by David Debord
Tabars shook his head.
“On your honor!” Jowan said shrilly.
For a moment, Larris feared they were sunk. Tabars was nothing if not honorable, but he was also more devoted to Lerryn than any other man alive. Furthermore, he had agreed with the rest of them: Lerryn should be King. The kingdom could not be divided, and that is exactly what would happen if the succession were thrown into dispute.
“I will thank the priest not to question my honor,” Tabars said. “You serve the gods, but I serve this nation. I have bled for it. And I say His Highness did not abdicate and I will cross swords with any man who says otherwise.”
“I believe that settles it.” Edwin grinned. “Unless one of you is in the mood for a duel.”
No one spoke. After a long silence, Tabars bowed himself out.
“Very well. I trust that the Regis will make the necessary arrangements for my coronation at the earliest possible convenience.” Lerryn stood. “Because, gentlemen, in case you fail to reach the conclusion for yourselves, a new Frostmarch is upon us.”
Part 2- Frostmarch
Chapter 41
He still remembered his name. Whatever else Pedric Karst might have forgotten, his name remained. Pedric Karst, king of the new nation of Kurnsbur. Oddly, it seemed he could remember little else. Where had he lived and what had he done before he came to this place? He concentrated, bringing all his faculties to bear on the subject. Flashes returned to him: childhood memories, his mother’s face, learning to fight with the sword, and an image of a beautiful yet terrible red-haired girl. He couldn’t remember who she was or how he knew her, but the very thought of her set his teeth on edge and his heart racing. Who was she?
Several times he had considered asking someone, but that would mean admitting to the gaping holes in his memory. In fact, so much was missing that he couldn’t properly call them holes. It seemed that little of himself remained anymore. The only thing he could focus on was the mission. Kurnsbur would conquer all of Gameryah for their new God.
A knock came at the door and he rose quickly, smoothing his robes and running his fingers through his hair. He didn’t feel like a king. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time that he ever felt like royalty though he must have at some point, else he wouldn’t be in the position he was today. But until he recaptured those memories, he needed to look the part.
“Enter!”
Padin, the prodigal son of a Mud Snake clan chief, and one of his self-appointed bodyguards, stuck his head inside.
“My Lord, an army is coming. Your father says you are needed at once.”
His father. Rimmic Karst was the true leader here, unless you counted the priests of the temple, whom he suspected were pulling his father’s strings.
“Very well.” Karst strapped on his sword and followed Padin out into the bright morning sun. As they strode through the dirt streets, people stopped and bowed to him. Karst scarcely noticed. When he did meet someone’s eye, he often imagined that he could see within them the same mottled thoughts which plagued him. Of course, that was impossible. Confusion was hardly a disease that could be passed from person to person. All around them were signs that Salgo prepared for war. Groups of men, some little more than boys, drilled with spears or practice swords. Others practiced archery. Most of the women he saw worked at practical tasks often reserved for men, hammering out spearheads in the smithy or working as fletchers. Very little of what would be considered normal activity in a city took place here. Everyone worked with a unified sense of purpose. So unified, in fact, that it felt mildly disconcerting. Karst contemplated this for a moment, but the thought seem to slip away as quickly as it had come.
“Here he is. Welcome, Majesty.” Rimmic Karst’s bow was respectful and his tone sincere. For whatever reason, he continued to maintain the fiction that Pedric was in charge.
“I understand an army approaches. Why have we not put men on the walls?” Their capital city of Salgo was protected only by a wooden stockade, but in the face of the enemy it was far better than nothing.
“I fear His Majesty has been misinformed,” Rimmic said. “An army approaches, but they are not the enemy.”
“Who are they, then?”
“Allies from Galdora. Just arrived from Archstone.” The speaker was an officer whose name Pedric could not quite recall.
“I didn’t realize we had allies in Galdora, and certainly not in Archstone.” He grimaced. He hoped this was not another thing he had forgotten
“We do indeed,” Rimmic said. “We should open the gates and welcome them.”
Karst knew this was not a suggestion, but he pretended that it was. He paused as if considering his father’s words and gave the order. Without hesitation, the soldiers unbarred the gates and swung them open. As they parted, he saw in the distance a mass of troops moving their way. Some small part of him protested. The Galdorans viewed him and his followers as rebels. Where was the wisdom in allowing them to walk inside without resistance? But this thought, like so many others, faded as soon as it appeared.
A small cluster of riders broke away from the main force. Four guards and a bannerman escorted a tall blond man of middle years. They rode inside, stopped at a respectable distance, and dismounted. The blond man came forward and bowed deeply.
“My lords, I am Orman Van Altman.”
“You are welcome in Salgo, Lord Van Altman,” Karst said. Van Altman. Why did he know that name? “I must confess I am surprised to see you here. My advisors have not apprised me of our alliance.” A flicker of annoyance flashed through his mind and for a moment, his resolve strengthened. “Perhaps you could explain to me how a Galdoran army has come to support me?”
Everyone within earshot looked around nervously, but Orman merely smiled.
“Loyalty to one’s king and country is a fine thing,” he said. “But loyalty to one’s god is paramount, would you not agree?”
“Indeed I would. Nevertheless, what assurances have I that your army shares your loyalties? Surely you cannot have converted all of your troops to the worship of our new god in so short a time.” No sooner had he spoken the words than he felt as if a great weight were pressing down on him, seeking to crush his spirits and muddy his thoughts. He fought against it with the greatest of efforts.
“You are a wise man, Majesty,” Orman said. “My men do not worship our god, that is true. In fact, they believe we are here to fight you and that I have come into the city to negotiate the terms of your surrender.” Orman and Rimmic seemed to think this was a great joke, but Pedric was not amused.
“They will not find us easy meat,” he snapped. “Your numbers are respectable, but ours are greater by far.”
It was the truth. Ever since the construction of the temple, men had flocked to Salgo to follow him. First a trickle, then a flood. They came from all over, though the core of his army was still comprised of his father’s loyal subjects from Kurnsbur, and the disenchanted Lothans who supported Pedric. What was it they were disenchanted with? He still could not remember though it seemed important.
“You are correct. And together our armies will be formidable indeed.” Orman smiled as if that were a sufficient answer.
“You need not worry.” Rimmic put an arm around Pedric in a fatherly manner. “We have a plan.” He turned to Orman. “Lord Orman, would you care to visit the temple and pay your respects to our god?”
“I would indeed.”
They turned and headed toward the center of the city. No one asked Pedric to join them, but he assumed it would be expected. Inwardly fuming, he quickened his pace and fell in alongside his father.
“What is this plan?” He said in a voice so soft that no one but Rimmic would hear.
“Simple,” he said in an equally quiet voice. “We pretend to surrender the city. As soon as his troops are inside, our god will bend their wills to his. In a few days’ time, he will be ready to move. Our god’s plans are already in motion all over Gameryah, but ours is the battle that matters the most
to him. When all is done, we will be exalted above all others.”
There were so many questions Pedric wanted to ask, but he found himself unable to voice them. In fact, with every step, his mind grew cloudier. By the time, they reach the temple, he once again knew little more than his own name.
They ignored the guards as they entered the temple. As always, he felt the overwhelming presence of their nascent god. Approaching the altar felt like walking through deep, shifting sand. With each step, he felt as if he were sinking deeper and deeper.
Blood drenched the altar, the remnants of the sacrifices the priests now performed around-the-clock. Their god had grown stronger, and his form seemed to have solidified though it was difficult to tell for certain beneath the hooded robe he wore. Two things Karst could not fail to notice: their god was powerful, broader of shoulder and taller by a head than the largest man he had ever seen, and his skin shone with icy blue light.
They all dropped to their knees and began their whispered prayers. Time passed. He could not say how much, for such things couldn’t be measured in the presence of a deity. One by one, each man stood and left the temple, stumbling as if in a trance, until only Pedric remained.
And then, for the first time, his God spoke to him.
Do you serve me?
“Yes. Yes I do,” he stammered. Despite his occasional misgivings and the many questions that troubled him, right now he wanted nothing more than to serve his God. The divine presence filled him with a joy bordering on ecstasy.
You are king, and thus the first among my followers.
“I am. I shall lead your army to victory.”
The god’s laugh was sharp, like the sound of breaking ice.
I have many who can command an army. You I have chosen for a special task.
Karst’s heart raced. He wanted nothing more than to complete this task for his god, though he did not know what it was. He didn’t care. He only wished to serve.
Do you remember this girl?
The image of a tall girl with red hair filled his mind. It was the girl from his memories, and he suddenly remembered who she was.
“Yes, I do. I remember,” he panted like a dog. “I hate her!” He couldn’t remember why he hated the girl, but he didn’t care.
You have been told I am the god of the hunt. Perhaps I am in a way because I am sending you out as my faithful hound. Find her, kill her, and bring me her sword.
And now he could sense her presence. She was far away, but he somehow knew exactly where she was. The urge to go after her was so strong that he wanted to turn and run, but something held him in place. The tiniest bit of doubt flickered in his mind. Was this the god of the hunt?
The god laughed again.
You are not wrong. I am not the god of the hunt. Open your eyes, faithful hound, and be the first to look upon my face. Then you shall know who I truly am.
He looked up at the glowing figure. With shining, blue-white hands, the god pushed back his hood.
Pedric Karst screamed.
Chapter 42
“Your Majesty, may I have a word?” Bertram did not wait for permission before entering the room. She didn’t mind. The man knew more about ruling a kingdom than she ever would and she was grateful he had consented to stay on as her advisor. Of course, there was that pesky matter of him having murdered the previous ruler, but he had done it for her, and it wasn’t the first time he had saved her. Still she was grateful that Heztus, Granlor, and Gillen were close at hand just in case.
“Of course you may.” She sat up straighter in her chair and smoothed her dress. She hated the thing, but she was expected to dress a certain way in public. Of course, this place was not exactly public. She spent most of her time in this small room adjacent to the throne room. It was decorated with simple yet comfortable furnishings and the single window offered a view of a walled garden just outside. As was often the case, Heztus kept her entertained. The dwarf was a delight, full of funny stories and inappropriate jokes, but he was also intelligent and she trusted his judgment.
Bertram dropped to one knee before her.
“Stop that this instant,” she snapped. “It’s bad enough that people bow to me out there.” She gestured toward the throne room. “I won’t have it in private, at least not when there are none but friends present.”
“Am I a friend, Majesty?” Bertram asked.
“I don’t know what you are, but you’ve behaved as a friend to me so the term suits you as well as any. What is it you’d like to talk about, and don’t say a word about choosing a husband and producing an heir.”
“It is not that, I assure you. I fear I have grave news.”
“Is there any other kind these days?” Heztus asked.
Indeed, since she had ascended the throne, the news had gotten progressively worse. One of the bone women in her service was familiar with the seekers’ odd method of communication and had, after much effort, made a connection with a seeker in Archstone. Since then, news of the world had poured in.
The war between Kyrin and Galdora had ended, but only because the second Frostmarch had begun. All along the western border war had broken out. The worst of the fighting seemed to be happening in the north, where vast hordes of wild men invaded from the mountains. Lothan, however, had not been spared. Word had come to her from the clans who had returned to their lands of raids by ice cats and shifters, the fiercest of the Ice King’s minions.
Meanwhile, the eastern nations were busy quelling revolts of coldhearts within their own ranks. Somehow, she knew this was only the beginning.
“As a matter of fact, I do have some good news too. Which would you like first?”
“Let’s have the good news first for a change.”
“Prince Lerryn has returned to Archstone. He and his brother Larris managed to defeat the invading Kyrinian force.”
Shanis’ heart skipped a beat at the mention of Larris’ name.
“Prince Lerryn has assumed the throne and is marshaling his remaining forces for war. Or should I say, for the next war?” Bertram managed a small smile.
“Is the fighting in western Galdora not so severe?” Shanis asked.
Their situation is similar to ours. Some minor skirmishes along the border.” Bertram shrugged. “Are you ready for the bad news?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”
This time, Bertram did not smile. “This has not yet been confirmed, but I have it from reliable sources that the order of the saikurs is broken.”
She clutched the arms of her chair and leaned forward slightly. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“There has been a revolt. Prelate Denrill has been overthrown and the survivors who were loyal to him have fled or have been imprisoned. The rumor is, the man who now leads there is a coldheart.”
“Coldhearts among the seekers?” Heztus sprang to his feet. It was not an impressive sight given the dwarf’s lack of stature. “How can that be?”
“I would assume that any man, or woman,” Bertram added, his eyes flitting toward Shanis, “can fall under the Ice King’s sway. It is our ill fortune that the most powerful group of magicians and sorcerers in Gameryah seems to be under his control. Of course, we do not know how many remain. With luck, it is only a small contingent who have given themselves over to that particular vileness. In any case, that is another problem for the government of Cardith to deal with.” He grimaced. “And now for the worst of it.”
“There’s something worse?” Shanis asked.
“I’m afraid so. Spies have returned from Salgo. Karst has amassed a sizable army and has joined forces with a contingent of Galdoran troops. They intend to march on us any day.”
“That makes no sense,” Heztus said. “Karst is a Galdoran rebel. How could such an alliance have formed?”
“The Galdoran force is led by Orman Van Altman. King Lerryn’s uncle. He is a coldheart.” Bertram fixed Shanis with a level stare. “The temple in Salgo, using dark magic and the power of human
sacrifice, has raised a god. They spread rumors that they were raising a minor, almost forgotten god, but the truth is much more terrible.”
Shanis sank back in her chair. She thought she was going to be sick. “Tichris.”
Everyone reacted immediately. Heztus cursed, Gillen gasped, and Granlor drew his sword and looked around as if the Ice King were somewhere in the room.
“The Ice King is close to his full power and he can bend men to his will. He now has a massive army under his sway and they will fight with a mindless unity of purpose. We must assume they will neither succumb to fear nor fatigue. We will have to kill them to the last man in order to defeat them.”
Shanis placed a hand on the hilt of the Silver Serpent, which rested against her chair. She looked down at it, a grim sense of determination filling her.
“Or I will have to kill him,” she whispered.
“You can no do that, can you?” Granlor asked. “I mean, it do be a god.”
“Do you have a better idea?” She asked. “He was beaten once before. He can be beaten again.” She stood and began pacing back and forth.
“If I may,” Heztus began, “we should go out to meet him. If we hide behind these walls, his armies will ravage our lands and then lay siege to our city. If we meet them in the swamps in the east, we have the advantage. The Malgog know that place better than anyone, save those of their own who have turned their coats. We will make them bleed.” He uttered the last declaration with cold ferocity.
“I agree.” Bertram nodded. “Recall the clansmen who have returned to their homes and meet them with our full might on the ground of our choosing.”
Shanis nodded. “Send word to King Lerryn and tell him the battle for which he has been preparing will be fought in Lothan. Ask him to come to our aid. I don’t suppose we can expect much help from the other nations?”
Bertram shook his head. “Not while they are all on the defensive and not knowing where the next coldheart rebellion will spring up.”