upon his chest, and the dark elven armor he wore proved stronger than the chitin of a locusari scout. A blow from his staff sent the locusari crashing to the street, and a second sweep of the black staff crushed its head. The remaining two locusari closed on him, but Ridmark was already ahead of them, a jab from his staff sending the first creature crashing into the second. The locusari tangled into each other and fell, and Ridmark killed them both in the space of a heartbeat.

Arandar had never seen Ridmark fight while holding Heartwarden, but as a Swordbearer he must have been a terror upon the battlefield.

But Arandar had seen Ridmark fight with Heartwarden, hadn’t he? Ridmark had slain Shadowbearer with Heartwarden, even as the soulblade had rejected him.

Yet it seemed that Shadowbearer’s defeat had been in vain.

A half-dozen more locusari dropped from the sky, wings fluttering, and Arandar ducked, drawing upon his bond with Heartwarden to lend him speed. He twisted and came back up, driving the soulblade down, and took off the nearest creature’s head. Ridmark charged on his left and Caius on his right, and together they attacked the locusari. The creatures retreated, their wings buzzing as they prepared to take to the air once more.

Blue fire swirled behind them, and hardened into the shape of a woman.

She was a small woman, barely five feet tall, and could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds. She had huge green eyes in a delicate face, her pale blond hair combed to cover the pointed tips of her ears. Mara of Coldinium looked like one of the least dangerous people that Arandar had ever met, and any enemy who made that assumption about her had likely made the last miscalculation of his life.

She lifted a short sword of blue dark elven steel, looted from the Warden’s armory in Urd Morlemoch, and stabbed. The blade plunged down, shearing into the abdomen of the nearest locusari, and the creature screeched, its legs lashing at the cobblestones. The other locusari turned to face the new threat, and Mara wrenched her sword free and vanished in a swirl of blue fire.

The locusari scouts had clearly never faced a foe like Mara before. They hesitated a moment too long, and Ridmark and Caius and Arandar crashed into them. They crushed the remaining locusari, and only one of the creatures managed to escape, flying away to the north with a buzz of its wings.

“For scouts,” said Caius, wiping sweat from the broad gray dome of his forehead, “they seem too eager to engage the enemy.”

Ridmark shook his head, staring at the sky, but no more locusari appeared. “Antenora said the creatures were not gifted thinkers. Likely their masters ordered them to scout and engage any likely targets.”

Blue fire swirled next to him, and Mara reappeared.

“Ridmark,” she said. “The gate has opened. Zhorlacht and the other wizards are sure of it, and I can see it with my Sight. I don’t know how, but…”

“Neither do we,” said Ridmark. “Someone broke into the keep, stole the empty soulstone, and used it to open the gate.”

“Then those are the scout creatures that Antenora told us about,” said Mara, eyeing the dead husks upon the street. “The locusari.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Those are just the scouts. I expect worse to follow.” He gestured to the north. “The Dux and Sir Joram gather their men at the northern wall. Calliande wants to attack at once, to reach the gate and close it.”

Mara studied him for a moment, a deep frown coming over her features. “You don’t think we can.”

The two of them, Arandar had noticed, had a peculiar sort of bond, almost like a protective older brother and a wise younger sister. Mara always seemed able to guess what Ridmark was thinking, and Ridmark trusted her judgment more than anyone else’s except Calliande. Arandar did not know the details, but apparently Ridmark had saved Mara’s life somehow before Arandar had met either of them.

“No,” said Ridmark. “I hope we can, but I fear we cannot. The Frostborn have done this before, Mara. From what Antenora told us the Frostborn have been waiting in the threshold for Shadowbearer to open the gate. They will attack with everything they have, and I fear the men of the Northerland and the Anathgrimm will not be enough to hold them back.”

“Very well,” said Mara. “Old Qhazulak complained he didn’t see enough fighting in the battle, so I suppose we shall rectify that. What should the Anathgrimm do? You are the magister militum of Nightmane Forest. The Anathgrimm are yours to command.”

“Bid them to circle the town to the south,” said Ridmark, “and come up along the eastern wall. If Calliande is right, if we can indeed make for the mountain, the Anathgrimm can support the Dux’s march. And if she is wrong, if the Frostborn attack the wall, the Anathgrimm can hit the Frostborn as needed.”

“Very well,” said Mara. “Jager’s with them now. I will give the commands to Qhazulak and the Queen’s Guard.”

Despite the dire peril of the situation, Arandar felt a brief flicker of amusement. “You left Jager in command of the Anathgrimm?”

“Well, he is my Prince Consort, Sir Arandar,” said Mara. “And the Anathgrimm…I fear the Traveler did not train them well to think for themselves.”

“And Jager is very good at thinking for other people?” said Caius.

“Something like that,” said Mara. She gazed at Ridmark for a moment longer, her frown sharpening further. “Ridmark.”

“Yes?”

“Where is Morigna?” said Mara.

“She is dead,” said Ridmark in a flat voice, and Mara’s eyes went wide, her free hand flying to her mouth. “I think Imaria and the Weaver killed her when they stole the soulstone.”

Mara blinked several times. She had gotten along well with Morigna, Arandar knew, though Mara got along well with everyone.

“Ridmark,” whispered Mara. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was not your doing,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Mara, looking up at him. “Don’t get yourself killed. We need you.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Ridmark.

To Arandar’s astonishment, Mara stepped forward and hugged Ridmark hard enough that her head bounced a little off his chest. For an instant Ridmark looked as astonished as Arandar felt, and then for the first time a spasm of some emotion other than rage went over his face.

It made him look decades older.

“Do not get yourself killed,” said Mara, stepping back. “Your Queen commands it of you.”

Ridmark closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and inclined his head. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the Queen of Nightmane Forest.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Mara. “The Anathgrimm will come, and they will be ready. And, please, Ridmark. Be careful. Morigna would not want you to die trying to avenge her.”

“We may all die today in any event,” said Ridmark.

“But unless it is the day God has ordained for all our deaths….please, do not die for nothing,” said Mara. “Remember what you told me outside the Iron Tower? We cannot see the future beyond all doubt.”

Ridmark flinched as if slapped. Of everything that Calliande and Caius and Arandar and Mara had said to him, that seemed to have reached him the most.

“Very well,” said Ridmark, his voice a harsh rasp.

“I must rejoin the Anathgrimm,” said Mara. “They will be ready for you.”

She vanished in a swirl of blue flame. Arandar wondered how far away the Anathgrimm had camped, but realized it didn’t matter. Mara would likely travel there with short hops of her strange ability. Each jump seemed to drain her, but it was certainly less exhausting and quicker than simply sprinting to the Anathgrimm camp.

For a moment Ridmark stared at where Mara had stood, his face carved from stone.

“Come,” he said at last. “The battle awaits.”

Chapter 3: The Dominion of the High Lords

Calliande hurried into Dun Licinia’s northern forum, Antenora, Gavin, and Kharlacht following her. Around her militia companies hastened to the ramparts, while men-at-arms and knights directed them, gleaming in their armor and surcoats. The gate had been closed and barricaded, though the signs of damage from the battle against the Mhorites and the dvargir were obvious. From the rampart between the two watch towers flew the banner of Dux Gareth of the Northerland, a white hart upon a field of green. The Dux and Sir Joram and Sir Constantine and the other chief nobles of the Northerland would be there, preparing the defense of Dun Licinia.

Perhaps they did not yet realize it, but they were preparing the defense of the Northerland and the entire realm as well. The currents of power snarling and writhing outside the wall guaranteed that.

The pillar of blue fire still stabbed across the night sky like an azure needle. Calliande saw the immense arcane power wrapped around the thing, the currents of colossal magical force. She recognized the Warden’s stolen dark magic amplified to a titanic degree, drawing on the dark energies within the standing circle of dark elven stones. Even with her eyes closed, she could have used the Sight to detect the gate.

Other magic stirred outside the wall. It was elemental magic. Morigna had wielded the elemental magic of the earth, strong and unyielding and implacable. Antenora commanded the elemental magic of fire, wild and ferocious and unpredictable. This elemental magic was different. It was cold and grim and dauntless, slow and implacable. It was the power of a glacier grinding a mountain to dust, a blizzard choking the life from a forest, the cold of the void as the stars went out one by one. It was the elemental magic of the Frostborn, the spells of cold and ice and death.

And it was immensely powerful.

For a moment Calliande stared at the swirling currents of magic, stricken with fear.

It was so powerful. The realm of Andomhaim had barely overcome the wrath of the Frostborn two hundred years past. Barely, and at staggering cost. How could they hope to do so again?

Calliande saw some of the men-at-arms staring at her, and she drew herself up, forcing her expression to calm. Failure or not, terror or not, she was still the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had a duty. She might have failed to keep the Frostborn from returning, but it was not too late. If the men of the Northerland struck at once, they could drive the Frostborn back and destroy their world gate.

Yet looking at the storm of magic outside the walls, a small voice in Calliande’s head whispered that they might have to flee the town.

“The power is very great, Keeper,” said Antenora in her worn, raspy voice.

“We’ve faced great power before,” said Calliande, surprised at how calm her own voice sounded. “The Iron Tower. Urd Morlemoch. Khald Azalar. Shadowbearer himself. Come! Let us see what we can do.”

She hurried forward, and the militiamen and men-at-arms made way for the Keeper and her companions. Calliande climbed the stairs to the battlements and strode onto the rampart between the walls. Dux Gareth Licinius stood there, stern and imposing in his armor, his hair the color of old iron, the olive-colored skin of his face scored with wrinkles. Sir Joram Agramore, the Comes of Dun Licinia, stood next to his overlord, shorter and less-forbidding in appearance, but no less formidable.

“Lord Dux,” said Calliande.

“My lady Keeper,” said Gareth. There was something of Ridmark in his movements, in his bearing. Or, more accurately, there was something of Gareth Licinius’s mannerisms in Ridmark, things that Ridmark had learned from the old Dux. “It seems the world gate opens anew.”

“It has already opened, I fear,” said Calliande. “I know not how, but someone stole the empty soulstone from the keep and used it to open the gate. The Frostborn have already arrived. Those insect-creatures your men have faced are called locusari, and serve as the scouts of the Frostborn.”

“Who could have done this?” said Joram. “Shadowbearer was killed upon the foothills of the Black Mountain.”

“I do not know,” said Calliande. “It would take a wizard of Shadowbearer’s skill to open a world gate. Perhaps one of the Enlightened of Incariel could have done it.”

“My traitorous daughter, perhaps?” said Gareth, his voice calm but as hard as his armor.

“Perhaps,” said Calliande. “It…seems she broke into the keep with the Weaver, and murdered my apprentice Morigna.”

“I see,” said the Dux, the lines in his face growing deeper. “A grievous loss. She was a valiant woman.” He stared over the battlements for a moment. “How did Ridmark take it?”

Calliande hesitated. She doubted Ridmark had ever told Gareth about his relationship with Morigna, yet it had been obvious to anyone with eyes how Ridmark and Morigna had felt about each other, and the old Dux was not a fool.

“Badly,” said Calliande. “If Morigna’s killers come into his power, my lord…they will not live to stand trial for their crimes.”

“So be it,” said Gareth. “Sorrow or not, we have our duty. What counsel do you speak?”

“March from Dun Licinia at once,” said Calliande. “Combine with the forces of the Anathgrimm. Queen Mara will march with you. The Frostborn will bring their armies through the gate with as much speed as they can muster. We must drive them back, attack their gate, and close it.”

Gareth frowned. “In such a battle, many men will perish.”

“Thousands of men shall perish,” said Calliande, remembering some of the dire battles she had seen against the Frostborn centuries ago. “But if we do not act at once, tens of thousands more will die. The Frostborn might seize all of the Northerland. With the realm as divided as it is, they might be able to march all the way to Tarlion. Their ambition was always to conquer this entire world, my lord, and we escaped them once. They will not allow us to elude their grasp once more.”

“Then if this hard duty has fallen to us,” said Gareth, “the men of the Northerland shall not flinch from it. Sir Joram. Bid the men prepare to march. Send messengers to Queen Mara and ask her to join us as soon as possible.” Joram bowed and started giving instructions to his men, and Gareth turned back to Calliande. “My lady, will you be able to stand against the power of the Frostborn?”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “Their magic cannot resist the power of the Keeper.” Though she was but one woman, and there were many Frostborn. “Also, this time I have the help of Antenora. She wields the magic of flame, anathema to the Frostborn.”

“Let us hope that shall be enough,” said Gareth. “I sent Constantine with the outriders to scout the path to the Black Mountain. Once he returns, we shall have a clearer picture, and can then march.”

“If you will excuse me, my lord,” said Joram, “I must send that message to Queen Mara.”

“There’s no need.”

Ridmark climbed to the rampart, Brother Caius and Sir Arandar following him. Ridmark’s face was hard as stone, and he looked older than he had an hour ago. Calliande had seen that expression on the faces of knights who had lost all their men in battle, on lords who had seen their sons fall in combat.

For a moment Calliande was frightened by him.

“Ridmark,” said Gareth, his voice less harsh than usual. “How do you fare?”

“Not well,” said Ridmark. He looked over the battlements. “But I think that is something I shall soon have the chance to share with our foes.”

“A grievous loss,” said Gareth.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Mara already knows, my lord, and is bringing the Anathgrimm to the eastern wall of the town. They will be ready to fight.” He took a deep breath. “But I fear that is not be enough. My lord, I think the Frostborn will overmatch us. I think the path of wisdom is to abandon the town and march south to join the rest of the High King’s army.”

Gareth frowned. “I have never known you to turn from a fight.”

“Ridmark, this is our best chance to stop the Frostborn,” said Calliande.

Ridmark shook his head. “We already lost our best chance. If you are killed in Dun Licinia then the war is already lost. Look.”

He pointed over the wall.

Empty fields surrounded Dun Licinia, currently illuminated by six of the thirteen moons. Beyond the fields to the north stood the pine forests that covered most of the hills of the Northerland, and in those forests Calliande saw flickering ribbons of icy blue flame. To her Sight, those ribbons shone with cold power.

The Frostborn were sending forth their magic.

Yet she realized the ribbons were flickering because dark shapes were moving back and forth between them.

Quite a lot of dark shapes.

“Keeper,” said Gareth. “Would the Frostborn have servants capable of reaching Dun Licinia already?”

“Any number of them,” said Calliande, her throat going dry.

“The scouts return,” said Kharlacht, and Calliande saw horsemen galloping south, outlined in the eerie glow coming from the forests. Their formations seemed ragged, horsemen gathered together in little bands, and some of the horses carried two riders, a healthy man supporting a wounded one.

“They’ve seen battle,” said Ridmark.

“Constantine’s scouts,” said Gareth. “Sir Joram! Get the gate open, and close it again as soon as all the horsemen are within the walls.” Joram nodded and shouted the orders. With the mechanism destroyed by Imaria’s magic, it took a team of twenty men-at-arms to pull the heavy gates open and closed again. “Have Constantine join us here as soon as he returns.”

A moment later there was a groan as the men-at-arms pulled the gates open. The horsemen galloped into the northern forum. Calliande watched them and came to a decision.

“They have wounded,” she said. “I will see to them and rejoin you.”

“Let the other Magistri bear most of the load if possible,” said Gareth. “I fear you shall need most of your strength for the battle to come.”

Calliande hesitated, and then nodded.

“Sir Gavin and I can come as well,” said Arandar. “Our soulblades can aid the healing.” He did not say that their soulblades would prove useful if someone tried to attack Calliande, but he didn’t need to say it. She knew it already.

“Antenora, stay here,” said Calliande. “If any of the servants of the Frostborn show themselves, discourage them. Kharlacht, guard her please.” The orcish warrior inclined his head.

Calliande descended to the forum as the last of the horsemen came in, the men-at-arms shoving the gates closed and securing the bars and locks. There were fewer wounded men than she had feared, but those who had taken wounds had been injured badly. They had taken claw wounds, and one man looked as if he moved too much his guts would fall out.

She knew what kind of creatures produced wounds like that.

Another Magistrius ran into the forum, a gaunt, grim man of about thirty-five. Most Magistri wore long robes of pristine white, but this Magistrius disdained the robe for a long white coat that had accumulated so much dust that it was more of a splotchy gray. Beneath the coat he wore the chain mail and leather of a man-at-arms, a sturdy cudgel tucked into his belt since the Magistri were forbidden from spilling blood with the edge of the sword. His name was Camorak, and while he was surly, truculent, and far too fond of drink, he was nonetheless one of the most capable healers she had ever encountered.

Camorak strode up to a wounded man and called upon the magic of the Well, white light flaring around his hands, and cast the healing spell. His gaunt face tightened into a sharp grimace. To heal, a Magistrius had to take the pain of a wound into himself, and not all Magistri were capable of enduring it. The wounded man had been nearly disemboweled, but Camorak gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowed until the man’s wounds shrank to livid red scars.

Calliande joined him, drawing upon the power of the Well to work healing spells. There were only a dozen wounded men, and she and Camorak healed all of them in short order.

“Keeper,” said Camorak. His voice was rusty from years of drinking. “I thought we were done with this.”

“So did I,” said Calliande, “but I fear that I was mistaken.”

“My lady Keeper,” said another man.

Sir Constantine Licinius reined up before her, his eyes tired and his armor and green surcoat spattered with blood too dark to be human. He looked a great deal like his father and sister, with the same green eyes, olive-colored skin, and curly black hair. The soulblade Brightherald rested in its scabbard at his belt, shimmering with power to the Sight.

“Sir Constantine,” said Calliande. “I am pleased to see you unharmed. You encountered foes?”

“Aye,” said Constantine. “Creatures unlike any I have ever seen.”

“The Frostborn?” said Calliande.

“I think not,” said Constantine with a weary shake of his head. “At first I thought they were ursaars, for they appeared similar to bears. Yet neither bears nor ursaars walk upon their hind legs like a man, nor do they wear armor and carry weapons…”

“Medvarth,” said Calliande.

“Medvarth?” said Camorak. “What the hell is a medvarth?”

“I recall the name,” said Constantine, frowning. “Something from the war against the Frostborn.”

“They’re one of the kindreds that the Frostborn conquered and use as slaves,” said Calliande. “And…”

A flare of fiery elemental power burned before her Sight, and Calliande’s gaze snapped up just in time to see the fireball. The wall blocked most of her view of the explosion, but a furious, metallic scream echoed over the forum.

The creature soared into view a moment later.

It looked like one of the fire drakes that had almost killed Calliande on the day she had awakened, but those drakes had been the size of dogs. This creature was larger than the wyvern Ridmark and the others had fought near Vulmhosk, its body the size of an ox, its wings like sails, its serpentine neck the length of a tree. It circled higher, its vast, leathery wings beating. It had silvery-gray scales the color of ice, and its eyes burned with blue fire. The gray-armored shape of a Frostborn warrior sat upon its back, one hand holding leather reins, the other raised to cast a warding spell.

Calliande reacted at once, drawing upon the magic of the Well and feeding it through the mantle of the Keeper. A line of white fire slashed from her hand and struck the Frostborn warrior riding the winged creature. Her spell did not harm the Frostborn or the drake, but it did collapse the warding spell, leaving him vulnerable to Antenora’s fire. Stripped of his ward, the Frostborn chose to withdraw, the drake flying away to the north.

“What the hell was that thing?” said Camorak.

“Frost drake,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn sometimes use them as scouts.”

“A drake?” said Camorak. “We had drakes in Durandis, but the fire drakes didn’t get much bigger than dogs.” He blinked as a thought occurred to him. “Do frost drakes breathe fire?”

“No,” said Calliande. “Frost. Freezing air. The blast of their breath can freeze the blood in a man’s veins.”

“Lovely,” muttered Camorak.

“My lady Keeper,” said Constantine, swinging down from his saddle. “I must speak with my father and Sir Joram. These medvarth creatures…I did not get a good count, but a large number of them are coming for the town.”

“How many?” said Calliande.

“Thousands,” said Constantine. “Maybe ten thousand.”

The dread in Calliande’s heart sharpened, and she remembered Ridmark’s warning that they could not hold the town.

“This way,” she said, and she headed back to the rampart with Constantine.

“That creature riding the drake,” Gareth said as she approached. “That was a Frostborn?”

“Aye,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes watching the ghostly lights in the forest. “The magic of frost and ice was gathered strongly within him. He was kin to the Frostborn I faced on the threshold of this world.”

“Constantine,” said Gareth, smiling a little at his son. “You have returned. What news?”

Constantine started to speak, and then looked over the wall. “I think we can see my news for ourselves.”

The medvarth emerged from the forest, marching in ordered, disciplined columns.

Constantine had said they looked a bit like ursaars, like savage bears that walked as men, and the description was not wrong. The heads of the medvarth were like those of bears, though with flatter features, narrower eyes, and larger fangs. They stood between six and seven feet tall, their bodies wide and heavy with muscle. Like bears, jagged spikes of greasy fur covered their hides, though they wore steel plate armor and carried swords and maces and axes.

“I read of such creatures in the ancient history of our realm,” said Gareth. Calliande had lived through what Gareth Licinius considered ancient history. “Those are the medvarth, are they not?”

“The foot soldiers of the Frostborn,” said Calliande. “Strong and hardy and savage.  The Frostborn found them on some other world and enslaved them.”

“And there are at least eight thousand outside the wall,” said Joram.

“Maybe as many as ten or twelve thousand,” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn had their invasion force ready and waiting.”

“Sir Joram,” said Gareth. “Send word to the Anathgrimm at once. Tell them to fall back behind Dun Licinia’s southern wall. If the medvarth charge, the Anathgrimm shall be pinned between the northern wall and the foe, and I will not see them slaughtered.”

“My lord,” said Joram, and he turned to his waiting messengers.

“We ought to join the Anathgrimm,” said Calliande, “and assail the enemy.”

“No,” said Ridmark, meeting her gaze. She saw the pain and rage there, but his words were as cold as the magic of the Frostborn. “If we attack now, we shall be overcome. The Frostborn have more medvarth than we have fighting men, and God only knows how many more are coming down from the gate. I do not think we can hold the town, my lord Dux. We ought to withdraw and join the rest of the High King’s forces.”

“No,” said Gareth. “We shall do neither. If we attack, we will be annihilated. If we withdraw, the Frostborn will quickly overrun much of the Northerland, and it shall be that much harder to drive them out again. Instead, we will hold here. I already sent the summons to the High King and the other Duxi to march against the Mhorite host. Well, they can fight against the Frostborn just as easily as the Mhorites. If we remain within the walls, we can hold here until the rest of the army of Andomhaim arrives. Then we can sally forth and strike for the gate in the standing circle.”

Calliande hesitated. Every fiber of her heart screamed for her to attack at once, to make for the world gate before it was too late. Thousands of men would die in such an attack, she knew. Yet those thousands of men would die anyway if Dun Licinia fell to the enemy, and tens of thousands more if the Frostborn spread across Andomhaim.

But if those thousands of men attacked and died for nothing…

Ridmark was right. If they left the walls, there was a real chance they would be annihilated. The army of the Northerland would be destroyed, and with no one left to defend Dun Licinia, the Frostborn would seize the Northerland in short order. If the Dux’s plan worked, if they held out in Dun Licinia, they could bottle up the Frostborn here until help arrived from the High King.

That assumed, of course, that they could hold out against the Frostborn.

“It may be,” said Ridmark, “that the power of the Frostborn is too great to withstand.”

“It may be,” agreed Gareth. “But we have a duty. The Northerland is mine to defend, and if we leave Dun Licinia we shall lose much of it within a week. The men of the Northerland have always shielded the realm of Andomhaim from the dangers of the Wilderland, and we shall not stop now.”

He fell silent, watching the medvarth.

“They’re maneuvering to the sides,” said Ridmark, “blocking the ways along the eastern and western walls of the city.”

“Do they know about the Anathgrimm?” said Joram.

“They would have to,” said Calliande. “The locusari would have spotted them hours ago.” She remembered that as well from the campaigns against the Frostborn. It had been devilishly hard to take them unawares, since the winged locusari made such excellent scouts.

“We may have to let the Anathgrimm shelter within the walls,” said Joram.

“Perhaps,” said Gareth. He stepped to the battlements for a moment, drumming his fingers against the weathered stone. “Look at how the medvarth are moving to the wings, leaving the center open.”

“As if they are inviting us to charge,” said Constantine.

“Or,” said Ridmark, “as if they are opening the way for something else to attack our walls.”

“Joram,” said Gareth. “Send word among the men. Have them ready to withdraw, if necessary. The captains of the militia companies are to inform the women and children to make ready for travel with all haste. Take food and clothing. Everything else is to be left behind.” He looked at Calliande. “I do not intend to abandon Dun Licinia. But if I am forced to it, I shall burn the town to deny it to the Frostborn and take as many of its people with me as I can.”

“Very well,” said Calliande. The Dux’s plan, she had to admit, was sound. If the plan worked, they could hold out for as long as possible, and hopefully keep the Frostborn pinned in place long enough for the rest of the host of Andomhaim to arrive.

For if they failed here…

“Something is coming, Keeper,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes narrowed.

Calliande saw it a moment later, her Sight rising within her in response to powerful magic. A frost drake swooped over the lines of the medvarth, its scales reflecting the eerie blue glow in the trees. The creature circled once and then landed, and the Frostborn upon its back climbed down.

The Sight revealed tremendous magical power within this Frostborn. All the Frostborn possessed magical power, but this one seemed especially potent. His gray armor was more ornate than usual, adorned with reliefs and highlighted with symbols of cold blue fire, and jagged spikes encircled his helmet like a crown. He carried a huge greatsword in his right hand, longer than Kharlacht was tall, and more symbols shone upon the length of the dull blade. The Frostborn strode forward, pulling off his helm, and stopped just out of bowshot. His skin was crystalline, like ice in winter, and Calliande saw veins of blue fire beneath his skin, his eyes burning with the same fire. His face was eerily, almost inhumanly beautiful, but the crystalline skin and burning eyes gave it an alien, frightening aspect.

“Hear me!” said the Frostborn in perfect Latin. His voice was like melodious thunder, and augmented by a spell it boomed over Dun Licinia. “I am Rjalmandrakur, the Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard, one of the military Orders of the Assembly of the Dominion of the High Lords. By edict of the Assembly, this world is now a province of the Dominion. Your oaths and bonds to your previous lords are dissolved, and you are now subjects to the High Lords of the Dominion.”

An angry rumble went up from the men lining the walls.

“High Lords?” said Kharlacht.

“That is what the Frostborn call themselves,” said Calliande. “The High Lords, and they name their empire the Dominion of the High Lords.”

“Do not resist the inevitable,” said Rjalmandrakur. “For it is the task of the High Lords to perfect creation, and you shall be given a place within the Dominion. The medvarth and the locusari accepted their roles in the new order, they have served wisely and well.” He gestured at the waiting ranks of the medvarth soldiers. “Lay down your arms and submit to the rule of the High Lords. Resist and you shall be destroyed utterly. For your world will become part of the Dominion of the High Lords, whether you resist or cooperate.”

“Can you make it so he can hear me?” said Gareth.

“Of course,” said Calliande, and she worked the spell.

“Rjalmandrakur of the Frostborn!” said Gareth, Calliande’s magic throwing his voice across the field. The Frostborn commander’s gaze turned in Gareth’s direction. “I am Gareth of the House of the Licinii, Dux of the Northerland and vassal of the High King Uthanaric Pendragon of Andomhaim.”

“The name of your family is known to the Assembly of the High Lords,” said Rjalmandrakur. “As if the name and lineage of your overlord. We fought your ancestors two centuries ago.”

“You have unlawfully invaded the lands of Andomhaim,” said Gareth. “By my authority as Dux, in the name of the High King I command you to withdraw from our realm and return to your own world.”

“Your High King’s authority is of no consequence,” said Rjalmandrakur, “for his authority ended the moment the High Lords returned to this world. Nor is he here to protect you now. There is only you, Gareth of the House of the Licinii, and you and your men stand alone. Your walls will not be enough to save you. The mutant orcs camped to the south cannot stop us. There is only you…and if you do not submit to us, you will die, along with all your warriors and their females and their young.”

“You would threaten our women and children?” said Gareth. “The new order of your Dominion has little to recommend it if you resort to such cruelty.”

“The new order is inevitable and irresistible,” said Rjalmandrakur. “Perhaps you think your primitive gods will save you? They shall not. For the High Lords know the truth. There are no gods. There is only the cosmos, and the High Lords shall perfect the cosmos and end all pain and suffering. To achieve perfection, pain must first be endured and weakness purged. If you are worthy of a place in the Dominion, you shall join us. If you are unworthy, you shall be purged. The Order of the Vanguard shall sweep all resistance before us. The Order of the Tower shall construct fortresses to hold the lands we claim. The Order of the Inquisition shall hunt down our foes. The Order of the Arcane shall bring your world to order and reform it in the image of our perfection.”

“We deny your claims of perfection,” said Gareth, “and your unlawful and prideful claim of suzerainty over our lands. You claim there are no gods? Come against us, and God and the Dominus Christus shall witness who is in the right.”

“One more chance I offer you, Gareth Dux of the Northerland,” said Rjalmandrakur. A dozen more Frostborn gathered around him, tall and grim in their gray armor, their eyes burning with cold blue fire beneath their helms. “Lay down your arms and join us in the new order. Or else we shall…”

“Talk to him,” said Ridmark in a low voice.

Calliande blinked. “What?”

“Tell the Frostborn that you are here,” said Ridmark.

“Why?” said Calliande.

“Because I do not think Rjalmandrakur is a fool,” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn have faced the men of Andomhaim before. They know the Dux will not submit. So Rjalmandrakur is simply stalling for time while he prepares another attack or brings up more forces.”

That was an excellent point. “And how will my announcing myself help that?”

“Because you’re supposed to be dead,” said Ridmark. “They fought you two hundred and twenty years ago. They know how long humans live. Your grandchildren should have died decades ago.”

“Then,” said Calliande, looking at Rjalmandrakur as the Frostborn commander continued his oration, “they will not be expecting to see me.” Unless the locusari had already reported her presence.

Still, hearing a report and seeing an ancient enemy in the flesh were two different things.

“You will surprise them,” said Ridmark. “Surprised men make mistakes, act rashly. The Frostborn may not be human, but I would wager they are not fond of surprises either.”

“It is sound counsel, Keeper,” rasped Antenora.

“Yes,” said Calliande.

She shifted the focus of her spell as Rjalmandrakur kept talking, took a deep breath, and shouted.

“Enough!”

She flinched a little at the volume, but her shout boomed over the field, and Rjalmandrakur’s burning eyes turned towards her.

“And who is this?” said Rjalmandrakur. “Do the men of Andomhaim permit their females to speak for them?”

“You know who I am, Rjalmandrakur of the Order of the Vanguard,” said Calliande. “Or you should. I would hate to think that the Frostborn had forgotten me after only two centuries. I thought your kindred had a longer memory.”

For a moment Rjalmandrakur said nothing, though the other Frostborn behind him began speaking to each other in low voices.

“Identify yourself,” said Rjalmandrakur.

“You don’t remember?” said Calliande. “Were you at the final battle in this valley two centuries ago, Rjalmandrakur of the Order of the Vanguard? Were you there when the combined hosts of Andomhaim, the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, the orcs of the baptized kingdoms, and the manetaur of the Range advanced upon the host of the Frostborn? Did you see Kalomarus the Dragon Knight shatter your lines? Did you watch as I dueled Shadowbearer upon the slopes of the Black Mountain, as I closed your gate and defeated your kindred?”

There was a long pause.

“Impossible,” said Rjalmandrakur. “The lifespan of humans is known to the High Lords. You could not have survived that long.”

“I am Calliande of Tarlion,” said Calliande, “the Keeper of Andomhaim, and I stopped you once before, and I shall fight you now.”

For a moment the Frostborn conferred among each other, the medvarth standing motionless and silent in their ranks. She wondered if the medvarth told tales among themselves of the defeat at Andomhaim. No one in the High Kingdom had learned the tongue of the medvarth, and they seemed to revere the Frostborn as gods.

“You seem to have gotten their attention, my lady,” said Constantine.

“They remember me,” said Calliande, “and that would have been useful when I could not remember myself.”

She half-expected Morigna to make some sort of barbed remark, as she usually did, and then Calliande remembered that Morigna was dead.

A wave of sadness went through her, and she forced it aside, keeping her attention upon the Frostborn.

“Perhaps you are indeed our old enemy the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Rjalmandrakur. “Perhaps this is a cunning stratagem. Either way, when your stronghold is entombed in ice, you will no longer be a threat to the High Lords.”

He stepped to the side, as did the other Frostborn, and the ripples of blue light in the pine forest brightened. A thunderous roll of booming drums came from the forest, louder and louder.

“Are they working a spell against us?” said Gareth.

“No,” said Calliande, certainty coming over her. “No, this is something worse. I should have foreseen it.”

“Lord Dux!” said one of the nearby men-at-arms. “The Mhorites are coming! I can see them!”

“The Mhorites?” said Gareth, surprised. “The Anathgrimm wiped out the Mhorite host almost to a man. Did the survivors swear fealty to the Frostborn?”

“No,” said Calliande, her grimness leaking into her voice. “Not the survivors.”

“The dvargir as well,” said another man.

“The dvargir would never serve the Frostborn,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir could never even cooperate with the dark elves. They…”

“They’re dead,” said Calliande. “Or undead, rather.”

“Undead?” said Gareth. “The Frostborn use necromancy?”

“Of a form,” said Calliande. “Living men create heat. The Frostborn are the masters of cold, and they use their magic of ice to fill the dead with cold. We called them revenants during the first war. They retained all the memories they had while alive, but they are puppets under the control of the Frostborn.”

“All those dead Mhorites and dvargir upon the field,” said Ridmark. “We killed so many of them during the battle, and there wasn’t time bury or burn them.” He looked at Calliande. “How many could they have raised?”

“Quite a few of them,” said Calliande. “The magic takes time to prepare, even for the Frostborn. But if they were prepared for a quick assault through the gate, they would have readied the magic.”

“It seems,” said Caius, “that the Frostborn raised all of them.”

The ripples of blue fire emerged from the forest, and the revenants came into sight.

And Calliande saw that the Frostborn had, indeed, raised all of them.

Thousands of undead Mhorite orcs strode towards the walls, moving with a stiff, rigid gait. Many of them bore hideous wounds in their heads and torsos from the furious battle before the walls of Dun Licinia. Pale blue fire flickered and danced over them, sheathing their bodies in ghostly coronas of light. To Calliande’s Sight, she saw the cold elemental power filling them, a perversion of the elemental magic of frost and cold, imbuing their bodies with a mockery of warmth and life.

Columns of dvargir revenants marched alongside of the Mhorites, and to Calliande’s alarm she saw that the dvargir revenants carried wooden ladders upon their black-armored shoulders. The dvargir had constructed numerous siege engines during the attack upon Dun Licinia, and Antenora had destroyed their catapult. Yet after the destruction of the catapult and the death of their mzrokar war beasts, the dvargir would have turned to less exotic methods of scaling Dun Licinia’s walls.

Including, it seemed, the construction of ladders left for the revenants to use.

“There are at least a dozen ladders,” said Joram. “Maybe more.”

“Antenora,” said Calliande. “Can you strike the ladders?”

“Easily, Keeper,” said Antenora. Already her staff’s symbols began to burn in her gloved fist. “Yet the Frostborn will be ready, and their wards will cancel my power.”

“Their wards cannot cancel the magic of the Keeper,” said Calliande. “I will break their wards, and then you can strike.”

“But you can only hit one ladder at a time,” said Gareth.

“I fear so, lord Dux,” said Calliande.

Gareth looked at the advancing revenants, and she could follow his thoughts fell enough. There were at least ten thousand revenants emerging from the forest, and they had the help of ten thousand more medvarth, to say nothing of the locusari and the frost drakes and whatever magic the Frostborn brought to bear. Dun Licinia was well-fortified, and its walls had withstood Qazarl’s Mhalekites and Mournacht’s Mhorites. Yet the Frostborn were far more powerful than either foe, and even with the Anathgrimm and the assembled lords of the Northerland, they might not be able to hold Dun Licinia.

She looked at Ridmark, but his expression remained grim. Perhaps he had been right from the beginning, and they ought to have withdrawn from Dun Licinia at once.

“So be it,” said Gareth. “We shall fight. Keeper, please begin your spells at once.”

###

Ridmark gripped his staff, shivering a little inside his armor and cloak.

The air had gotten steadily colder as the battle went on.

“Stand fast!” he heard Arandar shout, the broken bond with Heartwarden sending a pulse of pain through his head.

Fighting raged along the entire length of the northern wall. Calliande and Antenora had destroyed five of the siege ladders before they reached the ramparts, the ladders shriveling like dry grass in the fury of Antenora’s fire, but seven had slammed against the battlements.

The revenants swarmed up the ladders like ants.

“Stand fast!” shouted Arandar again, and another wave of revenants came up the ladders.

Ridmark raised his staff, and next to him Gavin and Constantine lifted their soulblades, the weapons shining with white fire in response to the dark power within the revenants. Both Swordbearers had wanted to remain behind to guard Calliande, but the Keeper had refused, arguing that they were needed on the ramparts.

She was right.

The first of the revenants came off the ladder, and Ridmark attacked, swinging his staff before him. The revenant was a Mhorite, half of its face caved in from the blow of a knight’s mace, ghostly blue fire dancing over the ruin of its skull. The revenant started to lunge forward, reaching for Ridmark with hands wreathed in pale fire, but Ridmark hit the revenant across the knees, knocking the creature over. Before it recovered, Gavin struck with Truthseeker, the soulblade flashing with white fire as its magic fed the young Swordbearer’s strength. His blow took off the revenant’s head, and the undead thing collapsed to the ramparts, the blue fire fading away.

More revenants boiled over the battlements, throwing themselves at the men-at-arms and militiamen. One man-at-arms crushed the skull of a Mhorite revenant with a quick swing of his mace, and a militiaman drove a spear forward, impaling another revenant. Arandar wheeled and took off the revenant’s head with a flash of Heartwarden’s fire, and the creature collapsed. Another revenant shoved past the impaled creature.

Before the militia spearman could react, and revenant’s hands closed around his throat.

The spearman managed a short, agonized scream, and then frost covered his skin. He went rigid as the blood froze in his veins, the frost thickening into a sheet of killing ice. A horrible chill radiated out from the revenant and the frozen spearman, and Ridmark’s muscles jerked involuntarily from the sensation.

It was the advantage of the attacking revenants. They radiated cold, horrible cold, an icy chill that sucked away the warmth, and their mere touch could freeze a man solid, killing him in a heartbeat. It was later summer, but it already felt like the heart of winter atop the ramparts, frost forming on the battlements and upon the slain. The dreadful cold made the limbs stiffer, the reactions slower. The revenants suffered no such restrictions, and attacked with no concern for their own survival.

And still the medvarth waited in reserve.

The plan of Rjalmandrakur and the Frostborn was simple. They would throw their entire force of revenants against the wall, wearing down the defenders. Once the supply of revenants had been exhausted, the medvarth would attack. Ridmark had never fought a medvarth, but he had no doubt that they were formidable fighters.

Once the medvarth gained the ramparts, Dun Licinia would fall.

Another four revenants scrambled up the ladder, their cold hands outstretched. Gavin and Constantine struck from the right, while Arandar attacked from the left. One of the revenants grabbed Gavin’s shoulder, but Truthseeker pulsed with white fire, and Gavin struck, the soulblade opening the Mhorite revenant from skull to stomach. The Swordbearers had the ability to resist the freezing grasp of the revenants, protected by the power of the soulblades.

The common men-at-arms and militiamen had no such protection.

The three Swordbearers worked in concert, carving a whirlwind of destruction through the mass of revenants. Behind them the militiamen and men-at-arms rallied, attacking the revenants as they faltered beneath the fury of the three Swordbearers. Ridmark joined them, hammering with his staff, tripping and stumbling the revenants to keep them from attacking and distracting them long enough for the Swordbearers or men-at-arms to land finishing blows.

Then, for a moment, the way to the ladder was clear.

Ridmark charged forward, dropping his staff and seizing the thick steel hooks at the end of the ladder. A dvargir revenant started to pull itself up, but three other militia spearmen joined Ridmark, adding their strength to his. The ladder wobbled and then fell backwards, falling in a long arc to smash against the battle-scarred ground below the wall.

White fire flashed before Ridmark’s vision, followed by a soaring ball of orange-yellow flame about the size of his head. The fireball slammed into another ladder further to the west. An explosion of raging fire bloomed against the wall, consuming the ladder, all the revenants upon it, and dozen more of the undead creatures upon the ground. Antenora’s fire was tremendously effective against the revenants, and they burned like chaff whenever her fire touched them.

“To the west!” said Arandar, pointing with Heartwarden. “The revenants are establishing another foothold there. If they get a solid hold on the wall, we’re finished.”

Ridmark glanced at the sky, saw a flicker of motion.

“We should go east,” said Constantine. “The spearmen there are hard pressed. We…”

A massive, silvery-gray shape swooped towards them, fanged jaws yawning wide, blue fire glimmering in its gullet.

“Get down!” shouted Ridmark.

The frost drake plummeted towards them, a plume of white vapor erupting from its mouth. A score of men-at-arms and spearmen disappeared into the swirling white mist, and the Swordbearers raised their soulblades, white light shining around their weapons. Ridmark could not run from the advancing cone of freezing mist, could not dodge it, could not protect himself from it in any way.

So he threw himself off the rampart instead.

The street was twenty feet below, enough to break both his legs or kill him if he landed badly. Ridmark twisted as he fell, catching the edge of the rampart, his hands gripping the rough stone. The jerk as he halted his momentum wrenched his arms, and the horrible chill from the freezing mist poured up his hands and forearms. For a grim moment he was certain that his hands had frozen themselves to the stone, but he could still feel his fingers, and Ridmark heaved himself back up to the rampart.

A grisly sight greeted him.

A score of men had been frozen solid, their bodies encased in translucent gray ice. Where Gavin, Arandar, and Constantine had been now stood three oval cocoons of gray ice, lit from within by a white glow. Ridmark stared at them for a heartbeat, and then realized that the soulblades had protected the Swordbearers from the killing cold, but the frost drake’s potent breath had nonetheless encased them in those cocoons of ice. The cold hadn’t killed them…but they were probably about to run out of air.

Ridmark’s staff still lay against the battlements. He seized it, took the weapon in his numb hands, and started swinging. The first cocoon shattered on the fifth blow, and Gavin staggered out of it, coughing and wheezing.

“The others!” said Ridmark. “Hurry!”

Gavin coughed some more, but nodded and lifted Truthseeker, using the flat of the blade to hammer against another of the icy cocoons, while Ridmark attacked the final one. Soon they had shattered both, and Arandar and Constantine stepped free, both men gulping down air.

“God and the apostles,” said Constantine looking at the frozen men.

“At least it was quick,” said Ridmark, his teeth chattering. He had avoided the worst of the drake’s icy breath, but the terrible cold seemed to have seeped into his very bones. “We…”

Two ladders thumped against the battlements, another wave of revenants streaming onto the ramparts, leaving trails of blue fire in their wake.

Ridmark and the Swordbearers fought for their lives.

###

Kharlacht roared a battle cry and brought his greatsword around, the blue blade glittering with a coat of frost. His strike sheared through the head of a Mhorite revenant, sending the lifeless corpse tumbling to the forum below. Kharlacht kept moving, snapping his greatsword up for another blow, the strike bisecting a second Mhorite revenant.

The attack left him vulnerable to the dvargir revenant charging at him, blue fire dancing around its gray-skinned hands.

Calliande gestured, and a burst of white fire shot from her palm, striking the revenant. The magic of the Well unraveled the dark power of the Frostborn, and the revenant became nothing more than dead flesh, falling inert to the ramparts.

Kharlacht gave her a quick nod of thanks and wheeled to face the western rampart once more, greatsword ready in both hands. Calliande could destroy any individual revenant with ease.

The problem was that for every revenant she destroyed, a hundred more rushed forward to take its place. She and Antenora burned ladder after later, and the defenders of Dun Licinia must have destroyed thousands of revenants in the initial assault. Yet still the cold undead kept coming, wearing away at their strength. She did not think Dun Licinia could hold.

She did not think Dun Licinia could even hold until sunrise.

“My lord,” said Joram, wiping blood from a cut above his eye.

“I know,” said Gareth, his voice hard. “We’ve no other choice. We have to abandon the town.” He began issuing commands. “Sound the call for withdrawal. We will hold on the northern wall as long as possible. The townsfolk should have already gathered in the church and in the forum before the keep. They are to depart at once through the southern gate and take the road as fast as they can. Carry only food and clothing – everything else is to be left behind. We shall set fire to the houses as we withdraw. Hopefully that shall slow the Frostborn and their creatures long enough for us to make our escape. If there are any messengers left, send word to Queen Mara and the Anathgrimm.”

“I will distract the attention of the Frostborn for as long as I can,” said Calliande, as Antenora began to spin another fireball over the end of her staff.

“I will welcome anything you can do,” said Gareth. “Every moment of delay will mean another life we can save…and another man who will live to fight when the day comes to avenge this defeat.”

Chapter 4: Shadowbearer

Flames rose from the town as Arandar fought along the ramparts of Dun Licinia.

The revenants continued their endless assault against the walls, charging in waves of dead flesh and ghostly blue fire. Again and again the undead carved footholds upon the walls, and again and again the dwindling defenders threw them back.

Arandar had been in many battles, and he saw all the momentum in this fight going in one direction.

Unfortunately, the Frostborn were going to take the town.

Arandar dodged under the reaching hand of a dvargir revenant and brought Heartwarden down, the soulblade’s magic filling him with strength. Heartwarden crashed through the dvargir’s black helmet, splitting its skull, and the white fire of the soulblade quenched the ghostly blue flame of the Frostborn. The revenant shuddered, fell with a clang of armor, and tumbled into the street below. Some of the awful chill surrounding Arandar faded. He thought it strange that he should be so cold even as fires raged through the streets nearest to the wall. Even with the protection of Heartwarden he was still cold, and he did not want to know what it felt like to experience that chill without Heartwarden’s shielding influence.

Ridmark Arban did not seem to let it slow him down.

The man had been tireless, attacking again and again, driving back the revenants. He had not taken command of anything, but that didn’t matter. He was a pillar of defense, and the men rallied around him as he fought. Something similar usually happened around a Swordbearer, but more often than not Arandar and Gavin and Constantine found themselves following Ridmark as he charged. The Gray Knight fought like a demon, his expression unchanging, a wild gleam in his eye as he struck down revenant after revenant.

A mad gleam, in truth.

Arandar knew grief well, and wondered if madness had overtaken Ridmark Arban. Or perhaps he simply sought to destroy as many of their foes before he succumbed to exhaustion or wounds.

Arandar hoped Ridmark would not die today…but a lot of people were going to die before the sun came up.

But, thanks to Dux Gareth’s foresight and Sir Joram’s diligence, fewer than Arandar would have expected.

He had been impressed by how well the town had been prepared for a siege when he had arrived with Ridmark and Calliande, and it seemed the Dux and Joram had been prepared to evacuate the town as well. Now those preparations proved their worth. The militia companies had withdrawn from the wall, leaving the knights and men-at-arms to hold the line. The militia roused the people of the town, most of whom hastened towards the southern gate in an orderly fashion, carrying bundles of food and clothing. Some would remain behind, too sick to travel, or determined to die defending their homes. But most would escape.

Or so Arandar hoped.

More white fire flashed from the gate, followed by another one of Antenora’s enormous, wobbling fireballs, this one the size of a small horse. It fell from the rampart and landed amidst the revenants with a roaring explosion. A hundred of the undead things went up in flame, and the heat from the blast eased the magical cold around the ramparts.

As soon as the echoes from the explosion cleared, the sound of trumpets rang out from the gate

“That is the signal!” shouted Arandar, waving Heartwarden over his head. “Withdraw! Withdraw! Every man to the southern gate. Hasten! To the southern gate!”

The men-at-arms and the knights started to retreat in good order from the ramparts, hurrying down the stairs to the street. The flames, Arandar hoped, would slow down the revenants, who had an aversion to fire. The Frostborn would take Dun Licinia, but it would be a smoking ruin, and the people of the town, the army of the Northerland, and the host of the Anathgrimm, would return. They would return, Arandar vowed.

They would avenge this defeat.

Arandar waited until the last man-at-arms had hastened down the stairs, and then Gavin and Constantine joined him.

“Ridmark!” said Constantine.

Arandar saw Ridmark standing at the battlements, gazing at the host of revenants and medvarth standing outside the wall.

“Gray Knight!” said Arandar. “We must go!”

“She is out there, somewhere,” said Ridmark.

Constantine frowned. “Who?”

Arandar realized that Ridmark was talking about Imaria Licinius. Did Ridmark think to charge out into the Frostborn host to look for her alone? In his current state of mind, he might well do it. If he did that, he would die, and Arandar had promised Calliande he would look after Ridmark.

And Sir Arandar of Tarlion, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, did not give his word lightly.

“Ridmark!” said Arandar. “There is nothing more we can do here!” Ridmark turned to look at him. “If you wish to die to avenge her, well and good, but dying here will avenge nothing!”

For a frozen instant Ridmark stared at him, and then gave a single sharp nod.

He followed Arandar and the other Swordbearers down the stairs and into the street. The heat from the burning houses was hellish, but after the terrible cold of the revenants, it was almost refreshing. A band of horsemen waited, the mounts flinching from the flames. Arandar was not surprised that Gareth and Joram would be the last out of the doomed town. Calliande and Antenora waited atop their own mounts, as did Kharlacht and Caius. Several more horses waited behind them, their saddles empty.

“Father,” said Constantine. “The last of the men have withdrawn from the wall.”

Gareth nodded. “Well done. The sooner we are gone from Dun Licinia, the sooner we can join the High King’s host and return.”

Arandar sheathed Heartwarden, ran to a horse, and climbed into the saddle, Constantine and Gavin following suit. Antenora watched Gavin as he mounted, and a peculiar flicker of relief went over her gray, gaunt face. Ridmark was the last to mount, frowning at the sky as he did. Arandar followed his gaze, remembering the disaster with the frost drake’s breath upon the walls. He glimpsed a pair of locusari circling high overhead, but saw no sign of any drakes or their Frostborn riders.

“Come,” said Gareth. “We ride.”

Arandar put his boots into his horse’s side, urging the animal forward. By unspoken agreement, the three Swordbearers spread out around Calliande, intending to guard her if the Frostborn tried to attack upon their ancient enemy. They left the northern forum, heading through the street that led to the keep. Around them the houses of Dun Licinia burned, the heat growing more oppressive with every step. Gareth’s men had started controlled fires in the empty houses, but the fire had a will of its own. Soon Dun Licinia’s pyre would light up the countryside like a second sun.

The Dux rode into the central forum, the tower of Dun Licinia’s keep rising before them, flames flickering in the windows. Fires consumed the keep’s chapel, leaping through the windows and the roof. Arandar supposed it would serve as Morigna’s funeral pyre.

They rode around the keep and down the street leading to the southern gate. Arandar saw a mass of people and horsemen filling the southern forum, a mass that steadily drained through the gate and onto the road. So far there was no sign of panic.

Arandar turned his head, half-fearing to see locusari scouts or frost drakes pursuing them, but the sky was empty.

He did, however, see Ridmark kick his horse to a gallop.

Back towards the burning keep.

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, but the Gray Knight vanished around the corner, driving his horse hard.

###

Fury exploded through Ridmark as his horse raced into the forum below the keep. Around him the shops and the inn burned, red-lit smoke rising into the sky. After the magical cold of the revenants, the heat was shocking, and he suspected that anyone still in Dun Licinia would roast alive.

He did not care.

For he had seen Imaria Licinius standing atop the keep, smiling down at him, her white robe stark against the night sky.

Ridmark did not know how she had gotten there, nor did he care. Likely she had murdered Morigna and stolen the empty soulstone, passing the relic off to whatever wizard of the Enlightened had opened the world gate. Then she had hidden herself in the town, waiting to confront him.

The rage filled his mind, hotter than the flames that burned through Dun Licinia, and he galloped into the courtyard, reining up before the steps to the keep.

He was going to kill her. The Weaver was likely with her, and Ridmark would kill the ancient Enlightened as well.

They would pay for what they had done.

He strode into the keep, staff in hand.

###

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, but no answer came.

“Where is he going?” said Kharlacht.

“I don’t know,” said Arandar as Calliande brought her horse to a stop. “He just rode off.”

“We cannot leave without him,” said Calliande.

“My lord, we must go,” said Joram. “We have only moments, and the host and the townsmen will need you to take command.” He shook his head, his face stained with soot and blood and sweat. “He must have some reason.”

“No,” said Calliande. “He was always reckless, but never without a reason.”

She stared to say that Ridmark would not act like that…but Ridmark was not even remotely in his right mind at the moment.

“Keeper,” said Antenora. “I may have an answer. I thought…”

“What?” said Calliande. “What did you see?”

“The power of Incariel,” said Antenora. “The power the Weaver and Imaria wielded during our fight.”

“Then the Weaver has come for him,” said Calliande.

“Likely he has gone to avenge Morigna,” said Arandar.

“But he can’t,” said Calliande. “He can’t face the Weaver without help. He doesn’t have any weapons that can do permanent harm to the Weaver.” She looked at Gareth. “My lord, we must go back and aid him.”

“We do not have the time, my lord,” said Joram. “The Frostborn will overrun the town at any moment.”

“We can’t leave him to face the Weaver alone,” said Calliande.

Gareth hesitated, for just moment. Calliande glimpsed the indecision in his craggy face. Ridmark had been part of Gareth’s family. He had married the Dux’s daughter. He had carried back warning of Shadowbearer and the Frostborn, even when no one else in the realm had believed him.

Yet Gareth was responsible for far more lives than Ridmark’s.

A booming crash rang over the street, the distant sound of breaking timbers.

“That was the northern gate,” said Joram.

“I fear Ridmark has made his choice, my lady Keeper,” said Gareth. “We must now make ours.”

Gareth was right, of course. He had a duty to the people of the Northerland and the High King. Calliande, too, had a duty. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and in all the realm, she was the only one who had living memory of the Frostborn. The war against the Frostborn could take years. It was her duty to depart and defend the realm.

It was her duty to abandon Ridmark.

Ridmark Arban, who had rescued her from the Mhalekites on the slopes of Black Mountain. Ridmark Arban, who had saved her from the Warden’s trap in Urd Morlemoch. Ridmark Arban, who had taken her to Khald Azalar and Dragonfall, allowing her to recover her memory and her power and become the Keeper of Andomhaim once more.

Ridmark Arban, who was the only man she had ever kissed…

God, but she was a fool.

Calliande spun her horse and kicked the animal to a gallop, racing towards the keep as she ignored the shouts of the men behind her.

###

Ridmark stepped into the great hall of the keep, his staff ready in his right hand.

It was deserted. The air smelled of smoke, though nothing in the hall had yet caught flame. Harsh firelight poured through the windows as the town burned around him, throwing mad shadows across the hall. His eyes swept back and forth, but he saw no enemies, only the signs of the knights’ rapid withdrawal from the hall. He wondered what had happened to Jager’s sister Dagma and her husband Dieter and their children. Had they gotten out? He hoped they had. Mara would take them in, surely. Ridmark should have checked, he should have…

His eyes locked upon the half-dried pool of blood Morigna had left upon the stones and fury drowned out the regret.

“You were my midwife, Ridmark Arban.”

The familiar voice of Imaria Licinius echoed through the hall.

Familiar, yet somehow…different.

It was like two voices speaking at once. One was the voice of Imaria Licinius, arrogant and cold and severe. The other was an alien, inhuman rasp, a noise that no human throat could possibly make. Not even the Frostborn or the dark elves or the urdmordar sounded like that. For all their alien nature and tremendous magical power, they still had something akin to humans in them, were still living and thinking creatures.

The second voice speaking with Imaria was incomprehensibly alien…and malevolent beyond Ridmark’s comprehension.

A stirring of doubt went through him, and as he lifted his eyes from the bloodstain, he saw Imaria standing upon the dais.

Her back was to him, her black hair hanging against her crisp white robe, her slender neck exposed. A dozen running steps across the hall and he could bring his staff down upon her skull, all of his strength and rage driving the blow. His heart screamed for him to do it, his blood burning with rage and grief and hatred.

Yet her voice…

He took a cautious step forward.

“For I was a chrysalis,” said Imaria. “I was incomplete. I was liminal. You completed me, Ridmark Arban. You slew Tymandain Shadowbearer, and with the death you dealt, I was made complete at last. As I was destined to be from the beginning of this world.”

“You killed Morigna,” said Ridmark, the words like jagged rocks in his throat.

“I helped kill her,” said Imaria. “I held her in place as the Weaver cut her throat and stabbed her through the heart. The Weaver acted at my command. He killed her because it pleased me to cause you pain. For that is your destiny, Ridmark Arban. To be the instrument of my birth…and to suffer for taking Aelia from me.”

“Then I am going to repay you for that pain,” said Ridmark, striding forward, raising his staff.

Imaria turned to look at him, smiling, and for a moment sheer shock overrode his rage.

She had changed.

Imaria’s olive-colored skin now had a deathly grayish tinge, pallid like the skin of a corpse. Her veins had turned black, as if liquid shadow flowed through her flesh. Her green eyes had turned to quicksilver, and Ridmark saw his distorted reflection in the irises of her eyes.

She looked like…

“Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark.

“Morigna understood, in the moment before she died,” said Imaria in that terrible double voice. “No one else understood. Your precious Keeper did not understand. Even Tymandain himself did not understand, but I knew the truth.”

“And what was that truth?” said Ridmark.

“Shadowbearer himself forgot it,” said Imaria. “Shadowbearer was not his name. Shadowbearer was his title. And titles…”

“Can be inherited,” said Ridmark.

“Behold,” said Imaria, spreading her arms. “You created me, Ridmark Arban. Not even Ardrhythain knew the truth, that if you strike down the first Shadowbearer, a second will arise in his place. I am the new bearer of Incariel’s shadow, and I shall free all of mankind from the prison of time and space.”

“The only freedom you shall ever know is that of the grave,” said Ridmark.

Imaria smiled. “Death is but the first step to our freedom.”

She raised her right hand, and shadows erupted from her palm, pouring forth from her corrupted veins in a torrent of darkness. The shadow splintered into thousands of coiling strands, a web to wrap Ridmark and drain away his life. The shadows coiled around him, and then Ardrhythain’s staff began to glow in his right hand, symbols of white light shining to life along the length of the weapon. The shadows recoiled from the staff, leaving Ridmark free of their grasp. The staff of Ardrhythain repelled the power of Incariel, just as it had when Ridmark had confronted Tymandain Shadowbearer in Khald Azalar.

With that, Ridmark’s rage focused into something as sharp as an arrow’s point.

She couldn’t stop him. For Tymandain Shadowbearer, the protective power had been an annoyance. He had been an archmage of the Elves, and his magic could have crushed Ridmark like an insect at any time, and only his loathing for Ridmark had kept him from doing so, driving him to draw out Ridmark’s death as long as possible.

But without the shadow of Incariel, Imaria Licinius still a woman in her early twenties. She would not have the titanic, crushing power of someone like Tymandain or the Warden. All she had was the shadow of Incariel, and so long as Ridmark had Ardrhythain’s staff, her power could not touch him.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Ridmark surged forward, staff coming back to land a killing blow.

Imaria laughed at him and disappeared in a swirl of shadow. An instant later Ridmark’s staff swept through the space her head had occupied. He stumbled and caught his balance, and saw Imaria standing at the far end of the hall, her quicksilver eyes glittering.

Of course. The shadow of Incariel gave her the ability to travel from place to place in an instant, and the staff could do nothing about that. She had shown the same ability during the fight at the standing circle. Ridmark had known that, but his overwhelming rage had blinded him to it.

“Ridmark, Ridmark, Ridmark,” said Imaria. “Whatever did Aelia see in you? I will never know.” A strange, mad smile went over her face, the firelight reflecting in her quicksilver eyes. “She should have wed Tarrabus, not you. Then she would still live.”

Ridmark started towards her, staff ready, and drew the dwarven war axe from his belt.

“Tarrabus would have been a better husband for her,” said Imaria. “He was an adequately excellent lover, and he understood the truth. Or some of it. He cannot grasp the totality of the truth. He only wants to be High King and immortal. The truth is greater. He shall have freedom from the flesh and time, as shall all mankind. For Incariel will be the great liberator.”

Ridmark lunged at her, bringing his staff back to strike, but as he did he threw the axe, hoping to take her unawares. The trick didn’t work. Imaria vanished in a swirl of darkness, and the dwarven axe buried itself in the thick wood of the keep’s doors.

She reappeared atop the dais once more, tittering.

“Come to avenge your Wilderland harlot?” said Imaria.

“She was not a harlot,” growled Ridmark. He knew that she was baiting him, luring him on, but he was too angry to care.

“She lay with the likes of you, did she not?” said Imaria. “When you murdered Aelia, I prayed and prayed to God for vengeance, that he would repay you for what you had done. I heard only silence. Then Tarrabus told me of Incariel…for Incariel answers prayers. It has already done so. I see the wrath on your face and it delights me. How I have repaid you for my pain! How much more repayment I shall inflict upon you!”

Ridmark broke into a run, intending to strike her down where she stood. Imaria did not move, did not disappear, but kept smiling at him.

A dark blur appeared in the corner of his vision, and Ridmark realized that he had been tricked.

He started to turn, but it was too late.

The Weaver dropped from the ceiling like a thunderbolt, landing upon Ridmark’s shoulders. The weight of the Enlightened drove Ridmark to the floor, his staff bouncing from his hands. The Weaver had taken the form of some hideous insect-like creature, more alien and menacing that the locusari by far. Two of his limbs pinned Ridmark’s arms in place, two more held his legs, and the bladed forelimbs came to rest against his throat. Ridmark struggled, but the Weaver’s iron strength held him in place.

The Weaver’s monstrous face held no recognizable expression, but Ridmark nonetheless saw the satisfaction there.

“Yes,” murmured Imaria, walking towards them. “Yes, it was exactly like this.”

Her shadow flowed out before her like water, coiling around Ridmark like frozen ropes. He shuddered as it wrapped around him, seeming to hiss and whisper in his ears.

“The Weaver held Morigna just like that before she died,” said Imaria. She stopped a few paces away and peered down at him, the veins of shadow pulsing and throbbing below her pallid skin. “I am not certain…but I think she thought that you were coming to save her. Right to the very moment the Weaver cut her throat, she believed that you were coming to save her. Just as my sister did.”

She leaned closer, her face animated with delighted malice.

“Truly, Incariel hears the prayers of its servants,” said Imaria, shivering with anticipation. “I wanted to see you suffer, and here you are.” She closed her eyes for a moment, smiling. “Weaver. Start cutting pieces off him. Slowly, one at a time. Let him savor the pain. Let him…”

The world exploded with white fire.

The Weaver hurtled to the side with a furious screech of surprised pain. Imaria’s shadow withdrew as the Weaver righted himself, the shadow curling around her in a defensive shell. Ridmark drew a ragged breath and turned his head, some sensation creeping back into his numbed limbs.

Calliande stood before the doors to the courtyard, her staff blazing with harsh white fire.

“The Keeper,” hissed Imaria. “Still another woman ready to die for this fool.”

“Imaria Licinius,” said Calliande, her voice as cold as the power of the Frostborn.

“Not any longer,” said Imaria.

“What have you done to yourself?” said Calliande. Ridmark took another breath, trying to get the feeling back into his arms and legs. “You’ve…taken the shadow into yourself…”

Imaria laughed. “I am the new Shadowbearer, my lady Keeper. Your beloved fool killed Tymandain, but Incariel can never die. Its shadow fills me now, and I shall use it to destroy you.”

Calliande’s blue eyes narrowed, the green cloak stirring around her. “Try.”

They did.

The Weaver shot forward in a black blur, and the shadow erupted around Imaria like a storm. Ridmark rolled over and seized his staff, and the symbols glimmered to life along its length, driving back the coiling shadow as it tried to close around him. Calliande leveled the staff of the Keeper, a blast of white fire slamming into the Weaver, and he exploded into a writhing maze of shadowy black threads, all of them snarling and twisting around each other. Imaria howled and threw forward her hands, and a tide of shadows roared through the hall, rising up like a wave. Calliande thrust her staff, and a shimmering wall of transparent light appeared before her. The shadows shattered against it, and Imaria rocked back a step.

Ridmark sprinted at Imaria, drawing back his staff to strike. She sneered at him, the expression filled with venomous hatred, and vanished in a flicker of darkness. Ridmark stumbled to a halt, his staff sweeping through empty air, and looked around. Imaria had vanished, but the Weaver had changed form, taking the shape of some winged creature out of a nightmare. Calliande started to cast a spell at him, but the Weaver leapt into the air, shooting through one of the windows and vanishing into the fiery night.

Neither the new Shadowbearer nor the Weaver wanted to face the Keeper of Andomhaim.

Ridmark let out a snarl of frustration and struck his staff against the wall.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, her voice hoarse as she hurried to him. “We have to go, now.”

He shook his head. “Go.”

She stopped, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“They won’t have gone far,” said Ridmark. “I’ll find them. If you go now, you can catch up to the Dux…”

“Ridmark, the medvarth and the revenants are coming through the northern gate,” said Calliande. “Dux Gareth has already withdrawn through the southern gate. The enemy will be here any moment. We have to go…”

“Then go,” said Ridmark.

“What are you going to do?” said Calliande, shaking her head. “You can't fight the Weaver and Imaria. If you find them, they’ll just kill you. What good will that do anyone? It certainly won’t avenge Morigna.”

“I will find them and kill them,” said Ridmark, stepping past her towards the doors. The bloodstain upon the floor seemed to burn in his vision. “Stay and help me, or go to the Dux. Either way I’m going to…”

“God damn it, Ridmark Arban!”

He looked back at her, stunned. She never cursed, and she only raised her voice in battle. There were tears in her bloodshot eyes, whether from the smoke, or from grief, or from sheer frustration, he could not say.

Something else occurred to him. She shouldn’t have come here. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, the only one in Andomhaim with any experience of fighting the Frostborn, and the realm’s best chance of surviving this war. She had a responsibility to escape with the Dux.

Yet she was here to rescue him.

“You promised,” she said, her voice thick. “You said you would help me see this to the end. This isn’t the end. This is barely even the beginning, and I can’t do this alone. You want to get yourself killed for nothing, fine. I won’t stop you.” She swallowed, a muscle working in her jaw. “But you promised me.”

A deep stab of shame went through Ridmark.

How Morigna would have mocked him if she had seen his folly.

Ridmark managed to nod.

“Good,” said Calliande, rubbing one hand across her eyes with an irritated gesture. “Good. We should go. Your horse was still in the courtyard, and…”

“Keeper!”

Ridmark turned as Antenora hurried into the hall, her staff burning, a ball of fire spinning above her outstretched palm.

“Antenora?” said Calliande. “What….”

“You ran,” said Antenora. “I could not permit you depart undefended. I saw the Weaver and Imaria fleeing the tower. Keeper, the shadow has entered her, just as it entered Shadowbearer.”

“I know,” said Calliande, her voice grim. “She is the new Shadowbearer.”

“The northern gate is open,” said Antenora. “The medvarth and the revenants are entering, along with the Frostborn themselves…”

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark, and they hurried into the courtyard.

He would kill Imaria and the Weaver, he vowed.

But not if it got Calliande killed in the process.

###

An hour later Calliande turned in her saddle, looking at the burning town.

A long line of people and horsemen choked the road heading south from Dun Licinia. Men hurried along, carrying packs, while women carried children or held the hands of children old enough to walk. Carts loaded with food creaked along, while the Dux’s horsemen rode up and down the line, urging the townsmen to greater speed.

Dun Licinia blazed like an early dawn to the north.

She smelled the smoke, the ashes bitter against her tongue.

How profoundly she had failed.

Calliande had seen this before. She had seen the long and bitter war with the Frostborn, had seen towns burn and castras fall, had seen thousands of people die of wounds and hunger and plague. Everything she had done had been to keep this from happening again.

Yet the great war had begun anew anyway.

Her mouth tightened into a hard line. She would not give up. She would not!

She looked at Ridmark, as she often did when she felt doubt.

Ridmark rode in silence, his staff laid across his saddle, his eyes staring at nothing,

Calliande looked away, blinking tears from her eyes, and rode in search of the wounded.

Those, at least, she could help.

Chapter 5: A Choice Of Evils

Arandar kept to the rear of the long, winding column with the other Swordbearers, ready to make a stand if the Frostborn attacked in force.

But save for the occasional sighting of a winged locusari scout, no one pursued them.

Dux Gareth set a hard pace, forcing the host and the townsmen to march through the night and all the next day.

They had no choice. The original plan had been to withdraw southeast, along the road leading to the Dux’s stronghold of Castra Marcaine. A large force of medvarth had moved away from Dun Licinia, raising an earthwork fortification across the road, and instead they had no choice but to march south, along the road following the River Marcaine as it flowed into the far wider River Moradel.

Fortunately, they were at no risk of starvation. Though, once Arandar thought about it, fortune had nothing to do with it. The Dux’s foresight and Joram Agramore’s diligence deserved the credit. Gareth Licinius had prepared for a siege to withstand the Mhorites, and if that failed, he had been prepared to evacuate the town and take its people to safety. How many other nobles of the High Kingdom would have shown such wisdom?

Would Arandar’s father have been capable of such wisdom?

He pushed aside the thought. It was not the place of a knight of the realm to question the High King. Certainly it was not the place of the High King’s bastard son.

Yet he could not help but think that Andomhaim would have been stronger and safer if Gareth Licinius had been High King instead of Uthanaric Pendragon.

From time to time Calliande and Antenora cast their Sight north, seeking news of their foes. The Frostborn, it seemed, had decided not to pursue them, devoting their work instead to fortifying the smoldering ruins of Dun Licinia and starting construction of a massive citadel to defend their world gate. Then all Sight was cut off as the Frostborn cast wards around the gate and Dun Licinia, shielding their new conquests from magical observation.

“We may have a respite of a few weeks,” said Calliande, riding alongside the Dux. Her face was stark and drawn, her eyes bloodshot, but her voice was strong. “The Frostborn will not be able to summon additional reinforcements for at least a few weeks, maybe even months.”

“Why not?” said Gareth. “Is not the gate open?”

“It is,” said Calliande, “but even a world gate has limits. Everyone and everything that passes through the gate drains its power a little. Think of it as a reservoir attached to a well. Drinking from the reservoir drains the water, but eventually the well refills it. Every time a medvarth or a Frostborn or a locusari crosses the gate, it drains some of the power…and tens of thousands of our enemies passed the gate yesterday.”

The Dux nodded. “Just as well. I feared hundreds of thousands would come through the gate.”

“They will,” said Calliande. “Eventually. But that will take them several years. In that time, my lord, we have our chance to win this war.”

If the realm was strong enough to win it. If the cancer of the Enlightened had not hollowed out Andomhaim like a tree.

That night, as the sun went down, the Dux finally permitted them to make camp. It had been a long and weary march, and both the fighting men and the women and children of the town were exhausted. Arandar was certain that many had fallen behind. Some of them might catch up.

Many never would.

The Anathgrimm seemed unwearied by their march, impassive behind their strange masks of black bone. Arandar supposed the Traveler’s mutating spells had given them strength and endurance beyond human capacity. That, and the Traveler had killed any orcs who displayed weakness, so the Anathgrimm learned to keep such things to themselves.

The Dux and his vassals tried to keep the camp in good order. The Anathgrimm ensconced themselves northeast of the road, between the River Marcaine and the rising hills. The men-at-arms and knights and militia companies managed to camp with a minimum of fuss, but the exhausted townsmen all but threw themselves upon the ground where they stopped.

Inevitably, conflicted erupted.

“Move your damned wagon!” roared Tagrimn Volarus, scowling at a nervous-looking middle-aged cooper. “The Dux has commanded my men to patrol the perimeter, and I need my horses to move through here. Your bloody wagon full of brats will slow us down.”

Arandar glanced at the wagon. It held the cooper’s wife, a terrified woman about ten years his junior, and their four children. He expected the cooper to quail, but the man surprised him.

“No,” said the cooper. “We got here first. Your horses can just go around.”

Tagrimn snarled, his face darkening. “You would defy your lawful lord?”

“You’re not my lord,” said the cooper. “Sir Joram is the Comes of Dun Licinia. Of course, Dun Licinia is an ash heap now, so I suppose that doesn’t matter.”

Tagrimn started to reach for his hammer. “You would dare take that tone with your…”

Arandar stepped forward, intending to intervene, but a deep, sonorous voice interrupted him.

“My lord knight! Master cooper! Surely we have enough foes outside the camp that there is no need to quarrel amongst ourselves.”

A halfling man strolled towards Sir Tagrimn, smiling to himself. Many of the halfling servants that Arandar had known tended towards the portly, but this halfling was tough and thin, with large, amber-colored eyes beneath a mop of curly hair. He wore a black leather vest over a stark white shirt and blue armor of dark elven manufacture, his trousers crisp and spotless. A dark eleven short sword and a dwarven dagger hung at his belt. Somehow Jager of Coldinium managed to keep himself clean during their journeys. Arandar had traveled with Jager from Urd Morlemoch to Khald Azalar and back again, and he had never quite figured out how Jager managed to stay clean.

“This is no concern of yours, halfling,” said Tagrimn. “Be off before you feel the back of my hand.”

Jager raised his eyebrows with a bright smile. “I do hope you are not using that tone with the Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest, my lord knight. If you squish me with your hammer, the Anathgrimm would take it amiss.”

“The Anathgrimm would not give a damn about you,” said Tagrimn. The cooper gaped at Jager as if he had grown a pair of horns and started dancing.

“Likely not,” said Jager, brushing some dust from his sleeve. “My wife would miss me, though…and the Anathgrimm are very fond of her. And after the Anathgrimm helped fight the Mhorites and guarded the townsmen, it would be ungrateful to upset them.” He glanced at the cooper. “Wouldn’t you say?”

The cooper just gaped at him.

“The man needs to move his wagon,” said Tagrimn. “The Dux has commanded my men to patrol the perimeter of the camp, and my horses will wait here.”

“I should mention,” said Jager, pointing towards the steely ribbon of the narrow River Marcaine, “that if you placed your horses there, they would have access to the water. Plus the grass is not quite so trampled, so your beasts shall be able to graze quite comfortably.”

“You expect me to give way to a cooper?” said Tagrimn, though a speculative look came over his face as he looked towards the river. That would indeed be a better spot for his horses.

Jager shrugged. “If the cooper wants to stop so far away from the camp, let him.” He smiled at the cooper. “If the medvarth or the revenants come upon us, you shall be our first line of warning. It is a noble duty to take upon yourself, sir, and I thank you for your courage.”

The cooper swallowed. “Perhaps…perhaps I should have considered Sir Tagrimn’s counsel.”

“Well,” said Jager. “That is no concern of mine.”

After the cooper’s wagon and Sir Tagrimn’s riders moved to their new position, Arandar walked closer.

“That was nicely done,” he said.

“Ah! Sir Arandar,” said Jager. “May I say that I am pleased you are still alive?”

“And you as well,” said Arandar.

Jager snorted. “I can take no credit for it. I was with the Anathgrimm when the Frostborn attacked, and the Anathgrimm, as you undoubtedly recall, are quite challenging to kill.” Arandar nodded, remembering the hard fighting in the Vale of Stone Death and Khald Azalar. “Just as well we had camped so close to the town. It let the Anathgrimm escort the townsmen out. I suppose it would have been a slaughter otherwise.”

“Or the Frostborn would have taken the townsmen as slaves,” said Arandar.

“Then it would still be a slaughter, just one that takes longer,” said Jager. “Calliande said the Frostborn typically work their captives to death. Or feed them to the medvarth.”

Arandar hoped he could keep his son and daughter from such a fate.

“It is well we have the Keeper with us,” said Arandar aloud. “No one else has her knowledge of our foes.”

“Anyone else who did died long ago,” said Jager. “Just as well the Gray Knight found her. Else I suppose the old Shadowbearer would have opened the gate and the Frostborn would have conquered Andomhaim by now. Wait!” He snapped his fingers. “The Dux is having a council of war with his chief nobles and the Keeper and Mara shortly. You ought to come.”

“Why?” said Arandar.

“Well, you are a Swordbearer,” said Jager. “That counts for something. Also, my wife likes you.” He let out a theatrical sigh. “Though for all her virtues, her taste is, alas, sometimes questionable.”

Arandar laughed despite himself. “You are an offensive little man, my lord Prince.”

“One tries,” said Jager. “Shall we?”

He gestured, and Arandar fell in besides him. He ought to find Jager appalling, he knew, but they had been through too much danger together. Arandar had been waited on by halfling servants all his life, but it was hard to give orders to a man who had gone with you into places like Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar. Besides, Jager was the Prince Consort of the strange new kingdom that Mara ruled. Technically, Arandar supposed, that gave Jager rank on par with that of a Dux.

Now that was a peculiar thought.

“Have you talked to the Gray Knight since we stopped?” said Jager.

“No,” said Arandar. “I think he went scouting.”

Jager grunted. “How is he taking Morigna’s death?”

“You’ve known him longer than I have,” said Arandar. “How do you think?”

Jager sighed. “That badly?” He shook his head. “You know why he ran off into the Wilderland in the first place?”

“His wife,” said Arandar. “He blamed himself for her death.”

“Aye, and he spent the next five years wandering the Wilderland trying to get himself killed,” said Jager. “I understand that. Truly, I do. When Tarrabus Carhaine kidnapped Mara, I would have done just about anything to get her back.” His scowled. “The scoundrel knew it, too.”

“Given that he compelled me to go to Urd Morlemoch,” said Arandar in a dry voice, “I quite understand.”

A flicker of fear went through him. He had been living with that fear for months, and still had not grown used to it. Tarrabus had promised to lift the false charge of murder against Accolon if Arandar retrieved Truthseeker from Urd Morlemoch. He had done so, and now Gavin wielded the soulblade in battle against their foes. Yet Arandar had made that deal before he had fully understood what kind of man Tarrabus had become, before he realized that Tarrabus Carhaine was the leader of the Enlightened of Incariel, a servant of Shadowbearer.

He was not the kind of man to keep the deal he had made with Arandar.

“The problem, though,” said Jager, “is that I’m not the same kind of man as Ridmark.”

“Really,” said Arandar, voice dry.

“No, no, hear me out,” said Jager. “After the Iron Tower, we had rescued Mara. We had no reason to keep following Ridmark. Neither of us did. Yet we went with him to Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar and Dun Licinia.”

“Given all the evil that would have befallen us if you and Mara had not followed the Gray Knight,” said Arandar, “I hope that you do not regret too much.”

Jager grinned. “Well, I still would rather be home in bed.”

“Once again, I quite understand.”

“Yet we followed him anyway,” said Jager. “You did, too. When we escaped from Urd Morlemoch, you could have taken Gavin and Truthseeker and headed for Tarlion at once.”

Arandar shrugged. “I thought it would bolster my position to return to Tarlion with the Keeper of Andomhaim. And it shall, once the time comes to confront Tarrabus Carhaine for his crimes. Besides, Gavin carried Truthseeker, and he would not have come with me to Tarlion until Ridmark’s and Calliande’s task was done.”

It was Jager’s turn to shrug. “Nevertheless.”

Arandar sighed. “I can see your meaning, master thief.”

“That’s Prince Thief to you,” said Jager, but the words lacked bite. “We followed Ridmark because…well, that’s what he does. People follow him and they think it was their own idea. I wonder what he’ll do now when he…”

“Wants to die?” said Arandar. “No, that’s not right. He wants…”

“Revenge,” said Jager, “and he will have it.” He hesitated. “No matter how much it costs him.”

“I fear you see truly,” said Arandar.

They walked in silence for a moment, making their way through the controlled chaos in the camp. The Dux’s banner of a white hart upon green flew over a pavilion in the center of the camp, and Arandar supposed the council of war would be held there.

“It is one difficulty among many,” said Jager. “We have so many problems what is one more?”

“Your sister,” said Arandar. “Did her family get out?”

“Aye, they did,” said Jager. “So did all the rest of the servants. Dagma took charge, and she’s very good at telling people what to do…”

“It must be a family trait,” said Arandar.

Jager flashed him a grin. “She and Dieter and the children are looking after Sir Joram’s goods. Not that there are many goods.” He shrugged. “But it gives them something to do. My sister could never tolerate idleness.”

“Whereas you enjoy it,” said Arandar.

“Well, I acquired the taste later in life,” said Jager. “Speaking of family, have you given any thought to what you shall do about your son?”

Arandar frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We’re marching to meet the High King’s host,” said Jager. “Tarrabus Carhaine and his vassals shall likely be with the High King, and Tarrabus Carhaine is as slippery as an eel. Believe me, I know that better than I would like. So what do you think he’ll do when Gavin presents him with Truthseeker and proof that you carried it out of Urd Morlemoch?”

“I don’t know,” said Arandar. “The Dux said that Corbanic Lamorus had brought charges against Tarrabus, and that Tarrabus had accused Ridmark of turning bandit and raiding the Iron Tower. Likely Calliande will denounce Tarrabus as the head of the Enlightened of Incariel. In the face of such a confrontation, I suspect Tarrabus will forget about me.”

“See,” said Jager, “that’s exactly what concerns me. We’re all focused on the Frostborn and the Dux’s madwoman of a daughter. No one’s given any thought to Tarrabus.”

“And you have?” said Arandar

“A great deal,” said Jager. “Given that he wants me dead, I have good reason. I fear we are running from the Frostborn and right towards another enemy.”

“He’ll be with the High King,” said Arandar. “And Dux Leogrance and the Prince of Cintarra and every other chief noble of Andomhaim. Tarrabus will not be able to try anything openly.”

“The man wants to be High King,” said Jager. “That’s the whole reason you are here. Remember? He sent you to Urd Morlemoch to die, to get you out of the way so there would be no one left of Pendragon blood to claim the throne. Bastards can only inherit if there are no legitimate children left, which means the only reason Tarrabus had to kill you was if he was sure there would be no legitimate Pendragon princes remaining.”

“Then what would you have us do?” said Arandar.

“I wish I knew,” said Jager. “Be ready. Tarrabus will try something. He was helping Shadowbearer, right? He must have known the day of the Frostborn was coming. Well, the day has come, so I’m sure he has something up his sleeve. I don’t know what it is, though.”

“We shall have to prepare as best as we can,” said Arandar.

Jager grunted. “It’s the things we don’t know that will doom us. None of us knew that the title of Shadowbearer could be passed to someone else, and look how that turned out.”

Arandar had no response for that, so he followed Jager into the Dux’s pavilion.

The inside of the tent was as austere as Arandar had come to expect from Gareth Licinius. A folding table filled most of the interior, with maps of the Northerland and Nightmane Forest laid out upon its surface. The Dux stood at the head of the table, showing no weariness despite the long march and heavy fighting of the last two days. Sir Joram stood at his left and Sir Constantine at his right, the other chief lords of the Northerland clustered around them. Mara stood halfway down the table, and Jager smiled and strolled to his wife, who smiled back and gave him a quick kiss.

Two towering Anathgrimm orcs stood behind their Queen, stark in their steel armor and living masks of black bone. Because of the masks, Arandar often had a hard time telling the individual Anathgrimm apart from one another. The Traveler had made the bones of the Anathgrimm orcs tougher and harder than those of other orcs, and their augmented skeletons burst from their flesh in sculpted designs, sheathing their upper faces in masks of black bone, their tusks wrought from the same altered bone. Spikes of black bone rose from their shoulders and forearms. An Anathgrimm warrior could never be disarmed – should he lose his sword and shield, he could employ the spikes upon his right arm as a club and the spikes upon his left arm as a crude shield.

Nevertheless, Arandar recognized the Anathgrimm on Mara’s right as Zhorlacht, and the former priest of the Traveler inclined his head to Arandar. The orc on Mara’s left looked grim and fierce even by the standards of the Anathgrimm, older than most of them, the bones of his mask and black tusks weathered. He held an enormous double-bladed axe, the blades grounded before him. He was Qhazulak, the Champion of Nightmane Forest, and Arandar had seen him use that axe to cut a Mhorite warrior in half. Qhazulak glared at everything, which would have been alarming, save that it was his usual expression. One of Jager’s improvisations during the battle against Mournacht had led to the Anathgrimm forming the Queen’s Guard for Mara, and by universal acclaim among the Anathgrimm warriors, old Qhazulak had been appointed the Guard’s Lord Captain.

“Sir Arandar,” said the Dux. “Thank you for joining us. We must decide how to proceed on the morrow.”

Calliande stood on the far side of the table from Mara, leaning a little on the staff of the Keeper as she gazed down at the map. Ridmark stood next to her, his expression as cold as if it had been carved from bloodless stone. Antenora and Gavin waited behind them, no doubt in their self-appointed role as Calliande’s bodyguards.

“Thank you, my lord Dux,” said Arandar.

He found himself watching Calliande, her blue eyes intent as she considered the map, her long blond hair bound up in the bronze diadem she often wore. She was a beautiful woman, and he wondered what it would feel like to kiss her. The thought surprised him. Since Isolde had died, he had not given much thought to such matters. At first the grief had consumed him, and then concern for his children and his duties as a Swordbearer occupied the entirety of his thoughts. If he married again, his new wife would have to look after his children by Isolde as well as any they might have together, and the thought of that potential jealousy had stopped him. The wicked stepfather and stepmother might be a staple of children’s tales, but Arandar had seen enough examples with his own eyes to know those tales grew around kernels of truth.

Yet now he found that he wanted a woman badly. Perhaps the rigors of the last few months had hardened him. Arandar was hardly a novice to war, but in Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar he had seen terrors from legend. When he had been in service to Dux Kors Durius of Durandis, he had known men who had gone to the camp followers or the brothel the moment they returned from battle. Perhaps his brushes with death had awakened a similar appetite within him.

He looked at Calliande again, wondered how she would react if he approached her, and dismissed the thought as absurd. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim and he was a bastard knight. Such a woman as the Keeper could not take a husband or even a casual lover. It was almost a pity that she had recovered her memory, because it had come with her stern duty. Had she never found her memory, had she never gone on the quest to Dragonfall, likely Calliande and Ridmark would have settled down together somewhere and Morigna would still be alive, living alone in the forests of the Wilderland. But if she had not, then Tymandain Shadowbearer would have summoned the Frostborn back months ago.

Besides, she was clearly in love with Ridmark, and that seemed like torment enough for the poor woman.

Dux Gareth was speaking, and Arandar rebuked himself, forcing his attention to the matter at hand. The realm was in deadly peril, and he was daydreaming about women. Yet he felt a flicker of amusement at that nonetheless.

Maybe it meant he wasn’t quite as old as he felt.

“I had hoped,” said the Dux, “to fall back to Castra Marcaine, to take the folk of Dun Licinia to safety and await the arrival of the High King from a position of strength. However, the scouts tell me that shall be impossible.” He tapped the map of the Northerland. “Several thousand medvarth have placed themselves on the road to Castra Marcaine, building earthwork fortifications across it. Troops of revenants wait in the forests nearby, and if we try and force our way through, we shall be quickly encircled and defeated.”

“The Anathgrimm do not fear battle,” rumbled Qhazulak.

“Nor do the men of the Northerland,” said Gareth. “Yet if we are to lay down our lives, I would prefer to do so in the cause of victory, rather than in a useless defeat.”

Qhazulak inclined his head at the point.

“It seems we indeed have little choice but to follow the River Marcaine until it joins the River Moradel,” said Calliande, “and then take the Moradel road south.”

Gareth nodded. “The High King’s host will advance along that road. Likely we shall meet it halfway.”

“If,” said Sir Joram, rubbing at the red stubble on his chin, “the Frostborn do not dispatch their forces to destroy us first.”

Calliande shook her head. “At the moment, they are more interested in fortifying their gate and consolidating their gains. The offensive will come later.”

“The gathered fighting men of the Northerland make up nearly a tenth of the combined armies of the High King’s realm,” said Joram. “As the father of Alexander the Great said upon Old Earth, it is best to divide and conquer.”

“Many others said that over the centuries,” murmured Antenora, her raspy voice distant. Gavin watched her with mild concern. “Machiavelli. Napoleon of the French, as well.”

“Who were they, my lady?” said Joram.

“I fear I cannot recall,” said Antenora. “The abyss of time has swallowed the memories.”

“Indeed,” said Joram, nonplussed. Then he blinked and turned his attention back to Calliande. “The Frostborn and this Lord Commander Rjalmandrakur are not fools, my lady Keeper. If they realize they can destroy a tenth of the realm’s armies in a single stroke, they will not hesitate to do so, and we are vulnerable here.”

Gareth gave a grim shake of his head. “We need to move more quickly.”

“I hesitate to say this,” said one of Gareth’s knights, his face and hands marked with the scars of old battles, “but we may need to leave the sick and the injured behind.”

“No,” said Calliande at once.

“It might be necessary,” said the knight. “If we stay, we all shall die. If we move too slowly, we all shall die. If at least some of escape, we can join the High King’s host and return to take vengeance…”

“No,” said Calliande again.

“We cannot fight the revenants,” continued the knight, “not with their powers of cold, and…”

“I think I can create a counter to the revenants’ freezing touch,” said Calliande. She looked at Antenora. “My apprentice is far more skilled with the magic of elemental fire than I ever was, and with her help, I think I can shield the entire host from both the freezing touch of the revenants and the aura of cold that surround the Frostborn. But I will not abandon the sick and the old to…”

“There may be another way,” said Mara in her quiet voice. Next to her towering warriors, she seemed tiny, almost fragile. Nevertheless, every eye turned towards her. Arandar noticed that many of the lords of the Northerland had come to hold her in a peculiar mixture of respect and dread. The lord of Nightmane Forest and the Anathgrimm had been fierce enemies of the High Kingdom for so long that the woman who had slain the Traveler and commanded the loyalty of the Anathgrimm had to be formidable indeed. “A way we can move faster and take care of those too weak to travel as well.”

“How?” said Gareth.

Mara gazed at the old Dux. “Soon we will reach the River Moradel. If we send the sick and the feeble across the river to Nightmane Forest, I will grant them sanctuary there.”

Silence answered her for a moment.

“Nightmane Forest is a realm of horrors,” said a rough voice. Tagrimn Volarus walked into the tent, Magistrius Camorak following him. Evidently the old knight had found his new campsite suitable. “Those who enter it do not return.”

“Not any more, Sir Tagrimn,” said Mara. Her voice was soft, but there was iron in it. Arandar found himself thinking that the woman was going to make a formidable ruler, if they survived the next few days. “Nightmane Forest is mine now. All my father’s creatures fled when he was slain and his song ended, but the Anathgrimm remained. So did my father’s wards, and Nightmane Forest is a fortress of them. The Frostborn will not be able to enter.”

Calliande frowned, but she nodded. “The plan has merit, my lord Dux. During the last war, the Frostborn assailed Nightmane Forest several times, but were unable to overcome the Traveler’s wards.”

“The Anathgrimm are still taught of those days,” said Qhazulak in his harsh growl, the bone mask adding a strange buzz to his voice. “We stood against the Frostborn and their slaves, the locusari and the medvarth and all the others. Many Anathgrimm were slain, but we were never overcome.”

“That is generous of you, Queen Mara,” said Gareth. “Could you feed such a number? I suspect at least fifteen hundred of the townsmen of Dun Licinia would take you up on this offer, if not more.”

“Yes,” said Mara.

“The Queen has food enough,” said Qhazulak.

“Forgive me, but how?” said Joram. “Nightmane Forest is entirely…well, forest. Hardly conducive to growing crops.”

“If you will forgive my interruption,” said Zhorlacht in his perfect Latin, though the bone mask, like Qhazulak’s, lent a strange buzz to his words. “We control the caverns of the upper Deeps below Nightmane Forest, and farm the mushrooms and harvest the fish. The Lord Traveler stockpiled food for many centuries, and Nightmane Forest is well equipped to withstand a siege.”

“Centuries?” said Camorak. “Would not the food have rotted?”

“A spell of earth magic,” said Zhorlacht. “Cast upon the storehouses, and any food placed within it does not decay and maintains its freshness.”

“Truly?” said Camorak. “What a useful spell.”

“It does have its drawbacks, alas,” said Zhorlacht. “The Traveler said that the decay of food is caused by tiny scavengers too small for the living eye to see. Consequently the spell kills any living thing in the storehouses after exactly six hundred and ninety-seven seconds.”

“Drawbacks, indeed,” said Joram with a shudder.

Zhorlacht smiled. “It does inspire vigorous celerity in those assigned to fill the storehouses. In fact, it is one of the training exercises of the young Anathgrimm. Regardless, the Queen shall have no trouble feeding the sickly of Dun Licinia for any length of time.”

Tagrimn scowled. “But you are wielders of dark magic.”

“No longer, Sir Tagrimn,” said Zhorlacht. “At the Queen’s command, we have forsaken the dark powers once wielded by the Traveler, and now limit ourselves to the spells of elemental magic. Less effective, truly…but safer for our souls, I think.”

“Queen Mara,” said Gareth. “If you make this offer, then we shall gladly accept. You will save many lives that might otherwise have been lost.”

“It was my greatest wish,” said Mara, “that all the evil my father worked, all the millennia of despair and ruined lives, might be turned to the service of good. This, I fear, is only a beginning.”

“If we break camp tomorrow and march at once,” said Joram, “we should be able to reach the River Moradel in two days. Then we can ferry the townsfolk across and continue along the Moradel road.” He looked at the map and shook his head. “If the Frostborn do not follow us.”

“I am convinced they will remain to fortify the gate,” said Calliande. “At least for a few weeks.”

“Dozens of people have seen locusari scouts flying overhead,” said Joram.

“The Frostborn want to maintain their knowledge of our location,” said Calliande. “The locusari were a constant problem during the last war. The lords put a bounty on them to thin their numbers.”

“That is a good idea,” said Gareth. “There are many skilled bowmen among the men of the Northerland. Joram, when we are finished here, post a bounty for each slain locusari scout.”

“I shall, my lord,” said Joram. “But the Frostborn may still be pursuing us.”

Calliande opened her mouth to argue again, but Ridmark spoke first.

“The only way to find out is to see for ourselves,” said Ridmark, “so I shall go and look.”

Chapter 6: Blame

Ridmark moved like a ghost through the pine trees, his boots making no sound against the earth. His dwarven war axe rested in his belt, and his staff had been slung over his shoulder, secured by a leather strap across his armored chest. His bow waited in his hand, an arrow ready at the string. He had shot down three locusari scouts since leaving the camp, and he would be ready for a fourth, along with any other foes that happened to show themselves.

Of necessity, he had to move through the hills. They slowed his progress, but he had little choice. Taking the Moradel road north to Dun Licinia would have been faster, but the road was open and without useful cover, as was the ground between the road and the river. Fortunately, the hills and their pine trees offered ample cover from any eyes that watched the road.

And from any eyes that flew overhead. Ridmark took care to dodge under large pine trees whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He was not a stranger to avoiding the gaze of flying predators. In the Wilderland he had hidden from wyverns and fire drakes on multiple occasions. Once, in the vast unmapped heart of the Qazaluuskan Forest, he had spent two days hiding from an urdhracos circling overhead. At the time he had carried no weapon that could have done any harm to an urdhracos, so he had been forced to conceal himself until the creature had lost interest and flown away. For that matter, in the Deeps cunning predators sometimes clung to the ceilings of the caverns and waited for the unwary to pass beneath them.

For all his experience, his nerves were wound no less tight. The Northerland had always been the most dangerous part of the High King’s realm, a frontier borderland facing the devil-haunted wilderness of the Wilderland, but compared to places like the Torn Hills or the Vale of Stone Death, the Northerland had been safe.

Now, he supposed, it was the first province of the new empire the Frostborn were building. Or the frontier of the Dominion of the High Lords, as the Frostborn named themselves. His mood darkened further as he considered that. For the last ten years he had sought for a way to stop the return of the Frostborn, and yet here the Frostborn were, beginning their invasion of Andomhaim anew.

His eyes and ears strained for any sign of foes, but again and again Ridmark’s mind lashed over the events of the last ten years, wondering what he could have done differently, what he could have done to avert the current disaster and save Morigna’s life. Perhaps if he had denounced Tarrabus Carhaine before Corbanic Lamorus. Or if he had fought back when the Master of the Order had stripped him of Heartwarden and banished him from Andomhaim. Or if he had been able to kill Imaria Licinius during the final battle with Tymandain Shadowbearer.

And yet…

The hellish thing was that Ridmark could not think of anything he could have done differently.

They had been victorious. Calliande had focused her whole effort on stopping Shadowbearer. Ridmark had done so as well. Shadowbearer had been slain at last and the empty soulstone retrieved.

None of them had known the truth. None of them had known that Shadowbearer had been a title, that he could have a successor.

Imaria had known, though.

All along, perhaps, she had known. Had Ridmark known the truth, had he known what Imaria had known, he would have done things differently. But he had not known the truth, and he had killed Shadowbearer…and so he and Calliande and Morigna had walked into the trap. The title of Shadowbearer had been reborn anew in Imaria, and she had opened the gate and killed Morigna.

There was no way Ridmark could have known. Not even Calliande had known.

Somehow, that only made Ridmark angrier.

He wanted to blame himself for Morigna’s death the way he had blamed himself for Aelia’s death. Yet he could not. Again and again he had gone over what had happened, and it was not his fault.

The rage in him kept growing.

It was Imaria’s fault.

It was the Weaver’s fault.

It was Tarrabus Carhaine’s fault, and the Enlightened of Incariel and the Frostborn and all their allies…

Ridmark realized that he was gripping his bow too hard, that if he tried to draw it and release an arrow he wouldn’t be able to aim properly, and forced his grip to relax a little.

The anger pulsed through his veins, seeming to burn behind his eyes.

They had killed Morigna, and they would regret it. By God he would make them all regret it.

He pressed onward, moving from tree to tree without sound and with practiced haste, and made his way steadily northward. Once he snatched a few hours of sleep under a fallen log or in the cleft between two boulders. His dreams were feverish, dark. He saw again Aelia die in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, her blood spilling across the tiled floor, only her face became that of Morigna. She reached for him, blood dripping from her lips, dying in his arms as Aelia had.

Ridmark did not sleep much. He needed rest, he knew, and his body was wearing down after the exertions of the last several days. Sleep meant the dreams, though, and so he drove himself on.

It helped that his errand was an urgent one.

It had taken the men of the Northerland, the Anathgrimm, and the townsmen of Dun Licinia a day and a half to cover the distance. Ridmark made it in about two-thirds of a day, and as the sun slipped to the west, he scaled a hill and gazed down at Dun Licinia.

Or what had once been the ruins of Dun Licinia.

The Frostborn were raising a citadel within the town’s charred ruins. Troops of medvarth warriors moved within the stone walls, ripping down the damaged houses and clearing space. Within the emptied spaces rose towers fashioned of hard, crystalline ice, blue when the light struck it one way and gray when the light came from a different angle. Ridmark glimpsed the gray-armored figures of Frostborn warriors walking around the tower, blue fire flashing beneath their helms and down their gauntlets. Ridmark did not have the Sight possessed by Calliande and Antenora, but he did not need it to guess that the Frostborn were using their magic to craft the citadel, conjuring sheets of elemental ice to build its walls and towers.

Smaller figures moved with the Frostborn, clad in blue armor. They looked a great deal like dwarves, but their skin was the color of blue marble instead of gray granite, and their eyes shone with a white glow like the sun striking ice in the heart of winter. Calliande had said Ridmark might encounter these creatures. They called themselves the khaldjari. Evidently the Frostborn had conquered a world ruled by the dwarves long ago, and then altered their new subjects, changing them the way the Traveler had altered the Anathgrimm. The khaldjari were part of the Order of the Tower, the military order of the Frostborn that constructed their fortifications and served as engineers. To judge from the half-built citadel, the khaldjari shared the engineering skill of their dwarven cousins.

The khaldjari, the medvarth, the locusari, the frost drakes – Calliande had said that the Frostborn ruled an empire of many worlds, enslaving the kindred of those worlds and adding them to their Dominion. Likely they intended the same with Andomhaim.

Which, in turn, made Ridmark wonder why Shadowbearer had brought them here in the first place. The Frostborn would conquer Andomhaim and all the kindred of this world. Why would that have advantaged Shadowbearer? Why would Imaria Licinius follow that plan? She had ranted at length about freedom from time and matter and some such nonsense, but Ridmark could not tell if she had believed that or if the shadow of Incariel had driven her insane.

It didn’t matter. Her plans would come to naught when he killed her.

Ridmark remained concealed atop the hill for a time, watching the activity at Dun Licinia. He considered heading north to the foothills of the Black Mountain and examining the gate, but discarded the idea. He was not a wizard and could do nothing to damage the gate. For that matter, if the Frostborn had resources enough to fortify Dun Licinia, then they would certainly raise a citadel around the gate itself.

To judge from the earthworks the medvarth had built on both the eastern and the southwestern roads, it was clear the Frostborn planned to dig into the valley of Dun Licinia and build up their strength. It was what Ridmark would have done in their position. Once the gate regenerated its power, they could bring in reinforcements, and start their conquest of Andomhaim from a position of strength.

Unless the gate was first closed.

Andomhaim did not have long, Ridmark judged. Only a few weeks, maybe two months at most. Then the Frostborn would summon reinforcements and go on the offensive. The High King’s host had that long to break through the fortifications and seize the gate.

Looking at the half-built citadel, at the working medvarth and khaldjari and the revenants standing guard, Ridmark knew that would be no easy battle.

A shadow passed overhead, and Ridmark glanced up. A frost drake soared over the hill, swooping towards the valley. The gray armor of the Frostborn made them look all alike, but Ridmark nonetheless recognized Rjalmandrakur upon the back of the hulking gray drake. Likely the Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard was overseeing his armies, making sure all proceeded according to plan. Such an aerial view would be a great advantage for a commander.

He wondered why Rjalmandrakur had not pressed south at once to destroy the army of the Northerland. Sir Joram’s argument had been sound. If the Frostborn had struck at once, they could have destroyed Gareth’s forces and wiped out a tenth of the High Kingdom’s armies in a single bloody stroke. Perhaps Rjalmandrakur viewed it as an unnecessary risk. The Frostborn lived for a very long time, and consequently took a long view of matters.

Or Rjalmandrakur was certain that he could destroy the armies of the High Kingdom when the time came.

Given the forces gathering in the valley below, Rjalmandrakur’s confidence seemed well-founded.

Still, for now Dux Gareth’s men and the survivors of Dun Licinia ought to be safe enough, so long as they kept moving. Ridmark would take that news back to the Dux and Calliande at once.

He made his way down the hill in silence, his boots making no sound against the rough ground. Ridmark reached the bottom of the hill, went around a boulder, and froze.

Four khaldjari stood a short distance away, carrying a log between them. Their white-glowing eyes widened, stark in their faces the color of blue marble. All four of them had seen him, and Ridmark cursed himself as a fool. He could not let them report back to their masters. Eluding the Frostborn and their servants was one thing. Escaping while half the Frostborn army was on his tail was something else entirely.

Ridmark raised his bow and released.

Morigna had always been the better shot, but Ridmark had hunted alone in the Wilderland for years, and the necessity of avoiding starvation had improved his skills. The arrow hissed from his bow and caught the nearest khaldjari in the throat. The blue-skinned creature staggered back, white-glowing blood leaking from the wound. Frost formed on his skin where the blood touched it, the glowing fluid smoking with cold, and the khaldjari collapsed

The other three khaldjari threw down their log and charged at him in silence. Ridmark expected them to draw the axes they carried at their belts. Instead the khaldjari raised their right hands, white mist swirling around their fingers, and long blades of glittering ice appeared in their fists.

That was a useful trick.

Ridmark dropped his bow and snatched up his staff, and the khaldjari attacked, spreading around him. He snapped his staff up to block a blow, expecting the blade of ice to shatter against his staff. Instead the icy sword felt as hard as steel, and the shock of the impact knocked him back a step. The khaldjari might have been short, but they did not lack for strength. Worse, they knew how to fight together in a group, and kept out of each other’s way, their attacks coming with unpredictable speed.

Yet Ridmark’s greater height and the greater reach of his weapon gave him an advantage, and he used it. He sidestepped, feinted left, and then whipped the staff around with all his strength. The weapon slapped against the back of a khaldjari’s knees, and the strength of the blow knocked his opponent to the ground. Before the khaldjari could recover, Ridmark drove the end of his staff down, crushing the khaldjari’s throat. The khaldjari died in silence, thrashing as he clawed for breath.

One of the remaining khaldjari attacked in a wild fury, the ice blade slashing, and Ridmark retreated, parrying and ducking. Every time the icy blade touched his staff, he felt the weapon grow colder in his fingers, saw a layer of frost forming upon it. Soon the staff would become too cold to grip.

Ridmark stepped into the next attack, making no effort to block it and hoping his dark elven armor would be enough to stop the ice sword. The cold blade rebounded from his armor, and though a shocking chill shot through his chest, his armor turned the razor edge. The khaldjari stumbled as Ridmark’s armor deflected the blow, and Ridmark hit the top of the khaldjari’s head. The khaldjari stumbled, and Ridmark killed him with a quick blow to the throat.

The final khaldjari sprinted away, heading north towards Dun Licinia. Ridmark snatched the axe from his belt and flung it. The weapon hadn’t been balanced for throwing, but the khaldjari was still close enough that it did not matter. The blade crunched into the back of the khaldjari’s right leg, and he fell with a cry. Ridmark strode forward, and the khaldjari rolled onto his side, his ice blade dissipating, his hands raised as he rasped out something in an alien language.

He was surrendering.

Ridmark saw again Morigna’s lifeless eyes.

He killed the last khaldjari quickly and without much pain, and then wrenched his dwarven war axe free. The white blood of the khaldjari glittered and steamed upon the axe’s bronze-colored blade, and Ridmark wiped it clean on the grass, the blood encasing the leaves in frost.

He hooked the weapon back to his belt, retrieved his bow, and slung his staff over his shoulder.

Then he headed south as fast as he could manage. The khaldjari had not escaped, but in short order either more khaldjari or the locusari scouts would locate the corpses, and then Ridmark would find the medvarth or worse things upon his trail.

###

Ridmark did not sleep much for the next two days.

He headed south as fast as he could, dodging from tree to tree and boulder to boulder. Several times he saw locusari scouts flying overhead, and once a frost drake, but he avoided them all. After the first day he grew confident that he had outpaced any pursuit, though he did not lower his guard.

He lost himself in the effort of running, of keeping his senses focused upon his surroundings.

The camp had moved since his departure, but it had left a trail as wide as the road, and following the host of the Northerland, the Anathgrimm, and the survivors of Dun Licinia was not a challenge. Towards evening on the second day, Ridmark spotted the smoke from their campfires upon the bank of the River Moradel and wiped some sweat from his brow.

“They weren’t hard to find,” he said aloud, a little giddy from exhaustion and effort. “See, Morigna?” He turned back to address her. “They…”

He fell silent, the giddiness vanishing.

For a moment he stood motionless, staring at the trees around him, his pulse thundering in his ears. The initial shock of Morigna’s death was bad enough, but that was only the beginning. Every day after that was just as bad. The constant realization that she was dead, followed by the grinding sorrow as the surprise wore off, as the grief sank its way into his bones like salt sowed into a field.

The rage burned through him, and Ridmark spun and swung his staff with all his fury. It bounced off the truck of a nearby tree, and he swung against and again. The tree did no damage to the staff of Ardrhythain, though the staff did knock chips of bark from the tree.

Somehow that made him even angrier, and he threw aside his staff and attacked the tree with his axe, hammering at it, splinters of wood flying. He heard himself snarling, his arms aching from the effort, and he did not care…

A loud crack filled his ears, and the tree toppled towards him. Ridmark blinked sweat from his eyes and realized that the tree was going to fall on top of him. He barked a curse and leapt backwards, and the tree landed with a heavy thump a few inches from his boots.

Silence hung over the forested hills after that.

Ridmark stared at the jagged stump of the tree, breathing hard, sweat dripping into his eyes.

He felt like a monstrous fool. What had been the point of that?

The chagrin drained away, and he only felt sad and tired.

He retrieved his axe and his staff and headed towards the Moradel road, following it until he reached the camp. Practice, perhaps, had permitted the townsmen and the lords to make a more orderly camp, and they had picked a defensible position. As he drew nearer, Ridmark saw rafts going back and forth across the broad expanse of the River Moradel to the massive green wall of Nightmane Forest upon the far bank. That was good – the old and the weak and the sick would be able to shelter behind the wards of Nightmane Forest. Likely they would be safer than anyone else in the Northerland for the foreseeable future.

That brought a grim flicker of amusement to Ridmark’s mind. The Traveler had worked good that he had not intended. The dark elven tyrant would have been horrified to learn of it.

A single figure in black stood at the edge of the camp, face shadowed in a hood, a black staff gripped in gloved hands. Antenora looked up as Ridmark approached, her yellow eyes glinting in the depths of her hood.

“Gray Knight,” said Antenora in her rasping voice. “You’ve returned.”

“Calliande set you to watch for me?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Antenora. “I require neither rest nor sustenance, and therefore was the best choice. Once you entered the veil of the wards of the Frostborn, you vanished from all Sight. So the Keeper bade me to keep watch.” She shrugged. “And if any foes appear, I will set them to burn.”

Ridmark wondered if she had seen his little fit of rage with the unfortunate tree. Her expression was unreadable. Perhaps she had seen it and did not care. Given that she had lived upon Old Earth for fifteen centuries, where men had constructed terrible engines of war, she had seen far worse things.

Suddenly he felt sad and very tired. He had avoided sleep since Morigna’s death, save in short, necessary bursts, but now he wanted only to lie down and rest.

And, perhaps, not rise again.

“I have news for the Dux and Calliande,” said Ridmark. “Take me to them.”

“As you wish,” said Antenora. “After that, you should attend to the assassin and the master thief.”

It took Ridmark a moment to unravel her meaning. “You mean Mara and Jager?”

“She made you her magister militum,” said Antenora. “Your counsel is needed to deal with the Anathgrimm. The master thief has a silvered tongue, but he is no commander of battles.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “I will speak with her. Tomorrow, though. Once I’ve had some sleep.”

Antenora stared at him.

Ridmark sighed. “Fine. Lead on.”

Antenora nodded, and led him to the Dux’s pavilion.

Inside Gareth, Joram, Mara, Jager, and Calliande stood looking at the maps upon the table. They looked up as he approached, and a flash of deep relief went over Calliande’s face, while Mara smiled at him. Another burst of guilt went through Ridmark as he remembered his foolish attack on Imaria in Dun Licinia’s burning ruins. He had almost gotten himself killed for nothing, and worse, had almost gotten Calliande killed in the process. He would have to take the lesson to heart. The rage and the grief would not leave him, but he could not permit them to rule his thinking, not when so many people depended on him.

No. When the time came to kill Imaria and the Weaver, he would find a way to do it logically, coldly, and without any trace of mercy.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “You’re back.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

“Quicker than I thought,” said Joram. The red stubble growing on his chin and jaw made his face look as if it had acquired a coat of rust. “All the way to Dun Licinia and back?”

“I could not stay long,” said Ridmark. “I ran into a group of khaldjari and had to flee. But you are right, Calliande. The Frostborn are building a citadel of ice within the ruins of Dun Licinia, and if they have the resources for that…”

“Then they are also building a citadel around their gate,” said Gareth.

“The medvarth are raising earthworks across all the roads,” said Ridmark, “and there are constant locusari scouts overflying the hills. The Frostborn are digging in and waiting for reinforcements. We should not lower our guard, but I do not think the Frostborn will make an effort to destroy us. Not unless we march upon them.”

Joram sighed. “Which we cannot. Not until we join our strength to the High King’s.”

“But you were right, Joram,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn should have destroyed us when they had the chance. They could have crushed the army of the Northerland at little risk to themselves.” She shook her head. “The commanders of the Order of the Vanguard that Andomhaim faced during the last war would not have made such an error.”

“Perhaps,” said Mara, “it is not an error. Perhaps the Frostborn believe they can destroy us at a later time.”

“What do you mean, Queen Mara?” said Gareth.

“My husband believes Tarrabus Carhaine shall attempt something when we join the High King’s army,” said Mara.

“Dux Tarrabus can field six or seven thousand men,” said Joram. “A significant force, true, but only a tenth part of the realm’s strength.”

“Six thousand men in the right place and at the right time,” said Ridmark, “can do a great deal of harm.”

Gareth gave a tired shake of his head. “We can do nothing until we see how matters stand with the High King. I suppose it will depend on whether or not the High King sides with Tarrabus Carhaine or with your father, Corbanic Lamorus, and I.”

Depending on what happened when Gareth joined the High King, Ridmark supposed, there was a real possibility Andomhaim might rip itself apart in a civil war. With the Frostborn marching from the north, that could be disastrous.

Right now, though, he felt no concern about it. Perhaps he was too tired. Perhaps too many emotions had burned through his mind in too short a time. Right now he simply wanted to lie down and close his eyes.

“If you will excuse me,” said Ridmark. “I shall leave you discuss strategy. Mara. I will talk to you and Jager about the Anathgrimm in the morning.” Mara nodded, her relief plain.

“Go,” said Gareth. “You have surely earned some rest, Ridmark.”

He nodded, pushed aside the pavilion’s flap, and walked into the camp.

“Ridmark.”

He stopped as Calliande stepped out of the pavilion.

“Yes?” he said.

She hesitated, looking as if she was trying to find the right words. “Thank you for doing this.”

“No, thank you,” he said, taking a deep breath. “For saving my life at Dun Licinia. You were right. It was foolish thing to do.”

“You were…overwrought,” said Calliande.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “I would have gotten killed for nothing…and I cannot be killed until I’ve killed Imaria and the Weaver.”

Sadness flickered over her expression. “Is that all, then? The only thing that keeps you going?”

“It’s enough,” said Ridmark, and he walked into the camp, Calliande staring after him.

Chapter 7: Burn With Me

For all that he had avoided sleep after Morigna’s death, Ridmark did not dream all that often.

After Aelia’s death, he had suffered nightmares, but not on a regular basis and not enough to disrupt his sleep. Ridmark supposed he spent most of his days on his feet, and so exhausted himself enough that sleep came easily. When his mother had died, his weapon masters and tutors had claimed that the best cure for sorrow was work, and they had then proved their point by working him to exhaustion every day.

Still, they had been correct. Ridmark had slept well.

So when he wrapped himself in his gray cloak and lay down to sleep, he expected to rest after a nightmare or two.

Instead, he fell asleep at once, and the dream exploded in his mind like a thunderclap.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

“Burn with me,” whispered a woman’s voice, alien and melodious.

Ridmark’s life blurred back and forth before his eyes. He saw his childhood in Taliand, learning the sword and studying the history of the realm and all the other lessons expected of a noble of Andomhaim. He accompanied his father on trips to Tarlion and the High King’s court and the other courts of the realm. Ridmark watched as he took service as a squire in the court of Dux Gareth of the Northerland, as he met Tarrabus Carhaine and Joram Agramore and Constantine Licinius and a score of others, as he became first a knight and then a Swordbearer.

He saw the first time he met Aelia Licinius, the first time they danced in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, their first night together after the wedding, how excited and anxious and eager he had been as he carried her to their bed. For a moment it was like he was there again, her lips against his, her arms wrapped around his back.

The dream accelerated, his life going faster and faster. He saw Gothalinzur’s death in Victrix, the battle that set him on the path to finding the Frostborn. His service as a Swordbearer at Castra Marcaine flashed before his eyes, and then Mhalek’s invasion, Aelia dying against upon the tiles of white and black.

The five long years searching for evidence of the return of the Frostborn.

The day of the omen of blue fire.

Agrimnalazur’s warning in the ruins of Urd Arowyn, promising that the Frostborn would return.

His kiss with Calliande the day the wyvern had poisoned Kharlacht.

Facing the Artificer’s malevolent spirit in the ruins of the Iron Tower.

Lying with Morigna for the first time.

The harrowing escape from Urd Morlemoch, the fury of Ardrhythain’s and the Warden’s spells smashing hills to dust and turning the valleys to molten stone.

Calliande rising in her power as the Keeper of Andomhaim, battling with Shadowbearer in Khald Azalar.

Shadowbearer’s final scream as Ridmark drove Heartwarden into his chest, the sword blazing with white fire as it contested against the shadow of Incariel…

Again and again his life blurred through his mind, faster and faster, and then the images spiraled out of order. Battles and friends, defeats and victories, lovers and enemies flickered through his thoughts faster than he could recall. Ridmark had the sensation of something digging through his mind, sorting through his memories like a merchant’s clerk sifting through bills of sale…

“Stop!” he said.

“Burn with me,” said the woman’s voice, alien and beautiful beyond comprehension. “You may be worthy. Burn with me, Ridmark of the Arbanii.”

“Who are you?” said Ridmark, turning.

And as he turned, he realized he stood in a place he had never seen before.

It was a hall built of white stone, the ceiling rising to a high arch far overhead. For a moment he thought he stood in a dark elven ruin, but that didn’t seem right. Dark elven ruins had a peculiar beauty to them, but it was a harsh, disturbing beauty, one unsettling to human eyes and minds. This long hall of white stone was beautiful in a simple, unadorned way. Ridmark looked around for the source of light, and then realized that the white stone itself gave off a gentle, ambient glow. Whoever lived here would never need a lamp.

With that thought, he sought for any inhabitants of this strange place.

A dais rose on the far end of the hall. Upon the dais rested a throne of white stone, and on the throne sat an old man in battle-scarred plate armor. Despite his age, the man still looked strong and vigorous, his hair the color of weathered iron. His head was tipped forward, his eyes closed, and his hair hung in curtains on either side of his craggy face. Across his knees rested a sheathed sword in an old scabbard, its hilt rapped with leather.

Ridmark took a step towards the old warrior, his staff in hand. As he did, he realized that the symbols upon the length of the staff were glowing, that their light matched the pale glow coming from the white stone around him.

He took another step, and the old warrior lifted his face and opened his eyes.

“Thought you might be the one,” he said, his voice rusty from disuse. He spoke Latin with the same sort of stately, archaic accent as Morigna, as Calliande when she used formal rhetoric. “I hoped this day would never come, but we don’t always get what we want, do we, boy?” He stared at Ridmark for a moment and then nodded. “Looks like you’ve learned that the hard way a few times.”

“Who are you?” said Ridmark.

“A man with a job to do,” said the old man.

“And what job is that?” said Ridmark.

“Suppose you could say that I am a custodian,” said the old warrior.

“The custodian of what?” said Ridmark.

The old warrior barked out a laugh. “I forgot how full of questions the young are. See, boy, I think she’s chosen you. She chose me a long time ago, but my time is up. I think she’s chosen you next.”

“Who are you talking about?” said Ridmark.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said the old warrior. He sighed. “Probably to your sorrow, as well. See for yourself.”

Ridmark turned, and saw the woman standing behind him.

She wore a gown the color of fire, her arms bare, her hair the same color, and her eyes…burned. There was no other word for it. The eyes of the Frostborn burned with cold blue fire, but an inferno blazed in the eyes of the red-clad woman. The heat of it slapped Ridmark across the face, and he took a step back. As he did, the woman smiled, and her features seemed to change. One moment she looked like Morigna. The next she resembled Aelia, and the moment after that she looked like Calliande.

Yet as her face changed, the fire of her eyes never dimmed.

“Burn with me,” said the woman.

“Who are you?” said Ridmark.

“Burn with me,” said the woman again.

“Who is she?” said Ridmark, looking back at the old warrior.

The armored old man’s eyes burned with the same fire as the woman.

“Wrong question, boy,” said the old warrior. “You already know who she is. She’s the one who has chosen you. Think of a better question.”

“What do you want?” said Ridmark. Then the realization came to him. “What is your purpose?”

“Burn with me,” said the woman, and the fire exploded from her eyes, filling the hall.

In the flames, Ridmark saw visions.

His mind struggled to comprehend the images as they flashed before him. He saw Andomhaim spread out before him like a map, but not Andomhaim as it was today. The shining cities of the high elves rose in the plains and the mountains and the forests, works of power and splendor and beauty that dazzled Ridmark’s eyes. Yet in the midst of the great kingdoms of the high elves stood the Black Mountain, utterly unchanged.

And from the Black Mountain flowed a shadow.

It corrupted the high elves. Those who stayed faithful remained high elves, but those who had been corrupted turned into the dark elves, their eyes filled with Incariel’s shadow. The high elves and the dark elves warred against each other, wars that lasted for uncounted thousands of years, and the shadow showed the dark elves how to open doors to other worlds. Orcs and kobolds and dwarves and trolls and manetaurs and countless other kindreds came through the doors, enslaved by the dark elves, and they either revolted or served their dark masters.

Then the dark elves summoned the urdmordar, and were devoured in their turn.

A thousand years ago, a tiny drop in the ocean of years that the vision showed Ridmark, his own ancestors came through a door between worlds. The exiles of Arthur Pendragon’s realm founded Andomhaim and spread across their new world, and with the weapons granted by Ardrhythain of the high elves, the newcomers defeated both the urdmordar and the Frostborn.

But the shadow watched them.

The shadow noted their strength, and saw that they could be so easily corrupted.

So the shadow spread among them, the Enlightened of Incariel growing within Andomhaim like a cancer, eating away the realm’s strength while the shadow became stronger and stronger…

Suddenly Ridmark felt the gaze of the shadow, and fear stabbed through him.

Its face changed as it reached for him. One instant it looked like Tymandain Shadowbearer, the next like Imaria Licinius, the moment after that like Tarrabus Carhaine or one of the Weaver's forms. Yet behind them all was the same shadow, the same furious shadow, the bottomless freezing void that wanted to consume him and all things…

“Burn with me,” whispered the woman, and the world exploded in fire.

Ridmark fell through nothingness for a long time.

“Ridmark,” said Morigna.

She stood before him, just as he remembered, clad in leather and wool with her cloak of tattered strips of green and brown, but just out of his reach, forever out of his reach.

“I understand now,” said Morigna. “I understand things that I did not before. One would think that death is the final mystery, but it seems that it is not the last. She has chosen you, and I fear you have no choice but to accept her. She will try to devour her, not out of malice, but because it is her nature. You must conquer her. You must! Everything depends upon it.”

He tried to reach for her, tried to speak, but darkness swallowed him.

###

Sunlight filtered into Ridmark’s eyes.

He blinked them open, and immediately realized he had a thunderous headache.

Before he had married Aelia, from time to time he had stayed up late drinking with the other knights of the Dux’s court, suffering the usual consequences the next morning. But Ridmark had never had a headache like this. He winced and felt his temples and forehead, wondering if a horse had kicked him in the head. Yet he felt no wounds there, and as he did, the pain started to dim in intensity.

After a while he sighed and sat up, still rubbing his aching forehead.

It was just past dawn, the sun rising over the hills to the east. Around Ridmark the camp was awakening, men-at-arms donning their armor and the surviving townsmen rousing their oxen and horses to resume the march. His stomach cramped, and his mouth was dry as dust. Some food and water would revive him. Likely Mara and Jager needed his help with the Anathgrimm, and Calliande might need assistance. God knew this ragged army needed better scouts, and he could help with that. As much as Ridmark might have wanted to duck into a tent and drink himself senseless, it would not make him feel any better.

It would not bring him any closer to killing Imaria and the Weaver.

So he might as well do something useful as he thought of a way to kill them.

Ridmark got to his feet and found Gavin standing a few feet away, staring at him.

“Trouble?” said Ridmark.

“Um,” said Gavin. He had hardened a great deal since becoming a Swordbearer, but certain topics still flustered him, and this seemed to be one of them. “The Keeper wanted me to ask…were you all right?”

Ridmark started to say something glib, but stopped himself. The boy looked so grave.

“I am well,” said Ridmark, which he supposed was mostly true. “Why? Shouldn’t I be?”

“You were…shouting,” said Gavin.

“I was dreaming,” said Ridmark. He tried to recall, but he could not. A hall of white stone? Morigna’s face? It must have been a nightmare. “What was I shouting about?”

“Something about a fire,” said Gavin. “It…didn’t make a lot of sense. Calliande was worried, so she sent me to check on you.”

“Ah,” said Ridmark. He felt a burst of guilt for walking away from her last night, but he had been a grim mood. Not that it excused his behavior, of course. She had wanted to check on him, but had likely been too embarrassed to do so herself, so she had sent Gavin. Ever since Ridmark had met Calliande on the slopes of the Black Mountain, she had been gripped by the unshakeable conviction that she knew what was best for him.

He rubbed his jaw, the stubble rasping under his callused palm. Calliande and Morigna had often been at odds, but they had often agreed about what they thought Ridmark should do, and the two of them in agreement had been formidable when they put their minds to it.

A fresh wave of grief went through him, and Ridmark shook his head foggy head, trying to clear it.

Gavin was still staring at him. He did not look reassured. Likely for good reason.

“I’m fine,” said Ridmark. “A bad dream, that’s all. You can tell Calliande that I’m fine.”

Gavin hesitated. “Maybe you should do it. I’m not putting myself in the middle of…”

“What?” said Ridmark. “In the middle of what?”

Gavin opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head in exasperation. “I’m not…I’m not…oh, for God’s sake. Just go talk to her. She’s worried about you. You owe her that much. She cares about you a lot, and she’s healed your wounds a thousand times.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He shook his head, found his staff, and started into the camp. “When did you get so wise?”

“Jager has been giving me lessons,” said Gavin.

Ridmark gave him a look.

“That was a joke,” said Gavin.

Ridmark snorted, once, and set off for the Dux’s pavilion.

“I hope we reach the High King’s host soon,” said Gavin. “The Dux made excellent provision, but if we tarry too long we shall burn through our food.”

Ridmark blinked.

Burn with me…

For a moment the threads of the dream simmered at the edges of his consciousness.

“What is it?” said Gavin.

“Nothing,” said Ridmark, shaking his head. “Let’s find Calliande, and then do something useful.”

Chapter 8: The House of the Arbanii

Sixteen days after the fall of Dun Licinia to the Frostborn, Ridmark moved south through the pine forests cloaking the hills. Kharlacht followed him, silent in his blue armor, the hilt of his dark elven greatsword rising over his shoulder. Of everyone who had accompanied Ridmark to Khald Azalar, Kharlacht was the most capable of moving silently through the forest. Of course, he wasn’t nearly as quiet as Morigna had been, but Morigna had moved through the trees with the silence of a hunting urvaalg.

To be fair, Kharlacht was seven feet tall and likely weighed two and a half times more than Morigna, so it was remarkable that he was as quiet as he was.

The army of the Northerland, the Anathgrimm, and the survivors of Dun Licinia had made better time than Ridmark had expected, but had not covered as much ground as he would have liked. After the last of the sick and the elderly had been ferried into Nightmane Forest, they had increased their speed, but not by much. Between the army of the Northerland, the Anathgrimm and the survivors, they totaled nearly fourteen thousand people, and fourteen thousand people and their baggage and wagons and animals could only move so fast.

Nevertheless, they had covered a lot of distance, and had left the Nightmane Forest behind. At the southern end of the Northerland, the River Moradel curved a bit to the west. The fortified hill town of Dun Calpurnia, one of the most southern towns of the Northerland, was only a few days away, and Dun Calpurnia marked the Northerland's border with Caerdracon, the lands of Tarrabus Carhaine.

That could be a problem, depending on what Tarrabus planned to do, yet Ridmark expected to encounter the High King’s army soon. The High King had responded to Gareth’s call to battle against Mhorite threat, and though Mournacht was dead and his army broken, the host of the High Kingdom would have to face the Frostborn. Unless Ridmark missed his guess, they would encounter the army of Uthanaric Pendragon and the Duxi of the High Kingdom within the next three days. Tarrabus, for all his power and wealth, was only one of the Duxi, and even he could not defy the combined armies of the High Kingdom.

Ridmark came to a stop and held up his hand, and Kharlacht halted behind him.

Of course, Tarrabus might not have time to work mischief.

Over the last eight days, Ridmark had become increasingly certain that the Frostborn intended to march down the Moradel road. Locusari scouts had flown constantly over the camp, and the bowmen had shot down a half a hundred of the damned things. Yet the scouts kept coming, and locusari warriors had been spotted moving through the trees. It was clear that the Frostborn had kept a close eye upon the army…and as they moved south, the cloaking spell that blunted the Sight of Calliande and Antenora moved south as well.

The only logical explanation was that the Frostborn were moving forces south, using their magic to mask their approach from Calliande’s Sight.

Ridmark had thought the Frostborn had missed the opportunity to destroy the army of the Northerland. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps the Frostborn intended to follow the men of the Northerland to the High King’s host, and then to annihilate the entire army of Andomhaim in a single catastrophic battle.

They would find that a harder task than they thought. The High King would have Swordbearers and Magistri with him, and thousands of heavy horsemen, and orcish allies from the kingdoms of Rhaluusk and Khaluusk and Mhorluusk.

Yet Ridmark had been certain that Shadowbearer had been defeated…but then his power had passed to Imaria.

“Another one?” said Kharlacht.

“Beyond a doubt,” said Ridmark, scowling at the ground. “Nothing on this world leaves tracks like that.” The locusari, with their slender, clawed legs, left highly distinctive prints. Of course, the locusari scouts flew most of the time, so they only left tracks when they landed.

The locusari warriors were another matter entirely.

Kharlacht grunted. “I suppose the locusari are part of this world now.”

“Regrettably,” said Ridmark. The locusari warriors were too well-armored for a hunting arrow, so Ridmark put his bow away and raised his staff instead. Kharlacht drew his massive greatsword with a steely hiss. The huge weapon was ideal for cracking through a locusari warrior’s armored carapace. “This way.”

Kharlacht nodded, his black eyes starting to glimmer with the crimson light of orcish battle rage. Stealthy or not, Kharlacht was a good man to have in a fight, and Ridmark was sure another fight was about to start.

He led the way deeper into the trees.

The locusari were fast and strong, but their carapaces of vivid blue stood out in the green pine forest like blood upon a white cloth. Perhaps that color was common upon the home world of the locusari, but it was easy to spot in the Northerland, and Ridmark saw three locusari in a nearby clearing.

They were warriors, not scouts. Locusari warriors lacked wings, but made up for it with greater strength and speed. The warriors were about the size of grown men, and their greater bulk let them carry thicker armor. Their bladed forelimbs were longer, sharper, and thicker. They were hellishly fast, and from what Ridmark could tell the Frostborn used them in a similar role as light cavalry.

The three locusari moved around a prone horse and a fallen man-at-arms. The horse’s throat had been slashed, and the man-at-arms had been beheaded by a single sweep of bladed forelimbs. The locusari circled the dead horse and the dead man, their antennae waving, and Ridmark had the impression that they were deciding what to do next. From what Calliande had said, the locusari did not use speech to communicate among themselves, but relied upon gestures of their antennae.

Their whole attention was on the dead horseman, so it was easy for Ridmark and Kharlacht to creep up behind them and attack.

Ridmark struck before the locusari warriors reacted, swinging his staff with all his strength. The black wood struck the right rear leg of the nearest locusari, shattering the joint with a loud crack. The locusari warrior loosed a metallic scream, and before it could turn, Ridmark broke the joint on its middle right leg. The locusari warrior's damaged legs twitched, throwing off its balance, and Ridmark hit it three times. On the third impact the chitin of its head split open, the yellow slime within spilling forth, and the creature went into a weird, jerking dance as it died.

The second locusari lunged at Kharlacht, raising its bladed forelimbs to strike, but the orcish warrior was ready. He swung as the locusari attacked, and the greatsword sheared through both of the scythe-like forelimbs. The locusari fell back, crouching upon its remaining limbs, and before it could launch another attack Kharlacht struck again, his greatsword crunching through the locusari warrior’s head.

The final locusari turned to flee, but Ridmark was already reaching for his belt. The locusari, he had noticed, preferred to flee rather than fight to the death. Likely they would return to their masters to report the attack. Ridmark seized the handle of his dwarven war axe, sprinted forward, and jumped. The locusari was already running, but Ridmark brought the axe hammering down. The blade sank into its thorax, and the locusari warrior skidded, trying to keep its balance. Ridmark hit the ground hard, and the warrior turned to attack, but Kharlacht was already moving. His greatsword sank halfway into the warrior’s abdomen. The warrior raked at him, but his armor deflected the clawed fingers of its middle limbs, and as Kharlacht wrenched his blade free Ridmark sprang to his feet and retrieved his axe.

He buried the weapon in the locusari warrior’s head, and the creature went motionless.

“Fast things,” said Kharlacht, cleaning the yellow slime from his blade. “I would not want to face a hundred of them at once.”

“It would be as bad as facing a charge of horsemen,” said Ridmark, retrieving his axe and his staff. He walked to the dead horse, looking at the slain man-at-arms. The man wore a blue surcoat, and Ridmark flipped the headless man onto his back, hoping to see the sigil upon the surcoat.

“I do not recognize that badge,” said Kharlacht, frowning down at the sigil. The surcoat showed a red bow and arrow against a blue field.

“I do,” said Ridmark. He hadn’t seen that sigil for a long time. “It belongs to my father.”

“Your father?” said Kharlacht.

“Leogrance of the House of the Arbanii,” said Ridmark, “Dux of Taliand and vassal of the High King. According to the legend, our ancestors were archers in the armies of Arthur Pendragon in Britannia upon Old Earth.” He straightened up from the dead man. “Hence the sigil. This is one of my father’s men. And if the host of Taliand has come this far north…that means the High King’s army is not far.”

“A scout?” said Kharlacht.

“A messenger, maybe,” said Ridmark. “He must have had the bad luck to stumble into the locusari warriors…no. Look at the tracks.” Ridmark walked back and forth a few paces, examining the ground. “He galloped into the clearing.”

“The locusari warriors were pursuing him,” said Kharlacht. “That seems plain.”

“He wasn’t a scout,” said Ridmark, frowning at the ground. “No supplies, no waterskin, and his armor is too heavy. He was a man-at-arms or a knight. Which means…he would not have come out here alone. I think we might find a battle to the south.”

He started jogging into the trees, staff in hand, and Kharlacht followed. Ridmark wove his way through the hills, following the trail. They passed the carcasses of three more locusari warriors. The horseman, whoever he had been, had given a good account of himself before the locusari warriors had finally overwhelmed him.

After two miles, Ridmark heard the sound of fighting, the cries of shouting men and whinnying horses mixed with the tearing metallic battle screams of the locusari warriors. He broke into a full run, Kharlacht following him, and a moment later they burst from the trees and onto the cleared ground near the Moradel road.

The sight of the battle greeted him.

The road curved away to the south, broad and level, following the course of the River Moradel. Upon the road stood a band of about thirty horsemen in the blue and red colors of the House of the Arbanii, facing as many locusari warriors. The charge of the locusari had taken the horsemen off guard, and they were scattered, the locusari warriors overwhelming them one by one. If the horsemen recovered, they could sweep the locusari warriors away.

A distraction was necessary.

“Ready?” said Ridmark.

Kharlacht nodded and drew his greatsword, the orcish battle rage glimmering with crimson fire in his eyes once more.

Ridmark raised his staff and sprinted into the road, shouting at the top of his lungs. Some of the locusari at the edge of the fight started to turn, and Ridmark attacked, whipping his staff back and forth. He hit a locusari warrior across the head with three quick blows, battering its head to yellow slime. Another locusari slashed at him with bladed forelimbs, and Ridmark parried with his staff. A third locusari charged at him, and Ridmark sidestepped, sweeping his staff down in a low strike. Like a horse, the biggest weakness of a locusari warrior was its feet. All of a locusari warrior’s weight came down upon a relatively small area, and damage to even one of a locusari warrior’s legs severely impacted its ability to maneuver. Ridmark’s staff bounced off the locusari warrior’s middle two legs, and the creature reared back, raking its bladed forelimbs. Ridmark got his staff up in time to deflect one of the limbs, and the second hit him in the stomach. It should have opened him up from neck to groin, but the steel of his dark elven armor blocked the edge, the impact sending him stumbling.

The locusari warrior followed him for the kill, and Kharlacht cut off its head. Ridmark nodded his thanks and charged into the fray, attacking with his staff. His axe would have worked better against the armored carapaces of the locusari warriors, but the longer staff let him strike from farther away. It also had the useful effect of drawing the attention of many locusari warriors at once.

Given that well-armed knights and men-at-arms surrounded Ridmark, that proved advantageous.

The horsemen rallied. A half-dozen of the locusari warriors fell, pierced by spear thrusts or crushed by the blow of maces. Kharlacht beheaded two in quick succession, and the locusari skittered away, falling back from the rallying horsemen. One of the horsemen, a towering knight in a blue surcoat, stood up and brandished a sword, shouting orders muffled by his full helm. The knights and men-at-arms charged, striking down another half-dozen locusari, and the surviving creatures fled for the forest, vanishing into the pine trees.

“After them!” shouted the knight, pointing his sword.

“Wait, my lord!” shouted Ridmark, and the horsemen glanced in his direction. “Wait! I have fought these creatures before. Venture into the trees and they’ll surround you and lame your horses one by one.”

The horsemen stared at him.

“A branded coward?” said a man-at-arms. “Shall we listen to the words of such a renegade? Likely he is a bandit skulking in the hills, thinking to win favor.”

“Wait,” said the helmeted knight. He spurred his horse forward, reining up a few yards from Ridmark, and pulled away the helmet to reveal his face. He was about forty, with graying black hair, a thick, jowly face, and sharp blue eyes.

Kharlacht looked back and forth in surprise.

“Sir Tormark,” said Ridmark.

“Ridmark,” said Tormark Arban, Ridmark’s oldest brother and the heir to Castra Arban and the duxarchate of Taliand. His voice was a mixture of bemusement, annoyance, and relief.

“If this is the coward of Dun Licinia,” said the first knight who had spoken, “then he is banished from the realm, and…”

“Be quiet, Septimus,” said Tormark, still staring at Ridmark. Septimus sputtered and fell silent. “It’s been a long time.”

“Five years,” said Ridmark. “Five and a half. Since Mhalek and Dun Licinia.”

Tormark gave an irritated shake of his head. He had gained quite a bit of weight since Ridmark had seen him last, and it made him look like a cranky bulldog. “You should never have submitted to that banishment. God and his saints, why couldn’t you have seen sense? You had to have known that it was Tarrabus’s grudge against…ah, never mind. What is done is done. You and your orcish friend came along at a good time. Those damned giant insects had us cold. Sir, what is your name?”

Kharlacht offered a short bow. “Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Sir Tormark.”

“Vhaluuskan, is it?” said Tormark, surprised. “And you follow Ridmark? He wiped out most of your kinsfolk at Dun Licinia.”

“Mhalek and his followers were madmen,” said Kharlacht. “The peace of Vhaluusk is well-improved for their absence, and many of my countrymen even now turn to the church of the Dominus Christus, as I do.”

Some of the horsemen nodded their approval.

“Well, Kharlacht, Ridmark, you have my thanks,” said Tormark. “Those blue devils…”

“Locusari,” said Ridmark.

“Those locusari had us,” said Tormark. “You came along in a timely fashion.” He stared at Ridmark for another moment. “A question, brother.”

“Yes?” said Ridmark. He was surprised how glad he was that Tormark was still willing to call him “brother”.

“Just what the devil is going on in the Northerland?” said Tormark. “You’ve been making trouble wherever you go. First Tarrabus Carhaine claimed you turned bandit and sacked the Iron Tower. Then Corbanic Lamorus claimed that Tarrabus had allied with the Mhorites and abandoned the Dominus Christus to pray to the gods of the dark elves, and Sir Marcast Tetricus claimed that Paul Tallmane had worshipped this dark god as well.”

“He did,” said Ridmark.

“After that, we received word from Dux Gareth that the Mhorites were about to descend in great numbers upon the Northerland,” said Tormark. “The High King had no choice but to call his vassals, and the army of the realm marched north. Now everywhere we hear rumors of strange creatures in the hills, and we’ve seen those blue devils flying overhead. Ridmark, what is going on?”

“The Frostborn have returned, as I always feared,” said Ridmark.

Tormark scoffed. “The Frostborn! The Frostborn are extinct. You’ve been on about the Frostborn since…”

“They are not extinct, Sir Tormark,” said Kharlacht. “I saw them myself from the walls of Dun Licinia, as did thousands of others before the town fell.”

Tormark’s scowl deepened. “Dun Licinia has fallen?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “I assume the High King sent you to scout?”

“And to make contact with Dux Gareth’s forces, if possible,” said Tormark. “The army of the realm is encamped around the town of Dun Calpurnia a day’s march to the south. The High King and his lords wished for news before they marched north.”

“We’d better go, then,” said Ridmark. “Dux Gareth’s camp is not far from here, and the Dux and the Keeper of Andomhaim will wish to speak with you at once.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing a little flicker of surprise go over his older brother’s face. Five years and thousands of miles might have passed since Ridmark had seen Tormark last, but some things never changed, and the competitiveness between brothers was one of them.

“The Keeper?” said Tormark. “The last Keeper perished two and a half centuries past!”

“For all that,” said Ridmark, “she is in quite robust health.” He pointed to the road. “This way, Sir Tormark.”

###

“An utterly astonishing tale,” said Tormark Arban once Dux Gareth finished speaking.

Calliande watched Tormark from across the map table of the Dux’s pavilion, surprised at how fascinated she was. Not for Tormark’s sake, of course – she did not find him in the least attractive, though he seemed a brave knight and a loyal vassal. Tormark looked a great deal like Ridmark, if Ridmark had suddenly aged fifteen years and put on about sixty pounds. Ridmark looked like a gaunt wolf, a fell warrior who had faced terrible foes. Tormark looked like a well-fed lord, a man accustomed to ruling and to giving orders.

Yet she found his relationship to Ridmark fascinating. Ridmark had come into her life like a storm, rescuing her from the altar of sacrifice when she had been bound and helpless and lost. To her, he had always been the Gray Knight, implacable and determined and unyielding. The thought that Ridmark had once been a boy was almost incomprehensible. She found herself wondering what he had been like as a child, if he had been so grim before Aelia had died.

There were a thousand things she wanted to ask Tormark.

Calliande pushed the idea out of her head. There were far more serious matters at stake.

“An astonishing tale,” said Tormark, shaking his head. “The Frostborn and the Keeper of Andomhaim returned. Mournacht of Kothluusk slain upon the slopes of the Black Mountain, and the Mhorites scattered and broken. The Traveler of Nightmane Forest overthrown by one of his daughters, and the Anathgrimm marching alongside the men of the Northerland. God and the saints! Can so much upheaval come so quickly? It seems a drunkard’s tale.”

“Nevertheless, Sir Tormark,” said Caius. “It is all true. Every word of it. And we have not even told you all the wonders and horrors we have seen traveling with your brother.”

Calliande glanced at Ridmark. He stood silent near Mara and Jager.

“I do not doubt you, Brother Caius,” said Tormark. “I heard you preach in Tarlion. Nor do I gainsay Dux Gareth’s word, or the word of two Swordbearers,” he glanced at Arandar and Gavin, “or the word of the Keeper of Andomhaim, returned from death in the realm’s hour of need. Since you are, apparently, truly the Keeper of Andomhaim.”

“She is, Sir Tormark,” said Camorak, who stood near Antenora. “All the Magistri who have spoken with her agree. She is the Keeper of Andomhaim, and possesses the power the Keeper once wielded.”

“Then it is true,” said Tormark in a heavy voice. “The Frostborn have indeed returned.”

“You saw the locusari,” said Ridmark. “You were always a better scholar than I was, brother. You know the Frostborn commanded many different kindreds.”

“Aye,” said Tormark. “I almost wish you had not defeated Mournacht. An army of Mhorites descending upon the Northerland was bad enough. The Frostborn returned is a far more serious situation.”

“The threat is grave, Sir Tormark,” said Calliande. “Yet it is only beginning. If we act at once, attacking with the realm’s full strength, we can reach the world gate and collapse it once more. The battle will be long and bloody, but we can prevail before it is too late.”

Tormark grimaced. “Ah. That may be a challenge.”

“Why?” said Calliande. “The need is dire.”

“The events related to your return, my lady Keeper,” said Tormark, “have caused something of an…upheaval in the High King’s court. Factions have developed. On one hand we have Tarrabus Carhaine and his friends. Tarrabus accuses Ridmark of banditry and sacking the Iron Tower. On the other hand we have our father and his friends, who agree with Ridmark.”

“He does?” said Ridmark. He looked so surprised. Knowing Ridmark, he had likely assumed that his family had turned his back on him, blaming him for Aelia’s death.

Tormark snorted. “Of course he does.”

Ridmark looked even more baffled. “Why?”

“Because he knows you, Ridmark,” said Tormark. “You were the most obnoxiously righteous child I had ever met. You blamed yourself for your wife’s death when the fault was clearly Mhalek’s, and then you marched off into the Wilderland on some self-imposed quest of redemption that should have gotten you killed.” He scratched his jaw. “Of course, it turns out you were right about the Frostborn, so there’s that.”

Jager snickered a little. Tormark gave the halfling a bemused look but kept speaking.

“So we do not think you turned bandit and attacked the Iron Tower,” said Tormark. “You wouldn’t have done so without a good reason. And this would not be the first time in Andomhaim’s history that nobles had been seduced into worshipping dark gods. The Eternalists a century and a half ago, you will recall. Or those who worshipped the Shadowed King in the early days of the realm, or who founded cults in secret to worship the urdmordar.”

“Or the Red Family of Mhor,” said Mara in a quiet voice.

“Quite right, mistress…er, Queen Mara,” said Tormark. “So Corbanic Lamorus believes you, and he is well respected. Our father believes you, so naturally all his vassals and friends believe him. Tarrabus Carhaine, by contrast, claims you’ve become a renegade bandit warlord.”

“Preposterous,” said Calliande.

“I quite agree,” said Tormark, “but Tarrabus likewise has many friends and vassals, and of course they believe him. Politics, I fear, is older than the realm.”

“To the point, then,” said Gareth. “What does the High King think?”

“The High King,” said Tormark with a sigh, “thinks the entire matter is a personal dispute between Ridmark and Tarrabus. Ah…I do not know how much of recent history you know, my lady Keeper, especially about the Mhalekites…”

“Enough of it,” said Calliande.

“Suffice it to say,” said Tormark, “Mhalek killed Lady Aelia, Ridmark’s wife, at Castra Marcaine. Ridmark blamed himself, the proud fool.” Ridmark’s expression did not change. “Tarrabus also blamed him, largely because he had been courting Aelia for years before she chose Ridmark over him.”

“Given that Tarrabus has revealed himself to be a serpent,” said Gareth, “clearly that was the right decision.”

“So the High King thinks that Tarrabus and Ridmark are feuding over the love of your deceased daughter, my lord Dux,” said Tormark.

“For the sake of God and the apostles,” snapped Gareth. It was the most irritated Calliande had ever seen the old man. “This is a serious matter, and the High King thinks it a personal grudge?”

“In truth, I think the High King is annoyed by the whole affair,” said Tormark. “He doesn’t believe my father, and he doesn’t believe Tarrabus, either. He knows that my father and Tarrabus are not fond of each other, and the High King believes that both Tarrabus and my father are using the Iron Tower as an excuse to bring charges against each other.” He shrugged. “In truth, he’s not entirely wrong…”

“Save that Corbanic and Dux Leogrance are telling the truth,” said Calliande.

“Regardless, my lady Keeper,” said Tormark. “I am sure you have spent enough time around nobles to know that when it comes to contests of power, the truth matters less than loyalty. Dux Tarrabus says one thing and his friends support him, and Dux Leogrance says another and his friends support him, and that is that.”

“Except that the truth is more dangerous than loyalty this time,” said Calliande, keeping the anger out of her voice. The nobles had played these foolish games during the first war against the Frostborn, and it had almost led to ruin on more than one occasion. “Tarrabus is the leader of the Enlightened, and they have forsaken the Dominus Christus to worship at the feet of the shadow of Incariel. He was in league with Mournacht, and now he is league with the heir of Shadowbearer. I have absolutely no doubt, none at all, that he means ill to Andomhaim.”

Tormark spread his hands in a gesture of peace. “You’ll have no argument from me, my lady, nor shall you have argument from my lord father. However, we are not the ones you shall have to convince.”

“No,” said Calliande, conceding the point. “The High King.”

“He will hear the truth from me,” rumbled Gareth. “Tarrabus’s treachery and dealing with dark powers has cost me my remaining daughter.” Ridmark stirred a little, but said nothing. “Had Tarrabus not given his allegiance to the Enlightened, my daughter would not have become the…creature she is now.”

“I suspect the High King would have preferred to deal with the entire matter once the Mhorites were defeated,” said Tormark. “Dissension in the face of a foe as powerful as the Mhorites is folly. Dissension before the Frostborn is far worse.”

Calliande frowned. “Then you think the High King will not believe us about the Frostborn?”

“Oh, he will have to believe you about the Frostborn,” said Tormark. “The carcasses of the blue locusari devils will prove that the Frostborn have returned beyond all doubt. There are enough learned men in the High King’s court to recognize the locusari from the old chronicles. The High King will have to move at once to defeat the Frostborn.” He hesitated. “Yet this business about the Enlightened…he will think it only another calumny.”

“Then we shall change his mind,” said Gareth. “Sir Joram, please give the commands. We shall join the High King’s host at Dun Calpurnia.”

Chapter 9: Dun Calpurnia

The next day Arandar rode with the vanguard as they followed the Moradel road south to Dun Calpurnia.

It made for an odd little procession. Dux Gareth rode at the head with Sir Constantine and Sir Joram and Sir Tagrimn and the other chief lords and knights of the Northerland, the green banner with its white hart flying overhead. Sir Tormark and his men rode with the Dux, along with the senior Magistri and the principal Swordbearers of Gareth’s court. Behind them came Calliande, along with Ridmark and the others who had survived the journey to Khald Azalar and Dragonfall. With them came Mara and Jager, accompanied by Zhorlacht and Qhazulak and several of the Queen’s Guard. The Anathgrimm disdained horses, and preferred their own feet. That might have caused a problem, but so long as the horses did not gallop, the Anathgrimm had no trouble keeping pace. Even if the horses galloped, once the beasts exhausted themselves the Anathgrimm would have caught up.

The Traveler had been a cruel madman, but he had nonetheless created some of the finest soldiers in the world.

Before noon, the town and the camp came into sight.

“Dun Calpurnia,” announced Tormark.

The town stood about a mile and a half from the River Moradel and the road, filling the entire crest of a hill at the edge of the Northerland’s pine-cloaked highlands. A stone wall encircled the hill, and the strong tower of a keep rose from its crest. Dun Calpurnia was well-fortified, and in in the hands of a capable commander, it could hold out against a far larger host of enemies.

Right now, a sea of tents filled the space at the foot of the town’s hill, covering most of the space between the River Moradel and Dun Calpurnia.

The High King had indeed brought the entire host of the realm.

“God and the saints,” said Gavin. “There are so many of them.”

“Over fifty thousand, most likely,” said Arandar. “The entire strength of Andomhaim assembled to face the Frostborn, now that the men of the Northerland have come. And the orcish warriors of Khaluusk, Rhaluusk, and Mhorluusk as well.”

A flicker of hope went through Arandar at the sight. This was a mighty army, augmented by Swordbearers and Magistri, and now the powers of the Keeper of Andomhaim. Perhaps the High King could indeed drive the Frostborn back.

“Maybe we’ll see the headman Crowlacht again,” said Jager. He grinned. “I would enjoy winning more of his money at dice.”

“Look at the banners,” said Caius, pointing at the standards flying over the camp. “Since you are a Swordbearer, you’ll have to learn them.”

“True,” said Gavin, shading his eyes. “Ah…the red dragon upon blue, that’s the High King’s banner.”

“Correct,” said Caius.

“The black dragon upon blue, that belongs to Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Gavin. “I remember that from Coldinium.”

And from the Iron Tower, likely, but Gavin had enough sense not to mention that in front of Tormark Arban and his men.

“Again, correct,” said Caius. “What about that one?”

“The red bow and arrow upon blue, that would be the House of the Arbanii,” said Gavin, glancing at Ridmark, who rode in what had become his customary grim silence. “The green dragon upon red…I don’t recognize that one.”

“The banner of Prince Cadwall Gwyrdragon of Cintarra,” announced Jager with something like civic pride. Arandar glanced at him with surprise, and Jager grinned at him. “I settled in Cintarra for some years. I have something of a soft spot for it. I met Mara there, after all.”

“A gray castra tower upon white,” said Gavin. “I don’t know that one, either.”

“The symbol of Dux Kors Durius of Durandis,” said Arandar, remembering. “I rode under his colors as a decurion of men-at-arms before I was knighted.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any of the other banners,” said Gavin. “I would recognize Comes Corbanic’s if I saw it, but I don’t see it.”

“It’s not here,” said Tormark, glancing back. His manner with Gavin seemed to veer between paternal aloofness and respect. Gavin was a young man…but few young men his age became Swordbearers, and few had slain urvuuls in battle, or ventured into places like Urd Morlemoch and survived. “The High King appointed him the Constable of Tarlion, and charged him to hold the city and the Citadel until he returned.”

“A good choice,” said Ridmark. “He will keep Tarrabus’s vassals from working mischief.”

Tormark gave his youngest brother a dubious look. He accepted their story of the Frostborn and Shadowbearer and the Enlightened, but he seemed unwilling to believe that a sworn Dux of Andomhaim would actually lift his hand against the lawful High King.

Arandar had thought that way, once. He had learned better the hard way.

One by one Caius pointed out the rest of the banners to Gavin, gesturing at the sigils of Calvus and Arduran and Caertigris and all the chief duxarchates of Andomhaim. All of the Duxi had come, or at least sent their forces. It seemed the High King had not taken the threat of the Mhorites lightly.

Uthanaric Pendragon was many things, both for good and for bad, but he was not a carless man.

“Look at the position of the camps,” said Ridmark to Calliande.

Arandar looked at him. Ridmark, too, had noticed it.

“What about them?” said Calliande.

“Each of the Duxi have their own camp,” said Ridmark. “For their own vassals and men-at-arms. Look.” He pointed at the banner of the Arbanii, and the banner of the Carhainii. Dux Leogrance had camped near the base of the hills, while Dux Tarrabus had camped near the banks of the Moradel itself. “As far apart as they can be while remaining part of the same host.”

“And so the nobles supporting either Leogrance or Tarrabus,” said Calliande, understanding coming over her face, “have camped near one or the other.”

“It seems so,” said Ridmark. “It looks as if the Duxi of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras are siding with Tarrabus.”

“But the Duxi of Durandis and Caertigris are siding with Dux Leogrance,” said Calliande, shading her eyes as she peered at the banners, “along with the Prince of Cintarra.” She glanced at Gareth. “And the Dux of the Northerland, of course.”

Gareth inclined his head.

“Almost an even split,” said Arandar.

“What of the orcish kings?” said Calliande. “The baptized kings of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk? In my day,” she grimaced a little at that, as if embarrassed by the span of time, “in my day they were loyal to the High King and no one else.”

“Much may have changed in two hundred years,” said Arandar, “but that has not. The orcish kings still hold to their oaths to the High King, and he alone may command them. They regard the Duxi as equals at best, which annoys some of the Duxi to no end. Other than that, they enjoy fighting, whether amongst themselves, the creatures of the Deeps, or the pagan orcs of Kothluusk or the Wilderland.”

“Just as well,” said Kharlacht. “They shall soon have all the fighting they wish and then some.”

“We ought to head for my father’s camp,” said Tormark. “He will want to know everything that has transpired. Then he can present us to the High King, and we can give him our news.” He hesitated. “It…would also be best to avoid Tarrabus and his men until my father can bring you to the High King.”

Arandar frowned. “Tarrabus Carhaine arraigned my son on false charges of murder.”

“He tried to kill me, repeatedly,” said Calliande. “He hired the Red Family of Mhor to kill me and your brother.”

“He kidnapped me,” said Mara, “and tried use me as leverage to force Jager to do as he wished.”

“He has also forsaken the worship of the Dominus Christus for the shadow of Incariel,” said Caius.

“He corrupted my daughter and led her into the worship of dark powers,” said Gareth.

Arandar glanced at Ridmark, expecting him to add Morigna’s death to the litany of Tarrabus Carhaine’s crimes, but the Gray Knight said nothing. Likely he blamed Imaria and the Weaver for Morigna’s death.

Or maybe he was too angry to speak.

“Yes,” said Tormark, “and if even half of the things you say about Tarrabus are true, then he will not hesitate to have you all murdered to stay out of his way.”

“True,” said Gareth. “This is sound counsel. Keeper, I suggest we proceed to Leogrance’s camp. Sir Joram, head back to our men, and tell them to make camp here. I will speak with the High King about the disposition of the survivors of Dun Licinia once the time comes.”

“Perhaps they will be able to go home soon, my lord,” said Joram.

“We can hope,” said Gareth. “Queen Mara, I suggest that you bid the Anathgrimm camp north of the men of the Northerland. We know that you are now allies…but it will take time for the news to reach the rest of the host, and some of the more impetuous ones might try to attack.”

Qhazulak grunted. “Is this your wish, my Queen?”

Mara looked at Ridmark, who nodded.

“It shall be done,” said Qhazulak, who turned to send a messenger. A moment later Sir Joram and the Anathgrimm messenger headed back north.

Arandar followed Tormark and the Keeper and the others as they headed towards the camp of Leogrance Arban.

###

Calliande rode to the outer edges of the camp, following Tormark.

Memories surged through her mind, memories of camps like this, of countless battles. She had become a Magistria at a young age, still in her teens, and the High Kingdom’s need had been dire. The Frostborn had been advancing every year, winning battle after battle, engulfing the entire realm in their endless, terrible conquest. The Keeper Ruth had taken Calliande as an apprentice, and after the kindly old woman fell in battle, Calliande had taken up her staff and mantle of power as the new Keeper.

So long ago…and yet the same war continued.

Calliande wondered if Ruth would have approved of what she had done, if she would have understood the sacrifices that Calliande had made. They had defeated the Frostborn, driven Shadowbearer back into the shadows…but she had known he would return one day, that he would reopen the gate and summon the Frostborn back for whatever inscrutable purpose had driven him.

So she had put herself into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance, to return when the time was right, when the thirteen moons were in position and the gate could open anew.

Calliande had stopped Shadowbearer, but she had failed to understand the true nature of the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, and the Frostborn had returned. She wished she could have ridden through this camp of men with families waiting for them back home, and tell them that the Mhorites were defeated and the Frostborn would never return, that they could go home and live in peace.

But she couldn’t. She had failed, and the Frostborn had returned.

A wave of guilt went through her.

“It wouldn’t have mattered.”

Calliande blinked and looked up. “I’m sorry?”

She realized that she had drifted away from the others. Ridmark had ridden back to join her.

“What wouldn’t have mattered?” said Calliande.

“If you hadn’t done it,” said Ridmark. “If you had found another apprentice, passed on the staff of the Keeper, and died of a ripe old age a hundred and fifty years ago, it wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“What are you talking about?” said Calliande.

He stared at her, and she was surprised by how much older he looked, how tired, yet it didn’t seem to make him look any weaker. “You were thinking this was all your fault, that if you hadn’t put yourself to sleep below the Tower of Vigilance, then Shadowbearer wouldn’t have been able to create the Enlightened.”

“You’re so sure that you know what I am thinking?” said Calliande.

Ridmark shrugged. “Shadowbearer wouldn’t have stopped. He would have tried to corrupt your next apprentice, or her apprentice. He knew the Keeper was the greatest threat to him. Sooner or later he would have succeeded. Instead, you put the power of the Keeper out of his reach, and he couldn’t do anything to stop you.”

“Because of you,” said Calliande. “He would have killed me if you hadn’t rescued me on the day of the omen.”

“I was just in the right time at the right place,” said Ridmark, glancing at the others as they rode to Leogrance Arban’s camp. “We should go.”

“How did you know what I was thinking?” said Calliande.

“You had that look on your face,” said Ridmark.

“Look? What look?” said Calliande.

“That look you get when blaming yourself for everything that has gone wrong,” said Ridmark.

Calliande sputtered for a moment. “You accuse me of that, Ridmark Arban? If blaming oneself were a tournament, then you would be the undisputed grand champion of the realm of Andomhaim.”

She regretted the words the moment they came out of her mouth. It was too soon after Morigna’s death, too harsh. Yet Ridmark didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t flinch.

“So I would know it,” he said, “when I see it.”

“Thank you,” said Calliande. "That...is kind of you to say."

“We aren’t beaten yet,” said Ridmark, and some of the cold, iron rage she remembered from the burning keep of Dun Licinia came back into his face. “We’ve had a defeat, but we aren’t finished yet. This isn’t over until Imaria and the Weaver are dead, the Frostborn driven back into their gate, and the Enlightened cut out from the realm like the cancer that they…”

“Seize that man!”

Two score of horsemen burst from the lines of the camp, galloping towards them. The riders wore the blue surcoat and black dragon of Tarrabus Carhaine, and two men in the gleaming steel plate armor of knights of Andomhaim led them. The riders carried swords and lances, and even as she watched, the men pointed their lances at Ridmark and spurred their horses onward.

“Kill him!” shouted one of the knights, a hawk-faced man with an oiled blond beard. “Kill him and bring his head before the Dux. He is a branded exile! Kill him!”

“Get back to the others, now,” said Ridmark. “Go!”

“You will hold!” shouted Calliande, pointing her staff at the charging knights. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dux Gareth and Sir Tormark and the others rush towards them, but for the moment Calliande and Ridmark were exposed and alone.

The Carhaine knights and men-at-arms ignored her command.

Fine. She would just make it harder to ignore.

Calliande drew on her power. She knew the elemental magic of earth and fire, just as Morigna had known the spells of earth and Antenora knew the spells of fire. Calliande summoned the magic of the earth, fed it through the mantle of the Keeper, and then slammed the end of her staff against the ground, releasing the spell.

The results were impressive.

The ground folded and shuddered in the grasp of her spell, rolling out into the advancing Carhaine horsemen. The charging horsemen came to abrupt stop as their horses whinnied and stamped, their riders working to keep their saddles. Calliande worked another spell, the one she had used to let Gareth speak with Rjalmandrakur from the walls of Dun Licinia, and shouted at the top of her lungs.

“I said that you shall hold!” she roared, and the spell turned her words into a thunderclap.

The results were gratifying.

The horsemen gaped at her, eyes wide with fear as the staff of the Keeper crackled with white fire in her hand. Hooves thundered against the ground as Dux Gareth’s party galloped to her side. Antenora reined up next to Calliande, her staff crackling with fire, while both Arandar and Gavin drew their soulblades. Zhorlacht and Qhazulak came to a stop alongside Mara’s horse, and the Anathgrimm of the Queen’s Guard looked eager at the prospect of bloodshed. That would be bad. If the Carhaine horsemen and Gareth’s party came to blows, it would draw men from the camps. Already Calliande saw the sentries stirring, sending word to their Comites and Duxi. If the confrontation drew in other men, it might trigger a full battle between the factions of Tarrabus and Leogrance.

“Who are you, woman?” said the blond-bearded knight.

She drew herself up, pointing the glowing staff at him, and the knight’s eyes narrowed. “I am Calliande of Tarlion, Keeper of Andomhaim. Who are you?”

The knight scowled. “I do not give my name to offensive Wilderland witches.”

If the fool thought that Calliande was offensive, it was a pity he would never have the chance to meet Morigna.

“His name is Sir Caradog Lordac,” said Ridmark in a flat voice. He pointed at a black-bearded knight to the left of Sir Caradog. “His friend is Sir Aventine Rocarn. Both of them are household knights of Dux Tarrabus Carhaine…and were close friends with Sir Paul Tallmane.”

Did that mean both men were Enlightened of Incariel? She thought it likely, but until an Enlightened drew upon Incariel’s shadow, their powers were invisible to Calliande’s Sight.

“Whom you murdered,” said Sir Aventine, his dark eyes narrowed.

“Actually,” said Jager with a cheerful smile, “he really didn’t.”

“You will instruct your halfling servant to remain silent,” said Aventine.

“You should instruct your halfling servants,” said Jager, still grinning, “to do a better job of trimming your beard in the morning. Frankly, it looks like the backside of an alley dog in Cintarra, though I imagine the dog would smell better, and…”

Aventine snarled and raised his sword, but Caradog raised a hand and the other knight subsided.

“The last Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Caradog, looking at Calliande, “died centuries ago.”

“She did not,” said Calliande. “She knew this day would come, the day of the return of the Frostborn, so she went into a deep sleep until Andomhaim needed her once more. Now I have returned to defend the realm in its hour of need against the Frostborn.”

Neither Sir Caradog nor Sir Aventine, she noted, blinked an eye at the news of the return of the Frostborn, though some of their men-at-arms muttered and looked at each other.

“That is for the High King and the Magistri to decide,” said Caradog. “To more urgent matters. Ridmark of the Arbanii, branded coward and exile! I charge you with the murders of Lady Aelia Licinius and Sir Paul Tallmane, Constable of the Iron Tower, and place you under arrest! You will surrender your weapons and accompany me.”

“You presume too much, Caradog Lordac,” said Gareth, a growl in his voice. “We are in the Northerland, and the right of justice in the Northerland is mine.”

“And since you have clearly failed to exercise it,” said Caradog, “others must do so in your stead.”

“Mhalek slew my daughter Aelia,” said Gareth. “As for Paul Tallmane, he was a servant of dark powers. He colluded with the dvargir and the Mhorites, the sworn enemies of the realm, and offered his soul up to the dark gods of the dark elves. Corbanic Lamorus, Marcast Tetricus, Crowlacht of Rhaluusk, and many others have sworn this.”

“Liars, all,” said Caradog, “and enemies of my lord Tarrabus.”

“Do you call me a liar, Sir Caradog?” said Gareth. “For I believe them.”

Caradog shrugged. “If you chose to don the hat of the fool, my lord Dux, it is hardly my concern if it fits.” He pointed. “And you accuse Dux Tarrabus of colluding with enemies of the realm when Anathgrimm orcs stand in your midst? Have you sold yourself to the Traveler, Gareth Licinius?”

“The Traveler is slain,” said Gareth.

Caradog laughed. “A likely tale! The Traveler has opposed the realm for a thousand years.”

“His daughter slew him,” said Calliande, gesturing at Mara, “and has taken his place as the new Queen of Nightmane Forest. She comes to offer her realm’s help in the war against the Frostborn.”

Both Caradog and Aventine laughed at that.

“That little slip of a girl?” said Caradog. “You can hardly take umbrage at being called a liar, my lord Dux, if you insist upon telling such unlikely tales as…”

Mara smiled and disappeared in a swirl of blue fire.

Caradog blinked and looked around, and Mara reappeared behind him, crouched on the back of his horse. The beast started to shift beneath the unexpected weight, and Mara reached up and rapped hard on the back of Caradog’s helmet three times. Aventine shouted in alarm, and Mara disappeared, reappearing back atop her own confused horse, the blue fire fading from her veins.

“Some tales are more likely than others, Sir Caradog,” said Mara in her quiet voice.

“Enough!” said Caradog. “The fact, Ridmark Arban, that you consort with such…such creatures of dark magic is proof enough of your guilt! If you have tricked the Dux into believing your lies, then that is one more crime to lay at your doorstep. You are under arrest, and you shall come with us.”

“Or?” said Ridmark.

“Or we will compel you to come with us,” said Caradog.

“I refuse to permit this,” said Gareth. “I am the Dux of the Northerland, and this is my land.”

Caradog smirked. “We have more men nearer at hand.”

“So do I,” said Gareth. He drew himself up in his saddle. “If you do this, I shall consider it an act of war from Dux Tarrabus, and react as I think best.”

Aventine sneered. “You would risk war with Dux Tarrabus in the face of a greater threat?”

“Tarrabus Carhaine is the one who risks war, not I,” said Gareth.

“Then, old man,” said Caradog, “let us see…”

“Enough!” said Tormark. “This is madness. I have seen some of the foes we face, and the realm must be united to overcome them. If we war amongst ourselves now, we are doomed, and the Frostborn shall devour Andomhaim.”

“I merely seek justice,” said Caradog. “Justice in the name of Dux Tarrabus.”

“The Duxi are not kings who can war amongst themselves as they see fit,” said Tormark. “I suggest that we take this matter to the High King at once. Let him decide it. We must have unity in order to face the Frostborn.”

“A unity based upon lies will shatter at the first wind,” said Calliande, “and every word of the accusations against Tarrabus Carhaine is true.”

“At the moment I do not care what Tarrabus Carhaine did,” snapped Tormark. “I saw those creatures, and we need every fighting man in Andomhaim to face them.” He looked at the two knights. “Well, Caradog? Will you go to the High King, or will we rip apart the realm in civil war here and now?”

Caradog glanced at Aventine, and then at the horsemen with Dux Gareth. He was considering it, Calliande realized. He was actually considering attacking, hoping to kill Ridmark and maybe Dux Gareth before anyone could stop him.

Well, if Caradog tried, Calliande would make sure that he regretted it.

Calliande met his eye, letting the staff of the Keeper burn with white fire in her hand. Antenora, sensing her mood, summoned a sphere of fire over her free hand, the globe whirling faster and faster. Caradog met Calliande’s gaze for a moment, and then swallowed and looked away.

“Very well,” said Caradog. “We shall go to the High King, and I shall summon Dux Tarrabus to lay his charges before the High King. Rejoice in your extra hour of life, Ridmark of the Arbanii. It is all you shall enjoy.”

Chapter 10: Charges

Arandar followed the others as they rode through the camp, his hand itching to grasp Heartwarden’s hilt.

He only just stopped himself, knowing that drawing a weapon right now might start a catastrophic battle. It reminded him of the room coated in coal dust within the ruins of Khald Azalar, the room where one stray spark might have touched off an explosion. One wrong move now might engulf the realm in civil war. Arandar wanted to see Tarrabus defeated and brought to justice, but not if his defeat meant the destruction of Andomhaim at the hands of the Frostborn.

For their arrival had indeed riled up the camp.

They rode through the aisle between the camps of the various Duxi, and Arandar saw messengers hurrying back and forth. Rumor of their arrival was spreading like wildfire. Uthanaric Pendragon, no doubt, had taken up residence in the town’s castra. By the time Arandar and the others arrived, Arandar expected to find all the Duxi there, along with Prince Cadwall of Cintarra and the most powerful Comites and knights of the realm, with the chief Swordbearers and Magistri as well.

A lot would depend upon what happened in the next hour, and Arandar felt dread closing around his heart. Had Uthanaric Pendragon been less mercurial in his moods, Arandar would have felt more confident. Uthanaric’s thoughts were impossible to predict. He might bow to Tarrabus’s wishes, or he might rebuff the Dux and do something else entirely.

In some ways, Arandar's mad quest to Urd Morlemoch had been easier. There, his task had been a simple one. He needed to find Truthseeker, and return with it to Tarlion. Then he had promised to help Calliande retrieve her staff, and even that had been simple – find Dragonfall, and then reach the circle of standing stones and Dun Licinia before Shadowbearer managed it.

Now…now Arandar was not sure what to do. Tarrabus Carhaine was a traitor, and he held the life of Arandar’s son in his hand. Yet Tormark had a point. The realm needed unity to face the fury of the Frostborn. If Tarrabus Carhaine and Leogrance Arban went to war, it would be catastrophic, and the Frostborn would easily overwhelm Andomhaim. Would the High King overlook Tarrabus’s crimes in favor of preserving unity?

Would he be right to do so?

Right about then something he did not expect happened.

“Papa! Papa! Papa!”

Arandar looked up.

A woman about his own age stood near a tent, staring at him in shock, her mouth hanging open. She wore sturdy widow’s black, simple but well-made. Her hand was extended, and the girl who had just broke free of her grasp sprinted towards Arandar. She was nine years old, wearing a muted blue dress and leather traveling boots, and she had her mother’s eyes and Arandar’s nose and jaw…

“Nyvane?” said Arandar.

“Papa!” shouted Nyvane.

Arandar did not remember getting out of the saddle, did not remember going to one knee. Then Nyvane slammed into him with enough force that even her slight weight rocked him back, her arms wrapping so tight around him that it almost squeezed the breath out him, and Arandar hugged his daughter back and despite the war to the north and the enemies around him, for just a moment everything was right in the world.

###

“Oh,” said Calliande in a soft voice. “That must be his daughter.”

Ridmark nodded.

Aelia had never been able to conceive, though they had surely tried at every opportunity, and she had died before she could have any children. He had wondered what it would be like for Morigna to bear his children, had been certain that she would once Shadowbearer was defeated, and he had daydreamed about living in some remote place with Morigna and going about their lives as hunters and trappers.

Then she, too, had been murdered.

Arandar looked happier, more relieved than Ridmark had ever seen, and it seemed that was something Ridmark would never know.

For a moment the grief of Morigna’s death threatened to crush him, only to fuel his bottomless anger anew.

Then Nyvane said something that cut through Ridmark’s grief and rage, something that turned his grief into the certainty that deadly danger was at hand.

“I saw Accolon, too, Papa!” said Nyvane, the words pouring out of her with the speed of a child. “He was with some knights. Aunt Miriam said that I couldn’t talk to him, but he was with the knights, and…”

Arandar’s son was here?

Ridmark blinked and looked at Sir Caradog. Both he and Sir Aventine were looking at the girl with flat, empty expressions.

If they had found the child alone, Ridmark realized, if they could have done it without any witnesses, they would have killed her at once.

He dropped from the saddle, ignoring Calliande’s question, and hurried to Arandar’s side.

“We have a problem,” said Ridmark.

Arandar blinked up at him. “A moment, please.”

“We may not even have that,” said Ridmark.

“Papa,” said Nyvane, some fear coming into her voice. “He has a coward’s brand.”

“He’s not a coward, dear one,” said Arandar, his voice light, but his eyes were grave. “He is the Gray Knight, and I’ve seen him fight and kill terrible monsters.”

“Really?” said Nyvane, her face brightening. “You really fight monsters?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark, glancing at Caradog and Aventine. Both men were scowling at him. He caught Calliande’s eye, and she urged her horse closer.

“What is it?” said Calliande.

“Keep them away from us,” said Ridmark. “Just for a few minutes. Oh, and send Zhorlacht over here. Now, please.”

Calliande frowned, but nodded and turned her horse.

“What’s going on?” said Arandar, getting to his feet, lifting Nyvane as he did.

Ridmark beckoned him closer, and the woman in black stepped towards them.

“Arandar,” said the woman. “You came back. We feared…”

“Miriam,” said Arandar. This had to be his late wife’s sister. “Thank you for looking after Nyvane.”

“She asked after you every day,” said Miriam. “Oh, God be praised. God be praised. I…”

“Forgive me, my lady, but time is short and your life is in danger,” said Ridmark. “Did you really see Accolon?”

Miriam hesitated, looking at Ridmark’s brand and then back at Arandar.

“We can trust him,” said Arandar.

“Yes,” said Miriam. “He is a prisoner in Tarrabus Carhaine’s camp. The Dux brought him when he marched north from Caerdracon.”

“I told you I saw Accolon,” announced Nyvane with satisfaction.

Arandar let out a long breath. “Why would he do that? Accolon would be more secure in Tarlion or Castra Carhaine than here.”

“Because,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus is planning to kill him. And you, and your daughter, and the High King and his sons. I don’t know how or when, but he’s planning to wipe out every last drop of Pendragon blood and seize the throne for himself. He’ll probably try to make it look like the fortunes of battle, but he will do it soon.”

“Arandar,” said Miriam. “Tarrabus is a hard man, but he is a Dux of Andomhaim, and…”

“He has abandoned the Dominus Christus to pray to dark powers,” said Ridmark. “He is capable of anything, and he wants Accolon and Nyvane dead.”

Steel creaked, and Zhorlacht stepped closer. Both Miriam and Nyvane flinched at the sight of the towering Anathgrimm warrior.

“Gray Knight,” said Zhorlacht in his precise, buzzing voice. “You wish to speak with me?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “This is Miriam, the sister of Arandar’s late wife, and his daughter Nyvane.”

Zhorlacht offered a passable imitation of a bow. “A pleasure, madam.”

Miriam blinked. “And…you, sir.”

“Take them with you to the Anathgrimm camp and don’t let anyone near them until we return,” said Ridmark. “The servants of Shadowbearer want them dead so Tarrabus can seize the throne.”

“Ah,” said Zhorlacht. “The Lord Traveler of unlamented memory often spoke among such intrigues in the dark elves of old.”

Miriam’s eyes got a little wider.

“Zhorlacht,” said Arandar. “You will keep them safe?”

“If the Gray Knight commands it,” said Zhorlacht.

“I do,” said Ridmark.

“Then it shall be done, for our Queen has named him her magister militum,” said Zhorlacht. “Should any foes try to harm the woman or the child, their final moments will be filled with the regret for the error of their ways.”

“What does that mean?” said Nyvane, staring at Zhorlacht with open fascination. She was too young to know to be afraid, and likely she had never seen anything like an Anathgrimm before.

Zhorlacht stared down at the child, and a baffled expression went over his face, barely visible beneath the bone mask. It was possible, Ridmark realized, that the Anathgrimm wizard had never seen a human child before.

At least one who had not been enslaved to the Traveler.

“It means that my brothers and I shall keep you safe at the command of our Queen,” said Zhorlacht at last.

Nyvane gripped her skirts and performed a polite bow. “Thank you, sir knight.”

Zhorlacht let out a rumbling laugh. “I am not a knight, child.”

“Go,” said Ridmark. “With all speed. You as well, Lady Miriam. Tarrabus will send his agents to bring you to harm, but even his most capable servants will not be able to fight their way past thousands of Anathgrimm warriors.”

“The Anathgrimm,” said Miriam, hesitating. “Arandar, I doubt not your word, but the Anathgrimm…they have been the enemies of the realm for time immemorial. Will they truly guard us?”

“My lady,” said Zhorlacht, “rest assured, if Queen Mara commanded us to slaughter every fighting man in the camp to keep you safe, we would do so joyfully.”

Miriam blinked. “Was that meant to be comforting, sir?”

Zhorlacht shrugged. “Yes. I fear I have little experience comforting human women.”

Miriam let out a fearful little laugh. “I confess it shows.”

“Miriam,” said Arandar. “We can trust the Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht and his kin fought alongside us against the Mhorites, and if not for their aid, the Frostborn might well have slain every man, woman, and child in Dun Licinia.” He hesitated, still looking down at his daughter. “I would rather you stayed at my side…but I fear the Gray Knight is correct. You both will be far safer among the Anathgrimm than the High King’s court.”

Ridmark could tell it cost Arandar to admit that. It was a hard thing for a man to lose faith in the High King and the nobles of the realm. Even when the evidence had been shoved in his face, Ridmark had still thought Tarrabus a ruthless but loyal Dux of the realm, and that error had almost let the soulstone fall into Shadowbearer’s hands at the Iron Tower.

“You both call him the Gray Knight,” said Miriam, her dark eyes turning towards Ridmark. “Then you…you are really Ridmark of the Arbanii? The one who sacked the Iron Tower?”

“I am,” said Ridmark, “though the Constable of the Iron Tower had turned to the worship of dark powers, and I had no choice.”

“He also slew Mournacht of Kothluusk and Shadowbearer himself,” said Arandar. “I saw these feats with my own eyes.”

“Then we have come to troubled days indeed,” said Miriam. “The court is split over the things you have done, Gray Knight, and…”

“Enough, woman!” Sir Caradog’s voice boomed over the camp. Ridmark saw Caradog glowering at Calliande, who glared right back. Sir Aventine had his hand on his sword hilt, as if threatening to strike Calliande. If he was foolish enough to try, Antenora would blast him to smoking coals, or Gavin would cut them both down. A civil war might start in the camp before the hour was out.

“Do not,” snarled Antenora, fire crackling up her staff, “presume to threaten the Keeper.” Her horse shifted uneasily as her staff burned, but she kept the weapon leveled at Caradog and Aventine.

Caradog flinched. “Do you think to threaten us?”

“You’re the idiot who is threatening the Keeper of Andomhaim, Caradog,” said Tormark with a contemptuous glare.

“Enough!” said Caradog, sweeping his gaze over Tormark and Calliande and Dux Gareth. “Ridmark Arban! You will accompany us to the High King’s presence now, or I shall summon Dux Tarrabus’s men, and I will compel you to accompany us.”

“We’ve tarried as long as we can,” said Ridmark.

Arandar nodded, kissed his daughter on the forehead, and straightened up. “Go with Miriam and Zhorlacht, Nyvane. I will join you as soon as I can.” He looked at the Anathgrimm wizard. “Upon your life, Zhorlacht, keep them safe.”

“Then Anathgrimm fail not in their duty,” said Zhorlacht. “You should know that well, Sir Arandar.” He beckoned to Miriam and Nyvane. “Come, my lady. My brothers and I shall keep you safe.”

“Goodbye, Papa,” said Nyvane.

Arandar nodded, his face tight. “I will see you as soon as I can.”

He hugged the little girl, and Miriam took Nyvane’s hand and followed Zhorlacht as the Anathgrimm walked away to the north.

“What is this?” demanded Caradog. “Where are they going?”

“You’re after me, Sir Caradog,” said Ridmark, climbing back into the saddle. He turned his horse towards the two knights. “And here I am. Or would you prefer to attack a widow and a child? They might make a target more in keeping with your abilities.”

A laugh went up from the lords and knights around Tormark and Gareth.

“They will come with us as well,” said Caradog.

“Will you take them from the Anathgrimm?” said Ridmark.

“You can ask the Anathgrimm, of course,” said Jager with a calm smile, “but I rather think that you…”

“The halfling rat will be silent!” said Aventine.

Qhazulak let out a growl, and the warriors of the Queen’s Guard shifted. “You will not address the Queen’s Prince Consort in such a tone, human.”

Aventine started to draw his sword, Caradog following suit, but Gareth’s booming voice cut them off.

“Enough!” he said. “This dissension gains us nothing and advantages the Frostborn. We will go to the keep now, all of us, and let the High King put this folly to rest.”

“Wisdom from you at last, Dux Gareth,” said Caradog, his voice cold, but he turned his horse, Aventine following suit.

They rode in silence the rest of the way.

###

Calliande rode behind Dux Gareth and Tormark, her hand tight against the staff of the Keeper.

She felt as tense and wary as if she was riding into a battle.

Dun Calpurnia had an air of age about it. It had been destroyed during the war against the Frostborn, but Gareth’s ancestors must have rebuilt it, because now a strong wall encircled the town, guarding stone houses with roofs of red clay tiles, all of them built in the fashion of the Romans upon Old Earth. Broad flagstones paved the streets, and the horses’ hooves rang as they rode up the steep road to the castra. Dun Licinia had only a small keep, but Dun Calpurnia had a proper castra, with a curtain wall and war engines, two massive octagonal towers flanking a basilica where the Comes of the town could sit and dispense his judgments. It was strong, far stronger than Dun Licinia, and could have held against the Mhorites indefinitely.

The Frostborn, Calliande feared, could overrun it in a day.

She saw more horsemen riding up the steep road before them, and more behind. It seemed every noble in the camp was heading for the castra. Calliande hoped that someone remained in command at the camp, ready to rally the men if necessary. She thought the host of the Frostborn was still several days away…but she had been wrong before, and if the Frostborn thought they could destroy Andomhaim’s army with a single blow, they would not hesitate to strike. Still, the Anathgrimm were camped north of the town proper, along with Dux Gareth’s men, and they would remain on their guard.

Tormark’s men and Dux Gareth’s party rode into the courtyard, and Calliande reined up. A small army of pages and squires hastened forward to tend to the horses, and Calliande dropped from her saddle, her staff tapping against the flagstones of the courtyard. Antenora came after her, swathed in her hooded black coat, and the young pages shied away from her yellow eyes and gaunt, gray face. Gavin walked to her side, his face tight and wary as it was before a battle. Calliande looked for Ridmark and found him standing between Sir Caradog and Sir Aventine, both knights watching him. She saw more men-at-arms in the blue tabards of the House of the Carhainii hurrying to join the two knights, and her fingers tightened against her staff. Tarrabus might well try to kill Ridmark and present the High King with a corpse, claiming that he had acted to defend the realm against a dangerous renegade. Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, as the old proverb said.

Calliande pushed her way through the crowd and found Caius, the dwarven friar tapping the handle of his mace.

“Brother Caius,” said Calliande in a low voice. “I need help.”

Caius blinked his marble-like blue eyes, and then nodded. “Of course.”

“You know these men, the chief nobles of Andomhaim,” said Calliande, glancing around.

“Well, I have preached to them, and they mostly ignored me,” said Caius. “But I do know them.”

“I do not,” said Calliande. “Stay with me, please. Identify them for me and tell me what you can of them.”

“I shall,” said Caius.

“The High King,” said Calliande. “Uthanaric Pendragon. What can you tell me of him?”

Caius considered for a moment. “He has sat upon the throne of Tarlion for decades, and kept the peace in that time. There have been no civil wars or revolts, but many battles against the Mhalekites and the Mhorites and the others. The High King himself is,” he hesitated, “mercurial.”

“Mercurial?” said Calliande.

“His moods change quickly,” said Caius, “from wrath to amusement and back again in the space of a single conversation. Sometimes he favors one faction at court over another, and then changes his mind a few days later for no discernable reason. It is something of a vexing quality in a ruler. Yet he is not a fool, and the surest way to provoke him to wrath is to lie to him. The High King would prefer a harsh truth to a pleasant lie.”

“A rare quality in a man,” said Calliande.

“And an especially rare quality in a king or a prince,” said Caius, and for just a moment there was a hint of something in his voice. Bitterness? Regret? Yet the moment passed, and Caius looked towards the doors of the basilica. “It seems we are summoned.”

Men-at-arms in the red dragon tabards of the High King threw open the doors, and called in loud voices for the nobles of the realm to present themselves before the throne. The men filling the courtyard headed towards the doors, and Calliande followed them, Caius, Gavin, and Antenora keeping close to her. She spotted Arandar and Kharlacht following Ridmark, Caradog, and Aventine, while Mara and Jager remained with Qhazulak and the Queen’s Guard. Calliande realized they had positioned themselves to intercede should anyone try to attack Ridmark.

She hoped it would not come to that.

The interior of the basilica was cavernous, with thick square pillars supporting a vaulted ceiling high overhead. Massive glass windows in lead frames admitted the sunlight, the air hazy with floating dust motes. A crowd of nobles and knights already stood near the dais, and more lined the walls. Calliande spotted a band of orcish warriors near one of the pillars, clad in steel plate and chain mail, and she recognized old Crowlacht from the Iron Tower.

“Crowlacht's here,” said Calliande.

Caius nodded. “Aye. Do you see the orc next to him?” The orcish man next to Crowlacht looked a great deal like the headman, with the same scowl, the same craggy face behind his tusks, the same gray hair bound in a warrior’s topknot, his green-skinned head otherwise shaved. Unlike Crowlacht, he wore a diadem of dark iron. “That’s Ulakhamar, the King of Rhaluusk.”

“I knew one of his ancestors,” said Calliande in a distant voice. “He died fighting the medvarth along the banks of the Moradel.”

She supposed that she had known the ancestors of most of the men in this hall.

“That is the Prince of Cintarra, Cadwall Gwyrdragon,” said Caius, gesturing towards a tall, thin-looking man near the dais. To Calliande’s surprise, he wore clothing very similar to Jager’s favored outfit – a black leather vest, a brilliant white shirt, black trousers, and gleaming knee-high black boots. Jager had likely copied the Prince’s outfit, or the Prince’s choice of clothes had become the preferred fashion for wealthy Cintarran men. The Prince looked a great deal like Arandar, albeit fifteen years older or so. Centuries ago, a bastard son of a previous High King had struck out on his own, eventually defeating the dark elven lord who had ruled what was Cintarra, swearing loyalty to his father as the Green Dragon of Cintarra, becoming the Prince of the new city in exchange for renouncing all claim to the throne forever. The Princes had ruled in Cintarra ever since, answerable only to the High King.

“He looks a lot like his ancestors,” said Calliande. “And Arandar, for that matter.”

Caius nodded. “The Pendragon blood runs strong, or so the histories say. And…ah.” Tormark hastened across the hall, followed by Gareth. “There’s Dux Leogrance.”

Calliande blinked. “Ridmark’s father.”

She looked at the Dux as Gareth and Tormark approached. Leogrance Arban did not look very much like Ridmark. He had Ridmark’s height, but not Ridmark’s muscular build, and looked almost emaciated. Yet he held himself with rigid attention, his face clean-shaven, his white hair close-cropped. He wore a tunic and a mantle of blue, adorned with the sigil of his House. He put Calliande in mind of the stories of the solemn senators of the Romans upon Old Earth, at least before the Senate had been replaced by the Empire.

Leogrance looked at Ridmark, and Ridmark met his father’s gaze. After a moment Leogrance looked away to speak with Gareth and Tormark, and Ridmark turned his attention towards the dais.

“Why does Leogrance not speak with Ridmark?” said Calliande.

Caius shrugged. “I am not sure. Leogrance Arban is known to be devoted to tradition, and a Dux of Andomhaim would not speak to a man with a coward’s brand. He would send others to do it for him, if necessary.” Again that strange note of regret entered Caius’s voice. “That is a foolish thought. We are all mortal. He ought to speak with Ridmark before it is too late for either of…”

Caius fell silent as Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon and leader of the Enlightened of Incariel, walked into the basilica.

Calliande stared at him, at this man who had served her oldest enemy. He was tall and strong, his blue eyes icy, his blond hair close-cropped. His face was clean-shaven, and gave away nothing of his thoughts. He wore a blue tunic, trousers, and gleaming black boots, a sword waiting in a scabbard at his belt. His hard gaze met Calliande’s, and thin smile went over his lips.

Tarrabus Carhaine looked…confident. He looked like a man who was entirely certain that final victory lay just within his grasp. The Dux’s gaze turned to Ridmark, and Calliande saw a flash of the same malevolent hatred that she had seen in the face of Imaria Licinius. Her hand tightened against her staff, and she prepared to draw upon the power of the Well and the Keeper’s mantle if Tarrabus attacked.

Yet Tarrabus only stood near one of the pillars near the dais, his face serene. She glanced at Mara and Jager. Husband and wife both watched Tarrabus, but the Dux took no notice of them. Ridmark stared at Tarrabus, his face hard. Likely he held Tarrabus as responsible for Morigna’s death alongside Imaria and the Weaver. He had vowed to kill them both, but Calliande doubted he would hesitate to kill Tarrabus if the opportunity presented itself.

She opened her mouth to ask Caius if he had ever spoken with Tarrabus, and then a voice rang out.

“Hearken!” cried a young knight standing near the dais, his surcoat adored with the red dragon of the Pendragons. “Hearken, men and lords and knights of Andomhaim! Uthanaric Pendragon, the High King and Lord of Tarlion, comes to hold court!”

A door behind the dais opened, and a row of men walked out, knights and men-at-arms in the colors of the Pendragons. With them came a Magistrius in a white robe with a black cloak, and an old Swordbearer in plate armor and a cloak of similar design – the Masters of the Order of the Magistri and the Order of the Soulblade. Both Masters took up position on either side of the formal curule chair upon the center of the dais.

Uthanaric Pendragon, High King of Andomhaim, limped to the chair and seated himself.

His resemblance to Arandar was striking. The High King had the same dark eyes, the same gray-streaked black hair, the same jaw and hooked nose. Yet High King’s black eyes looked almost feverish, and he had the thin appearance of a man too restless to eat. He wore robes of black and gold, and a soulblade hung at his belt. It was Excalibur, the sword once carried by Arthur Pendragon upon Old Earth, and reforged into a soulblade by the archmage Ardrhythain five centuries past. A diadem of red gold encircled his graying brows, studded with rubies, the shape of a dragon’s head worked into the front. It was the Pendragon Crown, forged by Malahan Pendragon a thousand years ago when Andomhaim had been founded, and every High King had worn it since.

A strange little chill went through Calliande. She had last seen that crown and that sword two hundred years ago. In an odd way, it heartened her. The Frostborn and Shadowbearer had nearly destroyed Andomhaim two centuries past, but the realm had survived nonetheless.

Perhaps it could survive what was to come.

The Duxi went to one knee, and Calliande and the others followed suit, even Mara and Jager. Uthanaric considered the hall for a moment, his expression irritated. Then he gave a curt nod and gestured with his right hand, and the nobles rose back to their feet.

Calliande drew breath to speak, but Tarrabus was already striding forward.

“My lord the High King,” said Tarrabus, his voice deep and commanding. “If it pleases you, I have business to lay before your wisdom.”

Calliande, Gareth, and Leogrance all started forward at once, but Uthanaric raised a hand. The sheer weight of command in that simple gesture made her stop, and Gareth and Leogrance both followed suit, though Ridmark’s father turned a startled glance towards Calliande. Uthanaric gazed at Tarrabus for a moment, his black eyes hard and unblinking, and at last gave Tarrabus a curt nod.

With a chill Calliande wondered if Uthanaric favored Tarrabus.

Perhaps the High King of Andomhaim had joined the Enlightened.

“My lord High King,” said Tarrabus in his orator’s voice, the formal Latin flying from his lips, “my lords and knights and Magistri and Swordbearers of the realm of Andomhaim, behold! You have all heard rumor of the dissension and lies that grip the realm and disturb the peace of the High Kingdom. I stand here today to speak that the rumors are true!” He pointed at Ridmark, taking several steps forward. “Behold Ridmark of the Arbanii, the former Swordbearer, the man branded as a coward for his failure to defeat Mhalek at Dun Licinia! This man, because of his private vendetta against me and my vassals, raised an army of bandits and sacked the Iron Tower, murdering Sir Paul Tallmane and destroying the northwestern fortress of the realm. Perhaps it was the loss of the Iron Tower that allowed the Mhorites to assail the Northerland without warning!”

It was such an outlandish story that Calliande wanted to laugh. Yet she saw many of Tarrabus’s men nodding with agreement, along with the nobles of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras. Those men believed Tarrabus’s story.

Or they found it advantageous to believe Tarrabus’s account of events.

Uthanaric said nothing, his face hard, the fingers of his right hand tapping against the arm of the curule chair. The High King’s signet ring of gold and rubies flashed, reflecting the sunlight.

“My lord High King,” said Tarrabus, “I am pleased to report that my vassals have brought the criminal Ridmark of the Arbanii to justice. Ridmark, as you recall, was banished from your realm, and the penalty for an exile to return is death. Sir Caradog! Sir Aventine! Carry out the High King’s justice!”

It happened so fast that Calliande barely had time to react.

Ridmark started to turn, and Caradog punched him in the side of the head. Ridmark stumbled, and Aventine drew his sword, raising the blade to sink it into Ridmark’s neck. Around Calliande the hall erupted into shouting and motion as the nobles reacted, but all she saw was the glittering sword, sweeping towards Ridmark…

“No!” she roared, slamming the end of her staff against the ground.

The magic of the Keeper’s mantle flooded her in response to her fury, and she worked a spell, the floor folding and rippling around Ridmark. The distortion knocked Aventine and Caradog from their feet. Ridmark recovered his balance, lifting his staff, and Calliande stalked forward, Caius and Antenora and Gavin following her.

Ridmark caught her eye and nodded his thanks.

“Behold!” said Tarrabus. “Look at who comes to defend the outlaw! A renegade sorceress of the Wilderland, wielding forbidden elemental magic.”

“It is not forbidden to me, Tarrabus Carhaine!” said Calliande, her voice as cold as the Frostborn. “For I am Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim. Two hundred years ago I stood against the Frostborn, and fought alongside the ancestors of the men who fill this hall. Now the Frostborn have returned, and so I have returned to resume my duty and defend the realm once more.”

The Master of the Magistri stared at her, as did the other white-robed Magistri scattered around the hall.

“A feeble lie,” said Tarrabus.

“She is the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Camorak, stepping past Gareth and offering a hasty bow in the High King’s direction. “I will swear to it. I have seen her power, and she has performed feats of magic that only the Keeper could have worked.”

“I likewise will swear to it, my King,” said Gareth, joining the ragged Magistrius. “Calliande of Tarlion is indeed the Keeper. Without her powers, the Mhorites and the dvargir would have destroyed Dun Licinia, and the Frostborn would have slain us all.”

Tarrabus smiled. “Our northern brethren are simple, rustic folk, and so easily deceived.”

“An insult, my lord Dux?” said Gareth.

“And do you call us liars as well, Tarrabus of Caerdracon?” King Ulakhamar stalked forward, followed by Crowlacht and his warriors. “My oathsworn warrior was at the Iron Tower, and he tells a different tale.”

“Your precious Constable,” said Crowlacht in his familiar rumbling voice, his Latin harsh with the accents of Rhaluusk, “gave himself to dark powers. I saw him command dark magic with my own eyes, and so did all my warriors!” The orcish warriors around Crowlacht rumbled their agreement. “Sir Marcast Tetricus will agree with me, if the word of a headman of Rhaluusk is not enough for you.”

Tarrabus’s cold smile did not waver. “It is worth mentioning, my lord High King, that Ridmark sacked the Iron Tower to free a thief imprisoned there, along with his concubine, an assassin of the Red Family.” He gestured towards Mara and Jager and the Queen’s Guard. “Do you see the allies of Ridmark Arban, my lord? A thief, an assassin, and Anathgrimm orcs! The servants of the Traveler! Do we invite such foes into our midst now?”

Another grumble went up from the men nearest Tarrabus. Calliande realized that Tarrabus’s supporters lined his side of the hall, while the supporters of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance stood along the opposite wall. The High King sat between them on his curule chair, his expression still irritated.

Mara took a step forward, Jager at her side.

“The Traveler is slain,” she said, her voice wavering only a little. “I am his daughter. Years ago, my mother sacrificed her life that I might escape from Nightmane Forest.” A murmur of surprise went up from both sides of the basilica. “When the Traveler marched from Nightmane Forest to claim the power of the Keeper for himself, I killed him with my own hand. The Anathgrimm have chosen to follow me, and I have come to offer their aid to the High King against the host of the Frostborn.”

Uthanaric stared at her. For the first time, the High King looked surprised.

“Lies,” said Tarrabus.

Mara shook her head. “I speak the truth. I will swear it upon the name of God and the Dominus Christus and all the saints, if you wish it.”

“The Queen of Nightmane Forest speaks the truth,” said Arandar. The High King looked at his bastard son. “I was there, my lord High King, and saw it happen. Queen Mara slew the Traveler, and the Anathgrimm have sworn to her.”

“I, too, have witnessed these events,” said Gareth, “and have all the men sworn to me. I would never have believed such a tale unless I had seen it with my own eyes. Without the aid of the Anathgrimm, we would not have been able to defeat the Mhorites and the dvargir.”

“Additionally,” said Calliande, “Ridmark of the Arbanii is a magistrate of Nightmane Forest. Queen Mara has appointed him the magister militum of her soldiers. Since Queen Mara has come to offer alliance and aid to Andomhaim, my lord High King, I suggest that it would be unwise to execute him.”

Tarrabus laughed. “This is ridiculous. Ridmark Arban is a criminal and an exile. The Anathgrimm are the sworn enemies of the High King. My lord High King, we…”

“For a Dux of Andomhaim,” said Jager, his resonant voice filling the hall. Calliande was always amazed at how such a short man could produce such a tremendous volume of sound. “You are remarkably ill-informed, my lord of Caerdracon.”

The men of the High King’s court stared at Jager in astonishment. Halflings were servants. They did not address their lords in the High King’s court. Prince Cadwall took one look at Jager and raised his eyebrow in amusement.

“You presume to address me, thief?” said Tarrabus.

“Well, yes, I did steal your signet ring,” said Jager, smiling. “But considering that you sold your soul to the shadow of Incariel, I was really doing the realm a favor by attacking one of its mortal enemies.”

“A vile calumny,” said Tarrabus. “I am a loyal vassal of Andomhaim and baptized son of the church.”

“But not all that bright, apparently,” said Jager. “You’ve overlooked several important points.”

“Oh?” said Tarrabus. His smile seemed sharp as a knife’s edge. Had Tarrabus been able to get away with it, Calliande knew, he would have killed Jager then and there. “And what is that?”

“One, we are still in the Northerland,” said Jager, counting on his fingers. “Dux Gareth has said that Ridmark is welcome here, and as I recall, you are the Dux of Caerdracon. That means you have no authority here. Unless you’ve become confused about geography, of course.”

“The High King’s law supersedes that of the Duxi,” said Tarrabus.

“True, true,” said Jager. “Very true. But the High King hasn’t said a word about Ridmark, has he? See, the High King is smarter than you. When Ridmark was banished, his oath of obedience to the High King was undone by the High King himself. Ridmark couldn’t return to the realm…so my wife the Queen, recognizing talent when she saw it, made him the magister militum of her kingdom.”

“Your concubine’s kingdom?” said Tarrabus with scorn.

“Well, yes,” said Jager, flicking some dust from his sleeve. “Nightmane Forest. Also, she’s my wife now, thank you. I thought that would make me a King, but the Anathgrimm threatened to cut off my head, so I settled for Prince Consort instead. That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? The Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest.”

Prince Cadwall burst out laughing, and several of the other lords on Gareth’s side of the hall followed suit.

“Does this fascinating attempt at rhetoric have a point, master thief?” said Tarrabus.

“Of course it does,” said Jager, feigning affront. “We’ve established that Ridmark is no longer a subject of the High King, and that he is a magistrate of my wife the Queen of Nightmane Forest.” He grinned. “Which means that you, Tarrabus Carhaine, just tried to murder the ambassador of another kingdom before the seat of the High King himself.”

Silence fell over the hall.

Calliande kept the smile of admiration for Jager’s cleverness from her face. The murder of an ambassador was among the most heinous of crimes among nearly all kindreds, and it had started wars in the past when a pagan orcish king had murdered one of the High King’s emissaries. In the wars that followed, the High Kings had never failed to destroy their opponents in vengeance for their slain ambassador.

Tarrabus’s smile melted away, his face a hard mask.

“And an ambassador of a kingdom that came to offer alliance to the High King,” said Jager, “whose soldiers fought in defense of Andomhaim. Really, Tarrabus. That’s very insulting.”

“The halfling prince speaks truly, Tarrabus.” Leogrance Arban’s voice sounded so much like Ridmark’s that for a moment Calliande thought that Ridmark himself had spoken. “The Frostborn have returned, and Andomhaim needs every ally. Would you be so foolish as to murder the magistrate of a potential ally before the High King? Even the Mhorites might hesitate before lowering themselves to such despicable crimes.”

“An ally?” said Tarrabus, gesturing at Mara. “Have you taken leave of your senses? The Anathgrimm orcs have been the enemies of the realm for centuries! And we are to believe that this wretched girl commands them? Are you such fools as to accept the aid of a band of pagan orcs led by a whore of the Red Family and her halfling pet? I…”

“You will not insult the Queen!” snarled Qhazulak, his harsh voice thundering through the hall.

“Do not presume to speak to me, orcish dog,” said Tarrabus.

King Ulakhamar’s eyes narrowed at the insult, and his warriors reached for their weapons. “The Dux of Caerdracon should guard his tongue.”

“The King of Rhaluusk,” said Tarrabus, “should not leap to the defense of an up-jumped half-breed whore.”

“You will not insult the Queen,” said Qhazulak, his voice softer and more deadly.

Tarrabus smirked at him. “And just why not, Anathgrimm?”

“For the Queen liberated us from the iron hand of the Lord Traveler,” said Qhazulak.

“That slip of a girl?” said Tarrabus. “I ought to have ordered Paul to amuse himself with her.”

“The Lord Traveler always said that humans were hairless apes,” said Qhazulak. “I know not if he spoke the truth, but if you threaten the Queen again, I shall make you squeal like a terrified piglet in the final moments of your wretched life.”

Tarrabus said nothing, but around him the knights and men-at-arms started to draw their swords. The vassals of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance started to draw their weapons as well, and soon a forest of sword blades glinted in the great hall of the castra of Dun Calpurnia. The air seemed charged with imminent violence.

Calliande looked back and forth, gathering her power for a spell, trying to think of a way to stop the battle that was about to begin.

She could not.

Chapter 11: The High King

Ridmark gripped his staff and moved closer to Calliande. His own life, he knew, was of little importance in the greater scheme of things. His life or his death would not stop the Frostborn, though he wanted to live long enough to see Imaria and the Weaver brought to justice. Yet he knew that Tarrabus would try to kill Calliande, and Ridmark could not allow that. Calliande and her magic and her knowledge were the realm’s best chance of survival against the Frostborn.

Denying Tarrabus the victory of her death would be well worth the cost of his life.

He took another step, and a voice thundered through the hall.

“I shall have silence! Silence!”

The echoes died away, and a stunned hush came over the basilica.

Uthanaric Pendragon had risen from the curule chair and stalked to the edge of the dais. His dark eyes blazed as he looked over the hall, and his scowl was formidable.

“My lord High King…” started Tarrabus.

“I said to be silent, Tarrabus,” said the High King. A vein twitched in his temple. “Have you gone deaf? Close your mouth and stop talking.” He pointed at the crowds of nobles and knights in the basilica. “And all of you, sheathe your swords. Now! If any man still has a drawn blade by the time I finish this sentence, by God I’ll have him hung.”

The rasp of steel on leather filled the hall as men scrambled to put away their weapons. Ridmark’s staff was not a blade, so he kept it in hand. Qhazulak did not lower his axe, but reversed the weapon, resting the blades upon the flagstone floor.

“Thank you for your consideration, my lords,” said Uthanaric, stalking back and forth along the dais. His right leg was stiff and rigid, and his boot heel and the cane in his left hand clicked against the stone floor with every rigid step. Ridmark had seen the High King many times before he had been banished, and he was struck by how much older Uthanaric looked. Uthanaric Pendragon had always possessed a peculiar sort of manic energy, and now it looked as if that energy was eating him out from the inside.

Ridmark wondered if the High King was sick.

A man in his late thirties emerged from behind the curule chair and took a discreet position with the Masters of the Two Orders. He looked a great deal like Arandar, if somewhat heavier. It was Kaldraine Pendragon, the crown prince, and he had a calmer disposition than his father. A few bolder men had whispered that they looked forward to the day when Kaldraine took the crown from his volatile father.

But today, Uthanaric Pendragon was the High King, and every eye was upon him.

“Dissension,” said the High King, still pacing back and forth. “This endless damned dissension. Tarrabus and Leogrance, you have been at each other’s throats since the news of the Iron Tower came to our ears. It has grown tiresome.” He stopped pacing and glared at both men. “Most tiresome!”

He stopped for a moment, scowling at everything.

“My lord High King,” said Tarrabus again.

“Quiet,” snapped Uthanaric. “Ridmark Arban! Come here.”

Ridmark blinked in surprise and started forward, the High King’s dark eyes glaring into him like daggers.

“My lord High King?” said Ridmark.

“It seems you have been the root of all our dissensions of late,” said Uthanaric. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“Dux Gareth and the Keeper speak truly,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus has abandoned the faith of the Dominus Christus for the shadow of Incariel. He sent assassins of the Red Family to kill me and the Keeper several times. Calliande is the Keeper of Andomhaim, and we face a deadly threat from the Frostborn,” he glanced at Tarrabus, “and from their allies within the realm.”

Tarrabus snorted. “A likely tale.”

“I did not give you leave to speak, Tarrabus,” said the High King without looking away from Ridmark.

“This is the truth,” said Ridmark.

Uthanaric snorted. “Of course it is.”

“I warned against the return of the Frostborn,” said Ridmark, looking over the nearby lords and nobles. “You all thought I was mad or deranged by grief. Yet I was right about the return of the Frostborn.” He looked back at the High King. “What else am I right about, my lord?”

To his surprise, Uthanaric laughed.

“This is ridiculous,” said the High King. “Both of you. This has been going on for ten years. I know the root of the conflict between you and Tarrabus.”

“What is that, my lord?” said Ridmark.

“Aelia Licinius,” said Uthanaric.

For a moment Ridmark was too surprised to speak.

“What?” said Tarrabus, his voice flat.

“You two fools,” said Uthanaric with a wave of his hand, “are just like Arthur Pendragon and Lancelot upon Old Earth, both of them lusting for the embrace of Guinevere.” He shook his head and started pacing again. “Aelia was your Guinevere, and still you compete for her, though the poor woman is five years in her grave. Nearly six years now, come to think of it. Gareth!” He looked at Gareth Licinius. “You should have married her to someone else, someone other than Ridmark Arban or Tarrabus Carhaine. Then we would not have all this damned dissension now.”

“Ridmark was a worthy match for her, my lord High King,” said Gareth, “and my daughter had her heart set upon him.”

Uthanaric gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “When has listening to a woman’s opinion brought anything but woe?” He glared at Ridmark once more, and then at Tarrabus. “I am tired of listening to this dispute, and I am tired of you dragging the rest of the realm into it. I will hear no more of the matter, and you shall not pursue it any further. The Frostborn have returned, and the realm requires unity to face them!”

“But the sack of the Iron Tower…” said Tarrabus.

“We shall discuss that,” snapped Uthanaric, “after the Frostborn have been defeated.”

Ridmark blinked in surprise. He had half-expected the High King to favor Tarrabus’s charges.

He had not expected the High King to do…nothing, really. Perhaps Uthanaric thought the threat of the Frostborn grave enough to make the Enlightened a secondary concern. If so, he was making a mistake. Tarrabus wanted the crown, and Ridmark had no doubt he would ally with the Frostborn if it gave him the throne of Andomhaim.

Would Uthanaric realize that before it was too late?

The High King paced back to the curule chair and sat down with a pained grunt, his right leg stiff before him. Kaldraine took a step towards his father’s side, but the High King waved him off.

“Now,” said the High King. “To other matters.”

###

Arandar watched his father.

His estranged father, in truth. Uthanaric Pendragon had never acknowledged Arandar, had never given Arandar anything. Arandar had labored for his position, serving the Dux of Durandis as a man-at-arms for years, finally earning a knighthood in battle against the Mhorites of Kothluusk and becoming a Swordbearer after Mhalek’s defeat.

In many ways, looking at his father was like looking at a stranger.

Yet Arandar was struck by the changes in the man. Uthanaric looked older, and tired, and perhaps a little ill. He was well into his sixties by now, and the strain of ruling Andomhaim had taken its toll. The scriptures said that the length of a man’s days was seventy years, or eighty if he had the strength, but Uthanaric looked as if he might not have the strength left to reach seventy years.

While it was sad that an old man would become sick and die, there was nothing unusual about it…but Arandar wondered if Tarrabus Carhaine had helped push the illness along. Once such a notion would have been unthinkable, but after what Arandar had seen and learned about the Enlightened of Incariel…

“The realm is in dire peril,” said Uthanaric, scowling at his nobles. “The Frostborn have returned. Once the High Kingdom defeated them, though at great cost. Yet we were unified then, free of this constant quarreling! My lords, you will set aside your differences and fight as one realm against one foe. Petty squabbling is a luxury indulged in summer. The winter has come, and we must fight or die.” He glared at Ridmark and Tarrabus in turn. “We can no longer afford a feud over a woman long dead.”

Arandar blinked. Could the High King really believe that was the root of the conflict? Was he truly that blind?

“Calliande of Tarlion,” said Uthanaric. “Approach me.”

Calliande walked to the dais, her face calm. Her clothes were unusual for a woman of Andomhaim, trousers and boots and a leather jerkin and a long green cloak, but she moved with the regality of a queen. It helped that she had donned that delicate bronze diadem she had found in Dragonfall, and the staff of the Keeper clicked against the floor with every step.

She bowed before the dais. “Lord High King.”

“You say you are the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Uthanaric without preamble. “From what I understand, the Magistri have a test to determine the truth of your claim. Will you submit to it?”

“I shall,” said Calliande.

“Master Kurastus,” said the High King, and the old Magistrius in the black cloak of the Master of the Order stepped forward, gazing at Calliande. “Perform your test immediately.”

If the old Master felt any discomfort at being ordered about like a servant, he kept it to himself. Likely he was used to Uthanaric’s brusque manner. Kurastus lifted his hand and cast a spell, white light blazing around his fingers. A rustle of unease went through the hall. Arandar had forgotten how the men of Andomhaim held magic in fear, how they regarded the Magistri with awe. He had seen so many colossal feats of magic in the last few months that he had become jaded. After watching the archmage Ardrhythain and the Warden of Urd Morlemoch unleash their titanic powers at each other, the Master’s spell seemed a simple thing.

On the other hand, given how many times Arandar had almost been killed by magic, maybe fear was the appropriate response.

The white light leapt from Kurastus’s hand and seemed to sink into Calliande’s head. She gazed at Kurastus without flinching, while the old Magistrius narrowed his eyes with concentration.

Then his eyes grew wide and he stepped back, the light winking out.

“So strong,” murmured Kurastus. “She is so strong…”

“Well?” said Uthanaric.

The Master of the Magistri shuddered and recovered himself. “My lord High King…I know not how, but the woman speaks the truth. She is the Keeper of Andomhaim, returned to us once more. I do not…”

“Splendid,” said Uthanaric, cutting off the Master. “One wonders what you were doing with yourself for the last two hundred and twenty years, my lady Keeper.”

“My lord High King,” said Calliande. “My work has been to prepare for this day. I knew that Tymandain Shadowbearer would summon the Frostborn back once more, so I founded the Order of the Vigilant to stand guard against their threat. I feared that the servants of Shadowbearer would corrupt the apprentices of the Keeper, so I put myself into a deep sleep, planning to awaken on the day of the omen of the blue fire, the day Shadowbearer could summon forth the Frostborn once more.”

Uthanaric raised his gray eyebrows. “It seemed you failed, my lady.”

“I fear so, my lord High King,” said Calliande without hesitation. “The Order of the Vigilant was destroyed, and I almost perished. Yet Ridmark Arban slew both Mournacht and Tymandain Shadowbearer upon the slopes of the Black Mountain. I thought that victory was ours…but Imaria Licinius forsook the Magistri and claimed the mantle and title of Shadowbearer for herself, and she opened the gate and summoned the Frostborn once more.”

“It seems, Gareth,” said Uthanaric, “that your youngest daughter is a traitor.”

The Dux of the Northerland’s face could have been carved from stone. “I saw the murder and treachery she worked with my own eyes, my lord. If she falls into my power, I will execute her myself.”

Arandar shuddered, Nyvane’s face flashing before his eyes. He tried to imagine killing his own daughter, and he could not. Even if she had committed crimes as black as those of Imaria Shadowbearer, Arandar could not bring himself to do it.

Gareth Licinius had good reason to look so grim.

“She became a traitor and a servant of dark powers,” said Calliande, “because she was lured into this corruption by Tarrabus Carhaine and the cult of the Enlightened.”

“A slander,” said Tarrabus with perfect calm. “The Keepers of old did not involve themselves in the politics of the realm, but Calliande has chosen to ally herself with Gareth Licinius. To cover Gareth’s failure with Imaria, she parrots the lies of Ridmark Arban.” He smiled at her. “Likely it is because of her own unrequited lust for the Gray Knight.”

Ridmark stirred at that, but Calliande did not even blink.

“Given your own affair with Imaria Licinius,” said Calliande, “that is a bold accusation to make, my lord Dux. Maybe your own caddish cruelty drove her to the Enlightened…”

“Enough,” snapped Uthanaric. “I care nothing for these sordid intrigues. The Keeper of Andomhaim you are, so execute your office. You shall have a voice in my councils, and you will help us to defeat the Frostborn.”

“I shall, my lord,” said Calliande. Her face gave no hint of her thoughts. Arandar found himself surprised as how quickly she had assumed a regal mien, but realized that he shouldn’t be. She had been the Keeper long before he had been born, and knew how to conduct herself around the lords of Andomhaim.

“Good,” said Uthanaric. “Now. Let us meet Queen Mara of Nightmane Forest.” He beckoned. “Please come forward.”

Mara walked towards the dais, a slight figure in blue dark elven armor, her pale blond hair and delicate features making her seem ethereal. Jager stayed at her side, and Qhazulak and a half-dozen Anathgrimm flanked her as she stopped before the dais. The nobles and knights stirred as the Anathgrimm approached, some of them reaching for their swords.

Uthanaric remained unperturbed. “I told you to come, Queen Mara. Not your soldiers.”

Qhazulak growled. “We guard the Queen, human king.”

“Even from me?” said Uthanaric.

“If necessary,” said Qhazulak.

Arandar expected the High King to take offense at that, but instead the old man threw back his head and laughed.

“Indeed?” said Uthanaric. “You are to be commended for your loyalty, Anathgrimm. Pity it is such a rare quality among humans.” He seized his cane and heaved himself to his feet, Excalibur tapping against his leg in its sheath. Again Kaldraine came forward to help his father, and again Uthanaric waved him off. Kaldraine stepped back, gripping the arm of the curule chair for a moment, and then returned to his previous position.

Arandar blinked. Was Kaldraine sick as well?

Uthanaric stopped at the edge of the dais, gazing down at Mara, who looked right back at up at him. Jager stared to say something, but Mara’s left hand twitched, and the halfling fell silent.

“You are,” said Uthanaric at last, “such a small thing.”

“It has proven useful on more than one occasion,” said Mara.

Uthanaric’s lip twitched. “You truly slew the Traveler?”

“I did,” said Mara. “I stabbed him in the back in Khald Azalar, and then cut his throat.”

“Why?” said Uthanaric.

“Because he was a monster,” said Mara. “Because he took my mother and made her a slave. Because he wanted to seize the power of the Keeper for himself. Because he was cruel beyond measure, and tormented generations beyond count, long before humans ever came to Andomhaim. Because I wanted to make right some of the evil that he worked.” She shrugged. “Also, he was trying to kill me and my friends at the time.”

A little ripple of surprised laughter went up from the nearest nobles.

“A good enough reason,” said Uthanaric. “How are you still alive, by the by? I was given to understand that a human with dark elven blood will inevitably become a monster.”

“This is so, my lord High King,” said Kurastus, gazing at Mara with a frown. “By rights, a woman of…ah, Queen Mara’s age should have become an urdhracos or an urshane by now.”

“Mara is something new, High King,” said Calliande. “When the darkness of her dark elven blood threatened to consume her, she instead mastered it. There has never been anyone else like her in the history of this world. Not even the Warden of Urd Morlemoch nor the archmage Ardrhythain himself knew what to make of her, and Mara’s cunning allowed us to escape from Urd Morlemoch.”

“You seem a singular woman, Queen Mara,” said Uthanaric. “Almost as singular as your Prince Consort.” He turned his hard gaze to Jager. “I have heard your name, Prince Consort Jager.”

Jager offered a florid bow to the High King. “My fame has spread far and wide, it seems.”

“As I recall,” said Uthanaric, “your father was executed for murder, and you burned down the domus of Sir Alan Tallmane in retaliation.”

“Those facts are entirely correct,” said Jager. “However, they are incomplete. Paul Tallmane murdered an innocent man. My father, to protect the noble family he loved, agreed to take the blame for the crime. In repayment, Sir Alan Tallmane had him executed to cover up his misdeeds. So in retribution for my father’s murder, I burned down Sir Alan's domus and robbed him. It seemed a small enough wergild for my father’s life. And given Paul Tallmane’s later crimes, if Sir Alan and Dux Tarrabus had managed even a modicum of concern for justice, much later evil would have been averted.”

An angry buzz came from the nobles, but to Arandar’s surprise, Uthanaric laughed.

“A blunt tongue you have, my prince of the halflings,” said Uthanaric.

Qhazulak grunted. “Unquestionably.”

“Keep him close, Queen Mara,” said Uthanaric.

Mara smiled. “I plan to.”

“The longer you wear a crown, the harder it is to find people brave enough to speak the truth,” said Uthanaric. “Join me upon the dais.”

Mara blinked, but climbed the steps, the High King towering over her like a craggy shadow. Uthanaric took Mara’s hand and half-bowed over it, planting a quick kiss upon her knuckles. Mara blinked in surprise, and Uthanaric straightened up and turned to address the hall.

“Let it be known,” said Uthanaric, “that this woman has done a tremendous service to the realm of Andomhaim. The Traveler and his warriors have been an enemy to the High Kingdom since time immemorial, and she has slain him and ended his wickedness at last. Not only that, but she has redeemed the Anathgrimm.” He looked at Qhazulak. “You considered killing yourself once the Traveler was dead, I assume?”

“We…pondered it, human king,” said Qhazulak. “We hated and feared the Traveler, but he was our god. Yet the Prince Consort offered us a new path forward, and the Queen agreed to serve as our Queen.”

“Did you?” said Uthanaric. “Clever.”

Jager smiled and offered another bow. “Well, I thought seeing several thousand Anathgrimm kill themselves in front of her might upset my wife, and no rational man wants an upset wife.”

“Indeed not,” said Uthanaric. He turned his gaze back upon the hall. “Let it be known that I, Uthanaric Pendragon, High King of Andomhaim and Lord of Tarlion, accept Queen Mara’s offer of alliance. I furthermore declare that she is my sister monarch, equal in rank and dignity to the kings of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk. I will not permit any attacks upon an ally of the realm,” he looked at Tarrabus, “nor upon her officers and magistrates. Such as her magister militum, to choose an example.”

“Thank you, lord High King,” said Mara. “That is…most gracious.”

Uthanaric snorted. “You have thousands of Anathgrimm at your command. Of course I shall be gracious. Please return to your Guard, Queen Mara. We have a war to plan.”

Mara hesitated, and then nodded and rejoined Jager and the Anathgrimm below the dais.

“The Frostborn are coming, my lord and knights,” said Uthanaric. He dropped back into the curule chair with a grunt, his stiff right leg stretched out before him. “We must meet them in battle and crush them. Furthermore, we must act now. If history is our guide, it will take the Frostborn some time to consolidate their conquests in the Northerland and prepare themselves to strike south.”

“You speak truly, my lord High King,” said Calliande. “If we are to defeat the Frostborn, it must be soon.”

“A council of war shall meet here tonight,” said Uthanaric. “We will plan our strategy against the Frostborn, and my Duxi shall attend me, as will the Prince of Cintarra and the Masters of the Two Orders. The Kings of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk are invited, as if the Queen of Nightmane Forest. Until then, I dismiss you from my presence. Attend to your vassals and men-at-arms, my lord. We shall soon march.”

Arandar hesitated, and then decided to act. Uthanaric had ignored him throughout the entire audience, and Arandar might never again have this chance.

“My lord High King!” called Arandar. “I beg leave to speak of a matter of grave import.”

Uthanaric turned a look of sheer irritation towards him, as did Prince Kaldraine.

“If anyone has earned the right to speak, it is Sir Arandar,” said Calliande. “He faced the Warden and the Traveler and Mournacht and Shadowbearer, and without his aid I would not have survived to address you today.”

Uthanaric sighed. “Very well. What is it, Sir Arandar?”

Part of Arandar raged that his own father would disregard him. He shoved aside the fury. It would do nothing to aid Accolon.

“My lord High King,” said Arandar. “As you will recall, my son was falsely accused of the murder of Sir Linus Rillon.”

“A vassal of mine,” said Tarrabus, “and your son struck the blow that slew him.”

“Aye, I deny it not,” said Arandar, “but my son acted to defend innocents from Sir Linus’s cruelty.”

“I recall the case,” said Uthanaric. “I believed Tarrabus agreed to abandon all charges if you returned alive from Urd Morlemoch with the lost soulblade of Judicaeus Carhaine.”

“I did,” said Arandar.

“Yet I see no soulblade,” said Tarrabus.

“Because I gave it to a worthy man,” said Arandar, “to make of him a Swordbearer in a desperate hour.” He beckoned and Gavin stepped forward, his eyes wide. “This is Gavin of Aranaeus, my lord High King. Even before I met him, he faced an urdmordar of the Wilderland armed with nothing but his courage and his wits, and helped the Gray Knight slay the creature. To escape from Urd Morlemoch, I bonded Truthseeker to him, and made him into a Swordbearer. He slew an urvuul in single combat, and has done deeds of great daring since.”

“Well, Sir Gavin,” said Uthanaric. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Gavin hesitated, and seemed to take a moment to collect his thoughts. “My lord…ah, it sounds more impressive than it really was. I started following the Gray Knight because I wanted to save my neighbors from the urdmordar Agrimnalazur. It…well, got out of hand after that. I did all those things Sir Arandar said, but I was scared out of my mind for most of it, and didn’t want to make a fool of myself.”

Laughter rang up, but it was good-natured. Nearly all of the nobles of Andomhaim had been in battle at one time or another, so they understood what Gavin meant.

“Many a great warrior would say as much,” said Uthanaric.

“It seems we have a new brother to welcome to the Order,” said the Master of the Order of the Soulblade, a hard-bitten old Swordbearer named Marhand. “Traditionally, such a time calls for a feast.”

Gavin’s eyes got wide at that.

“Though such formalities will have to wait until the Frostborn are defeated,” said Marhand.

“My lord High King, I have fulfilled this quest,” said Arandar. “I went into Urd Morlemoch and returned alive with Truthseeker. Now I demand that Dux Tarrabus keep his word, lift his charges against my son, and release him to me.”

“Well, Tarrabus,” said Uthanaric. “It seems you are bound by your given word. I suggest you keep it.”

“Of course, my King,” said Tarrabus. “Sir Arandar’s son remains in Tarlion. I shall send a message at once ordering his release.”

Arandar frowned. Nyvane and Miriam had said that Accolon was in the camp, and Arandar saw no reason to disbelieve them. He opened his mouth to protest, but Ridmark caught his eye and shook his head. If Tarrabus realized that Arandar knew that Accolon was nearby, the Dux of Caerdracon might murder the boy at once.

“Satisfied, Sir Arandar?” said Uthanaric.

“Yes, my lord High King,” said Arandar.

“How splendid,” said Uthanaric. “Ridmark Arban, I suggest you remain with the Anathgrimm. I will be displeased if you provoke further quarrels with Tarrabus and his men.”

Without another word, the High King staggered to his feet and disappeared through the door, the Crown Prince and the Masters and the other knights and men-at-arms following.

The audience was over.

Chapter 12: Nest of Vipers

Ridmark let out a long, ragged breath, preparing himself to fight.

It proved unnecessary.

He expected Tarrabus to protest, to take action, but the Dux of Caerdracon strode for the doors, his vassals and knights falling in around him. The Duxi who supported Tarrabus and their vassals followed as well, dispersing into the courtyard and heading back to their camps outside the walls of Dun Calpurnia.

There was a fight coming with Tarrabus, Ridmark knew…but it would not begin today.

Gareth conferred with Ridmark’s father for a moment, along with the Prince of Cintarra and the Dux Kors Durius of Durandis, a squat, paunchy man with a massive scowl behind his gray beard and arms that looked as if they could lift an anvil. At last Gareth nodded, and Leogrance Arban, the Prince, and the Dux of Durandis departed, joined by their men.

Ridmark looked at his father, but his father did not look back.

“What now?” said Caius.

“We ought to return to the Anathgrimm,” said Ridmark. He wanted to make sure that Miriam and Nyvane had reached the Anathgrimm safely, and they needed to prepare the Anathgrimm to act.

The crisis had not come today…but it would likely come tomorrow.

Especially since Ridmark’s own plans might trigger it.

“A moment,” said Calliande. “We need to confer with Dux Gareth before we proceed.”

She waited as the nobles filed out, leaving Ridmark alone with Calliande and Gareth and the others. Of course, with the Anathgrimm guarding Mara, they still made for quite a crowd.

“Mara,” said Calliande as Gareth and Sir Constantine moved to her side. “Can you ask the Anathgrimm to keep watch on the doors? We need to have candid words with the Dux, and I would rather we were not overheard.”

“Please do as she asks, Qhazulak,” said Mara.

The Champion of Nightmane Forest grunted, and gestured to his warriors. The Anathgrimm split up, moving to guard the main doors to the courtyard and the door behind the dais.

“That could have gone better,” said Gareth, shaking his head.

“It could have gone worse as well,” said Caius. “The High King could have favored Tarrabus, or refused to believe that Calliande was the Keeper, or ordered Ridmark’s execution, or rebuffed the friendship of Nightmane Forest.”

Qhazulak growled. “The human king would be a fool to rebuff the Queen’s friendship.”

“That, Lord Captain, is the infuriating thing about our High King,” said Gareth. “He is not a stupid man. He is neither a cruel nor a bad man. He is instead…”

“Moody?” suggested Jager.

“Mercurial,” said Kharlacht.

“And capable of refusing to see the obvious,” said Arandar in a quiet voice, “if he doesn’t want to see it.”

“At times his refusal to see the obvious beggars belief,” said Gareth. “The evidence against Tarrabus is tremendous. I have spoken against him. Comes Corbanic has spoken against him, as have a headman of Rhaluusk and Sir Marcast Tetricus. Hundreds of witnesses saw the Mhorites in Tarrabus’s domus at Coldinium, and there is the…proof of my own treacherous daughter. It is well known that she and Tarrabus were close,” his mouth twisted, “before she became the new Shadowbearer.”

“Yet the High King will only see it as two factions competing against one another,” said Caius. “All our proof, alas, is eyewitness accounts, and from men friendly to us. From Uthanaric’s viewpoint, it only seems that Dux Leogrance and Dux Tarrabus are the heads of hostile factions of nobles.” Caius shrugged. “I understand such things have happened several times before in Andomhaim’s history, and that accusations of demon-worship or consorting with the enemies of the realm are common in such contests. During the war of the five Pendragon princes a century past, or the war against the Eternalists a century and a half ago.”

“It is akin to when a chief of Vhaluusk has two headstrong warriors in his warband,” said Kharlacht. “The warriors might hate each other, but the chief will force them to work together under penalty of his wrath. Likely the High King sees himself fulfilling a similar role.”

“But this time my…the High King is simply wrong,” said Arandar. “Dux Leogrance and Tarrabus head opposing factions…but Tarrabus is the leader of the Enlightened. We have seen the havoc the Enlightened have worked.” Morigna’s unblinking eyes flashed through Ridmark’s mind, followed by a pulse of anger. “This is not a struggle against two factions who are nonetheless loyal to the realm. Tarrabus and his allies have betrayed both God and Andomhaim. I fear that the High King is a fool not to see it.”

“The High King,” said Calliande in a quiet voice, “is being poisoned.”

They all started at her in shock for a moment.

“Crown Prince Kaldraine as well, I suspect,” added Calliande.

“Can you prove this, my lady?” said Constantine.

“I fear not,” said Calliande. “Nonetheless I am certain of it. Among the dvargir, there is a rare poison called the shadow of sorrows…”

“The shadow of sorrows?” said Caius, surprised. “I know of it. It is exceedingly rare, and can easily cost ten thousand golden coins to prepare a single ounce.”

Calliande grimaced. “Yet it is worth the price to the poisoner. The poison is odorless and tasteless. Additionally, it is not magical. It is simply prepared from a variety of rare fungi and animals of the Deeps. No spell or test can detect it. It works very slowly, but is inevitably fatal. Before death, symptoms appear…loss of appetite, crippling cramps in the limbs, insomnia, loss of balance, and violent mood swings.” Calliande looked at Arandar. “The High King and Prince Kaldraine showed signs of some of those. The High King has lost weight since you last saw him, have you not?”

Arandar offered a hesitant nod. “He has. He was never…fleshy, but he has deteriorated since I departed Tarlion for Urd Morlemoch.”

Caius nodded as well. “I saw the High King before I left Tarlion for the Northerland. He seemed in better health before I departed.”

“Did you see how Crown Prince Kaldraine almost lost his balance a few times on the dais?” said Calliande. “I suspect that Tarrabus has just recently started administering the poison to him.” She let out a sigh. “I fear we must assume that the High King’s other two sons have been poisoned as well. If the High King has always been this irascible…”

“He has,” said Gareth, Caius, and Arandar in unison.

“If he has, then the poison would be seen as a natural disease,” said Calliande, “an ill-tempered man growing more ill-tempered as he ages.”

“And we already know,” said Jager, “that Tarrabus has allies among the dvargir. There were dvargir warriors guarding the soulstone and the Iron Tower, and the dvargir marched alongside Mournacht at Tymandain Shadowbearer’s call.”

“Arandar,” said Ridmark, his dark suspicions hardening further, “I must ask you a delicate question, but it is necessary.” Arandar nodded, his hand clenching near Heartwarden’s hilt. “Does the High King have any other bastard children that you know of? Or any of his sons?”

Arandar hesitated. “I do not believe so. I was an…indiscretion,” the word had a bitter twist in his mouth, “from before he assumed the crown. Evidently the matter taught him better self-control.”

“I know of no other bastards of the royal line,” said Gareth. “If they exist, they have been well-concealed.”

“Then Tarrabus has gathered every living member of the House of the Pendragons together,” said Ridmark, “where he can kill them all at once. That must be what he intends. He would have let the horrors of Urd Morlemoch kill Arandar, and then Accolon and Nyvane would conveniently disappear. The High King and his sons would die of the shadow of sorrows, and Tarrabus could seize the throne for himself.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Thank you,” said Arandar. “For sending Nyvane and Miriam to the Anathgrimm. I would not have thought of it. At least we can be sure the Enlightened have no infiltrators among the Anathgrimm.”

Qhazulak snorted. “Bah. We followed the Lord Traveler in all his majesty and terror. What could shadow-tainted humans offer us?”

“The High King saw the same facts that we do, Ridmark,” said Gareth, “yet he refuses to believe.”

“Then we must find proof, absolute and irrefutable proof,” said Ridmark. “And we must do it soon. If the army of Andomhaim goes into battle alongside the Frostborn with Tarrabus Carhaine it will be a disaster.”

“Tarrabus has but a tenth part of the realm’s strength at his command,” said Constantine. “Only six thousand men, against all the rest of the Duxi and Comites and knights.”

“Sixty men,” said Ridmark, “at the right place and the right time can turn the course of a battle.”

Constantine frowned. “True. And a serpent’s fangs can kill the strongest man…and in Tarrabus, the High King unknowingly holds a serpent to his chest.”

“How then shall we find such absolute proof?” said Kharlacht.

“It is simple,” said Ridmark. “We find and free Accolon.”

Arandar stirred. “I wish to save my son…but how will that give us proof?”

“Because,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus lied. He said that Accolon was still in Tarlion. Why say that?”

“To keep Accolon in his power, of course,” said Caius.

“Why bother?” said Ridmark. “He could have Accolon killed and say the boy suffered an accident, fell from his horse or slipped on the stairs. For that matter, Tarrabus had no reason not to send Accolon back to Arandar at once. If he let Accolon return to Arandar, he would know exactly where both Arandar and Accolon were, and could kill them both at leisure.”

Qhazulak scowled behind his mask of black bone. “This traitor lord would not wish for the boy to come under our protection.”

“True, but that is not the reason. When Tarrabus told the High King that Accolon was still in Tarlion, he didn’t know that we had sent Nyvane to the Anathgrimm,” said Ridmark. “Aventine and Caradog hadn’t had a chance to tell him yet.”

“Ah!” said Jager. “I understand. So the reason Tarrabus doesn’t want to release Accolon…”

“Is that Accolon knows something, or has seen something, that puts Tarrabus in danger,” said Ridmark. “Something that he doesn’t want us or the High King to learn.”

“If you are right,” said Arandar, his voice dark, “then it is in Tarrabus’s interests to kill Accolon as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Which is why we are freeing him tonight.”

“How?” said Arandar.

“We’re going to find him and break him out of wherever Tarrabus is holding him,” said Ridmark. “It has to be somewhere nearby.”

“There are five thousand people in the town,” said Gareth, “and nearly sixty or seventy thousand fighting men camped outside the walls. That is a vast host in which to find one boy.”

“I will ask one of Tarrabus’s knights,” said Ridmark.

“They will not be willing to speak,” said Kharlacht.

“I’ll ask forcefully, then.”

Calliande gave him a hard look. Likely she feared his rage would drive him to foolish recklessness, as it had in the burning ruins of Dun Licinia’s keep. Ridmark conceded that was a danger, but he felt in control of himself. The rage was always there, but now he felt…cold. Cold and clear and focused.

There were a lot of people who needed killing…and he might as well get started.

“You will not go alone,” said Arandar. “I will accompany you.”

“Of course,” said Ridmark. In truth, he would have preferred that Arandar remained behind. The Swordbearer had many virtues, but stealth was not one of them, and this task would require stealth. Still, Ridmark was going to rescue Arandar’s son, and there was no way Arandar would remain behind.

And if it came to a fight with the Initiated of the Enlightened and their shadow-powers, a man with a soulblade would prove useful.

“Good,” said Arandar.

“And Jager, too,” said Ridmark.

“Me?” said Jager, blinking. “Why me?”

“You’re the Master Thief of Cintarra,” said Ridmark. “You have the most experience breaking into places. Besides, you owe Tarrabus a debt of pain. How better to repay it than by foiling his plans?”

“I should come as well,” said Mara.

At once Qhazulak and the other Anathgrimm protested.

“No,” said Ridmark. “I would like your help, but I fear your place is with the Anathgrimm.”

“Fine,” said Jager. “But if we’re going to do this, then for God’s sake listen to me when I say something. In this kind of business, a sneeze at the wrong time or a half-second’s hesitation will mean death. If I warn you about something, listen to me. I’m not talking to amuse myself.”

“That would be a first,” said Kharlacht.

“Not when I’m working,” said Jager, as serious as Ridmark had ever seen him.

“Just you three, then?” said Calliande.

“A smaller group has a better chance of success in these matters,” said Jager.

“You realize,” said Gareth, “that if Tarrabus or his men capture you, he will execute you…and what is more, he will be able to justify it before the High King.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “It is a grave risk, but it is one we must take.”

“We shall simply have to follow the first law of all thieves,” said Jager.

“What is that?” said Gareth.

“Don’t get caught.”

Gareth snorted out a laugh.

“What of the rest of us?” said Calliande.

“Go to the High King’s council of war with Dux Gareth,” said Ridmark. He supposed that she should have been telling him what to do. She was the Keeper, after all, and he was a landless exile, even if Mara had made him the commander of her army. But old habits were hard to break. “Try to convince him to see reason, and do what you can to prepare the men for battle. Because I think the Frostborn will strike soon. They will not be idle. The gathered host of Andomhaim is our best chance to win a quick victory…but it is also their best chance to destroy the realm’s defenders in a single heavy stroke.”

“The Gray Knight speaks truth,” said Antenora. “The veil of the Frostborn has been moving steadily south. It blocks all Sight, so I know not what happens beneath it.”

“But the fact that the veil moves south,” said Kharlacht, “is a warning all of its own.”

“The orcish warrior is right,” said Antenora. “We escaped the foe at Dun Licinia, but he will not have forsaken his hunt.”

“Queen Mara,” said Ridmark. Mara blinked at him, surprised at his formal tone. “I suggest that the Anathgrimm camp to the southeast, between the town and the hills proper, and well away from the other camps. If the Frostborn come, they will likely march down the Moradel road, and the Anathgrimm can choose the best moment to intervene, as they did at Dun Licinia. If Tarrabus attempts some treachery, the Anathgrimm can react to that as well.”

“I agree with the Gray Knight’s counsel, my Queen,” said Qhazulak. “We should stand in readiness, prepared to take our foes in a moment of weakness.”

“So be it,” said Mara. “Best to keep the Anathgrimm away from the main camp anyway, I think. I do not want to have accidental quarrels.”

“If there are quarrels, my Queen, it shall not be the Anathgrimm who start them,” said Qhazulak.

Mara raised a pale eyebrow. “But you would end any such quarrels?”

“Violently.”

“You should camp well away from the main host, then,” said Caius.

“It will also make it harder for Tarrabus to get at Nyvane,” said Arandar.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “We should go immediately.”

“God will be with us,” said Caius, “for our cause is a just one.”

“I hope so,” said Ridmark.

“The Gray Knight, a Swordbearer, and the Master Thief of Cintarra,” said Jager with a flourish. “If we live through this, I hope someone make a song out of it.”

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark.

He wished Morigna were here. For one, her skills would have been well-suited to such a task. She had been able to move as stealthily as Ridmark or Jager, and her spell of sleeping mist would have dealt with any guards. If she helped Arandar rescue his son, she would never have let the Swordbearer hear the end of it…but she would have done it without hesitation.

Ridmark’s hand curled into a fist.

Morigna was not here. The Weaver and Imaria had killed her.

Ridmark would kill them…but since he could not find them, he would start with their allies.

Chapter 13: Council of War

As the sun set, Calliande prepared herself for the High King’s council of war.

The flustered-looking seneschal of Dun Calpurnia’s castra, a halfling man of middle years, had found Calliande a room atop one of the towers. A small army of halfling servants descended upon the room to make it ready, and Calliande accepted their labors with gratitude. A thousand different fears warred for attention in her mind – Tarrabus’s plans, the Frostborn, Imaria Shadowbearer, fears for Ridmark and her other friends.

Yet at the moment she could do nothing about those fears, and the past several weeks were a blur of fighting and blood and weariness. The halflings drew her a bath in a copper tub, and after Calliande thanked them and ushered them out of the room, she stripped off her travel-worn clothes and sank into the hot water with a sigh of relief. She washed the grime from her limbs and hair, and then dozed for a while in the hot water. When she awoke it was lukewarm, so she toweled off, lay upon the bed, and slept.

In the past, when she had slept, the spirit of the Watcher, her old mentor Marius, had counseled her. Yet no dreams came to her sleeping mind. Marius’s spirit had moved on to his eternal reward, and Calliande could ask no more of him. Nonetheless she wished she could have talked to him, or to Ruth, the woman who had borne the burden of the Keeper’s mantle before her.

She desperately craved their counsel…but both Ruth and Marius were long dead, and their duties had passed to Calliande.

The setting sun awoke her, and Calliande dressed for the council. The halfling servants had provided clothes, so Calliande chose a green dress that mostly fit her, leather boots and belt, and the bronze diadem of her office in her hair. With the staff in her hand, she examined her reflection in the mirror.

She no longer looked like a ragged wanderer, which was good, though she looked far too young to be the Keeper, even though she was hundreds of years old. She supposed care and worry would erode her youth soon enough. A pity that Ridmark wasn’t here to see her now that she had cleaned up. Of course, if he was here, she would have done more, would have donned jewelry and makeup, arranged her hair, maybe a dress both tighter and less conservatively cut…

God and the saints. The world was burning and she was thinking of…such things. What was wrong with her?

A wave of guilt went through her, and Calliande shoved all thoughts of Ridmark out her head.

She opened the door and stepped into the narrow hall to find Gavin and Antenora standing against the opposite wall, speaking in low voices.

“Were you waiting for me the entire time?” said Calliande.

Gavin looked at her, his brown eyes going wide.

“What is it?” said Calliande. “What’s wrong?” She turned, half-fearing to find a locusari scout or the Weaver or some other horror creeping through the window.

“Nothing,” said Gavin. “Nothing’s wrong.” His face started to turn red. “It’s just…well, I’ve never seen you in a dress before.”

Calliande blinked. “Really?” She supposed the last time she had worn a dress had been the day before she had left Dun Licinia in pursuit of Ridmark and Kharlacht, and that had been weeks before she had met Gavin for the first time. “I suppose you haven’t at that. How do I look?”

Gavin’s face got a little redder. “Good. Nice. Yes.”

“You’ve very kind,” said Calliande. He looked so embarrassed that she decided to change the subject. “I hope you weren’t waiting for me all afternoon.”

“Ah…Antenora thought it wise to stand guard,” said Gavin, recovering his poise. “Given how many people have tried to kill you. I wouldn’t put it past Tarrabus to send someone to slip a knife between your ribs.”

“I hope you got something to eat, at least,” said Calliande.

“I did,” said Gavin. “Antenora stood guard while I did.”

“I require neither rest nor sustenance,” said Antenora in her raspy voice, “and therefore can stand guard as long as required.”

“Any news?” said Calliande.

Gavin shook his head. “Nothing. The lords have started to gather for the council in the basilica.”

“The veil of the Frostborn has advanced further south,” said Antenora.

“How much further south?” said Calliande, drawing upon the Sight. The Sight was difficult to control, yet she drove it north, seeking for the Frostborn. For a moment the world seemed to spin around her, the Northerland laid out before her eyes like a map. The Sight revealed the veil of the Frostborn to her, a shimmering blue haze that seemed to cloak everything beneath it.

“Perhaps twenty miles,” said Antenora. “They are drawing closer.”

“Then they are preparing to attack us,” said Calliande, releasing the Sight. “That veil requires a great deal of power, and would be a challenge for even the Frostborn to hold. If they’re making the effort, then they are coming for us. The High King must be warned.”

She headed for the stairs. Gavin insisted on walking before her, which touched Calliande, and Antenora came behind. They descended to the courtyard and entered the great hall of the basilica. Already it was filling up with the lords and knights of Andomhaim. As before, the knights and lords supporting Tarrabus Carhaine were standing along the pillars on the right side of the hall, while those supporting Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance and their friends were upon the left. Though Calliande supposed that from the dais, Tarrabus would be on the left and Gareth and Leogrance on the right.

She dismissed the silly thought and walked into the hall.

“The council hasn’t started yet,” said Gavin. “The High King is late.”

“In gatherings of this nature,” said Antenora, a dry note in her voice, “it is impossible for the High King to be late. It begins when he arrives.”

For a moment Calliande paused, aware that many of the lords were staring at her. Where should she stand? As Keeper, her obligation was to protect the entire realm from dark magic. Yet she wanted to make it clear that she did not support Tarrabus Carhaine, that Tarrabus was an enemy of the realm, and…

Two men approached her, putting a sudden end to the political calculation.

One was stocky, strong, and gray-bearded, wearing the sigil and colors of Durandis over his plate armor. He was Kors Durius, Dux of Durandis, and Arandar had told her of his time serving under the Dux as a man-at-arms and then a knight.

With him came Leogrance Arban.

“My lady Keeper,” said Leogrance. Again his voice was so similar to Ridmark’s that it startled Calliande. “Thank you for joining us.”

“So you truly are the Keeper, then?” said Kors in his rumbling voice.

“I have that duty,” said Calliande.

“You knew my ancestor Morin, then,” said Kors. “He fought against the Frostborn.”

“I did,” said Calliande, remembering. “In truth, my lord, he looked a great deal like you.”

Kors let out a laugh at that. “The poor fool. Well, there are worse things than to resemble a famed ancestor.” He bowed over her hand and planted a brief kiss upon her knuckles, the bristly hair of his beard scratching against her skin. “If old Kurastus and Gareth say you are the Keeper, that is good enough for me. Though you are a pretty young thing. Hard to believe that you are so old.”

“I imagine,” said Calliande with a smile, “that with the cares of my office, I shall soon look even older than you.”

Leogrance smiled briefly at that, and Kors threw back his head and laughed.

“I like you,” he said, still chuckling. His amusement faded. “I must speak with the scouts before the High King arrives. Some of the enemy have been sighted north of Dun Calpurnia.”

Calliande frowned. “The locusari?”

“Those flying things?” said Kors. “Aye, we’ve been seeing them for days. Old Gareth’s idea of a bounty was a good one. The scouts have seen other things, though. Corpses with freezing hands, and those bear-creatures the histories spoke of…medvarth, I think they’re called.”

“The undead are revenants,” said Calliande, alarmed. The Frostborn only rarely used the medvarth for scouting, and they never used the revenants for anything except shock troops. If the scouts had seen both revenants and medvarth, that meant the Frostborn host was not far behind. “The Frostborn use their powers of ice magic to fill them with a terrible cold. Their touch can freeze a man’s blood in his veins.”

“Aye, some of the scouts returned with terrible wounds,” said Kors, “as if they had been frostbitten. It will be a dire thing to face a host of those creatures.”

“I may be able to help with that,” said Calliande, recalling one of her plans. “A protective spell, one to ward every fighting man of Andomhaim at once. I could not have cast it before,” she glanced at Antenora, “but things are different now.”

“Any aid would be welcome,” said Kors. “If you will excuse me, I must hasten.”

He departed, leaving Calliande, Antenora, and Gavin alone with Leogrance.

“I wish to ask you a question, my lady Keeper,” said Leogrance.

“Of course, my lord,” said Calliande.

“How is my son?”

Calliande blinked. She had not expected that, not after how Leogrance had ignored Ridmark at the audience.

“He is…in truth, he is not well, my lord,” said Calliande. “Physically, he is hale. Yet his mood is grim and full of wrath. He…suffered heavy losses, and his vengeance upon the enemies of Andomhaim will be terrible.”

The old man sighed. “He still mourns for his wife, then?”

“No,” said Calliande. Leogrance blinked in surprise, and Calliande amended her answer. “He always will, I think. A loss like that…it is like losing a limb. A man learns to live with the loss, but he shall never be the same.”

“I know it well,” said Leogrance. “My wife Tomia died when Ridmark was a child. Of all my sons, I think the loss hit him the hardest.”

Perhaps it had. Ridmark rarely spoke of his father and brothers. He had never, not even once, spoken of his mother.

“His grief was a madness in him,” said Calliande. “Yet he moved beyond it, I think. He met another woman during our travels, a woman of the Wilderland named Morigna. Ridmark fell in love with her, and Imaria Shadowbearer murdered her to spite him. He has not been the same since.”

Leogrance closed his eyes for a moment. “That he should have to endure such a loss twice is an ill thing. What do you think of him, Keeper? I ask for the truth.”

Calliande hesitated, unsure of how to phrase her thoughts about Ridmark.

“He…is brave, my lord,” said Calliande. “Perhaps the bravest man I have ever met. He does not give up, not for anything, not ever. Before the Iron Tower, Mara had despaired of life, and we despaired with her. Ridmark refused to hear of it. Because of his wisdom, Mara was transformed, and she slew the Traveler and liberated the Anathgrimm from their bondage. So much evil was averted because of him.”

“My lord,” said Gavin, hesitant. “It is not my place to speak, but…”

“You are a Swordbearer and you returned from the shadows of Urd Morlemoch,” said Leogrance. “If that does not give a man the right to speak, then nothing does.”

“I saw Ridmark kill an urdmordar, my lord,” said Gavin. “Without a soulblade or any magic. He outwitted her and killed her.”

“It is rare for even a lone Swordbearer to defeat an urdmordar,” said Leogrance.

“He did it,” said Gavin, “and I’ve followed the Gray Knight ever since.”

“He killed Mournacht of Kothluusk and Tymandain Shadowbearer, at the very moment of Shadowbearer’s triumph. He saved my life,” said Calliande. “On the day I awoke, before I recovered my memories and powers. He saved me from the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, and countless other times. The only reason I am still alive today is because of Ridmark Arban.”

“You think most highly of him, then,” said Leogrance.

“I do,” said Calliande.

“She loves him,” said Antenora in a quiet voice.

Calliande glared at Antenora, furious and embarrassed that the ancient sorceress would reveal that secret. Of course, Calliande supposed it was obvious to anyone who had eyes.

“They all do,” said Antenora. “All those who travel with him. I am very old, my lord, and I have seen it before, though not often. The Gray Knight saved them, so the Keeper and the dwarven friar and the master thief and Gavin Swordbearer all follow him. He has a genius for war. It is well that he is on your side. If he had a mind to do so, he could lay Andomhaim waste, or present it as a gift to the Frostborn.”

“He was a bold child,” murmured Leogrance, his lined face distant with memory, “and he took to the sword like a bird to the air. He became a Swordbearer at eighteen, and slew an urdmordar not soon after. In the village of Victrix, as it happens, not far from where we now stand. After he was banished, I feared I would never see him again…but it seems he has done great deeds nonetheless.”

“You should speak with him, my lord,” said Calliande. “It would hearten him. I know he was glad to see Tormark.”

“I cannot,” said Leogrance. “The Dux of Taliand may not speak with a branded exile.”

“His banishment was unjust,” said Calliande. “Tarrabus saw him as an enemy, and he wanted Ridmark out of the way. So he used Ridmark’s guilt over Aelia’s death as a club against him. Surely you can see that.”

“I do,” said Leogrance, “but it matters not. The Duxarchate of Taliand is the oldest in the High Kingdom, and the Dux of Taliand was the first vassal created by the High King. The Dux of Taliand must uphold the laws and traditions of the realm of Andomhaim, regardless of the cost.” He offered a short bow. “If you will excuse me, my lady Keeper.”

Leogrance turned and walked to join Prince Cadwall of Cintarra, and Calliande let out a long sigh.

“A stubborn man,” said Antenora.

“Ridmark slew an urdmordar, Mournacht, and Shadowbearer himself,” said Gavin, incredulous. “What more would he have to do for his father to speak with him? Capture all the thirteen moons and make them into a necklace?”

“Perhaps we can see,” said Antenora, “from where our Gray Knight inherited his implacable resolve.”

Calliande shook her head, and a group of Anathgrimm entered hall, Qhazulak and Zhorlacht at their head. Mara walked between them, and for a moment Calliande did not recognize her. She had donned dark elven armor of blue steel, overlapping plates and a skirt of mail than hung to her knees. A black-trimmed blue cloak hung from her shoulders, and a sword and dagger rested at her belt, her boots fashioned of gleaming black leather. Upon her blond hair rested a diadem of dark elven steel, adorned with miniature daggers, so it looked as if Mara wore a crown of blades. A choker chain of silver encircled her throat, holding a sapphire the size of a small egg in the center.

She looked exactly the way some dark elven queen of old might have looked (albeit shorter), save for the wooden cross she wore from a cord around her neck, stark and simple against her elaborate armor.

“Impressive armor,” said Calliande.

Mara sighed. “It is a bit much, isn’t it? Zhorlacht suggested it. Since I am the Queen of Nightmane Forest, I suppose I ought to look the part. Given that I’ve spent most of my life trying to remain inconspicuous, it will take some time to get used to the idea.” She fingered the cross as Caius and Kharlacht came up behind her. “Thankfully Caius was able to make this for me.”

“These princes and lords should know that you are the Queen of the Anathgrimm,” said Qhazulak.

“Especially,” said Zhorlacht, his smooth voice a contrast with Qhazulak’s rough rasp, “since you could kill most of them in the space of three heartbeats.”

“It hardly seems wise to remind them of that,” said Mara.

Zhorlacht shrugged, his armor creaking against the bone spikes on his forearms. “Yet they carry their swords, do they not? What is that, if not a promise of violence?”

Qhazulak shook his head. “You always think too much.”

“The child,” said Calliande.

“Safe within the camp,” said Mara. “Along with Lady Miriam. I suspect the Anathgrimm scare her half to death, but she’ll get used to it. We camped southeast of the town, as Ridmark advised.”

“Good,” said Calliande. “Whatever happens, we may need the aid of the Anathgrimm in a hurry. Any news from Jager?”

“No,” said Mara.

Calliande nodded, trying to ignore the flicker of fear that went through her. Ridmark, Arandar, and Jager had disappeared together, following Ridmark’s plan to free Accolon and find evidence of Tarrabus’s crimes. Calliande hoped that Ridmark knew what he was doing. Once, she would have been certain of that. After what Morigna’s death had done to him, after his mad charge into that burning keep…she was not so sure.

No. Ridmark would not throw away his life. Not until he had his chance for vengeance upon Imaria and the Weaver.

She wished he could find something else to live for.

“Here he comes,” murmured Mara.

Tarrabus Carhaine and his allies entered the basilica, taking their previous places. Tarrabus glanced at Calliande as he passed, his eyes lingering upon her for a moment, and then looked away. As he did, a young knight in Pendragon colors stepped upon the dais.

“Hearken!” the knight shouted, his voice ringing through the basilica. “Uthanaric Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim and the Lord of Tarlion, comes! Let his lords attend him, that we may plan for the defense of the realm and victory over our enemies.”

Everyone in the hall knelt, and the High King’s knights and men-at-arms moved onto the dais, followed by the Masters of the Two Orders. Uthanaric Pendragon himself entered a moment later, limping and leaning upon his cane. He dropped into the curule chair with a scowl, Kaldraine and his other two sons taking position behind him, and gestured for the nobles to rise.

As she rose, Calliande’s mind sorted through possible plans. There had to be a way to warn the High King of Tarrabus’s treachery. She considered denouncing Tarrabus to Uthanaric at once, telling the High King that Tarrabus had been poisoning him.

Except…there was no way to prove it. Not unless Ridmark returned with proof.

It was so damnably clever. The shadow of sorrows must have cost Tarrabus a fortune, but he had put it to good use. The poison was impossible to detect, and since it was impossible to detect, it was impossible to prove to the High King. Worse, it was difficult to heal its results through magic, so Calliande simply couldn’t walk up to the High King, heal him, and use the results as proof.

And if she accused Tarrabus, she knew exactly how the conversation would play out. Tarrabus would claim that she was a supporter of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance, and that she was abusing her office as Keeper to speak calumnies against him. Or he would claim that she was so besotted with Ridmark that she would say any lie in support of him.

Worse, the High King would believe him. Cynical and jaded by decades of court politics, he would assume that anything Calliande said was part of Dux Gareth’s maneuvering against Tarrabus. It was maddening. The realm needed to stand unified against the Frostborn…and Tarrabus would use that need for unity as a shield to protect himself.

It was maddening…but not surprising. Calliande supposed that politics was the curse of humanity. One of the ancient authors of Old Earth had claimed that if Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great had put aside their differences and joined forces, they could have conquered the entirety of Old Earth for the Empire of the Romans. Perhaps Ridmark and Tarrabus could have done the same.

Yet Calliande was certain that neither Julius Caesar nor Pompey the Great had served powers as dark as the shadow of Incariel.

The High King’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“Thank you for coming, my lords,” said Uthanaric. He tapped Excalibur’s pommel for a moment. “It seems that we have a battle to plan. Dux Kors?”

Kors Durius stepped forward. “My lord High King, my scouts have returned. They report that a great mass of these bear-creatures…”

“Medvarth,” said Uthanaric. “Let us call our foes by their names.”

“These medvarth,” said Kors, “advance south along the Moradel road. My scouts have seen undead with freezing hands in the woods, and drakes circling overhead. It seems clear the Frostborn are marching south in haste to bring us to battle.”

“They must be fools,” said Master Kurastus of the Magistri, shaking his gray-haired head. “The entire strength of the realm has gathered here.”

“Either they are fools,” said Master Marhand of the Order of the Soulblade, “or they believe they can crush the entire strength of the realm in a single blow.”

“They could, my lords,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn invaders are not yet as strong as they were in the days of your fathers. The army that seized Dun Licinia and advances against you is but the vanguard of their force. They will be formidable, but by the mercy of God we can overcome them. We must seize their world gate before they can summon reinforcements, or we shall face another fifty years of war.”

Or a far shorter war, one that would end with the Frostborn crushing every last trace of resistance.

“The Keeper speaks the truth, my lords,” said Gareth. “I have seen this army, and it is the Northerland that has borne the brunt of the fighting so far. I believe we can prevail, though it shall take the entirety of our strength. And if the Frostborn have come for us, they have the opportunity to crush us…but we, in turn, have the opportunity to crush them. Had they withdrawn into the citadels they constructed near Dun Licinia, we would have laid siege for months, long enough for their reinforcements to arrive. Now, at least, we have the chance for victory.”

“Do we, though?” said Prince Cadwall. He spoke Latin with the same flourish as Jager. Calliande wondered if Jager had consciously copied the Prince’s oratorical style, or if he had adopted a Cintarran accent while living in the city. “We are all experienced in war, my lords, and we know that in battle victory comes to the man who takes the initiative. The Frostborn are taking the initiative. Are we walking into a trap?”

“The Frostborn have indeed taken the initiative,” said Uthanaric, “but an advantage also lies with the defender. More, we have time to pick ground of our choosing, and shape the battlefield to our advantage.” His dark eyes turned to Calliande. “My lady Keeper, is it true that the medvarth detest water?”

“They do,” said Calliande. “They are capable of swimming, but their great bulk makes it difficult, and they always wear heavy armor in battle.”

“The bulk of the Frostborn force,” said Uthanaric, “is these medvarth creatures?”

“Most likely,” said Calliande. “They have other servants, but the medvarth form most of their infantry.”

“That is our advantage” said Uthanaric. “The River Moradel is broad and deep here, and five miles to the north the road bends to follow a curve in the river. Our army shall depart Dun Calpurnia and march five miles north, and there construct earthworks and fortifications while the horsemen move into the hills. When the Frostborn attack, the footmen shall hold them at the fortifications, while the horsemen charge from the hills. We will push the medvarth onto the bend, trapping them with water on three sides, and slaughter them or drive them into the river.”

Calliande considered the plan, looking for risks. In truth, it was a good plan, one that exploited the weakness of the medvarth, maybe the only weakness of the medvarth, and turned it to Andomhaim’s advantage. Yet she saw numerous things that could go wrong, but before she could speak, the nobles began to point them out.

“What of the sorcery of the Frostborn?” said Leogrance. “All the histories agree that the Frostborn wielded terrible spells of ice and cold, and Dux Gareth’s vassals and knights confirm it. How shall we protect ourselves against those spells?”

“Over a thousand Magistri accompany our host,” said Uthanaric. “Their attention shall be upon warding and defense, as it was during the realm’s campaigns against the urdmordar in centuries past. The Frostborn are individually powerful, but scores of Magistri working in harmony can counter their magic.”

“The Frostborn will almost certainly know what we intend,” said Gareth. “Likely their locusari scouts are overflying our camps even now.”

“Beyond all doubt,” said Uthanaric. “However, we likewise know what our enemies plan. They will come to us, and therefore we shall have ample opportunity to make ready for them.”

“What of the frost drakes?” said Joram Agramore, standing next to Gareth. “They are dangerous foes, and we have no way to counter them.”

“Such beasts are vulnerable to arrows, as are wyverns and fire drakes,” said Uthanaric. “We shall lose some men to their attacks. That is simply the nature of war. Yet our Swordbearers are practiced in dealing with such threats.”

“I shall keep the Swordbearers in reserve, concentrated to strike at once to attack any powerful threat,” said Master Marhand. Tarrabus frowned a little at that, but his expression soon returned to its neutral mask. “Should it be necessary to fight the frost drakes, or individual Frostborn themselves, the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade are the best able to handle such foes. Our soulblades will protect us from their power.”

Calliande nodded. She had seen what teams of Swordbearers could do. Gavin and Arandar together had defeated Rhogrimnalazur at Urd Cystaanl, though Calliande had helped them. A hundred Swordbearers could stand against an army, and even Tymandain Shadowbearer had not been able to save himself from a soulblade.

The Frostborn would be no different.

“No one doubts the prowess of the Swordbearers,” said Dux Kors. “Yet we face not a few creatures of powerful magic, but many. These cold undead, these revenants, trouble me. If the histories are true, we once faced thousands of them.”

“Tens of thousands,” said Calliande, shuddering a little at the memory.

“These creatures can kill with a touch, freezing the blood of an armored man in his veins,” said Kors. “How can we face so many? Would the Magistri be able to shield the entire army from their power?”

“They could not,” said Calliande, “but I can.”

Every eye in the hall turned towards her.

“How?” said Uthanaric. “If I recall, the Keeper was unable to provide any such protection during the last war with the Frostborn.”

“My predecessor could not,” said Calliande, “and I could not, but with the aid of my apprentice, I can.” She gestured at Antenora. “This is Antenora. In ancient days she was the apprentice of the Keeper upon Old Earth. Cursed by the dark magic of Mordred Pendragon, she has spent centuries seeking to cross the dark places between the worlds to rejoin the Keeper.”

That was all she wanted to tell the lords of Antenora’s history. Calliande trusted her apprentice, but if Tarrabus learned Antenora had once wielded dark magic, he would use that against her.

“Is this true?” said Uthanaric.

Antenora reached back with her free hand and drew back her hood, revealing her gaunt, gray face, her brittle black hair, and her harsh yellow eyes.

“It is, High King,” said Antenora. “I failed to accompany the Keeper and Malahan Pendragon to Andomhaim, and I have regretted it every day of every year since. At last I found a way between the worlds, and I now seek to redeem my failures at the side of the Keeper.”

“Indeed,” said Uthanaric. “Then you truly walked under the sun of the Old Earth?”

“I did,” said Antenora. “For long centuries. I spoke with your distant ancestor, Arthur Pendragon, the High King of Britannia. I saw the splendor of his court and the valor of his knights. I saw the treachery of Lancelot and Guinevere tear the court apart, and I saw Mordred Pendragon deal the fatal blow.” She let out a long, weary sigh. “It was so long ago, and I have seen so many wars and kingdoms and empires since. So very many.”

“Well and good,” said Uthanaric. “Any ally is welcome in these dark times. How, though, can your apprentice assist us?”

“Antenora has lived for over a thousand years, cursed by dark magic to never die,” said Calliande. “In that time, she has developed her skill with the magic of elemental fire to unmatched levels. Even I could not match her in a contest of fire, and nor could any of the other Keepers. By contrast, the Frostborn wield the power of elemental ice and cold. With Antenora’s skill joined to the power of the Keeper, together we can cast a ward that will shield every fighting man in the army from the cold.”

“Truly?” said Uthanaric, leaning back in the curule chair.

“Yes,” said Calliande. “It shall take some time to prepare. Nor will it provide complete protection from the power of elemental ice. The spells of the Frostborn will still kill, and the icy breath of the frost drakes will still wound. Yet the ward will provide some protection, and it should protect the men from the freezing touch of the revenants.”

“Good,” said Uthanaric. “Very good. As I understand, the Frostborn typically used their revenants as fodder, driving them against stronger enemy forces to weaken them.”

“They did, lord High King,” said Calliande. “But if the men are shielded from their freezing power, the revenants will lose much of their effectiveness.”

“Good,” said Uthanaric again. “How soon can you work the spell?”

“Dawn tomorrow,” said Calliande.

“Do so,” said Uthanaric. “My lords, you have heard my will. Make your men ready. Tonight we shall gather in Dun Calpurnia’s church, to seek the blessing of God before we go into battle. Tomorrow we shall march to the bend of the Moradel and make ready to meet the enemy.”

Without another word Uthanaric rose, leaning upon his cane, and limped through the door behind the curule chair. The Masters and his knights and men-at-arms followed him, and the lords began streaming through the double doors, pouring out into the courtyard.

All except Tarrabus Carhaine.

The Dux of Caerdracon walked alone to the stairs to the balcony overlooking the basilica’s hall. He vanished up the stairs as Calliande watched.

Where was he going? Perhaps to meet with one of his allies. Perhaps he wanted to be alone to think. Calliande was sure that no one was up there.

Perhaps…

Was it too late for him?

Could he yet turn back from his path? She thought again of that ancient writer, of his speculation of what Caesar and Pompey might have done if they had put aside their enmity and worked together.

It was a ridiculous thought. Tarrabus was the leader of the Enlightened. He had chosen his path, and had more crimes to his name than Calliande could count.

But if he did repent, if he did turn aside from his path…how much evil could yet be averted?

Calliande decided that it was worth the risk.

“Come with me,” she murmured to Antenora and Gavin, heading towards the stairs leading to the balcony.

Chapter 14: Questions and Answers

“Burn with me,” murmured the woman’s voice, beautiful and alien and melodious and terrifying.

Ridmark stood in the hall of glowing white stone. The woman waited before the dais, gowned in fire, her eyes burning with the same flame. The heat of it beat upon his face, heating his dark elven armor against his clothes like a pan lifted from an oven. It should have been painful. Part of his mind noted that it was painful, that he really ought to move before the heat blistered his skin and cooked him inside his armor.

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

The fire held his attention. He had a vision of holding it, of using it to make the world clean, sweeping away the Frostborn and the Enlightened of Incariel in a single terrible blow.

“Burn with me,” whispered the woman. One minute she was Morigna, the next Aelia, the next Calliande. Yet the fire in her eyes never changed, nor did the flames she wore in lieu of clothing. “Take me and burn with me.”

“She’s chosen you, boy, I’m sure of it,” said the old knight upon the throne. He gave a tired shake of his head. “I’m sorry about that, truly. It’s a heavy burden, and she might burn you to ashes. It was never meant to pass to mortal men like you and me. But there was no one else, was there? The proper bearers are all dead. We acted when no one else would. I suppose that’s why she chose me, and why she’s chosen you now.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ridmark.

“You’d better figure it out soon,” said the old knight. “This war has been going on since long before you and I were born, but the next battle’s going to begin very soon. You’re right in the center of it.” He grunted and scratched at his chin. “Figure it out soon, or you won’t even have a chance to burn.”

“Burn with me,” murmured the woman, opening her arms to him.

Fire exploded in all directions…

“Ridmark,” said a man’s voice, harsh and weary.

The fire transmuted the walls into red gold, gleaming and molten-hot…

“Ridmark,” said the man again. “Jager’s back.”

Ridmark opened his eyes.

For a moment he could not remember where he was or how he had gotten there. He lay wrapped in a dusty brown cloak, the setting sun throwing long shadows through the rows of tents. Arandar squatted next to him, one hand on Heartwarden’s hilt, which sent a stab of pain through Ridmark’s head. Jager stood a few paces away, a bundle of cloth under one hand, a brown cloak pulled up over his head.

Clarity returned through the confusion, the echoes of the strange dream fading away. Ridmark and Arandar and Jager had disguised themselves, moving through the camp of the Dux of Calvus, which was right next to the camp of Tarrabus Carhaine and his men. Ridmark had sent Jager off to find a few things and follow a man. Since there had been nothing better to do until Jager returned, Ridmark had laid down next to a wagon to rest until the halfling returned.

Evidently he had been more tired than he had thought.

“Bad dreams?” said Jager.

Ridmark got to his feet, leaning a little on his staff. “Are there any other kind?”

He tried to recall the dream, but it faded from his thoughts.

“Did you get them?” said Arandar.

“I did.” Jager grinned and unfurled the bundle, revealing two of the blue tabards worn by the men-at-arms of Tarrabus Carhaine.

“Were you seen?” said Ridmark.

“Of course I was seen,” said Jager. He changed his voice, putting on the diffident tone of a halfling servant. “Pardon, madam, but my master wishes tabards for his men-at-arms, and has sent me to fetch them.” He shrugged and handed the tabards to Ridmark and Arandar. “That’s the problem with you nobles. Halfling servants are invisible to you. I swear, we could decide to knife the lot of you in your sleep, and you wouldn’t see it coming.”

Arandar snorted as he pulled on the tabard. “I thought that was your wife’s job.”

Jager shrugged. “She has the Anathgrimm to do that for her now.”

“Did you find him?” said Ridmark, pulling on his own tabard. It was a bit large for him, but that was just as well, since it helped conceal the dwarven war axe and Morigna’s dwarven dagger at his belt.

“Easily,” said Jager. “He was exactly where you said he would be.”

“Sir Aventine Rocarn,” said Ridmark, “struck me as a very predictable man.”

“How did you find the brothel?” said Arandar.

Jager rolled his eyes.

“You, Prince Consort, are a married man,” said Arandar.

“Happily, too,” said Jager. “But I’m a man of business, and whores follow every army that ever marched. I suppose it is simply one of those immutable laws of nature, like water running downhill.”

Once again Ridmark wished that Morigna were here, if only because her barbed remarks often put a stop to Jager’s penchant for philosophizing.

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark. “Jager, lead the way. If anyone asks…”

“I know,” said Jager, adjusting his hood. “You are two Carhaine men-at-arms, and I am your halfling servant.” He flourished his cloak. “Do I look servile enough?”

“I’m tempted to ask you to do my laundry,” said Arandar, “though I shudder to think of what you would do to it.”

“Let’s not find out,” said Ridmark. “Go.”

He headed into the camp, Arandar and Jager following him. Ridmark had spent a lot of time marching with Dux Gareth’s men-at-arms and knights as a younger man, and he had learned that the camp of a large army was almost always the same. There were the rows of tents, the air heavy with the smells of wood smoke and horse droppings and unwashed bodies. Men-at-arms and knights stood before their tents or sat around campfires. The diligent ones prepared their weapons and armor for the coming battle, cleaning and sharpening and oiling their equipment. The less diligent ones played games of cards and dice, laughing and jesting and drinking. Ridmark wondered how many of them had sworn to the Enlightened of Incariel.

He wondered if he would have to kill any of them before this was over.

Just as every large army had a camp, so too did it have camp followers. There were always men looking to sell things to the soldiers, whether food or drink or gambling or things they could not obtain from the quartermaster, and invariably a tent housing a tavern and brothel appeared outside the camp. Prudent commanders, Ridmark had noted, usually turned a blind eye, though he could imagine what Calliande thought.

On the other hand, Calliande had been in as many battles as Ridmark had, maybe more.

They left the camp proper, moving past Dun Calpurnia and towards the hills of the Northerland as the sunset gave way to dusk. Ridmark spotted the camp of the Anathgrimm perched upon a hill, ringed with an earthwork ditch and lined with sharpened wooden stakes. The Anathgrimm warriors worked with the speed and focus of bees when they put their minds to it, and it had taken them less than an hour to raise a fortified camp worthy of the legions of the Empire of the Romans upon Old Earth.

He saw Arandar staring at the camp, his expression distant.

“She will be safe there,” said Ridmark.

“I know,” said Arandar. “Nonetheless, I wish I was with her, or she with me. You never had children, did you?”

“No,” said Ridmark. It was not a topic on which he wished to dwell. Both Aelia and Morigna had died before the opportunity had come.

“When I was a young man I wished to win renown and glory,” said Arandar. “Then my son and daughter came…and I wished for them to live in peace and plenty. That was why I went to Urd Morlemoch. Not for my own glory. For my children’s lives”

“Maybe they will have the chance to live in peace when this is all over,” said Ridmark.

Southwest of the town stood a ragged, haphazard collection of tents, pavilions, and wagons. The camp followers had set up shop here, and the scent of cooking food and cheap wine came to Ridmark’s nostrils. Firelight spilled into the night from the tents, along with the sound of raucous laughter and music. A cold-eyed woman with a tight dress and a wide smile stood before a tent, and she met Ridmark’s gaze, strutting a little as if displaying herself to him. For a moment he considered hiring her for an hour, to see if the experience would make him forget, if only for a little while.

Then he thought of Morigna again, and he felt cold and tired.

Ridmark walked on without stopping.

“There,” said Jager, pointing at a large pavilion. “That’s the tent.”

“Wait here,” said Ridmark.

He lifted the pavilion’s flap and ducked inside. At once the smell of beer and burnt bread assaulted his nostrils. Rows of benches and rough-hewn tables had been set up, and men-at-arms and militiamen sat at the tables, drinking and eating. A few of them had women upon their knees. Ridmark spotted Sir Aventine Rocarn at once. The black-bearded knight had not one but two whores upon his lap, a drunken smile on his face. A sour-faced man in an apron was the proprietor, and he scowled at a trio of beleaguered-looking halfling servants who scurried back and forth from the back entrance with trays of food and drink. Likely the proprietor had built himself a cooking fire there.

Ridmark stepped back outside before anyone could notice him.

“Is he still in there?” said Arandar.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “You know what to do.”

Jager sighed, rolled his wrist with a flourish, and produced a small scroll. “Let’s get this over with.” In addition to his other skills, Jager had a knack for forgery. He held a “letter” from Master Kurastus of the Order of the Magistri, commanding Aventine’s presence at once. Sir Aventine might have been a cruel man, and unless Ridmark missed his guess he was one of the Enlightened, but even he would not dare refuse a summons from the Master of the Magistri.

Ridmark jerked his head to the side as Jager disappeared into the tent, and Arandar nodded. Together they moved further into the ramshackle little camp, ducking into an aisle between two smaller tents. Ridmark adjusted his grip upon his staff and waited, Arandar drumming his fingers on Heartwarden’s pommel. A moment later Jager emerged from the tent.

“He tried to hit me,” said Jager, “and he didn’t even give me a tip. Appalling behavior.”

“Is he coming?” said Ridmark.

“Oh, yes,” said Jager. “He read the message, and looked properly afraid for a moment. Probably wonders if the Master of the Magistri realized that he was Enlightened.”

“Get ready,” said Ridmark.

A short time later Aventine emerged from the tent, red-faced and sweating and weaving a bit as he walked. He was thunderously drunk, which was all for the better. The knight strode forward, cursing under his breath, and Ridmark stepped forward and thrust his staff across Aventine’s shins. The knight lost his balance and fell, an expression of near-comical surprise on his face as he landed hard upon his belly.

At once Jager sprang upon his back, stuffing a gag into Aventine’s mouth and pulling a rough bag over his head. Aventine shuddered, trying to recover his balance, and Arandar grabbed Aventine’s wrists and pulled them into the small of his back. Jager tied Aventine’s wrists together, and Ridmark knelt upon the back of Aventine’s legs and bound his ankles, tying the knots as tightly as he could over the knight’s heavy boots.

Aventine screamed, but the gag and the bag did an excellent job of muffling his cries for help, and the noise from the pavilions drowned out the rest.

“If he gets sick into his gag,” said Jager, getting to his feet, “I am not cleaning it up. I want you both to understand that.”

“I’ve never kidnapped a man before,” said Arandar.

Ridmark forced Aventine’s knees back until his heels rested against the back of his thighs. Jager stooped and knotted the ropes together, leaving Aventine hog-tied. “If you were willing to go to Urd Morlemoch to save your son, kidnapping a man seems easy enough by comparison.”

“Faultless logic, really,” said Jager.

Ridmark slung his staff over his shoulder and grabbed Aventine by the elbows. Arandar took his knees, and together they lifted the screaming man, the gag and the hood muffling his cries.

“Now what?” said Arandar.

“This way,” said Ridmark, and they hastened into the hills and the concealing shadows of their trees.

No one noticed their departure.

###

Ridmark yanked the bag from Aventine’s head.

Their captive, thankfully, had not gotten sick into the gag.

Arandar watched as Aventine got his bearings. They had carried Aventine four miles east, stopping in a deep, narrow ravine between two pine-cloaked hills. The High King had sent patrols into the hills, but most of them were focused upon the land north of Dun Calpurnia. Aventine could scream his head off, but no one would hear him. Nine of the thirteen moons were out tonight, filling the forest with pale silvery-blue light, so it was unlikely anyone could sneak up on them.

Aventine’s eyes settled on Ridmark, and a flicker of fear went over his face, followed by contempt. Ridmark had tied Aventine to a tree trunk, his hands bound behind him, more ropes holding his feet in place. Aventine could not break free, but nonetheless Arandar kept his hand close to Heartwarden’s hilt.

Ridmark reached over and pulled the gag out of Aventine’s mouth. The knight spat, rubbing his tongue over his lips, and glared at them.

“Where is Accolon?” said Ridmark.

“The mighty Gray Knight,” sneered Aventine. “Dux Tarrabus is right about you. You’re nothing more than a common brigand. Robbing a man while he’s in his cups? A low and unchivalrous attack. Little wonder you were expelled from the Order.”

“Where,” said Ridmark again, “is Accolon?”

Arandar’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to seize Aventine and beat the knowledge from him, but he had agreed to let Ridmark handle the questioning. Yet Ridmark’s icy calm was unnerving. It reminded Arandar of the way that Ridmark had looked when he had ridden into the burning keep of Dun Licinia.

“Who the devil is Accolon?” said Aventine.

“The son of Sir Arandar, the man standing next to me,” said Ridmark. “Do not lie, Aventine. You know perfectly well who Accolon is. You should answer my question.”

“And why should I do that?” said Aventine.

“Because if you don’t,” said Ridmark, “then you’ll have to answer Sir Arandar’s questions, and he won’t ask as nicely.”

Aventine sneered. “I am a knight of the realm and you are an exile outlaw,” his eyes shifted to Arandar and Jager, “a jumped-up bastard, and a halfling rat. I don’t have to do anything, and when Tarrabus learns of this, all three of you will be executed. Your precious Keeper and Dux Gareth won’t be able to protect you.”

“What makes you think,” said Ridmark without changing expression, “that you’ll live long enough to tell Tarrabus anything?”

Aventine laughed. “You won’t murder me in cold blood. You don’t have the nerve for it.”

“Well,” said Ridmark, stepping closer. “You’re right on the first part, but wrong on the second.”

He moved around the tree, out of Aventine’s field of vision.

“Pathetic,” said Aventine. “Dux Tarrabus was right about you, Gray Knight.” His bloodshot eyes shifted to Arandar. “What did he promise you, Sir Arandar? Money? Wealth? A title? All lies. You should ally yourself with Dux Tarrabus before it is too late.”

“All the Gray Knight promised me,” said Arandar, “was to help rescue my son.”

Aventine’s sneer intensified. “You ought to…”

Arandar never found out how that sentence would have ended.

There was a sharp crack, like someone breaking a stick, and Aventine’s eyes almost jumped out of his head. Ridmark gripped the index finger of Aventine’s right hand, and as Arandar watched, he pushed the finger so far back that the knuckles rested against the back of Aventine’s hand.

There might have been another crack, but Aventine’s scream of pain swallowed it.

“Where,” said Ridmark again, still icy calm, “is Accolon?”

Aventine took a shuddering, shaking breath. “Go to hell. The Dux is going to kill you! The Dux is…”

Ridmark nodded and broke Aventine’s middle finger.

This time Aventine’s scream threatened to split Arandar’s ears.

He watched in silence as Ridmark methodically broke the fingers of Aventine’s right hand. Aventine screamed threats, and then pleas for mercy, and finally just screamed. Arandar watched, his stomach turning. He had no taste for this kind of thing.

Yet it was for Accolon. Arandar would have done much worse to save his son. Much worse.

He only hoped God would shield him from such a terrible choice, because Arandar knew how he would choose if such a temptation came before him.

Aventine’s right hand had swollen to the size of a ham by the time his resolve broke.

“Stop!” he sobbed. “For God’s sake, just…just stop. I’ll…I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you…”

Ridmark walked around the tree, gripped Aventine’s chin, and forced him to look up.

“Where,” said Ridmark, “is Accolon?”

“Not…not in the camp,” said Aventine, the words tumbling out of him, stark fear on his face. “Not there. Too many witnesses. Five miles east of Dun Calpurnia, in the ruins of the old keep.”

“Where Dun Calpurnia used to stand?” said Ridmark.

An old memory stirred in Arandar’s mind. Dun Calpurnia was one of the oldest towns in the Northerland, but it had been destroyed twice, first by the Anathgrimm, and then by the Frostborn. Consequently it had been rebuilt in a more defensible location, using stones hauled from the ruins of the old town.

“Aye,” said Aventine, bobbing his head. “There are still old vaults there, where the castra once stood. Tarrabus has made a secret camp there, where he can keep things he doesn’t want the High King to know about. Accolon is one of them.”

It sounded promising. If Aventine was telling the truth, then Accolon was in the old ruin…and likely they would find all the evidence they needed to prove Tarrabus’s guilt. For that matter, if he possessed any artifacts or relics of the Enlightened, books or enspelled weapons, that would prove his guilt beyond all doubt. Even if Tarrabus managed to weasel his way out of charges against him, possession of relics of dark magic would destroy his standing with the other lords.

“How many guards are there?” said Ridmark.

“Not many,” said Aventine. Blood dripped from his lip where he had bitten it in his pain. “Only those the Dux trusts are permitted to guard the secret camp. Seven or eight men at the most.”

“That sounds terribly convenient for us,” said Jager.

“It does, doesn’t it?” said Ridmark, glancing at the halfling. His gaze turned back to Aventine, who flinched. “Why are you telling us this?”

“Because you broke my sword hand, you goddamned bastard,” hissed Aventine.

“You’re confused,” said Jager, pointing at Arandar. “He’s the bastard.”

“So what?” said Ridmark. “I broke your sword hand. Painful, but you’ll recover. What does Tarrabus do to those who betray him? Much worse than a broken hand, I imagine.”

“Much, much worse,” said Aventine. “As you well know.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ridmark.

Arandar saw the trap coming. Aventine didn’t.

“Because you should have died long ago!” spat Aventine, blood and spittle flying from his lips. “You should have died in the Wilderland when the Dux sent you to rot there. You should have died when Paul Tallmane went into the Wilderland to kill you, but he made a botch of it. Rotherius and the Red Family should have killed you. The Dux paid a fortune to those Mhor-worshipping fools for your head and the soulstone, and still they failed! You should have died at the Iron Tower! The Weaver should have slain you! And you still persist in…”

He trailed off, alarm going over his sweating face as he realized that he had said too much.

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, releasing Aventine’s chin. “I understand everything now.”

“Why?” said Arandar, shaking his head.

“Why what?” said Aventine sullenly.

“Why become one of the Enlightened?” said Arandar. “Why betray the High King and the Dominus Christus?”

“I don’t understand what…”

“We know the truth,” said Arandar. “For once in your life, Aventine Rocarn, speak the truth.”

Aventine glared at Arandar, malice welling up in his expression like a spring.

“Because the Dux showed me the truth,” he hissed.

“Of Incariel,” said Ridmark.

“Yes!” spat Aventine. “Your Dominus Christus. Bah! Eternal life for all who believe – the weak, the feeble, the pathetic! The Dux knows the truth. The dark elves and the urdmordar are eternal, immortal, imperishable…”

“My wife might disagree with that,” said Jager.

Aventine ignored Jager. “The shadow of Incariel gives us strength. If we embrace it, the power of Incariel can make us like the dark elves. It can make us greater than the dark elves, for they failed. Mankind can become immortal and all-powerful, and rule over this world forever. The Dux has already begun the work. You cannot stop it.” He tried to spit on Ridmark’s boots and missed. “An exile, a bastard, and a halfling cannot stop the great work of Incariel.”

“Maybe not,” said Jager, “but after this, I doubt Tarrabus will let you live long enough to see it.”

Aventine let out an unsteady laugh. “Are you so sure, halfling rat? Perhaps the Dux will reward me.”

“I don’t think you quite understand how rewards work,” said Jager.

“He thinks the Dux will reward him,” said Ridmark, “because he thinks we’re not coming back alive from the ruins.”

“The guards are all brothers of the Enlightened,” said Aventine. “One Swordbearer and a fool with a stick cannot defeat them.”

“Just as one fool with a stick cannot escape Paul Tallmane and the Iron Tower?” said Jager.

“Are you bold enough to kill me now?” hissed Aventine.

Arandar looked at Ridmark. Once he would not have thought the Gray Knight capable of killing a man in cold blood. That had been before Dun Licinia and Morigna’s death, though.

“Kill you?” said Ridmark. “Why would I do that? We’ll just leave you tied up here. If you’re right, the secret camp’s guards will kill us and Tarrabus will reward your brilliant stratagem. If you’re wrong, we’ll rescue Accolon, return with evidence proving that Tarrabus is the leader of the Enlightened, and you’ll be beheaded right next to him.”

Aventine let out another unsteady laugh, his chin falling to his chest. “No. You shall perish in the secret camp. You do not know what awaits you there. You do not know the power there.”

“And what power is that?” said Ridmark.

“Incariel,” whispered Aventine.

Heartwarden jolted at Arandar’s belt.

“Incariel awaits us at the ruins?” said Jager. “I find that unlikely.”

Aventine’s head snapped back up, and Arandar cursed, reaching for Heartwarden’s hilt.

Aventine’s eyes had filled with darkness. His eyes looked like the eyes of the Warden, or the eyes of the Traveler. In a burst of intuition, Arandar realized that was the goal of Tarrabus and the Enlightened. Just as the dark elves had been created from the high elves by the power of Incariel’s shadow, so was Tarrabus trying to create a new kindred of men.

“Incariel!” shouted Aventine. “Yes. Yes! I am your servant! Let your shadow fill me!”

“That does it,” said Jager, reaching for his own sword. “You might not be willing to kill him, but…”

Aventine screamed, and the shadows erupted from him.

A twisting haze of shadows swirled around the tree, and the ropes rotted away at their touch. Aventine surged forward, still howling, and Arandar heard the crackle as the bones in his broken fingers healed. He threw out his hands, and the shadows surged towards Ridmark. Yet the staff of Ardrhythain glowed with white symbols, as it had against Shadowbearer in Khald Azalar, and the shadows flowed around Ridmark like water around a stone.

Aventine had not expected that, and faltered for a moment in confusion. Ridmark seized that moment to attack, the staff a blur of white light in his hands. The blow should have shattered Aventine’s skull like an egg, yet somehow the knight dodged with impossible speed. The shadow of Incariel must have strengthened him, giving him speed and reflexes beyond human abilities.

Fortunately, Arandar also had something that gave him speed and strength beyond human limitations.

Heartwarden flashed from its scabbard, the soulblade blazing with white fire. His bond with the sword filled Arandar with strength and power, and he used that power, hurtling forward to strike at Aventine. The Enlightened dodged, avoiding Heartwarden’s burning blade with the grace of a serpent. That gave Ridmark an opening, and he struck again, his staff smashing into the side of Aventine’s knee with crushing force. Arandar heard the bone snap, and Aventine stumbled with a cry, the shadows in his eyes twisting.

Arandar plunged Heartwarden home, sinking the soulblade into Aventine’s chest. The sword’s fire blazed hotter, and Arandar felt the power of the sword rage against the shadows mantling Aventine. Heartwarden filled him with a furious eagerness when facing creatures of dark magic, but the sword seemed to burn with fury against the shadow of Incariel.

Aventine screamed, and the shadows around him withered and vanished. The darkness drained from his eyes, and for a moment he looked horrified and confused and very, very frightened.

Then he slid from the blade and fell dead to the ground.

Arandar let out a long breath, raising Heartwarden as the sword’s fire went dark.

“God and the apostles and all the saints,” muttered Jager. “Just like Paul Tallmane, before the Artificer claimed him.”

“The Enlightened can do that?” said Arandar, staring at the corpse.

“That and other things,” said Ridmark. “They call their adepts the ‘Initiated’. The shadow of Incariel makes them stronger and faster, lets them heal quickly, and sometimes gives them other abilities. Like the Weaver’s power to change form, or Imaria’s ability to travel in the blink of an eye.”

“He looked like the Warden,” said Arandar. “Or the Traveler.”

“The same shadow made the dark elves,” said Ridmark. “This war has been going on long before any of us were born. The Old Man said something like that, before he trapped us.”

“Old Man?” said Arandar.

“Coriolus,” said Ridmark. “Morigna’s false teacher. He was an Eternalist, one of the predecessors of the Enlightened. Aventine could have been worse. Coriolus transformed into this…thing, this monster that looked like an urvuul, only less comely.”

“There’s a cheerful thought,” said Jager.

“We barely defeated him,” said Ridmark. “Morigna was…” He frowned and gave a sharp shake of his head, as if the memory pained him. “We had best go. I know the ruin Aventine spoke of. It’s not far from here.”

“Perhaps we should go back and get help,” said Jager. “Aventine said all of the guards at the secret camp were Enlightened. One Enlightened is bad enough. Seven or eight of them at once? Those are not good odds.”

“Likely not all of them are Initiated,” said Ridmark.

“I didn’t think Aventine was Initiated,” said Jager, “and if you and Arandar had been a half-second slower, he would have killed all three of us.”

“Aventine wasn’t one of the Initiated,” said Ridmark. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have let us tie him up, and he certainly wouldn’t have let me break all the fingers in his sword hand. No, I think he called upon Incariel in his desperation, and the shadow answered. Look.”

He pointed with his staff at Aventine’s right arm, and Arandar shuddered. Aventine’s sword hand had indeed healed, but the flesh had turned gray, the veins black with corruption, and his fingernails had turned into claws.

The shadow of Incariel had indeed come at Aventine’s call…but the price might have been more than Aventine was willing to pay.

Perhaps Arandar had done Aventine a mercy by killing him before the transformation could take hold.

“We really need more help,” said Jager.

Arandar shook his head. “If you wish for additional assistance, go back. I cannot delay. There is every chance that Tarrabus may try to kill Accolon as soon as possible.”

It was also possible that Accolon was already dead. But Arandar dared not consider that. The despair would break him.

“I’ll go on,” said Ridmark,

They both looked at Jager.

The halfling sighed. “I’m an idiot, you know. I used to be a sensible man, and then I fell in with you madmen. Lead on.”

They left Aventine’s corpse behind and headed deeper into the hills.

Chapter 15: Seventh Circle

Calliande paused on the stairs, just below the level of the balcony.

“This is a bad idea,” said Gavin.

“I’m just going to talk to him,” said Calliande.

“Gavin Swordbearer is correct,” said Antenora. “The Dux of the Enlightened is your enemy. There is nothing to be gained by speaking with him.”

“He may not yet be past all repentance,” said Calliande.

Antenora fell silent for a long moment. The argument had struck home.

“I should come with you,” said Gavin. “We both should.”

“No,” said Calliande. “Stay back, out of earshot.”

“Very well,” said Antenora. “But we shall watch closely. If the Dux of the Enlightened lifts his hand against you, I shall burn the flesh from his body.”

“Very well,” said Calliande. “Wait at the top of the steps, please.”

She took the final twist of the spiral stairs and stepped onto the balcony.

It was a broad, wide space, with benches so people could watch the Comes of Dun Calpurnia hold court in the hall below. Motes of dust danced in the air, illuminated by the dying sunlight coming through the top of the lead-framed windows that admitted light to the basilica.

Tarrabus Carhaine stood alone at one of the windows, gazing at the courtyard. He must have heard her coming, yet he gave no sign that he noticed her presence. Calliande crossed the balcony, her boots clicking against the floor, the staff of the Keeper tapping with her stride.

She stopped four yards from him, and at last Tarrabus looked at her.

He was, she realized, a strikingly handsome man, tall and strong with blond hair and bright blue eyes, his clean-shaven face stark and confident. Little wonder that he commanded loyalty from his followers.

Of course, according to the scriptures the devil had once been an angel of light.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, like swordsmen waiting for their opponent to strike first.

At last Tarrabus’s lip twitched. “I suppose I may as well get started.” He sighed. “Such an honor to receive your visit, Keeper. Why, I am humbled by your august and ancient presence.” He gestured. “Now you say something suspicious and accusatory, and I will smile and shake my head.”

Calliande let out a breath. “You think to make jokes?”

“Why not?” said Tarrabus. “We both know how this conversation will play out. You will make false and spurious accusations. I will deny them, and nothing will be accomplished.” He smiled. “Unless you have come to kill me, of course.”

“No,” said Calliande. “Not yet. Not today.”

“Pity,” said Tarrabus, looking back out the window at the lords and knights departing the castra. “That would prove your perfidy to the High King beyond all doubt, and he would see you for the serpent that you…”

“Do you ever get tired of lying?” said Calliande.

Tarrabus smiled at her. “I never lie.”

“It is just us here,” said Calliande. “The Keeper of Andomhaim and the leader of the Enlightened. We both know who we are. There’s no need for prevarication.”

“Such fanciful tales you tell,” said Tarrabus.

“Why?” said Calliande, changing tactics.

“Why what?” said Tarrabus.

“Why did you join the Enlightened?” said Calliande.

Tarrabus sighed. “Truly, you must be two centuries old, for you certainly seem to have the senility of a woman that age.” He turned to go. “Good evening to you, Keeper. I fear this conversation has become tiresome.”

“It was Aelia, wasn’t it?” said Calliande.

Tarrabus stopped, motionless as a statue.

“You understand nothing,” said Tarrabus.

“So that was it,” said Calliande. “The High King was right after all, but about you, not Ridmark. Aelia Licinius rejected you and chose Ridmark. You’ll abandon the Dominus Christus, make yourself a slave of the shadow of Incariel, destroy the realm, and kill tens of thousands of people all because a pretty girl once broke your heart…”

Tarrabus turned to face her, his mouth a hard line, and then to Calliande’s surprise, he threw back his head and laughed.

“No,” he murmured, once he had calmed down. “No, you’ve got it quite backwards. Tell me, Keeper. Who was your father?”

“My father?” said Calliande, surprised.

“You said there was no need for prevarication,” said Tarrabus, stepping closer. “So. Let us be honest with one another. I could find out very little about you. The last Keeper disappeared soon after the defeat of the Frostborn…but lo, she returns to save the realm after two and a half centuries! Not even Shadowbearer knew where you had come from, and he usually knew everything. Who was your father? A king? A noble?”

“A fisherman,” said Calliande, watching him for any sign of danger. The sudden change in his mood alarmed her.

“A fisherman,” said Tarrabus, but there was no scorn in his voice. “You were born a commoner, but now you are the most powerful woman in the High Kingdom. Truly, the will to power is no respecter of birth.”

“I didn’t want power,” said Calliande. “It came with responsibility, and that was thrust upon me.” What she had wanted…what she wanted was her mother and father back. As a child, she had thought one day she would marry another man of her village, and tend to their house and children and household as her husband joined the other men upon their boats in the Moradel.

That had been a very long time ago.

“Your father,” said Tarrabus. “Did he love you?”

“Yes,” said Calliande. “Yours didn’t?”

“Certainly not,” said Tarrabus. “He thought such things were a weakness. My father, Samothrace of the House of the Carhainii, Dux of Caerdracon. My father, who preserved the secret given to us by Shadowbearer and the other Enlightened. We were the chosen ones, he said. We were the ones who would transform humanity, who would turn all of mankind into immortal gods. Heroes like us did not have time for such weaknesses as love and mercy and charity. Certainly, we could mouth such empty platitudes in the churches of those who prayed to the superstitions of a lost world. The great mass of mankind is too stupid and ignorant to behold the truth. But when the time came, we could be the chosen ones. We would transform humanity.”

“And you didn’t believe him?” said Calliande.

“On the contrary,” said Tarrabus. “I believed him. I believed every single word.” He smiled. “I believed him so well that soon after my twentieth birthday, I returned to Castra Carhaine, put a pillow over his face, and held it there until he died. God, but that was satisfying! I was so sick of his voice.”

“You murdered your own father,” said Calliande, sickened.

“By his own teachings, he deserved it,” said Tarrabus. “The weak deserve to perish in the service of the stronger. If he had wanted to live, he should have been strong enough to get the pillow off his wretched face. Do you not see, Keeper? I believed my father’s teachings, completely and with all my heart.” He shook his head. “Aelia did not drive me into them.”

“She…made you doubt,” said Calliande. “Didn’t she?”

“She did,” said Tarrabus. For the first time there was something other than pride and anger and contempt in his voice. “She did. I know not how, even to this day.” He shook his head. “She looked after the poor of Castra Marcaine with such diligence. At first I thought she did it to impress her father or her brother. But…she believed in charity. She believed in mercy. I saw her forgive a man who had tried to rob her. She believed, Keeper.” He shook his head again, wondering. “So many people say they believe in God’s mercy and God’s charity, but those are just empty words, made up to cover up their own lies. I had never known doubt in my life, Keeper, but she made me know it. She made me…wonder. I would have left it all for her. I would have left everything for her.” His eyes narrowed, the softness fading from his voice. “Instead, she chose to marry Ridmark Arban.”

“She loved him,” said Calliande.

“Ridmark Arban is a fool,” said Tarrabus. “He was a fool then, and he is a fool now. He has no vision, no wisdom, no wits. He’s good with a sword, yes, I’ll grant that…but to what end? He will blunder along swinging his sword in service to one lord or another until he meets his end, and then it will be as if he had never been born.”

“Whereas you will live forever,” said Calliande, but Tarrabus kept talking.

“If Aelia had married me, she would still be alive,” said Tarrabus. “Instead she married that fool Ridmark, and he was too weak to save her.”

“Mhalek killed her, not Ridmark,” said Calliande.

“Of course Mhalek killed her,” said Tarrabus with exasperation. “Ridmark was just too weak to stop him. He should have killed himself then. He should have died in the Wilderland like he was supposed to. Instead he came back with you…and you stand in the way of humanity’s ascension.”

“Mankind’s salvation,” said Calliande, “will not be at the hands of the shadow of Incariel. And you sent the Red Family and Paul Tallmane to stop Ridmark, and he beat them all. Perhaps he is not as weak as you seem to think.”

“Ah,” said Tarrabus. “I see. Are you a virgin?”

The question was so unexpected that it threw Calliande off-guard.

“What?” she said at last.

“It is an exceedingly simple question,” said Tarrabus. “Are you a virgin? You understand the concept, I trust? Or must I explain it to you in simple terms? Have you ever lain naked upon a bed and opened your legs to a man while he…”

“I understand the concept, thank you,” said Calliande with as much scorn as she could muster. “I am an unmarried woman and the Keeper of Andomhaim, which is all the answer you shall receive.”

“So Ridmark hasn’t touched you, then,” said Tarrabus. He took a step closer to her, and Calliande’s fingers tightened against her staff. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve fallen in love with him.” His laugh was scornful. “The centuries-old Keeper of Andomhaim, the bearer of wisdom and strength and magical power…and you’ve fallen in love for the dashing outlaw like any peasant girl in heat. It seems you are a commoner after all.”

Calliande said nothing, swallowing the furious anger that rose within her. Tarrabus had spotted a weakness, and he would not hesitate to exploit it if she responded to his insults.

But he kept talking.

“He does seem to have a charisma that women enjoy,” said Tarrabus. “Or perhaps it is some defect in the feminine mind that finds him attractive. Either way…you’ve traveled with him for months, and he still hasn’t touched you? Well, there was that woman I saw in Coldinium, wasn’t there? That Wilderland sorceress? Aelia’s skin was darker than hers, but her hair was the same color. I suppose you are just a touch too fair and blond for Ridmark’s taste.”

“Does this have a point?” said Calliande.

“You asked me about Aelia,” said Tarrabus. “It is only fair that I ask you about Ridmark. What a sad creature you are, Keeper. You have renown and power, and you craved none of it. You simply wanted a quiet little life in your quiet little fishing village, did you not? Children and peace and a family. The dream of every orphan.”

“What I want,” said Calliande, “is less important than my duty, Tarrabus Carhaine. A pity your father failed to include that in his teachings.”

Tarrabus’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “You could have it, though. You could have everything you want. Both power and a family. Everything you might wish.”

“And the shadow of Incariel can grant that, I take it?” said Calliande.

“Yes,” said Tarrabus. “You know it can. All your heart’s desires.”

“I’ve heard this speech before,” said Calliande, “though it was delivered more persuasively.”

“I see,” said Tarrabus.

He moved before she could react. Calliande summoned power, expecting that he would attack, or that he would draw upon the shadow of Incariel to strike at her.

Instead, he kissed her.

For a moment sheer shock froze Calliande. Tarrabus’s left hand twined in her hair, and his tongue forced its way between her lips. Then a wave of the most profound physical revulsion she had ever known roared through her, and she jerked backwards with a snarl. Tarrabus started to reach for her again, and Calliande reacted on angry instinct. The end of her staff cracked Tarrabus across the jaw, and the Dux of Caerdracon stumbled with a grunt.

“Do not,” said Calliande, “touch me.”

Tarrabus smiled and licked his bleeding lips, and another wave of revulsion went through her.

Firelight played across the floor, and Antenora sprinted to Calliande’s left side, her staff blazing. Gavin appeared on her right, Truthseeker in his hand, though the soulblade remained dark. Calliande had no doubt that Tarrabus possessed tremendous powers with the shadow of Incariel, but he would not be goaded into using them now. All it would take was for the High King or one of the Magistri to glance at the balcony, and Tarrabus would be finished.

“Ah,” said Tarrabus. “Your little helpers. The relic of Old Earth and the rustic simpleton from the Wilderland.” He smiled at Gavin. “You know, my ancestor carried that soulblade into Urd Morlemoch. By rights it belongs to me.”

“Then come and take it,” said Gavin.

Tarrabus laughed. “A good answer.” He offered a mocking little bow to Calliande. “Farewell, my lady Keeper. I do hope we can continue our conversation soon.”

“Not likely,” said Calliande.

Tarrabus smiled, strolled past them, and disappeared down the stairs.

“Well,” said Gavin a moment later. “That was…unexpected.”

Calliande shook her head. “You were right, Antenora. That was a mistake. I thought…perhaps he had turned to the Enlightened out of grief or tragedy. But he didn’t. He was raised in it, and choose the Enlightened openly when he came of age. Aelia made him waver, but not for long.”

For that matter, his tragic tale about turning to the Enlightened after Aelia’s death did not add up. Aelia had died at Castra Marcaine five, nearly six years ago. But Tarrabus had already been the Dux of Caerdracon during Mhalek’s invasion of the Northerland.

Which meant that Tarrabus had murdered his father and taken his place while Aelia had still been alive. Perhaps his feelings for her had made him waver…but they hadn’t made him waver enough to spare his father. He had also failed to mention Imaria Licinius. Though mentioning that he had taken comfort in the bed of his lost love’s sister would have made his tale sound much less sympathetic.

“What should we do now?” said Gavin. “Can we go to the High King?”

“I fear not,” said Calliande. “What would he tell him? No. We have other work.” She looked at Antenora. “We need to work the warding spell of fire before the Frostborn arrive.”

“When do we begin?” said Antenora.

“At once,” said Calliande.

Chapter 16: The Order of the Inquisition

Finding the ruins where Tarrabus had placed his hidden camp turned out to be easy.

Getting inside, Ridmark suspected, would prove much harder.

The old town of Dun Calpurnia had been built upon a lower hill than its successor, which had no doubt contributed to its downfall. Three sides of the hill were steep, but the northern face was gentler, providing an easy way to reach the crest. The remnants of the old town crouched atop the hill, half-consumed by the pine forest, but little remained of the ruins. The new town to the west had consumed most of the building stone, and time and weather had conquered much of the rest.

Yet the shell of the old keep rose from the center of the hill, and a crumbled watch tower stood at the edge of the hill’s crest. Ridmark saw a sentry waiting atop the old watch tower, armor glinting in the light of the moons.

“Well,” muttered Jager. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?”

Ridmark crouched back behind the boulder, thinking hard.

By mutual agreement, Arandar had remained waiting in concealment at the bottom of the hill. The Swordbearer was a terror in battle, but he was not stealthy. He said he had once crept into a Mhorite stronghold in Kothluusk, years ago, but the Mhorite orcs had been performing a rite to Mhor and had not been paying attention. Ridmark could move silently and quickly through the trees. Jager’s skills at stealth were better in the city and the town, but he was quiet enough in the forest.

Morigna would have moved like a ghost. While Ridmark wished she was here for many reason, right now he wished she was here so she could cast her sleeping mist over the vigilant guard.

“We have to kill him,” whispered Jager. “He’s the only one here. If he sounds the alarm, he’ll rouse the others.”

Ridmark nodded.

“Can you shoot him?” said Jager.

“No.” Morigna had been a better shot, but even she couldn’t have managed it at this angle.

“What, then?” said Jager.

“Go get Arandar,” said Ridmark. “Have him walk in plain sight up the hill.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” said Jager.

“It’s a risky plan,” said Ridmark, “but I think it will work.”

“Fine,” said Jager with a sigh. “Just don’t get killed. I don’t want to have to explain how you got killed to Mara.”

“Your concern is touching,” said Ridmark. “Go.”

Jager nodded and disappeared down the slope.

Ridmark moved forward, gliding from tree to tree. Thanks to the aid of his gray cloak, he avoided the gaze of the sentry, and reached the door at the base of the watch tower. The wood had rotted away centuries ago, but the stone stairs still spiraled up to the tower’s crest. Ridmark crept up the stairs, his staff ready in his hand, his boots making no sound against the stone steps. Moving in silence while carrying the long staff was a challenge, but it was a challenge he had mastered long ago.

He reached the top of the stairs and crouched, looking over the turret. A knight in plate armor stood nearby, gazing over the battlements at the pine forest, a surcoat in the colors of the House of the Carhainii over his armor. That in itself meant something strange was going on. A knight would not normally perform mundane guard duty.

Not unless he was guarding something his lord would prefer to keep secret.

Ridmark rested his staff against the steps and drew his dwarven war axe. The glyphs carved into the blade gave off a sullen orange-yellow light, like the glow of a dying furnace. He wrapped both hands around the haft and waited, gauging the distance between his position and the knight.

The Carhaine knight turned, striding to the battlements, and frowned at the hillside. He must have spotted Arandar. As he did, shadows seemed to boil from his skin, wrapping around him like armor. Ridmark wondered if some of the Initiated of the Enlightened had the ability to protect themselves with the shadow of Incariel, the way the power of a soulblade protected its wielder.

Best not to find out.

Ridmark took five running steps forward and swung the axe with all his strength. The blade encountered some resistance when it hit the shadows mantling the knight, but the dwarven steel punched through, and the axe sank halfway into the knight’s neck. The knight went into a weird, jerking dance, blood and shadows coming from his mouth, and Ridmark wrenched the weapon free and struck again.

The second blow killed the knight, and Ridmark eased him to the floor, blood pooling against the weathered stones. A moment later he was at the foot of the tower, axe back in his belt and staff in hand. Arandar came into sight, Heartwarden raised, and Jager followed with his short sword of dark elven steel ready.

“The sentry?” said Arandar.

“Dead,” said Ridmark. “I don’t think anyone noticed yet.”

Arandar grimaced. “I regret that we had to kill that man in cold blood.”

“If it makes you feel better, he started calling on the shadow of Incariel before I killed him,” said Ridmark. “God knows he would have killed us. Aventine may not have been bluffing. All the guards here might be Enlightened, and we must not hesitate to kill them.”

Arandar did not look pleased by the prospect, but he nodded. Once Ridmark would have felt the same way as Arandar, considering such an idea unworthy of a knight and a Swordbearer. But Ridmark was no longer a knight or a Swordbearer…and he doubted he could have maintained such an attitude after Morigna’s death.

The Enlightened would find no mercy from him.

“This way,” said Ridmark.

“Do you know where you’re going?” said Jager.

“Not really,” said Ridmark, turning towards the crumbled tower of the old keep, “but Aventine mentioned vaults. Any vaults will be below the castra.”

“We have spent,” said Jager, looking towards the tower, “a lot of time creeping around old ruins.”

“Time to do it once more,” said Ridmark, starting towards the keep.

They moved in silence through the tumbled ruins and the pine trees. Most of the stones had been hauled away, but Ridmark still saw old foundations. Here and there a pit yawned into what had once been the cellar of a house or shop. Most of the flagstones of the old street were still in place, though tilted and uneven from generations of roots, and Ridmark and the others made their way forward in silence.

The old keep rose before them, similar to Dun Licinia’s keep, five stories of blocky stone. The interior had rotted away long ago, and one of the walls had collapsed, filling what had once been the great hall with moss-spotted rubble. Yet part of the rubble had been cleared away, revealing a flight of stone stairs descending into the earth.

Torchlight came from the bottom of the stairs, along with the faint sound of voices raised in argument.

Ridmark lifted a finger to his lips for silence, and Arandar and Jager nodded. He started down the stairs, Jager following, and paused as soon as he could see into the room at the bottom. It was a stone vault, the ceiling supported by thick pillars, and Ridmark saw a round table near the stairs. Four men sat there, both men-at-arms and knights, playing cards, an untidy pile of coins in the center of the table. Light came from an old stone hearth against one wall. Ridmark squatted for a moment, sweeping his eyes through the cellar. He saw no other men, but he did see a stone corridor on the far side of the room, its walls lined with narrow doors.

The perfect place to store prisoners.

Ridmark made up his mind and headed back up the stairs with Jager.

“Four of them,” he told Arandar. “We can probably take them.”

“Even if they are Initiated?” said Arandar.

“You have Heartwarden,” said Ridmark, “and I have my staff. If they rely on their shadow-powers to attack, their failure will give us a few seconds. That can make all the difference in a battle.”

“What about me?” said Jager.

“Stay behind us and don’t get killed,” said Ridmark.

“I like that part of the plan,” said Jager.

Ridmark shifted his staff to his left hand and produced his bow with his right. He moved back down the stairs in silence, stopping halfway, and raised a hand for the others to halt. Arandar and Jager came to a stop behind him. At this distance, they could see into the cellar, but he doubted the men within could see him so long as he did not make noise. The firelight would have ruined their night vision. The men ought to have posted a man to watch the stairs, but perhaps the guards had grown lax.

Ridmark leaned his staff against the wall in silence, drew an arrow, and took aim.

One deep breath to steady his hands, and he released his bowstring.

He wasn’t as good of a shot as Morigna had been, but at this range it didn’t matter. The arrow slammed into the neck of the man nearest the door. He shot to his feet with a gurgling cry, fell back into his chair, and then his head landed upon the table with a thump, the coins jangling.

Before the dying man even fell, Ridmark was sprinting down the stairs, bow discarded and staff reclaimed. The three remaining knights and men-at-arms gaped in surprised dismay at their slain comrade. It was a disadvantageous position from which to face an attack, and Ridmark exploited it. Before the guards could rise, he struck, the length of his staff slamming across the nearest knight’s temple with bone-cracking force. The remaining two men burst to their feet, and shadows erupted from both of them as Arandar dashed into the cellar, Heartwarden blazing with new fire.

“Incariel!” screamed the nearest knight, flinging one hand in Ridmark’s direction. Shadows erupted from him in a snarling coil, but the staff of Ardrhythain glowed with white symbols, deflecting the shadows. He lunged at the knight, but the Enlightened jumped back with enhanced speed, drawing his sword. Arandar raced around the table to face the other Enlightened, soulblade clashing against the knight’s longsword.

Ridmark retreated as the Initiated went on a furious assault, eyes filled with darkness, sword flickering back and forth. The Initiated knight was a capable swordsman, his strength augmented by Incariel’s shadow, but he was not as powerful as Jonas Vorinus or Paul Tallmane, and Ridmark had beaten them both. He kept retreating, letting the Initiated drive him towards the wall, and then launched a swing towards his opponent’s head. The knight’s sword flicked up with contemptuous ease, but like so many of Ridmark’s enemies, he didn’t know how to properly defend against a staff. Ridmark’s swing had been a feint, and he jabbed the end of his staff hard into the knight’s belly. Even the Initiated of the Enlightened of Incariel needed to breathe, and the knight staggered as the air exploded from his lungs. Before he recovered, Ridmark hit his right knee, and the knight’s leg folded.

Ridmark’s staff came down upon the knight’s head three times in rapid succession, and the Initiated collapsed, blood leaking upon the flagstones.

White fire flashed as Arandar dueled the remaining Initiated, driving him towards the narrow corridor. The face of the man-at-arms was wild, his eyes filled with shadow, a mace blurring in his hand as he attacked Arandar. Ridmark moved to help Arandar, and then he heard a metallic click. A crossbow quarrel sprouted from the man-at-arms’ belly, and the Initiated staggered with a grunt, flailing for balance.

Arandar struck, ending the fight, and the Initiated toppled to join his slain comrades.

“Where did you get a crossbow?” said Ridmark.

Jager strolled from the base of the stairwell and tossed the crossbow upon the table. “It was on that barrel by the door.” He began scooping up the coins from the card game. “I think whoever was supposed to be on guard at the top of the stairs came down here place a wager. Probably a bad bet.”

“Probably,” agreed Ridmark, watching the corridor. He could hear no signs of alarm, nor did he see anyone moving. Had Tarrabus left only five men to guard his secret camp? It made a certain amount of sense. There was only the remotest chance that Accolon would ever inherit the crown of Andomhaim, and Tarrabus could kill the boy when convenient. Perhaps Tarrabus had trusted in secrecy for his defense.

Then Ridmark heard the faint voice.

“Is anyone there?” At first he thought it a man’s voice, but it cracked and went up an octave on the last word. “What’s going on? Guards?”

“Accolon,” said Arandar. “Accolon!” He sprinted into the corridor, Heartwarden’s white fire fading away, and stopped before one of the narrow doors. “Accolon, is that you?”

“Father?” came the faint voice from behind the door. “How did you get here?”

“Jager!” said Arandar, whirling to face the halfling. “Can you pick the lock?”

“Of course.” Jager stooped over one of the dead men-at-arms and picked up a metal ring holding a pair of massive iron keys. “Or I could just use one of these.”

###

The lock clicked and the massive door, at least four inches thick, swung open with a groan of heavy hinges.

Accolon stood behind the door, blinking at the sudden light, and a wave of overpowering relief went through Arandar. His son was alive. Thank God and the Dominus Christus and all the apostles and all the saints, his son was alive.

“Father?” said Accolon, blinking. He had Arandar’s dark eyes and hair and nose, though the rest of his features looked so much like Isolde that it hurt. “How…how did you get here? Did…”

Arandar caught his son in a hug.

“Dux Tarrabus didn’t take you captive, did he?” said Accolon. “I don’t…”

“No,” said Arandar. “We are here to break you out. I returned from Urd Morlemoch with Truthseeker, but Tarrabus refused to keep his word. So here we are.”

“Father,” said Accolon. “Dux Tarrabus he is…he is a wicked man. He…”

“He has betrayed the High King and the Dominus Christus,” said Arandar. “I know. All too well, I fear.”

“He prays to shadows,” said Accolon. “I’ve seen him do it, and his men.” The words tumbled out of him, faster and faster. “They will pray to a shadow, and kill a man upon an altar, and they receive powers of shadow in return. That must be how Sir Linus obtained his powers.” He shook his head. “The Dux offered to free me if I would pray to the shadow, but I refused him.”

“Good,” said Arandar. “Good. I am proud of you. That must have been difficult.”

“Father, Dux Tarrabus means the High King ill,” said Accolon. “He has many followers, and all of them can command shadows the way that Sir Linus did.”

“That’s why my friends and I are here, my son,” said Arandar. “To rescue you, first. But once we rescued you…”

Accolon nodded. “To find evidence of Tarrabus’s evil.” He blinked and looked at Ridmark and Jager. “Forgive me, sirs. In my excitement…I quite forgot you were there.”

A surge of pride mixed with Arandar’s overwhelming relief. God, but his son would make a splendid knight someday! He had feared to find Accolon half-starved, out of his mind from pain and torture and deprivation. Yet he had borne up well through his ordeal. How proud Isolde would have been!

“I quite understand,” said Jager. “Tarrabus Carhaine has locked me up a few times, too.”

Accolon blinked. Likely a halfling had never spoken to him in that tone before. “I…see.” He offered a polite bow in Ridmark and Jager’s direction. “I am Accolon of Tarlion, sirs, and I thank you for helping my father.” His eyes flicked over the brand on Ridmark’s cheek and jaw, though he said nothing.

“This is Jager, Prince Consort of the Queen of Nightmane Forest,” said Arandar, “and Ridmark Arban.”

“Nightmane Forest?” said Accolon, surprised.

“It is a long story,” said Jager, “and I shall be most delighted to relate it to you when we’re not in a secret stronghold of murderous cultists.”

“Accolon,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice, and the boy’s dark eyes turned in his direction. “We need proof to convince the High King of Tarrabus’s crimes. I believe Tarrabus plans to murder everyone with a single drop of Pendragon blood. That was why he sent your father to Urd Morlemoch and tried to have Sir Linus Rillon kill you, and why he had you charged with murder when that failed.”

Accolon nodded. “You are right, sir. Tarrabus has often spoken of it.” He swallowed. “That is how I knew he planned to kill me. He would not have been so open with his plans otherwise.”

“Do you know what he intends?” said Ridmark.

“He was not quite that open, alas,” said Accolon. “But he wrote many letters to his friends. Some of them may be that way…there is a large chamber that I think was once an armory, with a bolt hole to the surface.”

“A back door?” said Jager. “You mean all this time there was a back door?”

“Some of the old keeps of the Northerland were built with escape tunnels,” said Arandar.

Jager sighed. “We could have avoided so much work!”

“We would have had to fight the guards in any event,” said Ridmark. “Accolon, are you well enough to travel?”

“I would run to Tarlion and back if it got me out of here, sir,” said Accolon.

“Good,” said Ridmark. “We’ll search the armory and see if we can find anything that proves Tarrabus’s schemes, and then rejoin Calliande.” Arandar supposed it was almost dawn by now. She would be preparing her spell to ward the army against the freezing power of the revenants.

“But we must be careful,” said Accolon. “The crystal woman might be in the armory again.”

Ridmark paused, frowning.

“The crystal woman?” he said at last. “Describe her to me.”

“I have never seen her like,” said Accolon. “She stood nine feet tall, and her skin was…like crystal, like she was a statue, but it seemed as flexible as real skin.”

“Did her eyes glow?” said Ridmark.

“Yes, sir,” said Accolon. “They didn’t just glow. Her eyes…burned. With blue fire. Well, I say it was fire, but it looked cold, horribly cold, and she had veins of the fire underneath her face and hands. I was eating soup when she walked past, and the top of the soup froze.”

“Gray armor,” said Ridmark. “She was wearing gray armor?”

“It looked like it had been made out of ice,” said Accolon. “She was talking with Tarrabus, something about a battle. They walked past my cell, and then I couldn’t hear any more.”

“How long ago was this?” said Ridmark.

“I’m not sure, sir,” said Accolon. “I’ve lost track of time down here. I…think it was three days. Maybe four? I am sorry I cannot be more specific.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. He looked at Arandar. “It seems clear that Tarrabus is plotting with the Frostborn.”

“The Frostborn?” said Accolon, astonished. “Were not the Frostborn exterminated in ancient days?”

“Driven back, not exterminated,” said Ridmark. “I believe that Tarrabus will betray the High King during the coming battle.”

“But that is madness,” said Arandar, stunned. “The Frostborn would exterminate him along with everyone else.”

“Would they?” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn asked us to submit before they took Dun Licinia. Tarrabus deals in treachery the way a smith deals in steel. Likely he has promised to submit to the Dominion of the High Lords as a vassal king. He’ll kill the High King and his sons, seize the throne, and turn Andomhaim into a province of the Dominion of the High Lords. Then he will have time to spread the doctrines of the Enlightened, to create his immortal humanity, and betray the Frostborn at his leisure.”

“That is mad,” said Arandar, but he heard the lack of conviction in his voice. It made sense. It made cold, horrible sense. Everything he had seen about the Enlightened, about the Frostborn, now fit together. Why would Tarrabus try to kill the High King’s bastard son and grandchildren unless he planned to kill the High King and his trueborn children? Why would Tarrabus work with Tymandain Shadowbearer, who had planned to summon the Frostborn to Andomhaim, unless he planned to ally with the Frostborn? And why ally with the Frostborn, unless he planned to revolt against them once he had achieved his goals?”

“It is mad,” said Ridmark. “A mad, proud, cruel plan. Exactly what Tarrabus would do. Likely the Enlightened have been planning it for a century and a half. Tymandain Shadowbearer set this all in motion long ago. Tarrabus is the one who gets to bring it all to fruition.” His face hardened into that cold mask. “Tarrabus, and Imaria.”

“We must warn the High King,” said Arandar. “At once. The Frostborn could come upon us at any moment. You were right, Ridmark. One man in the right place at the right time can change the course of the battle, and Tarrabus has thousands at his command. If he betrays the High King at the right time during the battle…God and the apostles, the Frostborn could smash the army of the realm.”

“He won’t listen,” said Jager with disgust. “Not even if Accolon tells him everything. You heard his little speech about Arthur and Lancelot. He thinks this is all about Ridmark and Tarrabus competing over a dead woman.”

“Then we make him listen,” said Ridmark. “We find proof. Jager. Go back to the guard room and get a weapon and a shield for Accolon.”

“Then we’re going into the armory before we warn the High King?” said Arandar.

“We don’t have any other choice,” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn could attack at any moment within the next few days. The army of the realm has to be ready to face them…and if Tarrabus still has the High King’s trust at the moment of the battle, it will be a disaster. I would rather that we take your son to safety, but…”

“No, sir,” said Accolon, drawing himself up. “I will be a knight someday, and if the realm is in peril I cannot flinch from my duty.”

Jager snorted. “Like father, like son.” He turned and hurried back towards the guard room, and returned a moment later with a sword and a shield.

“Thank you,” said Arandar as Accolon took the sword and the shield.

Jager nodded. Arandar did not want his son to see the dead men in the guard room. On the other hand, his son had already seen fighting when he had faced Sir Linus Rillon. And when the Frostborn came down from the north, a lot of men were going to die. Arandar wished his son would not have to face that. He supposed all fathers felt that way.

Though his own father did not.

Arandar could not stop his son from facing trials…but he could make sure that Accolon was prepared to face them.

“You’re holding your shield properly,” said Arandar. “Good.”

Accolon took a deep breath. “I am ready, father.”

Arandar nodded. In Durandis, more than once he had seen boys of Accolon’s age take up arms to fight Mhorite raiders from Kothluusk in desperate defense of their villages. Some of them had survived.

Some of them had not.

Arandar said a silent prayer that Accolon would survive.

“If the fate of the realm hangs on what we’re going to do in, oh, the next hour,” said Jager, “then we really had better get moving, hadn’t we?”

“Sound counsel,” said Ridmark.

###

Silence ruled in the darkness of the ruin.

Jager, ever enterprising, had retrieved torches from the guard room, and Ridmark took the lead, torch in his left hand, staff in the right. Arandar followed him, and then Jager, and by mutual agreement, Accolon took up the back, shield and sword ready with the stiff formality of a squire. Ridmark wished they could have sent him to the Anathgrimm, but he wasn’t about to send the boy through the hills alone, and Ridmark didn’t dare go back to the town and return. This was his best chance to find the evidence he needed to stop Tarrabus.

Arandar had risked so much to save his son, and it would be hideously cruel if his Accolon died here.

Still, if Ridmark could make sure that Accolon survived, he would do it.

The corridor ended in a spiral stair that sank deeper into the earth. Ridmark waved his torch back and forth, but saw no sign of anyone waiting for them.

Jager sniffed. “Blood. Old blood, from the stench of it.”

Accolon gave a shaking nod. “The shadow-worshippers…the Enlightened, you called them, worship the shadow down there. Sometimes they kill people. Dux Tarrabus made me watch once.”

“If anyone else is going to die here,” said Ridmark, “it won’t be us.”

He descended the stairs, the others following. After the third turn, Ridmark could smell the old blood, but he also felt a faint wind against his face. There was an opening to the surface nearby, likely the escape tunnel that Accolon had mentioned.

The stairs ended, and Ridmark lifted his torch to reveal a large vaulted chamber. Moldering wooden racks along the walls held rusting swords and spears. A large block of stone sat against one wall, its surface covered with dried bloodstains. It gave Ridmark a prickling, uneasy feeling as he looked at it, and if Calliande or Antenora or Mara had been here, no doubt their Sight would have detected the presence of Incariel’s shadow around the altar.

The wooden table against the wall was more interesting.

Ridmark walked towards it. The table held a variety of papers, and a quick glance revealed that they were letters. There was a bracket on the wall over the table, and Ridmark slid the torch into it and started sorting through the papers.

“Letters?” said Jager, peering at the table.

“Aye,” muttered Ridmark. “Tarrabus wrote these himself. I recognize his hand. He…”

His voice trailed off.

Many of the letters were in Tarrabus’s own hand…but the replies were not.

“I know that seal,” said Accolon, pointing at one of the letters. “That belongs to the Dux of Arduran.”

“The Dux of Caertigris,” said Arandar, tapping another.

“The Dux of Calvus,” said Jager, looking at still another. “It looks like all three of them have been corresponding with Tarrabus.”

“Here,” said Ridmark, passing them the thick papers. “Help me read through these, quickly.” He wished that Calliande was here. During their travels together, there had been little opportunity to read anything, but when it had happened she could read so fast that it amazed him. Ridmark knew how read and write in Latin, but he had never found it an enjoyable experience, and preferred to have a weapon in his hand as opposed to a pen or a book.

But what he read right now disturbed him.

“They’re Enlightened,” said Arandar. “All three of them. The Duxi of Calvus, Tarras, and Arduran.”

“And if these letters are true, a great many of their vassals,” said Jager.

“Between the four of them,” said Arandar, “Tarrabus and the other three Duxi command nearly a third of the realm’s fighting men. If they turn on the High King during the battle…”

“He won’t bother,” said Ridmark, finishing the letter he held. “It seems our guess was correct. Tarrabus will wait until the Frostborn attack, and then withdraw with the other Enlightened nobles. He’ll let the Frostborn slaughter the High King and the loyalists, and then claim the crown of Andomhaim once the Pendragons are dead.” He looked at Arandar. “That’s why he needed you and your children out of the way. Even a bastard son of Uthanaric Pendragon would have a better claim to the throne than anyone else. Once the Frostborn are victorious, he will offer Andomhaim as a vassal state to the Frostborn and spread the cult of the Enlightened.”

“I had hoped you were unduly pessimistic,” said Arandar, “but this is worse than I could have imagined.”

“Father,” said Accolon. “Tarrabus will destroy the realm utterly.”

“Not if we stop him first,” said Ridmark. He swept the letters into a stack, found a satchel under the table, and stuffed the papers into the bag. “And if we bring these to the High King and the Masters of the Two Orders, we will finish Tarrabus.”

“Especially since the fools applied their own seals to the letters,” said Jager, shaking his head with disapproval.

“They think they will win,” said Ridmark, lifting the satchel.

“I can take that, sir,” said Accolon. “I suppose it would be better if you were unencumbered to fight.”

“It would at that,” said Ridmark, handing him the satchel. “Thank you. Let’s go. We…”

“Ridmark!” said Jager in alarm.

A blue glow came from the opposite wall.

In its light Ridmark caught the shadowy outline of the bolt hole that led back to the surface. A cold wind blew in through the tunnel, making the remaining papers upon the table rustle and whisper, Ridmark’s gray cloak billowing out behind him. Suddenly the air around him grew cold, as it had when facing the revenants at Dun Licinia.

A heartbeat a Frostborn woman stepped through the archway and into the old armory.

Like Rjalmandrakur, she stood nearly nine feet tall. Her skin was like polished crystal, and cold blue fires burned in her eyes, and veins of the same fire spread beneath her crystalline skin. She wore armor the color of old ice, close-fitting and engraved with elaborate reliefs, and in her right hand she carried a huge sword carved with symbols. The sigils burned with cold, and a thin layer of frost spread across the floor near her armored boots.

For a moment Ridmark and the others stared at the Frostborn woman.

“God and the saints,” muttered Jager. “Why do they always have to be so tall?”

“That is her, father,” said Accolon, sword and shield clutched tight. “The crystal woman.”

“I see,” said the Frostborn woman at last in Latin, her voice alien and musical and terrifying, her burning eyes upon Accolon. “It seems Tarrabus has been unable to secure his prisoners. Recruiting competent allies from among the natives is ever a difficult task.” The burning eyes turned to Ridmark and narrowed. “The gray cloak and the coward’s brand. You must be the warrior known as the Gray Knight. Tarrabus holds you in contempt, but the medvarth and the khaldjari spoke highly of your prowess during the assault upon Dun Licinia.”

“You know quite a lot about me,” said Ridmark, watching the Frostborn woman. To his right Arandar moved to the side, soulblade gleaming with white fire in his hand as it reacted to the cold power around the Frostborn. “It is only fair that I should know more about you.”

To his surprise, she answered. “I am Arlmagnava, a Seeker of the Order of the Inquisition.”

“Arlmagnava?” said Ridmark. “You’re the one Antenora fought upon the threshold.”

“The anomaly?” said Arlmagnava. “Then she did indeed escape. It seems, Gray Knight, that you already know more about me than you suspected.”

“The Order of the Inquisition,” said Ridmark, remembering what Calliande had told him about the Frostborn. “You’re…spies, aren’t you?”

“Among other duties,” said Arlmagnava. “The task of the Dominion of the High Lords is to perfect creation, to bring all worlds and all kindreds into the harmonious order of the Dominion. My Order’s portion of this task is to recruit allies from among the natives of worlds that have not yet been brought into the Dominion, and to ensure the loyalty of those allies.” A strange, alien smile went over the crystalline face, both beautiful and unnerving at once. “Consequently, we know a great deal about you and your kindred, Ridmark Arban.”

“Not everything,” said Ridmark, his mind racing for a plan. Ardrhythain’s staff shielded Ridmark from the shadow of Incariel, but he knew the staff would not protect him from the magic of the Frostborn. “Did you know that Tarrabus is planning to betray you?”

“Of course,” said Arlmagnava without surprise. “This is a very, very old world, even by the standards of the Dominion, and mankind is a young kindred. Tarrabus and his allies have tapped into the shadow of a demon imprisoned upon this world since the moment of its creation. He thinks the power of that shadow will elevate your kindred to the next level of evolution, but he is mistaken. The power is addictive and corrupting, and extremely difficult to control. For every human like Tarrabus who masters it, another ten will go insane or mutate into creatures similar to the war beasts the dark elves created in ancient days. The Dominion has observed similar patterns upon other worlds, before they were pacified and brought to harmony.”

“If you know that Tarrabus is going to betray you,” said Ridmark, “then why are you allied with him?”

“He is a useful tool for now, and represents no threats to the goals of the Dominion,” said Arlmagnava. “Like any other tool, once his purpose has been fulfilled, he shall be discarded. For this world will be brought into the Dominion.”

“Are you so sure of that?” said Ridmark. “You tried once before, and the Keeper stopped you.”

“We were defeated,” said Arlmagnava. “Does it surprise you that we admit it? The High Lords govern themselves through reason and logic, not emotions and animal passions as do the lesser kindreds. Self-deception has no place among us. Once before your Keeper and your realm of Andomhaim defeated us. They shall not do so again. The bearer of the demon’s shadow has rotted Andomhaim out like a dying tree, and it shall fall before our storm.”

“Not yet,” said Ridmark.

“The conquest of this world is inevitable,” said Arlmagnava. “It has already begun, and no individual warrior, no matter how skilled, can stop it. The kindreds of this world face three choices. You may accept your place in the Dominion voluntarily. You may do so by force. Or we shall exterminate you.”

“You’re about to make me an offer, aren’t you?” said Ridmark.

“Indeed,” said Arlmagnava. “Tarrabus did underestimate you. Join with us voluntarily, and you shall be given great authority and autonomy to do as you see fit within certain bounds. Perhaps you may even become the Exarch of Andomhaim, governing the realm in the name of the Assembly of the Dominion. You could purge the realm of the Enlightened, if you wished it. They are useful allies in the short term, but in the long term their madness and instability shall prove an unwelcome liability.”

“Why would you even ask me that?” said Ridmark. “If you know about me, then you know I would refuse such an offer.”

“It is regrettable to waste talent and skill,” said Arlmagnava, “and you would make a valuable addition to the Dominion of the High Lords. For all shall join the Dominion in time, whether they know it or not, and join us in the noble work of perfecting creation. Tarrabus prays to the shadow of the demon. You pray to the crucified deity from your world of origin. The High Lords know the truth. There are no gods, and when creation has been perfected, when the entire cosmos has been brought to harmony, then never again shall there be war or conflict.”

“No matter how many people you have to kill to get there?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Arlmagnava. “Order must be maintained against chaos.”

“If you know me as you say,” said Ridmark, “then you know how I will answer such a question.”

“As will we all,” said Arandar. Jager nodded, and Accolon just watched the Frostborn Seeker for any sign of attack.

“Regrettable,” said Arlmagnava. “Unsurprising, but regrettable.”

“We can’t allow you to leave and warn Tarrabus,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff. Arandar brought Heartwarden to the ready position, the sword shimmering with white fire.

“You are too late,” said Arlmagnava. “Whether I fall here or not, the fate of Andomhaim is sealed. Of course, I have no intention of falling here.”

Her free hand snapped up, blue-white fire snarling around her armored fingers as she worked a spell.

“Get down!” snapped Arandar, and freezing mist exploded from Arlmagnava’s hand.

The air turned deathly cold, and the freezing mist spread in a wall across the armory, dividing it in half. Ridmark ducked and rolled, hoping to get out of its reach, yet the mist stopped. As it did, it seemed to solidify and harden with a crackling noise, and suddenly the mist became a wall of ice, thick and gray and opaque.

Arlmagnava had sealed off the room with a wall of ice, covering her escape through the bolt hole.

“Arandar!” shouted Ridmark, but the Swordbearer was already moving. He swung Heartwarden with all the strength granted by the soulblade’s power, and the weapon bounced off the ice, a crack spreading through the wall. Arandar hit it five times in rapid succession, and on the sixth strike a section of the wall shattered. It had been thinner than it had looked, and Arandar scrambled over the broken fragments of ice, heading towards the escape tunnel. Ridmark sprinted after him, Jager and Accolon trailing behind.

The tunnel was narrow and dark, built of rough-hewn stone, still cold from Arlmagnava’s passage. Ridmark saw the light of the moons ahead. He burst onto the hillside, the smell of the pine trees filling his nostrils. To judge from the position of the stars and the moons and the steep pitch of the ground, they were on the western face of the hill. Ridmark looked around, trying to spot Arlmagnava, but the Frostborn had vanished. How the devil had she done that? She was nine feet tall with glowing eyes. The Frostborn were powerful, but they were not particularly stealthy.

A winged shadow passed overhead, flying away to the northwest. Ridmark caught a glimpse of the silvery-gray bulk of a frost drake, the glowing eyes of Arlmagnava, and then the shadow vanished with terrific speed.

“She had the frost drake waiting here,” said Jager. “Handy for a quick escape.”

“It was,” said Ridmark, a growing dread in the pit of his stomach. Why had Arlmagnava risked flying to the secret camp? Arlmagnava could have flown a circuitous course over the hills, but there was always the risk that someone would spot her, and even the frost drakes could not have infinite stamina.

Unless she had a reason to risk the journey…

Ridmark drew in a hissing breath as the answer came to him.

“What is it?” said Jager.

“The Frostborn are attacking,” said Ridmark. “If not now, then soon, this very day. They moved faster than we thought they could. That’s why Arlmagnava risked coming here. She wanted to pass word to Tarrabus ready himself.”

“Then the High King…” started Arandar.

“The High King and two thirds of the armies of the realm will die today if we do not warn them in time,” said Ridmark.

He turned to the west and started to run, the others following him.

Already the sun was starting to rise in the east.

Chapter 17: Blessing of Fire

Calliande and Antenora labored through the night, Gavin standing guard over them. Kharlacht and Caius had wanted to stand guard as well, but Calliande had sent them to watch over Mara instead. The Anathgrimm obeyed Mara, but Mara was the only thing that kept them loyal. If she was assassinated, the Anathgrimm would likely go berserk. If Calliande had realized that danger, then Tarrabus had likely seen opportunity in it as well. The more defenders that Mara had, the better.

So Calliande, Antenora, and Gavin had withdrawn to a hill southeast of Dun Calpurnia, just overlooking the Anathgrimm camp to the north and the pine-forested hills of the Northerland to the east. From the hill’s rocky crest she saw Dun Calpurnia, the army of the High King spread out in its camp below the town, and the broad expanse of the River Moradel.

From here, she would work the spell to shield the army of Andomhaim from the cold of the Frostborn.

The Keeper’s power was immense, but it still possessed limitations. Calliande’s spells could shatter the defenses of any other wielder of magic, and her wards could withstand nearly any attack. Yet she could only channel so much power at once. Wizards like the Warden or Ardrhythain could summon stupendous amounts of magical force in an instant, far more than Calliande could manage.

Yet with long enough time to work, Calliande could summon a considerable amount of power.

It was, she thought, much like water. Mighty wizards like Ardrhythain or the Warden were like a flood. The mantle of the Keeper was a steady stream. With enough time, a steady stream could wear away even the biggest mountain…and no other magic of this world could withstand the Keeper’s mantle.

As the night wore on, Calliande assembled the power for the great spell, casting wards over and over again

She had discarded her gown in favor of her usual clothes of boots and trousers and jerkin (though thankfully they had been washed), and her green cloak, the worn staff of the Keeper in her hand. Calliande walked in a circle around the hilltop, over and over, casting the warding spell. She could only work so much power at once…but the warding spells lingered, building upon each other like a mason laying course after course of bricks.

The circle served to focus and augment the power. The dark elves had left circles of standing stones scattered throughout Andomhaim, circles designed to channel and focus dark powers. Yet a circle could be used to focus other kinds of magic, and she used it now to channel the warding power.

After she completed every circle, Antenora stepped forward. She used the time of Calliande’s casting to summon a fireball, pouring elemental power into it until the sphere swelled to the size of a wagon wheel and blazed like a second sun. The sphere held enough power to burn a score of men to ashes.

Antenora thrust her staff, and the fireball crashed into Calliande’s circle. It started to explode, but the circle of spells Calliande had laid down caught the fire, channeling it into the circle and trapping it within the ring of wards. To Calliande’s Sight, the circle looked like a chalice of white light that held a pool of fire.

She cast the circle again, walking around the hilltop as the moons and the stars wheeled overhead, and Antenora threw another fireball into the ring.

She did it again.

And again.

And still again.

“I don’t understand,” said Gavin as Calliande began another circle, sweat dripping down her face from exertion. The conversation was a distraction to her concentration, but not a serious one. She had worked far more powerful spells under far more demanding circumstances. “How is this supposed to work?”

“The mantle of the Keeper is power,” said Antenora in her rasping voice, another fireball spinning to life over her staff. “Power that no other form of magic can resist. Neither the Traveler nor the bearer of shadow could stand against her magic.”

“Which is why Shadowbearer kept flickering around when we fought him,” said Gavin.

“Yes, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora. She never seemed to tire of talking to him, nor of his questions. The two had formed a peculiar sort of friendship. “More to the point, the Keeper’s power can augment other magic. Including my own magic of elemental fire.”

“I’ve seen your fire,” said Gavin. “Won’t you wind up burning everyone to death?”

“That is a possibility,” said Antenora. “However, the Keeper’s skill is sufficient to contain the fire. Additionally, there are sixty thousand men outside the town, fifteen thousand orcs from the baptized kingdoms, and six or seven thousand Anathgrimm. Divided among that many targets, the power will not harm them, but it should ward them from the cold of the revenants.”

“I hope so,” said Gavin. “If we had been able to ward against the revenants, maybe we could still hold Dun Licinia. It would have been better, I think, to keep the Frostborn tied up there and wait for the High King to arrive.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Antenora, the fireball burning hotter as it spun faster.

Gavin shook his head. “Though Tarrabus would have found a way to make trouble.”

Antenora shrugged. “I fear so.”

“Still, he only has a tenth of the realm’s strength,” said Gavin. “Even if he rebels openly, the other nobles will crush him.”

Antenora shook her head. “A man such as Tarrabus Carhaine will find many willing to believe his lies. I saw such things happen often on Old Earth.”

Calliande finished another circle, and Antenora thrust her staff, another fireball hurtling across the hillside to explode into the wards. The fireball erupted, and the ring of wards drank its power, adding it to the magical force waiting within the circle. The hilltop all but vibrated with the magical force that Calliande and Antenora had summoned.

And still she needed more.

Another circle she cast, and another, until to her Sight the hilltop seemed to writhe with flames and the magic of the Keeper’s mantle. So much magic had gathered atop the hill that even Gavin could see it, and she saw him looking back and forth with concern, his hand resting upon Truthseeker’s hilt. Calliande ignored that, ignored his quiet conversation with Antenora, ignored everything. She put all distractions out of her mind – her fear for the future, her fear for Ridmark, her plans to deal with the treachery of Tarrabus Carhaine and to close the world gate that Imaria had opened. Her entire mind focused upon the potent spell she was building, the ring of fire blazing hotter and brighter before her Sight.

At last, shortly before dawn, Calliande was ready.

The hill trembled with the gathered power as the sky over the eastern hills started to brighten. Antenora cast her final fireball, the flames washing into the maze of hundreds of interlocking wards that Calliande had cast. Calliande’s arms trembled with exertion, her shoulders aching, her breath coming hard and fast. Magic, in many ways, was as taxing an exertion as vigorous exercise.

Yet she had once final exertion to perform.

Calliande strode into the center of the circle and lifted the staff of the Keeper high, calling upon both the magic of the Well and the mantle of the Keeper’s power. With the magic of the Well she cast a spell, a ward to protect against elemental cold and ice. She drew the spell through the mantle of the Keeper, augmenting it and charging it with irresistible force.

Then she cast the spell into the ring of wards and Antenora’s fire.

She hadn’t been entirely sure what would happen, but the results were impressive.

The ring burst into flame with a roar, and a howling shaft of elemental fire shot skyward. For a moment Calliande stood in the center of a towering cylinder of flame, her hair and cloak billowing around her in the gale of hot air. Then a gentle yellow-orange light sank into her skin as the ward took effect, and the cylinder of fire expanded, rolling from the top of the hill in a similar wave of yellow-orange light. Gavin flinched as the light touched him, but as with Calliande, a corona of light surrounded him for a moment, and then sank into him. The light touched Antenora as well, and then spread away to the north, rolling over the Anathgrimm camp, and speeding through Dun Calpurnia and the camp of Andomhaim and the camps of the allied orcish kings.

For a moment magic shone before Calliande’s Sight, and she saw the ward wrapping itself around the tens of thousands of fighting men and orcs below the walls of Dun Calpurnia. The glow faded away, but Calliande saw the faint flicker remaining, the magic still clinging to the men of Andomhaim. The power had vanished from the hilltop, and the ground around her was still and quiet and dim once more.

The spell had worked. The men of the army were protected from the freezing touch of the revenants.

A wave of crushing exhaustion rolled through Calliande, and she leaned hard upon the Keeper’s staff to keep from falling over.

“That was,” said Gavin, his eyes wide. “That was…that was…impressive. I don’t really understand what happened, but…God!”

“The spell was successful,” said Antenora.

Calliande nodded, still clutching her staff as she tried to catch her breath. The spell had taken a tremendous amount of effort, and the price for that effort had just caught up to her. The last time she had felt this tired had been when Shadowbearer had overcome her within the stone circle, in the final moments before Ridmark killed him.

“How long will it last?” said Gavin.

“Years, likely,” said Antenora. “Perhaps three or four. Though I suspect this war shall be decided long before that. Keeper?”

Calliande opened her mouth to answer, and the world started to spin around her.

Both Antenora and Gavin were at her side in a moment, catching her arms and helping her stand upright.

“We must find another Magistrius at once,” said Antenora, her raspy voice filled with urgency. “Gavin Swordbearer, use your soulblade’s power to heal her…”

“No, no,” said Calliande, finding her voice at last. “No, I’m fine. I’m not hurt. Just tired. The spell was…draining. A moment. A moment and I will be fine.” She considered. “Well. Maybe a few moments.”

“When you feel strong enough, we should return to the town,” said Antenora. “Any wizards among the Frostborn or the Enlightened would almost certainly have detected your spell, and may decide to strike while you are weakened.”

“Yes,” said Calliande, taking a deep breath. “Yes, you are right.” She looked at the walls of Dun Calpurnia, the rising sun throwing bright colors across the weathered stone. “We must tell the High King that the great ward was successful. Then we should make for the camp of the Anathgrimm. Ridmark and the others might have returned by now, and if they rescued Accolon, they would have taken her to Mara and the Anathgrimm.”

If they had been successful. If they had not been taken captive. If Ridmark and the others had not been killed in the attempt.

Calliande swallowed and put the thought out of her head.

“We should go soon,” said Antenora.

“I think I can walk now,” said Calliande. Antenora and Gavin stepped back, though they hovered next to her with a solicitousness that she found touching. “Back to the town. And then…”

“What’s that?” said Gavin.

Calliande frowned, and then heard the distant sound.

Drums. The booming of drums, coming down from the north. Drums that sounded like those the Frostborn had used during their assault upon Dun Licinia…

An instant later the sound of hundreds of trumpets rose from the camp of Andomhaim, blasting the same sequence of notes over and over again.

“That’s the call of general assembly,” said Calliande. It had not changed since she had ridden with the Dragon Knight against the Frostborn two hundred years ago. “The High King is summoning the host to arms. That means…”

“The Frostborn,” said Gavin. “Those are the drums the Frostborn used with the medvarth.”

“Their host is here,” said Calliande. “Now. Right now.” She looked up, reaching out with the Sight. She spotted a dozen locusari scouts circling overhead, well out of reach. But the veil to block the Sight had extended far to the south, stopping only a few miles north of Dun Calpurnia. “I don’t know how, but they’re here.” She turned, releasing the Sight. “We’ve got to get to Mara’s camp, now. If the Frostborn are here, the High King will need every warrior to drive them back.”

“What about Tarrabus?” said Gavin.

“We might not have to worry about Tarrabus,” said Calliande. “If the Frostborn advanced so quickly, it might have taken him off guard. We…”

“Calliande!” screamed a man.

It was Ridmark’s voice…but filled with an anguish she had never heard in it before. Even during the awful night after Morigna had been killed, consuming rage had filled his voice, not this terrible pain.

She spun as Ridmark staggered to the crest of the hill, wobbling with every step.

He had been wounded horribly, the left side of his face torn to tatters, his dark elven armor ripped away, and his innards on the verge of falling out. Only the black staff of Ardrhythain kept him from collapsing, and he fell to one knee, his face a bloody mask of pain.

“Help me,” he croaked. “Please…help, I…”

Horrified, Calliande rushed towards him, summoning as much of the healing magic of the Well as she could draw through her exhaustion.

“Oh, God, Ridmark,” she said. “What happened?”

She started to reach for him with her free hand, white fire glimmering around her fingers.

“The Frostborn,” said Ridmark. “They surprised us. Kharlacht and Caius were wounded, too, and…”

Calliande blinked. Kharlacht and Caius hadn’t gone with Ridmark. Kharlacht and Caius had gone to guard Mara in the Anathgrimm camp. In point of fact, they were probably safer than anyone else within twenty miles of Dun Calpurnia.

She hesitated, and that moment of hesitation save her life.

A dagger flashed in Ridmark’s hand, and he lunged at her. Calliande yelped and jumped back as reflex took over, sweeping the staff of the Keeper before her to deflect the dagger. She lost her balance and fell, landing hard upon her back. Ridmark leaped to his feet with smooth, inhuman grace, raising the dagger. Calliande struggled to draw power for her spell, but between her exhaustion and the shock of her hard landing, she could not focus …

A gout of fire slammed into Ridmark, throwing him back. He retreated, snarling and slashing the dagger back and forth before him, and Calliande scrambled to her feet as Gavin raced to her side. Antenora hit Ridmark with another gout of flame…and this time Ridmark exploded into a snarling maze of thousands of shadowy black threads, each of them snapping and coiling around each other like a nest of furious snakes.

Then the shadowy threads knit themselves together, becoming into a kindly-looking old man in a brilliant white robe.

“Toridan,” spat Calliande.

“Oh, dear,” said the Weaver. “You have a bad habit, Calliande. Trying to protect others before you first protect yourself.” He smiled a gentle, kindly smile. “It’s going to be the death of you.”

“Come here and say that,” said Gavin, pointing with Truthseeker as the sword crackled with white fire.

“You young Swordbearers,” said the Weaver. He remained motionless at the edge of the hill. “All your brains are in your sword arm. No matter, though.”

Calliande gripped her staff, summoning as much power as she could hold. Why wasn’t the Weaver attacking? When she was at full strength, with the Keeper’s mantle at her command, he was no match for her. His only hope had been to take her unawares as she recovered from casting the great ward. So why was he standing there talking?

She gathered power to blast him to ashes, and then darkness swirled at the corner of her eye.

Imaria Shadowbearer appeared out of nothingness, the hilltop reflected in the quicksilver of her eyes, the veins of shadow beneath her pallid skin pulsing and throbbing. Imaria thrust out her hands, and a torrent of shadow erupted from them. It hit Antenora first, and she fell, her power drained away by the clinging shadows. Gavin raised Truthseeker in defense, and Calliande had no choice but to use the power she had summoned to cast a ward. Imaria’s shadows shattered against the ward, but Calliande’s will wavered. She was still exhausted from the effort of the great spell, and Imaria was rested.

The Weaver exploded into a maze of black threads again, and reformed into one of his preferred battle forms, a hulking monstrosity that looked like an ursaar with a row of spikes running down its back. Imaria’s attack ended as she prepared another spell, and Calliande slammed the end of her staff against the ground, throwing out as much power as she could call. A ring of white fire erupted from the staff and rolled out from her, knocking both the Weaver and Imaria back.

But it did not slow them for long.

The Weaver rushed at her in silence, and Gavin hurried to meet the creature, Truthseeker flashing. Imaria threw another blast of writhing shadows at Calliande, and she had no choice to but channel all her power to a ward.

“You should not resist,” said Imaria in the same malevolent double voice that Tymandain Shadowbearer had once possessed. “Your death is but the beginning. Behold, I shall free mankind from the flesh, from the material, from the mortal, from time itself.” She laughed, her eyes wide and wild. “And your death will pain Ridmark, so all the better.”

She attacked again, and Calliande struggled to hold her ward in place as Gavin retreated before the Weaver’s furious assault.

Chapter 18: Shadow Threads

Ridmark hurried through the woods, urgency driving him onward. Arandar and Jager and Accolon ran after him. Accolon was clearly exhausted from his long imprisonment in the cell, but he kept running, trying to keep up with his father, who every so often stopped to help the boy along.

Ridmark didn’t dare slow down. The letters that Accolon carried proved Tarrabus’s treachery beyond all doubt, and Tarrabus’s treachery was far larger than even Ridmark had feared. If Tarrabus was not stopped, he would destroy Andomhaim, but it was not yet too late. If Ridmark brought the letters to the High King, then Tarrabus was finished. The Duxi of Calvus and Arduran and Tarras could be arrested. If Tarrabus tried to resist, not even his shadow-powers could withstand a hundred Swordbearers and a hundred Magistri at once.

The sunrise threw shafts of hazy light through the pine trees. It was likely another mile or so to Dun Calpurnia. The Anathgrimm camp would be just slightly out of the way, but Ridmark considered going there to bring Mara and the Queen’s Guard. If Tarrabus decided to make a fight of it, the fury of the Anathgrimm and Mara’s talents would prove useful…

Another sunrise appeared in the western sky.

Ridmark skidded to a stunned hall, dirt and pine needles rasping beneath his boots. The others halted behind him, staring at the sky. A pillar of fire shot skyward less than a half-mile ahead. Ridmark’s brain caught up with his surprise, and he feared that Dun Calpurnia had just been consumed in a firestorm, that the Frostborn had unleashed some terrible new weapon of war like the machines of Old Earth that the Warden had shown them. Then the fire vanished, and a shimmering halo of yellow-orange light shot towards them.

Ridmark tensed, but the light moved which such speed that he couldn’t possibly dodge it. The light slammed into him and the others, and for a moment a flickering corona of light surrounded them. Then it seemed to sink into their flesh and vanish, and the forest was undisturbed once more.

“What was that?” said Accolon.

“I think,” said Ridmark, “that it was Calliande’s ward against the revenants. She must have finished it.”

“The pillar of fire came from that hill,” said Jager, pointing. “She must be up there. Should we tell her what we found?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “We’ll bring her with us, and Gavin, too, if he’s with her and Antenora.” Likely he was. “If I present the letters, that’s one thing. If the Keeper of Andomhaim presents the letters in the company of two Swordbearers, that’s something else entirely.” He gestured at Accolon. “Especially since we have a witness, living proof that Tarrabus lied to the High King.”

“Will…will the High King listen?” said Accolon. “He did not listen when I told him the truth about Sir Linus Rillon.”

“Oh, he had better listen,” said Jager. “Else he’s going to wind up a corpse.”

“We have proof, and an eyewitness,” said Ridmark. “More than one, if we count our conversation with Arlmagnava. Come!”

He started off at a jog again. They emerged from the pine forest cloaking the hills, heading into the cleared lands around Dun Calpurnia proper. A distant boom of thunder came to Ridmark’s ears, and he looked for the clouds, but the sky was clear.

No. Not thunder.

Drums.

The same drums that had accompanied the advance of the medvarth warriors at Dun Licinia.

A heartbeat later the sound of trumpets rose from the camps sprawling around the foot of Dun Calpurnia’s hill.

“Ridmark!” said Arandar. “That’s the call to take up arms.”

“I know,” said Ridmark.

“For the entire host?” said Jager.

“The only reason the High King would call the entire host to arms,” said Ridmark, “is if the Frostborn had arrived in strength.”

“So soon?” said Arandar. “How? It…”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ridmark. “We’re out of time. We have to warn the High King now. If…”

A distant flicker of shadow caught his eye.

It came from the crest of a nearby hill, the same hill from which the massive cylinder of fire had risen a few moments earlier. Likely Calliande and Antenora and the others were still up there.

And that shadow…

“Hurry!” said Ridmark, and he broke into a full sprint, heading up the slope of the hill as fast as he could. There was a flash of fire from the crest of the hill, a woman’s voice raised in challenge, and then a wave of shadow that rose up like a tower.

Ardrhythain’s staff glowed with white symbols of light in Ridmark’s fist, and his dread hardened into rage like iron.

He dashed to the top of the hill and saw the battle.

Calliande stood in the center of the hill, exhaustion clear upon her face, a corona of white fire crackling and snarling around her. Imaria Shadowbearer stood a dozen yards away from the Keeper, shadows pouring from the twisted veins in her hands and forearms. Antenora lay between them, caught in the torrent of shadows. Calliande staggered beneath the shadows, her warding spell flickering and crackling as it began to collapse.

White fire flashed as Gavin dueled a hulking, ursaar-like creature that could only have been the Weaver. For all the Weaver’s power, he was as vulnerable to a soulblade as any other creature of dark magic, and the massive creature moved with fluid, inhuman grace, dodging the white-burning blows of Truthseeker. Gavin attacked with vigor, but he wasn’t experienced enough to see that the Weaver was simply luring him, waiting until not even the soulblade could maintain his stamina.

Then the Weaver would kill him, just as he had killed Morigna.

Rage exploded through Ridmark at the sight of Morigna’s murderers. This time, though, the rage was cold, as if his heart had frozen. Ridmark could take his vengeance upon Morigna’s murderers, but he could not do so if he allowed his rage to overrule his thinking. It would get him killed, and worse, it would get Calliande and the others killed in the process.

Cold. He had to be cold and logical.

For a moment, none of the combatants had noticed him. Though given that he carried a black staff with glowing symbols, that wouldn’t last long.

He sprinted at Calliande, dashing past her. Her eyes widened in astonishment, and then Ridmark leaped into the stream of shadows pouring from Imaria’s hands. Ardrhythain’s staff glowed brighter in his fist, and the torrent of shadows parted around him. Calliande recast her warding spell, and Ridmark ran towards Imaria.

He saw his reflection in her quicksilver eyes, and her face twisted with anger and contempt. A moment later she disappeared, vanishing in a swirl of darkness. She reappeared on the other side of the hill, gathering power for another spell, but this time Calliande was ready. She flung a bolt of white fire, and Imaria had no choice but to disappear again.

Antenora staggered back to her feet, and Arandar ran across the hilltop, Heartwarden burning in his fist as he rushed to aid Gavin against the Weaver. Accolon started after his father, but Jager grabbed his shoulder, holding him back. Just as well that he did. This was no fight for someone so young. Of course, Gavin was only a few years older than Accolon, but Gavin had a soulblade.

As Ridmark turned to join the Swordbearers against the Weaver, darkness swirled behind Jager and Accolon. Imaria reappeared further down the hillside, darkness gathering in her hands as she began a spell. She was going to kill Accolon and Jager.

“Down!” shouted Ridmark, running as fast as he could.

He got in front of Jager and Accolon just Imaria worked her spell, unleashing another torrent of shadows. Jager and Accolon threw themselves to the ground, and Ridmark ran at Imaria as the shadows hurtled towards him. Again the symbols in the staff glowed brighter, and the shadows flowed around him. Imaria lowered her hands, the shadows fading away, her expression twisted with hatred.

Yet she did not disappear.

“Still alive, Ridmark Arban,” said Imaria in the twisted double voice of the Shadowbearer. “Still alive, when all those you love have died.”

She hated him. He had always known that, but she hated him as much as he hated her. She had hated him even before Aelia had died, and that hatred had festered into something colossal, turning her from a willful young woman into the creature that stood before him now.

Ridmark’s own rage had almost gotten him killed in Dun Licinia when his hatred had overridden his thinking. Did she hate him enough to make a similar mistake?

Could he goad her into making a similar mistake?

He dropped his left hand from his staff, drawing the dwarven war axe from his belt.

To defeat her, he could not fight the shadow. He had to fight Imaria herself.

“Still alive,” said Ridmark, “even though you keep trying to kill me?”

Behind him the Weaver loosed a furious metallic shriek of rage, Arandar and Gavin both shouting war cries.

“Soon rectified,” said Imaria. “A new age of freedom shall come for mankind. You, however, shall not live to see it.”

“You won’t kill me,” said Ridmark. “You’re too stupid and too clumsy. Aelia was right about you.”

Imaria flinched as if he had slapped her. “What?”

“She was better than you,” said Ridmark. “Smarter, stronger, more beautiful. No wonder she was your father’s favorite.”

“You will be silent,” said Imaria. The human half of her voice was filled with rage.

“You were always everyone’s second choice,” said Ridmark, taking another step towards her, his fingers tightening around the axe’s haft. “Aelia was your father’s favorite. Aelia was Tarrabus’s favorite. Tarrabus only took you into his bed as a poor, second-rate copy of Aelia.” He forced himself to feign a derisive laugh. “You were even the shadow’s second choice. The shadow of Incariel only passed to you after I killed Tymandain. You were its choice of last resort.”

Imaria said nothing, but the veins of shadow beneath her skin throbbed. The sunrise threw a long, black shadow behind her, and the shadow split into three and started to rotate around her, faster and faster, like serpents preparing to strike.

“You cannot even avenge Aelia properly,” said Ridmark. “You couldn’t kill me. You just killed Morigna. She never even met Aelia! You sold your soul, and you can’t even avenge your sister.” He took two more steps closer to Imaria, saw that she was trembling with utter rage. “Just as well that Aelia is dead. You would embarrass…”

That did it.

Imaria shrieked in fury, so loud that her double voice threatened to split Ridmark’s ears. She threw her hands towards him, and the shadows erupted from her like a wave, the grass and small trees near her withering to ash, a torrent of darkness thundering upon Ridmark. The symbols on the black staff kept the shadows from enveloping him, but they howled around him like a storm, the very ground beneath his boots crumbling into dust, and Ridmark struggled to keep his footing.

“Then perish!” shrieked Imaria, striding towards him with her hands hooked into claws, the shadows pouring from her. “Perish a thousand times, worm! This world shall die and a new one shall rise in its place, and you shall scream for millennia beyond…”

Ridmark threw his axe.

The weapon wasn’t really balanced for throwing, and Imaria started to dodge, but Ridmark had more practice throwing the axe than he would have liked. The blade clipped her right arm, and Imaria stumbled with a scream, red blood soaking into the white sleeve of her robe. The shadows winked out, and Ridmark ran at her, drawing back his staff to strike. All his rage and hate seemed to focus within him, the entire world centering upon Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer as he prepared the blow that would crush the life from her.

For an instant, he saw fear on her face, and a half-second before his staff would have hit her skull she vanished in a swirl of darkness. A moment of blinding rage and frustration went through him, and Ridmark spun, seeking for Imaria.

But she had vanished, likely to heal the wound that the dwarven axe had dealt to her arm.

Ridmark snatched up his axe and ran to aid Calliande and Arandar and Gavin against the Weaver.

###

Arandar dodged another sweep of the Weaver’s claws, avoiding the creature’s blow only with the speed of Heartwarden. Gavin tried to land a strike with Truthseeker, but the Weaver dodged with serpentine, fluid grace, moving faster than something that size should have been able to move. A burst of white fire shot past Arandar, leaping from Calliande’s staff, and clipped the Weaver on his muscled shoulder. The creature staggered, and both Arandar and Gavin lunged. The Weaver leaped backwards, landing out of reach. Arandar went left and Gavin went right, hoping to give Antenora and Calliande a clear shot at the Weaver, but instead the bear-like creature charged right at Arandar. He considered standing and trying to land a hit, but realized the Weaver would likely crush him. At the last moment he flung himself to the side, hitting the ground and rolling. The Weaver skidded to a halt and pivoted, rising on his rear paws to bring his bulk crashing down upon Arandar. He scrambled backward, trying to get Heartwarden up in time to defend himself…

Ridmark attacked, driving his dwarven war axe into the Weaver’s exposed belly. The bronze-colored weapon sank to the haft in the Weaver’s flesh, and the ancient Enlightened let out a furious scream of rage. A claw-tipped paw the size of a shield swiped at Ridmark’s face, but he danced to the side, ripping the axe free, and swung again. The Weaver jerked to avoid the blow, but Gavin attacked the creature from behind, plunging Truthseeker to the hilt in the Weaver’s flank.

The Weaver threw back his misshapen head and howled, and Arandar heaved himself to his feet, stabbing with all his strength. Heartwarden ripped into the Weaver’s shadow-corrupted flesh with a blaze of white fire. The Weaver screamed again, and Ridmark went into a furious attack, chopping the dwarven axe into the Weaver’s thick neck again and again, black slime flying from the widening wound. The dwarven weapon wasn’t as effective as a soulblade, but with Ridmark’s enraged strength behind it, that hardly mattered. Perhaps they had the Weaver at last, could at last put an end this ancient, evil creature…

The Weaver exploded into a maze of snarling black threads, and the tangle leapt backwards to land at the edge of the hill. The threads knitted themselves into the form of an old man in a white robe, his eyes narrowed, his breath coming hard and fast. Both Ridmark and Morigna had thought that the Weaver possessed the ability to heal his wounds between every transformation, and it seemed that they had been correct – there was no sign of the garish wounds the Weaver’s body should have borne.

Shadow swirled next to him, and Imaria reappeared, her right sleeve darkened with blood, though she bore no other sign of injury.

“A vigorous defense,” said the Weaver, still breathing hard.

Ridmark stooped, retrieved his staff, and started towards them both, moving with slow, cautious steps.

“But futile,” said Imaria in the hideous double voice of the Shadowbearer. Arandar wondered if the second voice was the voice of Incariel itself, speaking through its chosen vessel. “It is too late. You can do nothing to stop what is to come. It has already been decided. I shall have my freedom, and this world shall be remade.”

“Come closer and say that,” said Ridmark.

Her mirrored gaze shifted to Ridmark, and her lip peeled back from her teeth in a snarl.

“And you, Ridmark Arban,” said Imaria. “You…”

“Alas,” said the Weaver. “We have an appointment to keep, my dear.”

“Yes,” said Imaria. “You will see, Ridmark. Perhaps that shall be your punishment. To live to see your failure.”

Both Calliande and Antenora struck at once, Calliande unleashing a blazing shaft of white fire, and Antenora flinging a sphere of flame. Yet Imaria and the Weaver were already moving. Imaria vanished in a swirl of darkness, and the Weaver leapt into the air, exploding into a maze of shadowy threads once more. Calliande’s shaft of fire ripped through the empty air, and Antenora’s fireball exploded against the slope. The Weaver reformed into a winged creature that looked something like a twisted drake, wheeled over their heads, and hurtled away to the north. Calliande cast another bolt of white fire at the creature, but the Weaver dodged and flew away with terrific speed.

Silence fell over the hilltop, save for the crackle of the burning grass…and the distant sounds of drums and trumpets.

Ridmark let out a curse, flinging his staff to the ground in frustration.

Chapter 19: Just A Little Too Late

Calliande leaned upon the staff of the Keeper, her heart racing, trying to get her breathing back under control.

“Are you wounded?”

She looked up as Ridmark walked towards her. The real Ridmark this time, not the Weaver wrapped in a treacherous disguise.

“No,” she said. “Just exhausted. The Weaver and Imaria must have been waiting until I finished the ward to attack.”

“Then you were successful?” said Ridmark. “You worked the ward?”

Despite her exhaustion, Calliande grinned. “Aye. The spell worked. It took all night to summon the power for it, but the spell worked. The fighting men of Andomhaim and the allied orcish kingdoms are now warded from the freezing touch of the revenants. They will even have some protection from the Frostborn themselves.”

“Good,” said Ridmark, his voice grim. “They shall need every advantage.”

“And you?” said Calliande, blinking the sweat from her eyes. There was a boy standing near Jager, about thirteen years old, and the family resemblance to Arandar was plain. “Is that…”

“This is Accolon, my firstborn,” said Arandar, returning Heartwarden to its scabbard. “Accolon, this is Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim, returned to aid the realm against the Frostborn.”

Accolon’s eyes got wide, but despite his obvious weariness he managed a smooth bow. “My lady.”

“I am pleased that you are free,” said Calliande. “Sir Arandar went to great lengths and dared great perils to win your release.”

“I know, my lady,” said Accolon. “Father…is Nyvane safe? I know she was with Aunt Miriam, but…”

“They are both safe,” said Arandar. “In truth, they are safer than we are. They are with the Anathgrimm.”

“The Anathgrimm?” said Accolon, recoiling. “The warriors of the Traveler?”

“The Traveler’s dead, lad,” said Jager. “My wife killed him.”

“Your wife?” said Accolon, incredulous.

“Your father was there to see it,” said Calliande, “but he can tell you the tale later. Did you find any proof against Tarrabus?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark, his voice distant as he looked to the north. “Quite a lot of it. Enough to send Tarrabus and several other people to the executioner’s block.”

“Good,” said Calliande. “We have to find the High King at once and warn him. Though perhaps it would be better to wait until after the battle. I think the Frostborn surprised even Tarrabus with their haste…”

“No,” said Ridmark. “No. I…fear that Imaria was right.”

Calliande blinked. “What?”

“We’re too late,” said Ridmark.

###

Ridmark looked north, past the smoke of the burning grass, and saw the lines of the battle taking shape.

It was already beginning.

From this distance, the opposing armies looked like masses of insects, but he could pick out the banners easily enough, and he had been in enough battles to make out what was happening. The Frostborn had come down in great numbers from the north, and a huge of wave of revenants, maybe fifteen thousand, were advancing. After them came ranks of medvarth and locusari warriors, with columns of khaldjari guarding massive constructions of metal that looked like siege engines. Hundreds of Frostborn walked in the rear of the vast army, no doubt overseeing the battle.

The army of Andomhaim marched to meet them.

The orcish warriors of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk made up the vanguard, along with the men of the Northerland. By long tradition, the orcish warriors insisted upon making up the vanguard, thirsting for battle in a way that even the most seasoned human knight did not. The High King’s dragon banner floated over the center, flanked by the banners of the Prince of Cintarra, the Dux of Taliand, the Dux of Caertigris, and the Dux of Durandis. The Swordbearers remained in reserve, nearly a thousand, ready to attack when they were needed. The Duxi of Arduran and Calvus were on the left wing, and Ridmark saw the banners of Tarrabus Carhaine and the Dux of Tarras upon the army’s right wing.

The shape of the lines dictated the opposing armies’ plans. The Frostborn would launch their revenants in a massive wave, pinning down the vanguard of Andomhaim, while the medvarth and locusari warriors attacked the left and right wings. The khaldjari siege engines would launch salvos from a distance, and the Frostborn themselves would fling their magic into the fray while their frost drakes circled overhead.

The High King, for his part, had adapted his battle plan. The vanguard would hold the revenants in place while the footmen advanced and the heavy cavalry circled behind their lines, dividing into two massive wings. When they were ready, they would charge into the advancing medvarth and locusari, and the sheer weight of the armored horsemen would break through. Both the medvarth and the locusari were formidable, but lacked the ability to withstand a cavalry charge. If the horsemen broke their lines, the Frostborn army would collapse in flight back to their citadel at Dun Licinia. Looking at the two armies, Ridmark would have said that the High King would win.

But Tarrabus had laid his trap too well.

With sick horror Ridmark saw that Imaria had been right. It was too late. The trap had already been laid…and the jaws were closing even as he watched.

“How is it too late?” said Calliande. “Tarrabus is on the right wing, not the vanguard. He’s not anywhere near the High King. Even if he abandons the field to the Frostborn, the army of Andomhaim will still win through.”

“It is too late,” said Ridmark, “because Tarrabus isn’t the only Enlightened among the Duxi.”

“What?” said Calliande.

“The letters we found,” said Arandar, his face grim. Likely he had realized the truth, just as Ridmark had. “The Duxi of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras are all part of the Enlightened, along with the greater part of their vassals.”

“No,” said Calliande. “No, that can’t be. Not that many, surely.”

“Look at how they are arrayed,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus and the Dux of Tarras on the right, Calvus and Arduran upon the left. They’ll wait until the vanguard of orcs and the men of the Northerland have broken through the revenant line and the High King has ordered the footmen to advance. Then Tarrabus and his allies…”

“They’ll pull back,” said Calliande. She sounded dazed. “They’ll pull back, meaning the entire left and right wings will fall back.”

“Leaving the vanguard and the center to be encircled and slaughtered,” said Ridmark.

“Can’t we warn them?” said Jager. “If we hurry…”

Ridmark shook his head. “It’s already beginning. You can see the maneuvering there, if you look. Tarrabus and his allies are getting ready to withdraw. By the time we reach them, it will already be over…wait. Calliande. You can speak to the Magistri over a great distance. Can you contact Camorak or Kurastus, or any of the Magistri, and warn them what Tarrabus intends?”

“Maybe.” Hope flickered over her face, and she closed her eyes and cast a spell. For a moment her eyes twitched behind closed lids, and she let out a sound of pure anger and frustration. “I can’t. The Magistri have all cast their battle wards. That shields them from magical attack…”

“And blocks them from magical communication,” said Ridmark. “Likely that’s why the Weaver and Imaria chose this moment to assassinate you, to keep you from interfering.”

“They needn’t have bothered,” said Calliande. “I can do nothing to interfere from here.”

Ridmark nodded, his mind seizing upon plans and discarding them. If only Mara had been here, she could have traveled with haste to warn the High King. If only they had fast horses. If only Ridmark had figured out the truth sooner, had realized the extent of Tarrabus’s treachery. He could have warned the High King.

No matter what choice he made, no matter what decision or course of action, he saw utter catastrophe staring him in the face, and he could think of no way to stop it.

“Father,” said Accolon. “What are we going to do?”

Ridmark had no idea.

Chapter 20: Enlightenment

Tarrabus Carhaine sat atop his horse, clad in armor of the best steel from the smiths of Tarlion, a blue surcoat with the black dragon of Caerdracon over his cuirass. It was his finest armor, an utter masterwork.

Armor fit for a king.

It seemed appropriate to wear it today.

Around him waited his household knights and men-at-arms, all of them loyal, all of them belonging to one circle or another of the Initiated of the Enlightened of Incariel. They had known his secrets and kept them for years, and today he would reward them for their loyalty.

His moment of triumph had come at last.

Yet, strangely, his thoughts lingered upon Aelia.

It was the Keeper’s fault. He smiled a little at the thought of her. She was a remarkably attractive woman, though he had not seriously thought he would be able to seduce her, and attempting to force the Keeper would have been suicidal even with the powers that Incariel’s shadow gave him. Nonetheless it had been amusing to watch her revolted reaction to the kiss.

She had made him think of Aelia, though.

Tarrabus watched the battle unfold, the drums of the medvarth and the khaldjari booming over the fields north of Dun Calpurnia. The orcish warriors of the baptized kingdoms charged forward, flanked by the men of the Northerland, rushing to meet the revenants as they advanced. The orcs were savage and stupid, but effective fodder, and Tarrabus looked forward to ridding himself of them. Their devotion to the church and the High King was cumbersome, and the revenants and the medvarth would dispose of them. Though the orcs would prove more effective than the Frostborn expected, since the Keeper had finished her mighty warding spell.

Which would have left her vulnerable to the Keeper and mad little Imaria. Tarrabus supposed Aelia would have been horrified to learn what had become of Imaria. She had always loved her little sister, even if Imaria had failed to realize it.

He wondered if Aelia would have understood what he intended to do today.

Likely not, given that he would send her father and her brother to their deaths within the hour. And Ridmark, since he and his little band of outcasts were probably with Gareth Licinius. Aelia would definitely not have approved of that. For whatever reason, Ridmark – stupid, plodding Ridmark – had captured Aelia’s heart, and that was that. To this day Tarrabus wondered why. Ridmark was a Dux’s son, true, but Tarrabus had been a Dux’s heir. Tarrabus had been just as capable as a swordsman. And Tarrabus was the stronger of the two men.

Ridmark had proven that when he had failed to save her.

But would she have understood that the plan of the Enlightened was necessary? She had been so devoted to the feeble myths and superstitions of the church. Andomhaim was surrounded by powerful enemies, by urdmordar and dark elves and dvargir and worse things, and mankind was weak, with a life of only seventy or eighty years while the dark elves and the urdmordar could live forever. How could humanity compete with such enemies? Mankind had to evolve. Mankind had to grow, to become immortal and powerful…and the shadow of Incariel offered such power. His alliance with the Frostborn gave Tarrabus the time necessary to spread the word of Incariel to the men of Andomhaim, and eventually he would defeat the Frostborn and mankind would rule the entirety of this world, immortal and all-powerful.

Surely Aelia would have realized that was necessary.

The trumpets blared, and the orcs started forward with a ferocious howl, running to meet the advancing lines of the revenants.

No, Tarrabus decided, Aelia would not have understood. She would have recoiled in horror if she had learned the truth, if she had known that Tarrabus would fulfill a plan that had been in motion ever since Tymandain Shadowbearer had founded the Enlightened after the defeat of the Frostborn. She would have turned on him, and become his implacable enemy.

She would not have understood…but she had almost made Tarrabus understand.

If she had chosen him over Ridmark, Tarrabus knew, he would have left the Enlightened behind. She was the opposite of everything that his father had believed, and for her, he would have forsaken the Enlightened.

So, in a way, her death had made today’s triumph possible.

Yes. He liked that thought. Aelia’s death would be the catalyst that would save mankind.

He watched the orcs engage the revenants, and then glanced to the southeast. Imaria and the Weaver ought to have finished off the Keeper by now. He didn’t regret her death. Calliande had been a beautiful woman…but, well, beautiful women were easy enough to find.

Soon Imaria and the Weaver would arrive, and then Tarrabus would become the new High King of Andomhaim.

###

Imaria walked past the ranks of the waiting Swordbearers with the Weaver.

Had any one of the Swordbearers seen her or the Weaver for what they truly were, they would have struck her down at once. For all of Imaria’s power, soulblades were just as powerful, and Imaria had no wish to face a man wielding one, and nor did the shadow that now filled her heart and mind.

Her mouth twisted inside her cowl, the shadow snarling within her. Ridmark was still alive, as was Calliande, though Imaria cared less about her. The shadow within her insisted that Calliande was the greater threat to her eternal freedom, and Imaria knew that the shadow was correct. Yet she only regarded Calliande as an obstacle to be destroyed.

She hated Ridmark in a way that only the shadow could understand.

She would make him pay. She would make him scream. She had already started by murdering his Wilderland whore in Dun Licinia. When she had finished, he would beg for the release of death.

But what she would do today would cause him great pain…and that pleased her. That it took her another step closer to her freedom was almost incidental.

She and the Weaver walked unnoticed past the Swordbearers. The Weaver had taken the form of an elderly monk in a flowing brown robe and rope belt, hands tucked into his sleeves, his head bowed in solemn prayer. The shadow of Incariel had given Imaria many powers, but the ability to change her form had not been one of them, so she had simply killed one of the monks of the town’s abbey and taken his robe. It was voluminous enough to conceal her figure, and she and the Weaver simply looked like another pair of monks, saying prayers for God to watch over the men of Andomhaim.

Most of those men would be dead within the hour.

Imaria thought of her father and brother, fighting in the vanguard with the orcish rabble, and smiled beneath her cowl. They deserved to die for what they had done. They had forgiven Ridmark for Aelia’s death, which was bad enough, but then they had helped him when he had returned from the Wilderland, which was worse. Just as well that Ridmark had escaped death so far, then. It would pain him when Dux Gareth and Sir Constantine perished in the battle.

The shadow within her hissed with pleasure at the thought, and she and the Weaver made their way closer to the High King’s banner.

###

Tarrabus kept his face calm despite his growing excitement.

The orcs and the battle-hardened men of the Northerland, shielded by the Keeper’s ward, proved more than a match for the revenants. In a matter of moments wedges of Rhaluuskan orcs and Northerland men-at-arms had carved their way through the revenants, pressing towards the ranks of the medvarth and the locusari warriors.

Trumpets rang out, and the footmen in the center began to advance, preparing to join the vanguard. Behind the center the heavy horsemen wheeled, preparing the massive charge upon the left and right wings. Old Uthanaric might have been a fool, but Tarrabus conceded that the High King had come up with a good battle plan. The Frostborn force was larger, but the men of Andomhaim were better positioned. One good charge of horsemen would break the lines of the Frostborn, and Uthanaric had positioned the army so he could unleash two charges at once. In the chaos that followed the horsemen, the infantry could advance and push the medvarth and locusari into the river while the Swordbearers and the Magistri dealt with the Frostborn themselves.

It was a good plan, and it would have worked, but Uthanaric did not have all the facts.

Tarrabus turned his attention towards the High King’s banner and waited.

###

Imaria approached the High King’s party, the Weaver gliding next to her in silence.

Uthanaric Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim, sat atop a magnificent war horse, the beast stamping its hooves in its eagerness to engage the foe. The High King wore armor of burnished steel, adorned with gold and silver on the edges, his crisp blue surcoat showing the red dragon sigil of the House of Pendragon. The ancient soulblade Excalibur rested at his belt, and he wore a helm wrought to allow the red gold Pendragon Crown to rest upon his head. A nervous-looking squire sat on a horse behind the High King, carrying Uthanaric’s shield and lance. Crown Prince Kaldraine and the High King’s other two sons waited nearby, clad in armor of similar splendor. Two Swordbearers on foot flanked Uthanaric’s horse, ready to defend the High King from any foes, while two young Magistri stood nearby, shimmering with the white light of defensive wards.

“The Swordbearers first,” murmured Imaria.

The Weaver inclined his cowled head a fraction of an inch.

“My lord High King!” A messenger in Pendragon colors ran up to the High King’s horse and bowed. “The vanguard has broken through the revenants.”

“Good,” said the High King. “The trumpeters are to signal the advance. As soon as they are committed, the horsemen are to charge from the flanks at once. This day we shall break the Frostborn, and send them scurrying back to their frozen world.”

The messenger bowed and ran off, and Imaria smiled, shivering with anticipation, the shadow murmuring its pleasure. In a way, it was historic.

The very last Pendragon High King of Andomhaim sat a few yards away. Tarrabus had wasted a lot of time and money gradually poisoning Uthanaric and his sons with that dvargir poison, but it had proven unnecessary. Imaria herself would succeed where the poison had failed.

It would have been historic…but soon the shadow of Incariel would destroy time itself, and man would be free from the tyranny of past and present and future.

“My lord High King,” said the Weaver in a quavering voice, and Uthanaric and his sons and his guards looked at him. “A blessing for you, on the day of this great battle to speed you to victory.”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Uthanaric, “but be quick about it, brother.”

The shadow gathered in Imaria, drawing power to her. One of the Magistri frowned and started to turn.

The Weaver bowed deep, stopping within a few yards of Uthanaric’s horse…and then his hands exploded from his sleeves.

Of course, in his current form he didn’t have hands but blades, long, serrated blades, much like a locusari warrior’s forelimbs but much longer and stronger. The Weaver spun in a blur, and before anyone could react, he had killed both of the Swordbearers, his serrated blades opening their throats, blood spattering across the dusty ground.

Uthanaric reacted faster than she expected. “Treachery!” The old man scrabbled for Excalibur’s hilt, while both of the young Magistri began casting spells. “Treachery! To me, my…”

Imaria threw back her head and screamed, and the power of Incariel exploded from her.

A ring of enveloping shadows rushed from her body, rolling over the High King, his sons, his guards, and the two Magistri. For a moment the wards of the two Magistri sparked and flared, holding back the darkness. But next to Calliande’s power and skill they were but feeble children, and the power of Incariel smashed their wards, the shadows pouring into them. Around her men screamed and died as the shadows found their hearts and drank away their lives. Imaria groaned in ecstasy as the stolen lives rushed into her, fueling her own power and making her stronger.

As the shadows held her victims fast, the Weaver exploded into motion.

His form reknit itself into something like a black-armored locusari warrior, sleek and fast and deadly, and the Weaver started killing. He took the two Magistri first, ending their misery. Then he killed the High King’s sons, one after another, finishing Crown Prince Kaldraine last. The High King screamed in fury and pain, struggling to draw Excalibur. Imaria was impressed. She thought the shadows would have killed the sick old man first, but he held on, fighting with stubborn fury.

Stubborn, but futile.

The Weaver beheaded Uthanaric Pendragon with a sweep of his blades. The High King’s head rolled through the dirt, the dark eyes staring in frozen rage and fear at the sky.

Imaria released her spell, the shadows spinning away.

Nearly two hundred men lay dead around her. Without the benefit of magical protection, Incariel’s shadow had torn through them. The House of Pendragon lay in a tangled heap before her, their royal blood seeping into the dirt. A ripple of chaos went through the surrounding men, their orderly lines wavering. Soon enough they would come howling for her blood, furious to avenge their precious High King, but for now they were too shocked to react.

Imaria lifted the bloody crown of red gold from Uthanaric’s head, and then yanked Excalibur from his corpse’s belt, taking care to keep the sword in its sheath and to only touch the scabbard. Tymandain Shadowbearer had fallen to a soulblade, and she had no intention of repeating his fate.

“Do not touch the weapon,” said the Weaver.

“Of course not,” said Imaria. She felt the ancient sword’s wrath beneath the leather of the scabbard. Excalibur was an old, old weapon, at least by the standards of humans. It had been forged upon Old Earth, and carried to Andomhaim, passed down from High King to High King over the centuries. After Ardrhythain had founded the Two Orders, Excalibur had been reforged into a soulblade, its bond passed from High King to High King.

Imaria wanted to throw the wretched thing to the ground, to get it far away from her, but Tarrabus needed it, since for a thousand years the High King of Andomhaim had carried Excalibur and worn the Pendragon Crown. Neither Imaria nor the shadow within her cared what happened to Tarrabus Carhaine and Andomhaim, but for now she needed Tarrabus to gain access to the High King’s Citadel in Tarlion, to disarm the mighty, ancient wards in the heart of the Citadel.

She needed Tarrabus to get her to the Well, the final key to her freedom.

Tarrabus couldn’t understand the truth of her vision. He wanted to make mankind immortal and powerful.

She would free mankind from the flesh itself.

“Come,” said Imaria.

The Weaver exploded, reshaping himself into the form of a twisted drake. Imaria spread her arms, the crown in one hand and the sword in the other, and the Weaver picked up her and soared into the sky, leathery wings beating.

They left the High King’s corpse behind, this guardians lying dead around him.

###

Tarrabus watched the battle.

The footmen in the center, the men of Cintarra and Durandis and Taliand and Caertigris, were marching to aid the orcs and the men of the Northerland. The footmen on the left and right wings had started to advance, but more tentatively. The High King’s trumpeters had ordered them forward, and the men in the center responded with enthusiasm, but the right and left wings lagged.

They were waiting for a different signal.

As Tarrabus watched, he saw the creature rise from the army, soaring overhead, a white-robed woman held in its claws.

At last.

“Sir Caradog,” said Tarrabus. The blond-bearded knight straightened in the saddle. “You shall have the honor. Signal our trumpeters.”

“My lord!” said Caradog with a vicious smile. “I shall indeed be honored.” He turned and signaled to the trumpeters, and they blew out a series of prearranged blasts. The sound faded away, and a moment later came the distant sound of answering trumpets from the left wing, from the men of the Duxi of Arduran and Calvus.

The center crashed into the medvarth and the locusari warriors, the battle starting to degenerate into a general melee. Now would have been the perfect moment for the right and the left wings to attack, for the cavalry to rush to the aid of the center.

Instead, the left wing turned, beginning the march to Tarlion. Around Tarrabus, the men of Caerdracon and Tarras heeded the command of their lords, turning and heading south. It was too late for the men and orcs in the center to withdraw. If they tried, the medvarth and the locusari would rip them apart. They had no choice but to stand and fight, and they would be enveloped. That would pack them together, allowing them be slaughtered, or the khaldjari to bring their siege engines to bear.

The High King was dead, and his loyalists would perish wish him.

Tarrabus only wished he could have seen dour old Gareth Licinius and pompous old Leogrance Arban die, slaughtered by the locusari or ripped to pieces by the medvarth. He wished he could watch Ridmark Arban die.

Well. Perhaps the Frostborn would send him Ridmark’s head.

“The Anathgrimm?” said Tarrabus.

“Still in their camp, my lord Dux,” said Caradog. “They have not stirred. The High King should have summoned them when he still had the chance.”

“He should have done a lot of things when he still had the chance,” said Tarrabus. There would be time enough to deal with “Queen” Mara and her army of orcish mutants later. Perhaps the Frostborn would crush her for him. “We have greater work before us…ah.”

The Weaver dropped from the sky, landing with smooth grace before them. The horses shied and whinnied away from the misshapen creature, and Imaria stepped away from him, carrying something in her arms. As she did, the Weaver’s form exploded into black threads, and rewove itself into his favored appearance of a kindly old man in a pristine white robe.

“My lady Shadowbearer,” said Tarrabus with a courtly bow from the saddle.

Imaria just stared at him. She had been a beautiful woman, but inheriting the mantle of Shadowbearer had done nothing for her appearance. She now looked corpselike, veins of black shadow threading through her graying skin, her eyes like bloodshot mirrors. It was just as well she did not appear to have any further interest in appetites of the flesh, because Tarrabus would not have wanted to share a bed with her.

The power had done no favors for her sanity, either, but that didn’t matter. Tarrabus would not hesitate to use her power, or that of the Weaver.

“Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Imaria in her eerie double voice.

“It is done?” said Tarrabus.

In answer she held up the Pendragon Crown and the sheathed Excalibur. Tarrabus took the sword, careful not to touch the exposed hilt, and laid it across the saddle.

“Sir Caradog,” said Tarrabus. “Send a message to the secret camp. The men there are to execute Accolon at once, and then join our march south.” He turned back to Imaria. “I trust that the Keeper is slain?”

“She lives yet,” said Imaria.

“What?” said Tarrabus, his hand coiling into a fist. For a moment fury threatened to overwhelm him, but he shoved it aside with ruthless discipline. Imaria was powerful enough that he could not force her to do anything. “Why is she still alive?”

“She was exhausted from the ward, as you predicted,” said Imaria. “Yet Ridmark Arban and Sir Arandar arrived to aid her, and we had no choice but to retreat.”

“You didn’t kill either one of them?” said Tarrabus. That was bad. “What were you thinking? Why did you not…”

He caught control of himself. It didn’t matter. The die had already been cast. Once the Keeper and Ridmark and Arandar saw what was happening, they would rush to the aid of the doomed men, and they would die with them. The Frostborn were potent adversaries, and they would not be overcome by the likes of an exhausted Keeper and her pet Gray Knight.

“No matter,” said Tarrabus at last. “We return to Tarlion at once.”

The Weaver smiled. “Do you not wish the crown…High King of Andomhaim?”

Yes. He liked the sound of that.

“May I place the crown upon your head, my king?” said Caradog.

“No,” said Tarrabus, reaching down to take the Pendragon Crown from Imaria’s hands. In Tarlion, by long tradition the bishop of the city crowned the High King in the cathedral before processing in solemn pomp to the Citadel. But Tarrabus’s crown did not come from a priest’s hands. It had not been given to him by God. Not even his vassals had won him this crown.

He had taken it, by right of conquest, by right of strength.

In that moment, Tarrabus Carhaine crowned himself the High King of Andomhaim.

“Come,” Tarrabus said. “Let us leave our enemies to their destruction. Tarlion awaits us.”

Chapter 21: Bone Masks

Ridmark watched the army of Andomhaim break apart. The right and left wings retreated down the Moradel road, leaving the center and the vanguard to be destroyed by the Frostborn.

“We failed,” said Calliande, her voice hoarse. She looked as shaken as he had ever seen her. “God and the apostles, we failed.”

Ridmark said nothing. The men of the Northerland and Cintarra and Durandis and Taliand, along with the warriors of the three orcish kingdoms, were locked in battle against the lines of the medvarth. Already the medvarth line was circling around them, and through the haze of the battle Ridmark saw troops of locusari warriors cutting them off from retreat. Soon the loyalist men would be trapped, and they would make a superb target for the siege engines of the khaldjari.

The Frostborn would slaughter them all.

“This is my fault,” said Calliande, her voice twisted with remorse. “I should have made Uthanaric see. I should have made him listen!”

“Keeper,” said Antenora, but Calliande bowed her head, her forehead resting against the Keeper’s staff.

Still Ridmark said nothing, watching the battle. He had found the truth at last, but too late.

Far, far too late.

“It was all for nothing,” said Calliande in a rasp. “The first war against the Frostborn. The Order of the Vigilant. So many men and women died, and I failed them. They all died for nothing.”

The rage burned in Ridmark, but he felt…cold. Cold and distant and remote. He badly wanted to kill his enemies, but he knew giving into rage or despair would achieve nothing. To find a path to victory, he had to be cold and logical.

“Burn with me,” he whispered.

Odd. Why would he have said that?

No one seemed to have heard him, though, transfixed as they were by the catastrophic defeat unfolding before their eyes.

“Keeper,” said Jager. “We should rejoin Mara and the Anathgrimm. I…suppose we can circle to the south, cross the Moradel, and reach Nightmane Forest. We ought to be safe from the Frostborn there, and we can figure out what to do then.”

“The realm is lost,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn have won, and Andomhaim is overthrown. I have failed in my trust.”

Burn with me…

Suddenly, the pieces clicked together in Ridmark’s head. It was a risk, yes. Everything they could do was a risk. But it might work. It might well work.

The battle was not yet over.

“Go and do as you think best,” said Calliande with a ragged breath. “I think…”

“Stop talking,” said Ridmark.

She didn’t hear him. “Arandar, you might want to take Accolon somewhere out of reach. Somewhere Tarrabus cannot find him. He…”

“Shut up!” said Ridmark.

He had never used that tone with her. She flinched as if he had slapped her, her bloodshot blue eyes enormous as she stared at him.

“Listen to me,” said Ridmark. “All of you, listen! This isn’t over. We have seen certain death before. The Warden trapped us in Urd Morlemoch. The Anathgrimm almost slew us in the Vale of Stone Death. Shadowbearer and the Traveler both almost killed us in Khald Azalar. We survived.”

“But…” said Calliande in an uncertain voice.

“We survived the Warden and the Traveler and Tymandain Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark. “If we survived them, I refuse to surrender to someone as venal as Tarrabus Carhaine and as spiteful as Imaria Licinius. The battle isn’t over yet.” He pointed at Calliande. “Like she said, you can do as you wish. But I am not giving up.”

For a moment no one said anything, then Calliande wiped at her eyes and gave a hesitant nod. One by one the others voiced their agreement as well, even Accolon.

“Oh, God save us,” sighed Jager. “Here we go again.”

“But what can we do?” said Arandar. “The position of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance and the others is hopeless. The Frostborn have them surrounded.”

“They haven’t surrounded the Anathgrimm, have they?” said Ridmark. “Qhazulak complained that he had not seen battle in too long. I promised him fighting, and by God he shall have his fill and then some by the end of this day."

“The Anathgrimm are not enough to turn the tide,” said Arandar. “They are fierce fighters, but there simply are not enough of them. If we aid Dux Gareth and the others, the Frostborn have the numbers to envelop us both.”

“Not,” said Ridmark, “if we go after the Frostborn themselves.”

Arandar blinked in confusion…and then Ridmark saw the realization start to spread across his face.

“What do you mean?” said Calliande.

“Look,” said Ridmark, pointing. “Just look at their lines.”

She frowned, and then her eyes widened as understanding came to her.

“The medvarth and the locusari and the khaldjari are not our enemies, not really,” said Ridmark. “They’re just the slaves of the Frostborn. The Frostborn are our enemies.”

Calliande nodded. She had seen what Ridmark had seen. The entirety of the enemy host had surged forward, intent on encircling and crushing their foes. In doing so, they had left the Frostborn themselves exposed behind the lines.

The Anathgrimm had a direct path to the Frostborn.

Perhaps the Frostborn knew that and did not care. They had fought the Anathgrimm before, during the first war two centuries ago, and perhaps with the Traveler dead they thought the Anathgrimm were no longer a threat.

It was time to show them otherwise.

“The Swordbearers, too,” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. The High King’s plan had kept the bulk of the Swordbearers back as a reserve, ready to engage the Frostborn. Master Marhand would be with them, and likely the old Swordbearer had no idea what was going on. If Ridmark and the Anathgrimm could link up with the Swordbearers and join forces to assail the Frostborn themselves…

“It could work,” said Arandar.

“If we move at once,” said Ridmark. “Are you up to running?”

Calliande nodded. “Ridmark, forgive me. I…”

“We can talk about that later,” said Ridmark. “Go!”

He started running down the hill, the others following.

###

Calliande forced herself to run. She still had not recovered from casting the great ward, and the battle atop the hill had drained her further. Yet she kept running. She could not use magic to augment her stamina and strength the way that a soulblade could empower its Swordbearer, but she made herself keep running.

She could not stop now.

Not when there was a chance to snatch something, anything, from the catastrophic defeat that threatened to engulf Andomhaim.

Again self-recrimination lashed through her thoughts, but she shoved it aside. Now was not the time for such useless musings, not when there was still a chance. A flicker of amusement went through her tired thoughts. Perhaps she had spent enough time around Ridmark to learn his habit of blaming himself.

How Morigna would have laughed at her.

The camp of the Anathgrimm came into sight, even as the distant roar of the battle grew louder in Calliande’s ears. The Anathgrimm had constructed themselves an earthwork fort atop a hill, but Calliande saw that they had already departed it, marching out in orderly rows to place themselves in battle array. Calliande spotted Mara standing at the head of the Anathgrimm in her blue armor and diadem, Zhorlacht and Qhazulak flanking her, the Queen’s Guard standing behind her. Kharlacht and Caius stood with Mara, and all five of them seemed to be locked into an argument.

“We must do something,” said Mara as Calliande drew close enough to hear their conversation.

“We may not be able to do anything, my Queen,” growled Qhazulak.

“I agree with the Lord Captain,” said Zhorlacht. “I do not understand what is happening. Why did a third of Andomhaim’s army quit the field? It does not make any sense. If we charge into battle without understanding the situation, you may be slain, and that is an unacceptable risk.”

“We should send a runner to find the Keeper,” said Kharlacht. “She will have some idea of what is happening.”

Mara frowned, and then she saw Calliande and Ridmark and the others approaching.

“Or the answers,” said Mara, “may come to us.”

Caius smiled and stepped forward. “It seems that God did indeed bless our endeavors.”

Calliande fought back a laugh. Perhaps God had indeed blessed them, but at the moment it was hard to see how anything could have gone worse.

“In a way,” said Ridmark. “We rescued Accolon, and found proof of Tarrabus’s treachery.”

“Is that why he quit the field?” said Mara. She stepped past Caius and hugged Jager.

“No,” said Ridmark. “This was planned all along. The Duxi of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras are all Enlightened. That’s why Tarrabus made sure they were on the wings. He’s fled the field, and left the men of the Northerland, Cintarra, Taliand, Durandis, and Caertigris to be slaughtered with the orcish warriors of the baptized kingdoms.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “The High King and his sons are probably dead. We fought the Weaver and Imaria when they came to assassinate Calliande, and the Weaver said they had an appointment to keep. I suspect they went to slay the High King.”

“May God preserve us,” said Caius.

“That was Tarrabus’s plan,” said Ridmark. “Wipe out every living Pendragon, whether trueborn or bastard, and leave those loyal on the field to die at the hands of the Frostborn.”

“I fear his plan has succeeded,” said Mara. “What shall we do?”

“We shall fight,” said Qhazulak.

“The Lord Captain has the right of it,” said Ridmark. “If we act at once, we can save the men Tarrabus left to die. The medvarth and the locusari have moved forward to envelop the remaining men…”

“If we attack, they have the numbers to encircle us as well,” said Zhorlacht.

“Not if we strike at the Frostborn themselves,” said Ridmark. “They’ve left a large gap in their lines. If we join with the Swordbearers and strike directly at the Frostborn, we will force the medvarth and the locusari to divide their attention. That will let the survivors counter-attack, and if the Frostborn themselves are forced to retreat, their entire army will have no choice but to fall back.”

Mara said nothing, and for a moment Calliande feared that she would say no, that she would refuse to spill the blood of the Anathgrimm in defense of Andomhaim.

Zhorlacht seemed to sense Calliande’s doubt. “The Anathgrimm fear no foe.”

“Can we do this?” said Mara. She looked at Ridmark as she spoke. “Can we win this fight?”

“I do not know,” said Ridmark. “I think we can, yes, but you know as well as I do that no man can see the outcome of a battle. You can withdraw to Nightmane Forest, if you wish. But if you do, the loyalists will be slaughtered and Andomhaim will be divided between the Frostborn and Tarrabus. They will come for Nightmane Forest in time. If we save Dux Gareth and the others, we shall at least have allies to stand with us against the Frostborn.”

Mara stared at Ridmark for another moment, and then a faint smile went over her pale lips.

“We’ve gambled with you many times before, my friend,” said Mara. “What is one more?” She turned back to the Anathgrimm. “Zhorlacht, Qhazulak.”

“My Queen?” said Zhorlacht.

“As I told you outside of Dun Licinia, so I tell you now,” said Mara. “Do whatever Ridmark tells you.”

“Then,” said Zhorlacht, “what are your commands?”

“March at once,” said Ridmark. “To the northwest. We will make our way past the main area of the battle, and strike right at the Frostborn. That should force the medvarth and the locusari to divide their attention, and if we can force the Frostborn to flee, we shall drive them from the field.”

“So be it,” said Qhazulak.

Zhorlacht turned and snarled a command in the orcish tongue, and the signal drums of the Anathgrimm boomed out.

###

Arandar jogged forward, Gavin at his side.

Behind them the Anathgrimm force marched at the Frostborn, drawing nearer to the dust cloud rising from the furious fighting between the locusari and the medvarth and the loyalists. Arandar and Gavin had a different errand. Ridmark had sent them to find Marhand and the Swordbearers.

Arandar hoped Marhand would listen. The Master of the Swordbearers had accepted Arandar into the Order, but he had never failed to make known his disdain for bastards. On the other hand, the proof of Arandar’s and Ridmark’s claims was now obvious. Even Uthanaric Pendragon could no longer deny the evidence of his eyes.

Arandar wondered if his father was even still alive. Uthanaric would be the middle of the host, surrounded by his knights and men-at-arms, but if the Weaver and Imaria had indeed gone to kill him…

He put that thought out of his mind. There were more immediate problems.

Such as the fight he saw raging before him.

A band of horsemen in the colors of the House of the Arbanii had broken free from the encirclement, riding hard to the south. A group of locusari warriors had run them down, and the horsemen were entangled in battle, succumbing to the larger numbers of their foes.

“Ready?” said Arandar.

Gavin lifted Truthseeker. “After the Weaver, almost anything else seems easy.”

Arandar nodded in response, adjusted his grip on his shield, drew upon his bond with Heartwarden for speed and strength, and charged. He shot forward and attacked the nearest locusari, Heartwarden hammering down in a blaze of white fire. The soulblade crunched through the blue carapace and into the locusari warrior’s head. The insect-like creature went into a weird, jerking dance, and Arandar ripped the soulblade free. He killed two more locusari warriors before the others reacted. By then Gavin attacked, and he didn’t even bother to use Truthseeker. He bashed the nearest locusari with his shield, flipping the creature onto its back and exposing its belly. The locusari warriors, for all their speed and strength, were not that heavy, and a strong man could knock them over. One of the nearby horsemen stabbed down with a spear, and the overturned locusari screeched as the spearhead plunged into its abdomen.

Another locusari blurred at Arandar, forelimbs slashing. Arandar ducked back, getting his shield up, and the serrated blades rebounded from the thick wood with terrific force. He thrust with Heartwarden, opening a ragged wound in the warrior’s carapace, and before the creature could recover he thrust again, striking it down. Arandar turned, seeking a new foe, and the Arban horsemen rallied against the locusari, reforming and riding them down.

A moment later the surviving locusari fled back towards the battle proper.

“Sir Arandar!” One of the riders pulled off his helmet, revealing the red, sweating face of Tormark Arban. “You have a knack for arriving at the right time.”

“Sir Tormark,” said Arandar. “I did not expect to see you here.”

Tormark scowled. His armor was nicked and battered, his surcoat spattered with blood, but he seemed to have come through the battle unscathed. “It is all chaos. Father sent me to find out why the devil the Duxi of Arduran, Calvus, and Tarras have withdrawn from the field. We need their aid now. It…”

“They are Enlightened, all three of them,” said Arandar. “They’ve abandoned you to die, along with the High King.”

Tormark gave a grim shake of his head. “The High King is already dead. Along with his sons.”

“What?” said Arandar.

“I spoke with some of the survivors,” said Tormark. “Imaria Licinius killed them with a spell of dark magic, along with some creature that could take different shapes. She took Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown and fled.”

Arandar stared at him. Uthanaric Pendragon, his father, was dead. That in itself was less of a blow than it should have been. He had been Arandar’s father, but they had never been close, and as a knight of Andomhaim Arandar regretted the death of the High King more than he regretted the death of his father.

The death of his father…and all his trueborn sons.

Which meant Arandar was now the oldest living descendant of Malahan Pendragon.

Which meant, by the law of the realm…he could claim the throne of the High King.

He shoved aside the dread that thought inspired in him. The crown of Andomhaim would be meaningless if the Frostborn and Tarrabus destroyed the realm in the next hour.

“Horses,” said Arandar. “You have some empty saddles.”

“Aye.” Tormark scowled. “We lost some men to the locusari.”

“Come with us,” said Arandar. “The High King may be dead, but all is not yet lost. The Frostborn have left their lines open, and Ridmark intends to lead the Anathgrimm against them. If we can drive the Frostborn themselves from the field, their slaves may well follow, and…”

“And we can save the men trapped by the medvarth and the locusari,” said Tormark. He seemed excited by the plan. Of course, his father and his brothers were among those caught in the encirclement. Perhaps he no more wanted to be Dux of Taliand than Arandar wanted to be High King of Andomhaim.

“If we can summon the aid of the Swordbearers, all the better,” said Arandar.

“Good,” said Tormark, decisive once more. “Pick a horse. We ride at once.”

Arandar swung into the empty saddle of a stamping war horse. Gavin claimed another, though somewhat clumsily. If they lived through this, Arandar would have to teach the boy to ride properly. Tormark shouted a command, and they galloped south, making their way to the gates of Dun Calpurnia, the dust of the battle rising behind them.

The Order of the Soulblade waited before the town, nearly a thousand strong, all of them wearing armor and carrying soulblades, the drawn weapons shimmering with white fire. Arandar wondered what Tarrabus had planned to do about the Swordbearers. Perhaps he had hoped the Frostborn would deal with them. Or maybe he planned to wear them down by attrition once he had seized Tarlion and the Citadel. Arandar spotted Marhand striding from the ranks of the Swordbearers, carrying the soulblade Torchbrand in his right fist. The old knight looked grimmer than usual. Perhaps he had grasped the full scale of the catastrophe already.

“Sir Tormark,” said Marhand. “Sir Arandar, Sir Gavin. What news?”

“The Keeper and the Gray Knight were right,” said Arandar without preamble. “Tarrabus Carhaine is indeed a worshipper of the shadow of Incariel, and he has quit the field. Worse, the Duxi of Arduran, Tarras, and Calvus are also followers of his cult, and they have abandoned the loyalists to be slain by our enemies.” Arandar took a deep breath. “The High King and his sons are dead. Imaria Licinius slew them.”

Many of the nearby Swordbearers bowed their heads, and some started to pray in quiet voices.

“I see,” said Marhand after a moment. He, like Arandar, grasped the gravity of the news. “Then what do you suggest we do?”

“Ridmark Arban has a plan,” said Arandar. “The medvarth and the locusari have advanced to encircle Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance and the others. That means they have left a direct path to the Frostborn themselves…”

Marhand shook his head. “It will be obvious. If we make a move, the Frostborn will respond.”

“Not for us,” said Arandar. “For the Anathgrimm.”

Marhand blinked. “The Traveler’s minions?”

“The Traveler is slain,” said Arandar, “and the High King accepted Queen Mara’s offer of alliance.”

“I thought that was one of his more questionable decisions,” said Marhand. “An army of pagan orcs led by a dark elven half-breed? I was sure it was a ruse. Yet in this desperate hour, I see that we have no choice. If we are to save anyone, if we are to have any army left to fight the Frostborn and make Tarrabus pay for his treachery, then we must act at once.” He drew himself up. “The Order of the Soulblade shall follow your lead, Sir Arandar.”

Arandar heard the quiet challenge in the old man’s voice. Oh, yes, this was indeed a test on Marhand’s part, to see if Arandar was worthy to lead, was worthy to assume the mantle of the Pendragons. Arandar wanted nothing to do with it…but that duty had come to him, whether he liked it or not, and he had never shied away from his duty, not even when his duty had sent him into places of nightmare and dark legend like Urd Morlemoch or Khald Azalar.

“Then let us go,” said Arandar, turning his horse back towards the battle.

Chapter 22: Frost and Axe

The Anathgrimm marched towards the battle, the drums booming like thunder. Far overhead Ridmark saw the distant blue specks of locusari scouts zipping back and forth, though from time to time Antenora amused herself by blasting one out of the sky. The Frostborn had to know that they were coming, though so far the medvarth and locusari warriors encircling the men of the loyalists had not yet responded to the approaching threat. Perhaps they could not. Perhaps the battle had collapsed into a general melee, and the Frostborn had been unable to reform their lines to meet the new threat.

All the better, then.

The Anathgrimm marched in their ranks, thousands of them, their armored boots thudding against the ground like the beat of their drums. During the Traveler’s long wars with the High Kingdom, the Anathgrimm had preferred to raid, striking from the shadows and retreating into the impenetrable wards of Nightmane Forest. In open battle, they preferred to fight as the legions of the Empire of the Romans had in ancient days, formed into ranks, each warrior raising his shield to protect the warrior on his left. They even carried javelins as the Roman legionaries of old had done, preferring to weaken the enemy with a shower of missiles before charging. The Anathgrimm had no cavalry, but with their inhuman strength and brutal discipline, they were the best possible infantry for facing a charge of horsemen.

Ridmark hoped that would serve them well against the medvarth and the locusari.

Mara walked with Jager, flanked by Qhazulak and the other veteran warriors of the Queen’s Guard. Calliande walked with Zhorlacht and the other Anathgrimm wizards, all of them were working spells. Ridmark was not entirely sure how, but the Anathgrimm wizards had abandoned dark magic in favor of earth magic similar to the kind Morigna had wielded. Ridmark was not sure if the Traveler had taught his servants different schools of magic, or if the Anathgrimm now employed the same spells but empowered them with earth magic. Ridmark didn’t know, but Calliande knew what she was doing.

“It’s time,” said Ridmark. “I’m going to the front now.”

Calliande cast him a concerned look, but had to return her full attention to the spell she and the Anathgrimm were preparing, white light flashing around her as purple fire crackled upon the fingers of the Anathgrimm wizards.

“Go with victory,” said Qhazulak, “and may you return with your foes trampled underfoot.”

“I don’t know,” said Jager. “The medvarth look a little large for trampling. Beheading might work better.”

“I will use whatever works,” said Ridmark. “With the Queen’s permission?”

Mara gave him a faint smile. “I would tell you to take care, but I know you will not.”

“We will be ready,” said Calliande. Her voice was tight with strain as she worked the magic, but she met his gaze. “When you give the signal, we shall be ready.”

Ridmark nodded and turned to go.

“Ridmark.”

He looked back at her.

“Thank you,” said Calliande. “For…talking me back from the edge.”

“I don’t think a woman has ever thanked me for telling her to shut up,” said Ridmark.

She laughed a little at that. “She does if she deserves it.”

“It is nothing you haven’t done for me,” said Ridmark. “Several times.”

Calliande hesitated, seeming to argue with herself over what to say next.

“Be careful,” she said at last. “Come back alive. Just…do not get yourself killed for nothing.”

“You, too,” said Ridmark. If the chance came to kill the Weaver or Imaria, he would not make any promises. But other than that, he intended to return alive and victorious.

Of course, the Frostborn would dispute that…and they might well win the argument.

Kharlacht and Caius stepped to Ridmark’s side, Kharlacht carrying his greatsword, Caius the hammer of dark elven steel he had taken from the Warden’s armory in Urd Morlemoch.

“Sure you want to come with me?” said Ridmark. “The Queen could always use another guard, and we need someone to pray for us.”

“The time has come for battle,” said Kharlacht. “It shall be as when we faced Qazarl outside the walls of Dun Licinia.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. It had been barely six months ago, but it felt like half a lifetime.

“We have said our prayers,” said Caius. “Now it is time to put our fates in the hands of God and to see how the dice fall.”

“I would prefer to throw actual dice, thank you,” Jager added.

“So be it,” said Ridmark.

He jogged past the lines of the Anathgrimm, heading for the front rank. The Anathgrimm fought in orderly ranks, but Ridmark’s own style with staff and axe would complement that nicely. He could cause chaos in the attackers, which in turn would make it easier for the Anathgrimm to cut them down. And if Imaria showed herself, the staff would protect Ridmark long enough for him to strike. Kharlacht and Caius and Qhazulak jogged after him. The old orcish warrior insisted that the best way to protect the Queen was by destroying her enemies, and Ridmark found it hard to fault that logic, especially since he had seen Qhazulak wield that huge axe in battle.

They reached the front of the Anathgrimm formation. From here Ridmark had a good view of the battle. Tens of thousands of medvarth and locusari warriors had enveloped the loyalists, and the men of Andomhaim were running out of room to fight as the host of the Frostborn squeezed them like a giant fist. To the north of the fighting Ridmark saw khaldjari engineers moving their massive engines into place, preparing to launch a bombardment upon the trapped men.

Yet the path was still open to the Frostborn themselves.

They stood aloof from the battle on a low hill overlooking the Moradel road, watching their medvarth and locusari grind away at the trapped men. There were perhaps one hundred and fifty Frostborn, maybe two hundred, and even from this distance Ridmark glimpsed the glimmer of freezing blue fire beneath their crystalline skin. His fingers tightened against his staff. Other than his brief confrontation with Arlmagnava beneath the old town, he had never fought a Frostborn before. He did not know what to expect from them. Calliande had said that most of the Frostborn were not as individually powerful as an urdmordar or a dark elven noble like the Traveler, but that they were nonetheless dangerous warriors and powerful wizards, and were able to work together in a way that ever-suspicious dark elves and the solitary urdmordar could not.

Ridmark supposed that he and the Anathgrimm were about to find out for themselves.

A boom of drums rolled out from the khaldjari engineers nearest to the Frostborn. A ripple went through the furious melee, and bands of medvarth began to disengage, turning to form themselves into ranks to face the approaching Anathgrimm. The medvarth moved with speed and precision, assembling themselves into battle formations with disquieting haste.

But they would not be fast enough. Not nearly fast enough.

A flicker of intense emotion went through Ridmark, and he could not tell if it was terror or rage or excitement or some deranged mixture of all three. He knew that he was gambling horribly, that his decision to take the Anathgrimm into battle might destroy them and leave the realm of Andomhaim under the iron hand of Tarrabus and the Enlightened and their Frostborn allies. Yet the Enlightened and the Frostborn had already triumphed today, and if Ridmark did nothing they would continue to triumph.

The Anathgrimm continued their steady advance as more medvarth and locusari warriors arranged themselves in a broad line between the Anathgrimm and the Frostborn. There were many of the enemy, but their line was not deep enough, not nearly deep enough.

“Qhazulak,” said Ridmark. “You know what to do?”

Qhazulak grunted. “Since before you were born.”

“Good,” said Ridmark. “Then send the word to Calliande.”

Qhazulak turned and roared a command.

###

Calliande kept pace with the Anathgrimm, walking alongside the Queen’s Guard and Zhorlacht’s wizards. The complex web of the spell they had worked shimmered before her Sight, gleaming like glowing crystal. The Anathgrimm wizards had proven surprisingly capable at drawing upon the magic of stone and earth, and they fed their power into Calliande, who in turn wove that magic into the Keeper’s mantle, charging it with fresh power.

It thrummed in her mind, forcing her to keep her thoughts focused, keeping her mind from turning to the black despair that had crashed over her upon the hill.

Ridmark was right. She could not give up. She could not! Not after all she had sacrificed, not after all those who had sacrificed for her. She was still the Keeper of Andomhaim, even if she had failed to stop Tarrabus from ripping the realm to shreds, and she could not give up now.

The signal came from the front, the Anathgrimm shouting the command back to Mara and the Queen’s Guard.

“Now, Keeper?” said Zhorlacht, his voice tight as he struggled to hold the web of the spell in place.

“Not yet,” said Calliande, gritting her teeth as she fought to hold the power. Even fully rested, holding this much power in check would have been a challenge, and she was still exhausted. “When I say the word.”

The Anathgrimm stopped, and even through the mass of orcish warriors Calliande saw the medvarth charge, saw the locusari surge forward with their tearing, metallic shrieks.

###

The enemy charged, and for a moment Ridmark remembered the first battle of Dun Licinia, the day that Mhalek had murdered the High King’s ambassadors. The Mhalekites had come screaming down the slopes of the Black Mountain like a flood, charging in a ragged mass of pure fury and rage. The medvarth and the locusari were far more disciplined.

Perhaps they didn’t realize staying in their ranks make them a better target for the javelins of the Anathgrimm.

He resisted the urge to give a command to Qhazulak. The old warrior knew his business, and did not need Ridmark meddling in it. His father had often said that a commander had to pick competent men and trust them to do well, and Ridmark had seen the wisdom of that more than once.

He wondered if Leogrance Arban was still alive.

“Halt!” said Qhazulak, and the front rank of the Anathgrimm stopped. “Javelins!”

In one smooth motion, hundreds of Anathgrimm warriors reached over their shoulders and drew the first of their javelins. The Anathgrimm used javelins similar in design to those once carried by the Legionaries of the Romans upon Old Earth, with a soft iron shaft designed to bend and warp in an enemy’s shield.

Ridmark also resisted the urge to send a command to Calliande. She, too, knew what she was doing.

###

Calliande sank into the Sight, directing it towards their enemies. She saw the blaze of cold power surrounding the Frostborn. They were working spells of their own, preparing wards to block anything Calliande might throw at them.

Yet they were not warding the medvarth or the locusari.

Calliande sent her Sight to the front of the battle, to where the two armies were about to meet.

“Zhorlacht,” said Calliande, holding the Sight upon the battle, “now!”

Zhorlacht growled a phrase in the orcish tongue, and the other wizards followed suit as they cast their spells. The earth magic surged through Calliande, at the very limits of her control, and she fed it through the mantle of the Keeper.

Then she thrust her staff with a shout, releasing the spell.

Morigna had cast this spell many times. After Calliande had recovered her memory, she had regained the Keeper’s knowledge of earth magic, and with it her own version of the spell. Morigna had been capable with the spell, but she hadn’t possessed the Keeper’s mantle, and with it Calliande could augment the spell far beyond anything Morigna could have worked.

The spell passed through the ground beneath the boots of the Anathgrimm warriors, a blaze of purple fire to her Sight. Calliande kept a tight grip on her spell as she guided the massed power. It passed beneath the boots of the front rank, and her Sight briefly glimpsed the spells upon the dwarven axe that Ridmark carried.

Then the spell was clear of the Anathgrimm, and Calliande released it.

Even from this far away, she felt the tremor beneath her boots.

The ground heaved and folded like a banner caught in a violent wind. Not a small patch, but a line hundreds of yards across, fueled by the power of the Keeper’s mantle and the magic of the Anathgrimm wizards. Calliande had intended it to hinder the charging locusari and medvarth, but instead it hit them with the force of a localized earthquake. The heaving and rippling of the ground threw thousands of medvarth and locusari from their feet. The locusari warriors fared better than the medvarth, but even they had trouble keeping their balance, their middle and rear limbs clawing at the uncertain ground.

Over the chaos, Calliande heard the hoarse roar of Qhazulak’s voice.

###

“Now!” thundered Qhazulak.

In one smooth motion, the front ranks of the Anathgrimm flung back their arms and then hurled their javelins, the weapons speeding through the air like a rain of razor-tipped iron. Ridmark had seen the Anathgrimm use their javelins to devastating effect against the Mhorites, both in Khald Azalar and outside the walls of Dun Licinia.

They proved even more effective here.

The medvarth and the locusari, knocked prone by the mighty spell, were in the worst possible position to fend off the missiles. The rain of javelins punched through steel armor and the thick hide of the medvarths and the armored carapaces of the locusari, wounding and killing and even pinning some of them to the earth. Qhazulak bellowed again, and the Anathgrimm loosed a second volley of javelins, killing and wounding more of the enemy. A few of the locusari warriors clawed their way free of the tangle and charged, only to die upon the shields and spears of the Anathgrimm.

“Advance!” roared Qhazulak, and the Anathgrimm jogged forward, keeping their formation intact. Ridmark gestured to Kharlacht and Caius, and they followed him as he ran forward, heading for the confusion of the enemy lines. A medvarth came at him, nearly eight feet tall, all claws and fangs and ragged brown fur and heavy steel armor. Yet it had been wounded by two javelins, and Ridmark dodged the clumsy swipe of the massive mace in its right paw. He swung his staff with all his strength, the black wood hammering into the medvarth’s knee. The creature stumbled with a furious bellow of rage and pain, and Caius smashed its other knee with his hammer. This time the medvarth fell, and Kharlacht slew it with a swift blow to the head.

A locusari warrior loosed its metallic shriek and attacked Ridmark. He accepted one of its blows across his chest, the serrated blade rebounding from his dark elven armor, and launched a strike of his own. His staff caved in the right side of the creature’s head with a burst of yellow slime, and the locusari warrior collapsed. A medvarth lumbered over the carcass, two javelins jutting from its side, the locusari warrior’s carapace crunching beneath its armored boots. It swung a massive axe at Ridmark, and he ducked under the sweep of the weapon, hammering his staff at one of the embedded javelins. The iron head sank deeper into the medvarth, and the creature stumbled, snarling curses in an unknown language. The medvarth lunged at Ridmark, jaws yawning wide to bite off his head. A distant part of his mind noted that the medvarth’s black eyes glimmered with red haze in battle, much like the eyes of the orcs in their battle fury.

The rest of his mind focused on his staff, which struck into the medvarth’s jaws with enough force to shatter fangs. Once more the creature stumbled, and Ridmark finished it off with a blow to the side of the head.

Ridmark, Kharlacht, and Caius fell into a familiar pattern. They had fought together many times before, and knew best how to use each other’s strengths while shielding their weaknesses. Caius used his heavy hammer or his mace to stun or cripple the medvarths, leaving them open to the crushing blows of Kharlacht’s greatsword. Ridmark broke up the attacks of the locusari, killing them with his staff or throwing them off balance long enough for Kharlacht to bisect them with his sword or for Caius to crush their heads.

And as they attacked, the Anathgrimm advanced behind them, keeping their formation as they moved at a steady pace, mowing down the disorganized warriors of the Frostborn host and trampling their dead underfoot. The medvarth and the locusari warriors were formidable fighters, but so were the Anathgrimm, and the Anathgrimm had the initiative.

Step by blood step they advanced, pushing through disorganized enemy.

And then, suddenly, Ridmark saw the Frostborn before him.

The charge of the Anathgrimm had carried them north, past the fighting around the encircled loyalists. The Frostborn army was starting to waver, caught between the men of Andomhaim and the Anathgrimm. The drums boomed out, commanding the medvarth and the locusari fall back, but as they did, the men of Dux Leogrance and Dux Gareth and the others fought back with vigor. The Anathgrimm had trapped the greater mass of the Frostborn army between two hostile forces.

Unless, of course, the Frostborn killed them all first.

The Frostborn themselves strode forward, towering in their grim gray armor, veins of blue fire burning beneath their crystalline skin. All of them were armed with enormous greatswords, the blades shining with symbols of blue fire. Their armor put Ridmark in mind of an advancing glacier, and he remembered an avalanche he had once seen in the mountains of Kothluusk, an advancing tide of ice and snow coming to crush him.

All of the Frostborn were casting spells.

###

Calliande summoned as much magical force as her tired mind could hold.

The power of the Frostborn shone like a frozen star before her Sight. They were working together, joining their magic for a single massive strike upon the Anathgrimm. The spell would freeze the blood in the veins of hundreds of orcs, killing them in an instant. It was a titanic spell, and had they used it at Dun Licinia, they might have killed every single man on the walls.

But it was far easier to disrupt such a spell than to cast it.

Calliande waited until the last moment, until the web of cold power tightened, and then unleashed her own magic. She drew upon the power of the Well, augmenting it through the Keeper’s mantle, and worked a spell of dispelling. A shaft of white fire burst from her upraised hand, slashed over the heads of the Anathgrimm, and struck the shimmering veil of blue fire that had appeared over the heads of the charging Frostborn. Her power struck the apex of the spell, and the magic of the Frostborn shattered. Instead of stabbing out in precise blasts, the spell unraveled in one massive burst of power, and a wash of cold air erupted in all directions. The icy wind blew past Calliande, tugging at her cloak and hair. It was bitterly cold, perhaps even dangerously cold, but the mighty ward she had worked with Antenora blunted the cold, kept it from turning fingers and noses black with frostbite.

The Frostborn attacked the Anathgrimm, and all trace of order dissolved into howling, freezing chaos.

###

Ridmark dodged the blow of a massive greatsword and struck back with his dwarven axe, the blade sinking a few inches into the arm of the Frostborn. The glowing eyes narrowed, and a wash of cold air came from the wound, blue flames licking at the axe’s blade. The sigils inscribed upon the dwarven steel glowed hotter, as if in angry answer to blue flame.

The Frostborn ripped his arm free and attacked again, but Ridmark dodged once more. For all their size and power and magic, the Frostborn still seemed to feel pain. He had hit the Frostborn facing him three times, and now the Frostborn moved slower, his blows coming with less power.

Around him the Frostborn struggled against the Anathgrimm. A Frostborn strode into the lines of the Anathgrimm, his huge sword shattering three of the warriors’ shields and leaving them dead upon the ground. Another Frostborn worked a spell, unleashing a blast of freezing air that killed a half-dozen Anathgrimm at once, sheathing them in glittering ice.

Yet the Anathgrimm refused to yield. A half-dozen Anathgrimm swarmed another Frostborn, hammering the creature to his knees with mighty blows. Qhazulak dueled another, and when the Frostborn stumbled, Qhazulak took off his head with a single massive blow of his huge axe. Blue fire spurted from the stump of the Frostborn’s neck, and a glittering layer of frost spread across the nearby ground.

All this Ridmark saw in a glance, and then he turned his full attention upon his opponent. His staff was useless against the thick armor and crystalline skin of the Frostborn, so he had slung the weapon from its strap, fighting two-handed with his dwarven axe. Caius and Kharlacht circled around the Frostborn warrior as well, dividing his attention and drawing his blows. Ridmark attacked again, and the Frostborn retreated, only for Kharlacht’s greatsword to find the back of his left leg. The Frostborn fell to one knee with a furious roar, and Ridmark raised his axe over his head and brought it hammering down.

The blade crunched through the forehead of the Frostborn, blue fire washing around the weapon and jetting into the air, the cold growing more intense around Ridmark. The blue fire winked out, and the Frostborn collapsed as the blue flames left his body, leaving a crystalline, armored corpse in their wake.

Ridmark wrenched his blade free, seeking a new foe, and saw Rjalmandrakur, Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard, striding towards him.

“So!” said Rjalmandrakur, his voice booming like inhuman thunder. “It seems that the Order of the Inquisition was correct in its judgment.”

Ridmark blinked, and realized that Rjalmandrakur was talking to him.

“Judgment?” said Ridmark as Caius moved to his left and Kharlacht to his right.

“That you were one of the greatest obstacles to this world taking its rightful place in the Dominion of the High Lords,” said Rjalmandrakur. “You, and the Keeper of Andomhaim. Were it not for the both of you, all of the Northerland would be under our control, and we would be preparing our march upon Tarlion to secure the Well.”

“Did Arlmagnava tell you that?” said Ridmark.

“Once she returned, she did,” said Rjalmandrakur. “Accept vassalage to the Dominion of the High Lords.”

“Why would I do that?” said Ridmark.

“Because you have proven worthy of it,” said Rjalmandrakur, pointing his greatsword at Ridmark. “Because despite your efforts, our conquest of this world is inevitable. You could struggle for the rest of your natural lifespan, and after your death we would continue until this world was brought to order. Submit to us, and you shall receive rich reward and autonomy within your province.”

“I told Arlmagnava no,” said Ridmark, “and I shall say the same to you.”

“Ah.” Ridmark glimpsed no emotion behind the Lord Commander’s spiked helm or in his glowing eyes. “I thought as much. It is regrettable that the most skilled of the lesser kindreds are always the most defiant.” His voice roared over the battle “Whoever slays the Gray Knight and his companions shall receive the rule of five cities when the conquest is complete!”

Kharlacht muttered a curse, his greatsword coming up.

Rjalmandrakur did not wait for his minions to carry out his command, but charged forward, his huge sword blurring for Ridmark’s face.

###

Arandar had given his horse back to Tormark, as had Gavin. There was a time and a place for mounted combat, but a Swordbearer was often more effective on foot, relying upon his soulblade to grant his blows speed and power rather than the bulk and momentum of his horse.

Especially when fighting alongside other Swordbearers, and nearly a thousand jogged behind Master Marhand, drawing upon the power of their soulblades to speed them.

The battle raged before them. Tormark and his riders had gone to round up other stragglers, hoping to launch a sortie to rescue the encircled men. It might prove to be unnecessary. The lines of the encirclement had turned ragged and uneven, and a great number of medvarth and locusari warriors had hastened to intercept the Anathgrimm.

It seemed they had failed. The Anathgrimm were now battling the Frostborn, but Arandar saw the Frostborn forcing their way through the bone-masked orcs, using their superior size and strength and powerful magic to drive them back.

“Well, Sir Arandar,” said Marhand. “We’ve a choice. Do we aid the encircled men, or do we aid the Anathgrimm orcs?”

It was, thought Arandar with irritation, a test. Marhand wanted to see if Arandar could make difficult choices. Most of the Swordbearers held the Anathgrimm in suspicion and wanted to rescue their trapped countrymen. But Arandar knew that the Anathgrimm were their best chance for victory, their best hope of driving the Frostborn from the field.

Men would die while the Swordbearers aided the Anathgrimm.

A lot more men would die if the Frostborn won the battle.

“The Anathgrimm,” said Arandar.

“A wise choice,” said Marhand, raising Torchbrand. “Men of the Order! For God and Andomhaim!”

“For God and Andomhaim!” the Swordbearers roared back, and they charged towards the struggling Anathgrimm.

###

Ridmark realized that he was about to die.

Rjalmandrakur was as fast and as quick as the rest of the Frostborn, but he was better with his huge greatsword, far better. Ridmark could barely keep ahead of his blows, let alone strike back, and soon all his attention turned to keeping himself alive. Caius and Kharlacht tried to attack the Lord Commander, but Rjalmandrakur beat aside their attacks with contemptuous ease, his full attention upon Ridmark. Again Rjalmandrakur came at him, the blue-burning sword a blur. Ridmark ducked under the blow and saw an opening, swinging his axe for Rjalmandrakur’s right arm. He clipped the Frostborn’s arm, but the dwarven axe rebounded from the heavy armor sheathing Rjalmandrakur. The Lord Commander recovered his balance at once, and before Ridmark could regain his footing, he swung again.

The edge of Rjalmandrakur’s greatsword hit Ridmark across the chest.

That hurt. His dark elven armor turned aside the blow, but the power of the impact lifted him from his feet and sent him tumbling. He landed hard upon his back a few yards away, the breath exploding from his lungs, pain throbbing through him. His chest felt like it was on fire Ridmark scrambled backwards as Rjalmandrakur’s sword came thundering down. It split the frozen earth with a loud crack, and Ridmark rolled to his feet, intending to attack before the Lord Commander could pull his weapon free. Rjalmandrakur twisted, releasing one hand from the hilt of his greatsword, and punched with an armored gauntlet. Ridmark dodged, but the blow clipped the side of his head and spun him around. He lost his balance again and fell as Rjalmandrakur ripped his sword free from the frozen ground, snapping the blade around to deflect one of Kharlacht’s swings.

Ridmark got back to his feet, his head ringing from the blow. If Rjalmandrakur’s fist had struck him full-on, his head would have exploded like a melon thrown from a tower. The Lord Commander blocked another of Kharlacht’s swings and shoved, sending the orcish warrior sprawling.

Then he turned, stalking after Ridmark.

Ridmark set himself, gripping the axe’s handle in both hands. The Frostborn Lord Commander lunged, and Ridmark jumped to the side, avoiding the thrust of the huge greatsword. The movement sent pain stabbing through his chest and bruised jaw. Rjalmandrakur strode after him, moving with remarkable grace for such a large creature. Ridmark set himself, wondering if he could deal a mortal wound to Rjalmandrakur before he was cut down. The neck, he decided. It had to be the neck, or perhaps the crown of the Lord Commander’s helmet. Everything else was too well-armored…

White fire flashed from the corner of his eye, and another wave of pain went through Ridmark’s head.

But this was a familiar pain, a remnant of his broken bond with Heartwarden.

Ridmark glanced to the side just in time to see a dozen Swordbearers charge into the melee, white fire flashing up and down their soulblades. The Anathgrimm had battled the Frostborn to a bloody stalemate, but now the tide turned, the Swordbearers attacking the Frostborn with vigor.

“For Andomhaim!” A young Swordbearer in splendid armor sprinted at Rjalmandrakur, soulblade drawn back to thrust. “For God and Andomhaim!”

“No!” said Ridmark. “Don’t…”

Rjalmandrakur sidestepped, his greatsword whipping around. It passed through the young Swordbearer’s neck without noticeable resistance. His body wavered for a moment, a frozen icicle of crimson blood jutting from the stump of his neck, and then toppled. Rjalmandrakur turned without hesitation, pursing Ridmark with implacable calm. Ridmark retreated, axe ready in his hands, the end of his staff tapping the ground from time to time as it bounced upon its strap. If he wasn’t careful, it was going to trip him.

The staff…

He had seen Rjalmandrakur’s sword tear through flesh and bone and armor without stopping.

Would it do the same for the black staff of Ardrhythain? He had killed men and orcs and dvargir with it, and it had never acquired so much as a scratch.

Could it withstand Rjalmandrakur’s sword?

Ridmark shifted his axe to his right hand, drawing his staff with his left.

Rjalmandrakur swung at him again, and Ridmark retreated. The towering Frostborn continued after him, raising his sword for a final strike.

Ridmark gripped the staff with both hands, the axe pressed against it, and charged towards Rjalmandrakur.

The Frostborn responded, bringing his sword down in a massive diagonal slash. Ridmark raised the staff over his head, still gripping the axe haft against it.

The sword slammed into the staff.

The impact drove Ridmark to his knees, his arms and shoulders screaming with strain. Yet the staff held, though it trembled like a released bowstring. Rjalmandrakur stumbled, overbalanced. He had aimed his blow for Ridmark’s head, and the staff’s block had cost his balance.

And, for just a moment, Ridmark was inside the Lord Commander’s guard.

He released the staff at the same moment as he threw himself forward, and Rjalmandrakur stumbled. Ridmark leaped, aiming a hasty blow with his right hand and with every bit of strength he could muster.

The axe blade sank into Rjalmandrakur’s neck, cold blue fire bursting from the wound.

Rjalmandrakur roared in pain and rage, and his arms came around with terrific force, pinning Ridmark against his cuirass. Fresh pain erupted in Ridmark’s chest and back, and he lost his grip upon the axe. For an instant he thought Rjalmandrakur was trying to stab him, and then he realized that the Frostborn was simply trying to crush him to death.

Then Rjalmandrakur went rigid, his grip tightening further, and the blue fire flickered and went out in his eyes. The Frostborn toppled forward, pinning Ridmark beneath his armored bulk. A deathly cold spread through Ridmark as the chill of the Frostborn settled into his flesh. He tried to break free, tried to heave off Rjalmandrakur’s corpse or wriggle loose, but the dead Frostborn was too heavy and he was cold, so cold, and it just seemed easier to lie motionless as the battle faded around him…

Then, suddenly, the pressure was gone.

Ridmark blinked as Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin heaved Rjalmandrakur’s corpse off of him, Gavin dropped to one knee next to Ridmark and put his hand on Ridmark’s shoulder, and a different kind of chill swept through Ridmark as Gavin brought his soulblade’s healing magic to bear.

Some of the searing pain in Ridmark’s chest started to fade.

“He’s alive,” said Gavin. “Hurt, though.”

“I’m fine,” croaked Ridmark, which wasn’t entirely a lie. He got to his feet, grabbing his staff and axe, and looked for more foes.

But he couldn’t find any.

Dead Frostborn and Anathgrimm and medvarth and locusari and khaldjari and humans lay scattered in all directions, their blood seeping into the earth. To the north he saw the dark mass of the medvarth and the locusari warriors, and to the west he saw the men of Durandis and the Northerland, their formation long and ragged as they gave a weary pursuit to their beaten foes.

It had worked. Ridmark’s gamble had worked. The Frostborn had retreated.

For now.

“I think,” said Gavin, looking around the battlefield and blinking, “I think we won.”

Ridmark shared a look with Kharlacht and Caius. They had both seen wars before, and they knew what was coming next.

“Today,” said Ridmark at last. “We can promise nothing about tomorrow.”

Chapter 23: Aftermath

If this was victory, Calliande thought, then defeat would have been too terrible to contemplate.

After Ridmark had slain Lord Commander Rjalmandrakur, the surviving Frostborn had retreated, their forces withdrawing back up the Moradel road to the north. The Frostborn had withdrawn in more or less good order, the medvarth and the khaldjari screening the Frostborn themselves, the locusari patrolling around them. Still, their formations had been ragged and hasty, and a determined commander with a fresh force of horsemen could have harried them, perhaps even broken them.

Unfortunately, there was no such force left.

The Anathgrimm would have pursued, had Mara ordered it, but they were weary and many were wounded. The men and baptized orcs caught in the encirclement had survived, but at terrible cost. Nearly a quarter had been slain before the Anathgrimm had arrived, and many more had been wounded. The armies of the Duxi and the orcish kings were in no shape to launch a pursuit, and if they had attempted it, the Frostborn might have destroyed them utterly.

No. Better to fall back, lick their wounds, and survive to fight another day.

The Battle of Dun Calpurnia, Calliande feared, would be the first battle of a long and bloody war.

A war she had sacrificed everything to prevent.

Again despair threatened to fill her at the thought. She refused to give into it. Instead, she set herself to useful work, laboring with Camorak and the other Magistri to heal those among the wounded who could be saved. There were not as many Magistri as she would have liked. Most of the Swordbearers had remained loyal, but fully half of the Magistri had switched their allegiance to Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened of Incariel. Calliande helped the loyal Magistri through the rest of the day and all the night. They saved many wounded men who would have otherwise died of their wounds.

Many more perished before they could be helped.

That morning Dux Gareth called for a council of war. Calliande herself did not know how to proceed. Their only hope of winning this war was to seize the world gate and close it, but with the army of Andomhaim broken, that was next to impossible. The High King and all his trueborn sons were dead, and according to the surviving witnesses, they had been murdered by Imaria Shadowbearer and the Weaver. There was no way the loyalist nobles would ever follow Tarrabus, or even contemplate peace with him. Yet Calliande did not know what the nobles would do. Each Dux might strike out on his own, determined to defend his own lands. Prince Cadwall might declare himself King in Cintarra, or the orcish kings would return to their own domains, refusing to follow anyone but the High King himself. If the Duxi and the other nobles each went their own way, Tarrabus and the Frostborn could conquer them one by one at their leisure.

They had to stay unified…and Calliande knew of only one way to do that.

She arrived at the great hall of Dun Calpurnia’s castra. Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance stood together near the dais, speaking in low voices, and Prince Cadwall, Dux Kors, and the Dux of Caertigris, a nervous young man named Sebastian Aurelius, joined them. The three orcish kings entered, led by King Ulakhamar, who was the senior among them. Mara and Jager entered last, followed by Qhazulak and a troop of the Queen’s Guard. Ridmark was with them, and so was Arandar.

Calliande went to join them, Antenora and Gavin following her.

“Ridmark,” she said, offering a brief smile.

He did not smile, but instead nodded. “I hope you got some rest.”

“Later,” said Calliande. “There will be time for rest later. Once the work is done.” She let out a long breath, her voice soft. “Once I have made amends for my mistakes.”

His frown deepened. “This is not your fault.”

Calliande started to answer, but Dux Gareth’s voice cut through the hall.

“My lords and knights,” said Gareth, stepping forward. He looked just as tired as Calliande felt, but his voice did not waver. “Thank you all for coming. We must decide how to proceed after yesterday’s battle.”

“Our course is clear,” said King Ulakhamar, his voice heavy with wrath. “We must pursue the traitor Tarrabus Carhaine and avenge the death of the High King.”

“We must first defeat the Frostborn,” said Prince Cadwall. “My lords, you have all seen their power. Without them, Tarrabus is nothing. If we drive them back, we can turn our full attention upon Tarrabus.”

A dozen voices rose in argument.

“Before we decide on a course of action,” said Leogrance, “we must first know the situation.” Ridmark gazed at his father without expression. “We have sent scouts to gauge the disposition of our foes. Sir Tormark?”

Ridmark’s oldest brother stepped forward. “I took some men and rode north to see what had become of the Frostborn. They’ve stopped about fifteen miles north, and have built a fortified camp for themselves. Somehow they’ve raised walls made of ice.”

“The khaldjari of the Order of the Tower,” said Calliande. “Just as the dwarves have stonescribes and the dvargir have shadowscribes, so do the khaldjari have similar powers over ice and stone, and can raise fortifications in great haste when necessary.”

“I would not advise an assault upon these fortifications,” said Tormark. “They are yet incomplete, but we would lose a great many men in such an attack. Furthermore, if the Frostborn sallied from the fortifications, they might well drive us back.”

“What of Tarrabus?” said Dux Kors. He had taken a wound in the neck during the fighting, and while Camorak had healed it, his voice was nevertheless rougher than it had been. “The treacherous swine left us to die upon the battlefield. He might come back to finish the job.”

“Sir Constantine,” said Leogrance.

Constantine stepped forward, one hand resting upon Brightherald’s hilt. Calliande suspected he was drawing on the soulblade for the power to keep standing. He had fought alongside his father in the encirclement, and then led several of the sorties that had pushed the medvarth north.

“I led a scouting party to the south,” said Constantine. “It seems Tarrabus is marching south along the Moradel road with all speed. I suspect he will stop at Castra Carhaine to obtain supplies, and then proceed to Tarlion as soon as possible.”

Kors grunted. “He’s bound to learn that we survived. Either Imaria Shadowbearer will tell him of her crime, or one of the flying pets of the Frostborn will bring him the news. He might turn and come for us then.”

“He won’t,” said Ridmark. All the lords looked at him. Since all his warnings had been proven right, Calliande noted with a touch of bitterness, they were more willing to listen to him. If they had been willing to listen yesterday, a lot of men slain in the battle would still live.

If only Calliande had made Uthanaric Pendragon listen.

“Tarrabus wants to be the High King,” said Ridmark. “He’s stolen Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown, but the High King sits in Tarlion, and he cannot credibly claim the title until he seizes control of Tarlion. So he will go there at once, and deal with us once he has secured Tarlion.”

“Uthanaric left Corbanic Lamorus as the Constable of Tarlion,” said Prince Cadwall. “He will not open the city to Tarrabus, not for any reason.”

“Then Tarrabus will try to take it,” said Ridmark.

“The High King left Tarlion well-provisioned for a siege,” said Sebastian, looking nervously at the older men. “Even a force as large as Tarrabus’s will find it a challenge.”

“And Corbanic may activate the old defenses,” said Calliande.

“Old defenses?” said Ridmark.

“A secret known only to the High Kings, their trusted officers, and the Keepers,” said Calliande, “but I expect they will become public knowledge when Tarrabus assails the city. In ancient times, the Keepers of old worked powerful wards into the walls of Tarlion. When active, the wards prevent any creature of dark magic from entering the city. Those wards alone kept Tarlion from falling to the urdmordar in the final year before Ardrhythain founded the Two Orders.”

“Ha!” said King Ulakhamar. “So the traitor will come to take his prize, and since he has sold his soul to the shadow, he shall not be able to enter.”

Calliande nodded. “His soldiers will, though. But Tarlion shall be able to hold for a long time, and I suspect Tarrabus will lay siege to it.”

“He will expect the Frostborn to deal with us,” said Ridmark.

“So, my lords, you see the situation before us,” said Gareth. “We face the Frostborn to the north and Tarrabus and his so-called Enlightened to the south. If we are to overcome this challenge, we must remained unified. I know some of you are considering a return to your own lands. After all, the Frostborn have not yet left the Northerland, and Tarlion will hold the attention of Tarrabus for some time. We must decide upon a strategy.”

“How?” said King Ulakhamar. “The Duxi of Andomhaim are equals, and my brother kings and I only bowed our head to the High King of Andomhaim. The High King is now foully slain, and a usurper claims his throne. Who then shall we follow?”

Gareth nodded. “The High King and his trueborn sons were murdered…but the House of Pendragon is not yet extinct.”

Silence fell over the hall for a moment.

“Sir Arandar of Tarlion,” said Leogrance at last.

###

Arandar closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then stepped forward.

He felt the trap closing about him at last.

He did not want this. He had never wanted it. Some bastards dreamed of becoming trueborn sons, of gaining their father’s acceptance and pride. Arandar had not been one of them. He had wanted a life of his own, a name and honor gained through his own efforts.

Now he would be forever remembered as Uthanaric Pendragon’s son…but that was not the worst of it.

The realm would be in his hands. The realm of Andomhaim, torn by civil war, threatened by the Frostborn, would be his charge. As much as Arandar had disliked his father, he understood how Uthanaric had become so grim and cynical. The constant burden of ruling had worn him down, hardening his heart until he had believed that the threat of the Enlightened was simply yet another court intrigue.

God and the saints. This meant that Accolon would become the Crown Prince, that Nyvane would become the most eligible maiden in the realm. How could he inflict such a burden upon his children? He did not have the right.

But if he did not do this…there was no one else. No one else who had the right to claim the High King’s throne.

And if Arandar did not do this, he would inflict a worse fate upon Accolon and Nyvane. His children could grow up in whatever remnant of Andomhaim the Frostborn permitted Tarrabus to rule, twisted by the dark teachings of the Enlightened, or they would grow up as slaves in the Dominion of the High Lords.

He did not want to do this, not now, not ever.

But for the sake of his children, he stepped forward.

“I know,” said Arandar, “what you would ask of me.” He looked at the nobles in turn. Calliande offered him a tentative smile, and Ridmark nodded. Jager winked at him, the cheeky scoundrel. “But if I am to do this, then I wish it known that I do not want this, that I have never wanted this.”

“No one doubts that, Sir Arandar,” said Leogrance.

Master Marhand, who stood with Master Kurastus near the Prince of Cintarra, nodded. “Your actions as a knight and a Swordbearer have been well-known.”

“Regretted losing you as a sworn knight, lad,” said old Kors, “when you went off to become a Swordbearer.”

“But it must be you,” said Gareth. “There is no one else. A Pendragon has always sat upon the throne of Andomhaim. Even a bastard Pendragon, when the trueborn heirs had been slain by battle or illness. Will you accept this burden, Sir Arandar? Will you be the High King of Andomhaim?”

“This has been thrust upon me,” said Arandar, “and there is no choice but to accept. If God wills it, then it shall be done. But I cannot be the High King yet.”

“Not without Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown,” said Leogrance. “By both law and ancient tradition, the heir is not the High King until he has been crowned with the Pendragon Crown while holding Excalibur in the cathedral of Tarlion.”

“We have neither,” said Prince Cadwall. “Imaria Shadowbearer took both crown and sword with her when she fled the field. Without them, by law we cannot choose a High King.”

“With respect, my noble lords,” said Jager, his resonant voice cutting into the discussion, “I fear you are overlooking the obvious.”

They all looked at him. Arandar could tell that some of the lords were still offended that a halfling would speak to them so brazenly, but since the halfling’s wife and her army had just saved their lives, so they kept quiet.

“You are obviously going to make Sir Arandar the new High King,” said Jager. “Sir Arandar is just as obviously going to accept the throne, but you can’t crown him without the…well, the actual crown. You know he’s going to be the High King, just not yet. Since you need a leader and it needs to be him, why not call him…oh, the Prince Regent?”

Arandar snorted. “I will be my own regent, then?”

Jager shrugged. “Why not? You are merely caretaking the throne for Sir Arandar until he can claim it with the crown and the sword and the cathedral and all the laws and traditions and such. The fact that the Prince Regent and Sir Arandar are the same man is, of course, of no importance whatsoever.”

Dux Kors snorted. “That is a clever bit of legal maneuvering there, Prince Consort.”

Jager offered Kors a broad smile. “All men have their talents, my lord.”

“It will work,” said Calliande, stepping forward. The ragged, haunted look that she had worn since the Weaver’s attack on the hillside had left her, and she again looked like the cool, collected Keeper of Andomhaim. “We must have a leader, a man to assume the mantle of the High King, and God has brought one to us. Let us look forward to the day of his coronation, which shall be the day of our victory when Tarrabus is defeated and the Frostborn driven back once more.”

She sounded so confident. Arandar wondered if she really felt that way.

“So be it,” said Leogrance. “My lords, together we shall defeat Tarrabus, restore a Pendragon to the throne of the realm, and drive the Frostborn back to their gate.”

“Though,” said Prince Cadwall, “we may have some details to discuss.”

“Agreed,” said Gareth. “First, we…”

“First,” said Arandar, “if I am to be the Prince Regent and then the High King of Andomhaim, you will start by renewing your oaths of allegiance to the Pendragon throne.”

They all stared at him in surprise, even Calliande. Only Jager smiled. Arandar suspected he understood. The Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest, surrounded by Anathgrimm warriors who could crush him in a heartbeat, understood the need to assert himself.

“If I am to be the High King,” said Arandar, “then I shall be the High King of Andomhaim. If the responsibility is to be mine, then the duty shall be as well. I will not be a puppet or a figurehead. I will listen to counsel, and I will consult with all my lords before making a decision, as Malahan Pendragon himself did in the days of old. Indeed, I shall be glad of counsel, for a great task lies before us. But I shall be the High King, and no one else.”

For a moment silence answered him, and then Dux Kors started to laugh, a rumbling, rasping sound.

“Well, my lords,” said Kors. “If we make a man the High King, we cannot object if he starts acting like the High King. Aye, I’ll swear to you.”

He did first, and one by one the others followed suit.

###

The council of war lasted well into the afternoon.

Ridmark watched as Arandar took charge, directing the discussion. He did better than Ridmark would have thought. Gareth, Leogrance, and Kors were all older and more experienced, but Arandar had led men in battle for years, and he was not a fool.

“Then it is decided,” said Arandar. “We shall march upon Castra Carhaine itself.”

The plan was simple. Arandar and the loyalists needed to defeat the Frostborn, but they needed more men to face the invaders. The best way to obtain those men was to defeat Tarrabus as soon as possible and place Arandar upon the throne, reunifying the realm under the true High King. With the realm reunited, they could march against the Frostborn, but to reunite the realm, they had to defeat Tarrabus and depose the traitorous Duxi. So Arandar and the men of Cintarra, Durandis, Caertigris, and the orcish kingdoms would attack Castra Carhaine to draw Tarrabus out from his siege, while the men of the Northerland would try to hold the Frostborn back and buy time.

“Can you stand alone against the Frostborn?” said Calliande.

“We will have half of the Swordbearers,” said Gareth, “and the remaining Magistri. The men of the Northerland are well-experienced in battle, and Castra Marcaine is a strong fortress. We can hold out long enough for Tarrabus to be defeated.”

“Nor,” said Mara, “will you fight alone. The Anathgrimm will aid you.”

Gareth frowned. “Can the Anathgrimm sustain such a war?”

Qhazulak grunted. “We fought you for centuries, did we not?”

“What the Lord Captain means to say,” said Zhorlacht in his smooth voice, “is that the Anathgrimm are skilled in raiding and harassing a foe. We have practiced such methods of war for many years. While the Frostborn besiege your strongholds, we shall cross the Moradel, hit them from behind, and retreat back into the forests.”

“And their impenetrable wards?” said Kors.

“You see truly, my lord,” said Zhorlacht. “And with the magister militum to lead us, I am confident we shall have victory. Did not the Gray Knight already slay the Lord Commander of the Frostborn?”

“With help,” said Ridmark. “But there are many more to be killed.”

He felt Calliande staring at him, but could not make himself meet her gaze.

“So be it, then,” said Arandar. “We shall march on the morrow.”

The lords dispersed to their men, and Ridmark prepared to join Mara and Jager as they returned to the Anathgrimm, but Arandar pulled him aside.

“A moment,” said Arandar.

“Of course, my lord High King,” said Ridmark.

Arandar grimaced. “I know that you must call me that in public, but if you do so in private, I swear that I shall punch you.” He shook his head. “We have seen too much madness together…and you helped save my son. That counts for much.”

“You have my word, then, Sir Arandar,” said Ridmark.

“I want you to know,” said Arandar, “that as soon as we can find a competent scribe, my first decree will be to rescind your banishment and declare any charges Tarrabus leveled against you null and void.” He hesitated. “I would have you reinstated in the Order of the Soulblade, but...I know you cannot bond another soulblade.”

Ridmark nodded. “Thank you.”

“I suppose my authority doesn’t carry over much of the realm,” said Arandar, “but I will do what I can.”

“It means a great deal,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

“And,” said Arandar, taking a deep breath, “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course,” said Ridmark.

“I do not wish to ask you this,” said Arandar, “but I have no choice.”

“Your children,” said Ridmark, understanding at last.

“Take them with you to Nightmane Forest,” said Arandar. “Tarrabus…once he learns that we survived the battle, he will try to kill them both.”

“He will try to kill you, too,” said Ridmark.

“Let him try,” said Arandar. “I am still a Knight of the Soulblade, and if the Enlightened come for me they shall regret it. But my children…if I die, Accolon is the heir. Tarrabus already tried to kill him once. He might send the Red Family after them, as he did with you, or the Enlightened, or God knows what kind of devils. They will be safer, far safer, with you in Nightmane Forest.”

“I suspect,” said Ridmark, “that Nightmane Forest is not a good place for children.”

“Neither is a battlefield,” said Arandar.

Ridmark considered for a moment. “I suppose Accolon would make a good squire. As for Nyvane, now that Mara is a Queen, I suppose she needs a lady in waiting or two.”

“It would be a good education for them,” said Arandar. “God and the saints. If we are successful, Accolon will be High King one day. He will have to learn to speak with all kinds of people. And Nyvane will be a princess. God!” He rubbed his jaw for a moment. “I shall have to find her a husband.”

“You would have had to do that anyway,” said Ridmark.

“It is easier to find a husband for the daughter of a knight then the daughter of a High King,” said Arandar.

“True,” said Ridmark.

“Thank you, Ridmark,” said Arandar. “For everything.”

“May God go with you,” said Ridmark.

“And you,” said Arandar, “and may we meet again as we watch Calliande close the gate of the Frostborn.”

“I hope so,” said Ridmark.

He did not think it likely, but he would do what he could to bring it to pass.

Chapter 24: Rifts of War

The next morning, Calliande hurried towards the Anathgrimm camp, her green cloak billowing behind her. She did not have much time. Arandar’s host would soon begin its march south to Castra Carhaine. Calliande’s place was with them. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and the Keeper’s place was at the High King’s side.

She had her duty, and she would not deviate from it.

As much as she wanted to go with Ridmark.

She found Ridmark standing outside the Anathgrimm camp, staff in hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders. He must have gone out scouting before dawn, examining the route the Anathgrimm host would take back to the Nightmane Forest.

“Tireless as ever,” she murmured. She raised her voice. “Ridmark!”

He stopped and looked at her as she approached.

“Calliande,” he said. He didn’t smile. She had not seen him smile once since Morigna had died, but his face did soften. “Is anything amiss?”

“No,” she said. “Well…many things are. But there is no immediate crisis.”

His mouth twitched a little at that. “We haven’t often been able to say that.”

“No,” said Calliande. She pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “Before you go. I…we might never see each other again.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “War is unpredictable.”

“I know that well,” said Calliande. “You do, too. Before you go…I just wanted…”

What could she tell him? That she loved him, and did not want to see him go? It was such a selfish thing to contemplate. He had been in mourning for Aelia when she had met him, and was in mourning for Morigna now. She did not have the right to lay the burden of her heart upon him.

But if he died in battle…

“I just wanted to thank you,” said Calliande. “For everything.”

He shook his head. “I have done nothing that requires thanks.”

“Do not be absurd,” said Calliande. “You saved my life, again and again and again. I would not be standing here if not for you.”

“You saved me, too,” said Ridmark. “With your healing spells, again and again. And…at Dun Licinia, at the keep. I was not thinking clearly.”

“Grief,” said Calliande, “is its own kind of madness.”

He let out a long breath. “I suppose I know that well. You do, too.”

She nodded. “I want…to ask a promise of you.”

“If I can.”

“Come back alive,” said Calliande.

“I don’t know if…”

“Please,” said Calliande. “I know…I know you have to kill Imaria and the Weaver. But don’t get yourself killed doing it.”

“I cannot promise…”

“Please,” said Calliande again. “I know that is it important to you. But…it is important to me that you survive.”

It was, perhaps, the closest she could come to telling him how she felt.

Ridmark stepped closer, and for a shocked instant Calliande’s mind flashed back to the day the wyvern had almost killed Kharlacht, the day that Ridmark had kissed her.

If the wyvern hadn’t interrupted them, many things might have been different.

Ridmark leaned forward, and Calliande’s heart sped up, her mind freezing for a moment with panic and anticipation and wild hope.

Gently, very gently, he kissed her on the cheek.

“God go with you, Calliande,” said Ridmark, his voice hoarse.

“And you, Ridmark,” said Calliande, blinking.

He turned and strode back to the Anathgrimm camp, the magister militum of the Queen of Nightmane Forest, and Calliande wondered if she would ever see him again.

She walked back towards Dux Gareth’s camp. Calliande let herself cry a little as she walked, her chest hitching from time to time with a sob. It was the only time she could permit herself such an indulgence. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had her duty.

An idea came to her.

Perhaps she could do a little more than her duty.

Calliande wiped her tears dry and hurried into Gareth’s camp.

She found Camorak soon enough. The disheveled Magistrius looked hungover, but Calliande supposed that might have been simple exhaustion. He blinked bloodshot eyes as she approached.

“Ah, Keeper,” said Camorak. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to ask a favor,” said Calliande.

“Certainly,” said Camorak.

“Go with the Anathgrimm,” said Calliande. “Find Ridmark, and tell him I asked you to serve as his Magistrius advisor. God knows he will have enough work for you.”

Camorak frowned, scratching at his stubble-coated chin.

“Why?” he said at last.

“Please,” said Calliande. “Look after him.”

Camorak stared at her for a while.

“All right,” he said at last.

A short time later Calliande found Antenora and Gavin waiting at the edge of the camp.

“Another war,” said Antenora, her raspy voice distant. “I wonder if we shall win this one.”

“We shall,” said Gavin with all the confidence of youth.

Calliande wasn’t so sure.

“You are correct,” she said, with all the certainty she could muster. “Come. Let’s find Prince Arandar. We have a realm to win.”

###

Ridmark walked towards the Queen’s Guard, Accolon and Camorak trailing after him. The boy took his duties as squire seriously. He took them so seriously, in fact, that he had found some gray cloth, covered a shield with it, and carried Ridmark’s “colors” after him.

The Gray Knight, the magister militum of Nightmane Forest.

“Never been to Nightmane Forest,” said Camorak. “Never thought I would visit, either.”

“Neither did I,” said Ridmark, glancing back at Camorak.

He hoped Calliande would be safe. He had promised that he would see her to the end of this, but right now the best way of fighting their enemies was to stay with the Anathgrimm. He wished he could have gone with her.

He wished that Morigna was here.

Ridmark shook his head and found Mara and Jager. They waited with Qhazulak and Zhorlacht, Caius and Kharlacht standing nearby.

“Coming with us?” said Ridmark.

Kharlacht shrugged. “War is everywhere now, and my blade is needed. It seemed good to me to follow the Anathgrimm into battle.”

“Queen Mara invited me to accompany her to Nightmane Forest,” said Caius. “Many of the Anathgrimm are eager to hear the word of the Dominus Christus, now that the Traveler is slain.”

“This all started,” said Ridmark, “because you went to carry the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan orcs of the Wilderland. It seems you shall have the chance after all.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” said Caius.

Ridmark hoped so.

“Lord Magister,” said Mara. She looked resplendent in her armor and blue cloak. “Are the Anathgrimm ready?”

“They are,” said Ridmark.

“Then let us return to Nightmane Forest,” said Mara, “and then make war upon the Frostborn.”

Ridmark nodded, and a wave of melancholy went through him.

Morigna was dead, and Calliande was gone, Antenora and Gavin and Arandar going with her. He remembered the day they had fought Rhogrimnalazur, when they had worked in harmony to defeat an urdmordar of great power. His friends had seemed invincible that day.

They had gone with him to Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, companions in grave danger, and now they were going their separate ways.

He put aside his melancholy.

“Of course, Queen Mara,” said Ridmark.

There was a war to fight, and Ridmark had a lot of people to kill.

Epilogue

The Frostborn had no need of illumination.

The frozen walls within the fortress the khaldjari of the Order of the Tower had constructed glowed with a pale, eerie blue light, throwing stark shadows over the walls, the air steaming with cold. Imaria did not feel the cold as she stood in the central chamber, her shadow rotating around her as the shadow of Incariel whispered in her thoughts. The shadow protected her from the cold. The shadow could protect her from anything.

Except a soulblade and the Keeper’s magic, of course, but those would soon be neutralized.

“It seems we have suffered a setback,” said Arlmagnava.

Imaria listened with half an ear, watching the gate.

Once this place had been the crest of a hill, supporting the ring of dark elven standing stones where Imaria had opened the world gate. Now it was the heart of the fortress, a vast dome rising overhead. The fortress enclosed the hill, guarding the link of the Frostborn to the rest of their Dominion.

“We have,” said a Frostborn male named Kajaldrakthor, the new Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard. He had been one of Rjalmandrakur’s lieutenants, and had taken command after Ridmark had opened Rjalmandrakur’s neck. “Such problems are to be expected in the conquest of a new world.”

“Indeed,” said Arlmagnava.

A score of Frostborn stood before the crackling glare of the world gate in its menhirs, discussing the battle in their cold, dispassionate way. The creatures did have emotions, Imaria decided, but emotions as cold and logical and arrogant as the rest of their natures. She had half-expected the Frostborn to fly into a rage at their defeat, but instead they began discussing how to continue their goals of conquering Andomhaim and adding it to their Dominion.

Such determination made them dangerous.

“What of our ally?” said Kajaldrakthor.

“Tarrabus has marched south, intending to lay siege to Tarlion,” said Arlmagnava, glancing at Imaria. “The Citadel houses the Well, a magical source of great power. Should Tarrabus claim this, it will guarantee his victory over his opponents.”

The shadow stirred in Imaria.

She would have the Well.

And then she would be free at last, and she would free this world from its prison.

“We must consider Tarrabus Carhaine unreliable,” said another Frostborn, one of the officers of the Order of the Vanguard. “Seeker Arlmagnava’s assessment of him was correct. He will inevitably turn on us. He promised his plan would gain him complete control of the realm, and instead a strong rebellion marches against him.”

“Seeker Arlmagnava is indeed correct. Nevertheless, this works to our advantage,” said Kajaldrakthor. “Let the shards of Andomhaim war against each other. The lifespan of a human is inconsequential. While they war, we shall fortify our gains in the Northerland and summon reinforcements. Once Tarrabus and the rebels have exhausted each other, we shall march from a position of unassailable strength.”

The other Frostborn agreed.

“What of the Gray Knight?” said another Frostborn female of the Inquisition. “The one who slew Rjalmandrakur? If not for his interference, we would have crushed the rebels utterly.”

“I have placed a price upon his head,” said Kajaldrakthor. “Whoever slays him shall receive the governance of five cities, or an appropriate reward of similar nature.”

“His life,” hissed Imaria, her shadow rotating around her, “is mine.”

The Frostborn shared a look amongst themselves.

“Raise the price,” announced Kajaldrakthor, “to ten cities.”

Imaria smiled to herself. The Frostborn were powerful and deadly, but they were still fools. She would use them as Tymandain Shadowbearer had used the dark elves and the dvargir and the Mhorites. If Tarrabus failed to gain her access to the Well, she would use the Frostborn to destroy Andomhaim.

When Andomhaim was destroyed, she would seize the Well for herself…and then she would free humanity.

First, though, there was work to be done.

She cast a spell, charging the gate with new power, opening it for the reinforcements to come through.

Andomhaim would fall, and Imaria would seize the Well in the Citadel of Tarlion.

She only hoped Ridmark lived long enough to see his failure before she killed him.

THE END

Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE HIGH LORDS. Look for Ridmark's next adventure, FROSTBORN: THE FALSE KING, to appear in 2016. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Other books by the author

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About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

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Glossary of Characters

ACCOLON: The son of Sir Arandar and grandson of the High King.

ARDRHYTHAIN: The last archmage of the high elves, and the founder of the Order of the Magistri and the Order of the Soulblade.

AELIA LICINIUS ARBAN: The eldest daughter of Gareth Licinius, and the late wife of Ridmark Arban. Killed at Castra Marcaine by Mhalek.

AGRIMNALAZUR: An urdmordar, slain by Ridmark Arban in Urd Arowyn.

ANTENORA: A former apprentice of the last Keeper of Avalon upon Old Earth, cursed by Mordred Pendragon’s dark magic to live forever until she finds redemption. Now the apprentice of Calliande of Tarlion.

ARANDAR: A Knight of the Order of the Soulblade and current bearer of the soulblade Heartwarden. The bastard son of the High King Uthanaric Pendragon, and the father of Accolon and Nyvane. Plague killed his wife Isolde.

ARLMAGNAVA: A Frostborn woman, a Seeker of the Order of the Inquisition of the Dominion of the High Lords, the military Order of the Frostborn devoted to spying and recruitment of allies.

THE ARTIFICER: A dark elven noble and wizard, formerly the apprentice of the Warden. His spirit was bound to the Iron Tower. Defeated by Ridmark and his companions.

AVENTINE ROCARN: A knight in service to Tarrabus Carhaine.

CADWALL GWYRDRAGON: The Prince of Cintarra, the largest city in Andomhaim.

CAIUS: A dwarven noble of Khald Tormen and a friar of the mendicant orders. The first of the dwarven kindred to convert to the church of the Dominus Christus.

CALLIANDE: The Keeper of Tarlion, the guardian of the realm of Andomhaim against the powers of dark magic. The daughter of Joanna and Joachim, and the former student of the Magistrius Marius and the Keeper Ruth.

CAMORAK: A Magistrius in service to Joram Agramore of Dun Licinia. Prone to drunkenness and boorish comments, but nonetheless a skilled healer.

CARADOG LORDAC: A knight in service to Tarrabus Carhaine.

CONSTANTINE LICINIUS: The son of Gareth Licinius, and a Swordbearer, wielder of the soulblade Brightherald.

CORBANIC LAMORUS: A vassal of the High King, and current Comes of Coldinium.

CORTIN LAMORUS: A knight and the son of Corbanic Lamorus.

CROWLACHT: A headman of the orcish kingdom of Rhaluusk and a warrior of King Ulakhamar. Fought alongside Ridmark and his friends at the Iron Tower.

DAGMA: Sister of Jager, and seneschal of the keep of Dun Licinia.

DIETER: Husband of Dagma, Jager’s sister. A skilled carpenter.

GARETH LICINIUS: The Dux of the Northerland, and father of Constantine, Imaria, and Aelia.

GAVIN: A young man from the village of Aranaeus in the Wilderland, now a Swordbearer and the wielder of the soulblade Truthseeker.

GOTHALINZUR: An urdmordar, slain by Ridmark Arban at the village of Victrix.

IMARIA LICINIUS SHADOWBEARER: The youngest daughter of Gareth Licinius, and a former Magistria of the Order. The new bearer of Incariel’s shadow after the death of Tymandain Shadowbearer.

JAGER: A bold halfling thief and merchant, married to Queen Mara of the Nightmane Forest. Serves as her Prince Consort.

JORAM AGRAMORE: A knight and vassal of Dux Gareth Licinius. Currently serves as the Comes of Dun Licinia.

KALDRAINE PENDRAGON: The eldest son of High King Uthanaric Pendragon and heir to the realm of Andomhaim.

KHARLACHT: An orcish warrior of Vhaluusk and follower of Ridmark Arban.

KORS DURIUS: The Dux of Durandis, Andomhaim’s western march against the mountains of Kothluusk.

KURASTUS: A Magistrius and the Master of the Order of the Magistri.

LEOGRANCE ARBAN: The Dux of Taliand, and the father of Ridmark Arban and Tormark Arban.

LINUS RILLON: A knight of Tarrabus Carhaine and one of the Enlightened of Incariel. Killed by Accolon in self-defense.

MARA: The daughter of the Traveler, the dark elven lord of Nightmane Forest. Now rules as the Queen of Nightmane Forest.

MARCAST TETRICUS: A knight formerly in service to the garrison of the Iron Tower, now opposed to Tarrabus Carhaine.

MARHAND: A Swordbearer, and Master of the Order of the Soulblade. Carries the soulblade Torchbrand.

MARIUS: Known as the Watcher, Calliande’s former teacher in the magic of the Magistri. Watched over her in spirit form after she awakened in the Tower of Vigilance without her memories.

MHALEK: Orcish warlord and shaman who believed himself a god. Defeated at Black Mountain, and the killer of Aelia Licinius Arban.

MIRIAM: The sister of Arandar’s late wife Isolde. Her husband died in the same plague that killed Isolde.

MORIGNA: A sorceress of the Wilderland, and former lover of Ridmark. Murdered by Imaria Licinius and the Weaver at Dun Licinia.

MOURNACHT: A Mhorite orcish warlord and shaman, later subverted into the service of Tymandain Shadowbearer. Killed by Ridmark Arban near Dun Licinia.

NYVANE: The daughter of Sir Arandar and granddaughter of the High King.

PAUL TALLMANE: A vassal of Tarrabus Carhaine, member of the Enlightened of Incariel, and Constable of the Iron Tower. Defeated by Ridmark Arban and killed by Jager at the Iron Tower.

QHAZULAK: An Anathgrimm orc. Champion of Nightmane Forest, and Lord Captain of the Queen’s Guard.

RHOGRIMNALAZUR: An urdmordar, slain by Ridmark Arban and his companions in the ruins of Urd Cystaanl.

RIDMARK ARBAN: Known as the Gray Knight, the youngest son of Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand. Expelled from the Order of the Swordbearers and branded for cowardice upon his left cheek. The widower of Aelia Licinius Arban.

RJALMANDRAKUR: A Frostborn noble, Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard, the military Order of the Dominion of the High Lords devoted to quickly subjugating new worlds.

RUTH: The former Keeper of Andomhaim who took Calliande as an apprentice.

SEBASTIAN AURELIUS: The Dux of Caertigris, the eastern march of the High Kingdom.

TAGRIMN VOLARUS: A knight and vassal of Dux Gareth Licinius, and the lord of Mourning Keep in the southern hills of the Northerland.

TARRABUS CARHAINE: The Dux of Caerdracon and the an Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel. Also the leader of the Enlightened of Incariel.

TORMARK ARBAN: The eldest son of Leogrance Arban, and the heir to the duxarchate of Taliand. Ridmark Arban’s oldest brother.

THE TRAVELER: The dark elven prince of Nightmane Forest, and creator and master of the Anathgrimm. Killed by his daughter Mara in Khald Azalar.

ULAKHAMAR: The king of the orcish kingdom of Rhaluusk and a vassal of the High King.

UTHANARIC PENDRAGON: The High King of Andomhaim, and the heir of Arthur Pendragon. The bearer of the soulblade Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown.

THE WARDEN: The lord of Urd Morlemoch, and widely regarded as the greatest wizard ever produced by the dark elves. Trapped in Urd Morlemoch since the arrival of the urdmordar fifteen thousand years ago.

THE WEAVER: Formerly a Magistrius named Toridan. Now a powerful Enlightened of Incariel capable of changing form quickly.

TOMIA ARBAN: The wife of Leogrance Arban, and the mother of Tormark Arban and Ridmark Arban. Died of illness when Ridmark was a child.

ZHORLACHT: A warrior and wizard of the Anathgrimm orcs. Formerly a priest of the Traveler, and now an advisor of Queen Mara.

Glossary of Locations

ANDOMHAIM: The realm of the High King, founded by Malahan Pendragon, the grandson of Arthur Pendragon of Britain, when he fled the fall of Arthur’s realm through a magical gate to another world.

ARANAEUS: A village of the Wilderland, birthplace of Gavin. Formerly ruled by the cult of the urdmordar Agrimnalazur.

THE BLACK MOUNTAIN: A mountain of peculiar black stone north of Dun Licinia. Sacred to both the dark elves and the dvargir.

CAERDRACON: A duxarchate in central Andomhaim, one of the wealthiest and most powerful of the realm.

CAERTIGRIS: The eastern march of Andomhaim, bordering on the lands of the manetaurs.

CASTRA CARHAINE: The stronghold and seat of Dux Tarrabus Carhaine of Caerdracon.

CASTRA MARCAINE: The stronghold and seat of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland.

CASTRA ARBAN: The stronghold and seat of Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand.

CINTARRA: The largest city of Andomhaim, ruled by the Prince of Cintarra, Cadwall Gwyrdragon.

COLDINIUM: A city on the northwestern borders of Andomhaim. Its Comes is a direct vassal of the High King.

DUN CALPURNIA: A town in the western Northerland, overlooking the valley of the River Moradel.

DUN LICINIA: A town in the Northerland, marking the northern border of the realm of Andomhaim.

DURANDIS: The western march of the kingdom of Andomhaim, bordering the mountains of Kothluusk.

THE IRON TOWER: Once the northwestern outpost of the kingdom of Andomhaim, commanded by Sir Paul Tallmane. Destroyed by Ridmark Arban and his allies in their fight against the Artificer.

KHALD AZALAR: A destroyed kingdom of the dwarves, located beneath the mountains of eastern Vhaluusk.

KHALD TORMEN: The chief of the remaining Three Kingdoms of the dwarves, located beneath the mountains of Kothluusk west of Durandis.

KHALDURMAR: The chief city of the dvargir in the Deeps.

KOTHLUUSK: A kingdom of Mhor-worshipping orcs, located west of Durandis.

MORAIME: A town in the Wilderland, formerly the home of Morigna.

NIGHTMANE FOREST: The domain of the Traveler and the homeland of the Anathgrimm orcs, now ruled by Queen Mara.

THE NORTHERLAND: The northernmost march of the realm of Andomhaim.

RHALUUSK: Kingdom of orcs near Durandis. The King of Rhaluusk is sworn to the High King of Andomhaim, and the orcs of Rhaluusk follow the worship of the Dominus Christus.

TALIAND: The oldest duxarchate of Andomhaim, located west of the mouth of the River Moradel.

TARLION: The capital city of Andomhaim and the seat of the High King. Home to the High King’s Citadel and the Well, the source of the magic of the Magistri.

URD AROWYN: The stronghold of the urdmordar Agrimnalazur.

URD CYSTAANL: The stronghold of the urdmordar Rhogrimnalazur.

URD MORLEMOCH: The ancient stronghold of the Warden, located by the sea in the northwestern Wilderland.

VHALUUSK: A kingdom of orcs of the Wilderland, splintered into dozens of warring tribes and fiefdoms. Predominantly worshippers of the orcish blood gods, though the faith of the Dominus Christus is spreading among the Vhaluuskan tribes.

VICTRIX: A village in the southern Northerland where Ridmark Arban slew the urdmordar Gothalinzur.

Table of Contents

Description

A brief author’s note

Chapter 1: Frost and Blood

Chapter 2: Scouts

Chapter 3: The Dominion of the High Lords

Chapter 4: Shadowbearer

Chapter 5: A Choice Of Evils

Chapter 6: Blame

Chapter 7: Burn With Me

Chapter 8: The House of the Arbanii

Chapter 9: Dun Calpurnia

Chapter 10: Charges

Chapter 11: The High King

Chapter 12: Nest of Vipers

Chapter 13: Council of War

Chapter 14: Questions and Answers

Chapter 15: Seventh Circle

Chapter 16: The Order of the Inquisition

Chapter 17: Blessing of Fire

Chapter 18: Shadow Threads

Chapter 19: Just A Little Too Late

Chapter 20: Enlightenment

Chapter 21: Bone Masks

Chapter 22: Frost and Axe

Chapter 23: Aftermath

Chapter 24: Rifts of War

Epilogue

Other books by the author

About the Author

Glossary of Characters

Glossary of Locations