“Truly?” said Calazon. He seemed taken back.
“It is as the Keeper and the lord magister have stated,” said Third.
Calazon tapped a glyph upon his baton, and it gave out an odd chiming noise as he pointed it at Third. “Yes…. yes. It is as she says, Lord Prince. She does have dark elven blood, but the power is under control. Remarkable indeed! It is my belief that the mind must always mold itself to the shape of the flesh, so her flesh must have been rewritten in this way…”
“Thank you, stonescribe,” said Narzaxar. Ridmark had the impression that Calazon, like many of a scholarly bent, tended to ramble. “But we wander afield of the point.”
“Queen Mara is the sovereign of Nightmane Forest in her own right,” said Calliande, “and makes war against the Frostborn by her own authority. The manetaurs are coming to her aid. If you do move against the Frostborn, you can ally with Queen Mara and the manetaurs against the Frostborn, and need not involve yourself in the affairs in Andomhaim. It is my hope, in fact, that Prince Regent Arandar will soon triumph, and a unified Andomhaim will come to the aid of the Anathgrimm, purged of the shadow of Incariel that Tarrabus has chosen to worship.”
That, Ridmark knew, would be far easier said than done.
“You present a cogent argument, Keeper,” said Narzaxar. “We khaldari know the danger of the Frostborn, and there has been much debate among us ever since word of their return came. They are as weak now as they ever shall be, and every day they grow stronger. The time to act is now.”
“But something holds you back,” said Calliande.
“Yes,” said Narzaxar. “There are…troubles in Khald Tormen.”
“The Sculptor, lord Prince?” said Ridmark.
Narzaxar blinked. “Yes. How did you know of that?”
“We heard rumors of his movements on our way here,” said Ridmark. “Furthermore, we were attacked by a band of koballats led by an urdhracos in Castra Durius.”
“Castra Durius?” said Narzaxar. The fact seemed to puzzle him. “Why would the Sculptor attack Castra Durius?”
“I believe he may have sought to kidnap me,” said Calliande. She was still calm, but Ridmark knew her well enough to see the sudden unease beneath her calm mask. “Both the Warden and the Traveler sought to claim the power of the Keeper for themselves. Perhaps the Sculptor thinks to do the same.”
“Perhaps,” said Narzaxar, “but our own troubles with the Sculptor have been going on for the past year. He has launched attacks upon many of Khald Tormen’s outlying thainkuls, and our warriors have been dispersed to defend them. The Sculptor is crafty and cunning. In the past, the purpose of his campaigns has usually been to steal items of magical power or rare gems from our treasuries, and such raids resulted in the death of many khaldari. Until we know his purpose, we dare not leave Khald Tormen undefended.”
“Pardon,” said Calazon. “The urdhracos you encountered at Castra Durius. Did she wear a steel mask concealing a portion of her face?”
“Aye, stonescribe,” said Ridmark. “Her head was shaved, and the mask covered the left side of her face. Do you know of her?”
“To the sorrow of the khaldari kindred, yes,” said Calazon. “Urdhracosi usually do not have names,” he glanced at Third, “but this particular urdhracos is known as the Cutter.”
Kharlacht snorted. “A charming name.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Calazon, glancing at Kharlacht and then returning his attention to Third. He seemed fascinated by her. “Several times the Cutter has commanded the Sculptor’s creatures during his attacks upon Khald Tormen, and every time she escaped. The records of the stonescribes claim that she is the Sculptor’s lieutenant, and is almost as cunning as her master.”
“With such a foe lurking at our doorstep,” said Narzaxar, “you can see why we would be uneasy to send away the bulk of our forces. Furthermore, there is dissension within Khald Tormen.”
“May I ask what manner of dissension, Lord Prince?” said Calliande.
Narzaxar ignored her, and instead looked at Caius.
For the first time, genuine emotion went over the prince’s face. The dwarves, Ridmark knew, rarely showed their emotions, prizing stoicism and a fatalistic acceptance of one’s fate above all things. Caius had been the first dwarf Ridmark had ever met who laughed. During their entire conversation, Narzaxar had shown no emotion other than curiosity.
Now an emotion went through his features.
It was a deep and profound bitterness.
“The dissension,” said Narzaxar, staring at Caius, “that Prince Azaanbar has brought to Khald Tormen and the entire khaldari kindred.”
Ridmark looked at Caius, wondering who Prince Azaanbar was. Then he saw Calliande and Gavin and Kharlacht staring in surprise at Caius, and the truth came to Ridmark.
Prince Azaanbar was Caius’s real name, the name had possessed before he had become a friar and taken the name of Caius. That, in turn, meant that Caius was Narzaxar’s brother…which also meant that he was the younger brother of Axazamar, King of Khald Tormen.
Ridmark had always suspected that Caius was a dwarf of a noble house, but he had no idea that for the last year he had been traveling in the company of a member of the royal house of Khald Tormen.
“Brother,” said Caius at last. “How have I introduced dissension into Khald Tormen? I have not plotted with our enemies. I have not betrayed our King…”
“You left,” said Narzaxar, more bitterness entering his voice. “You left for twenty years, and you left the burden of the government to fall upon my shoulders and the shoulders of our brother. You abandoned your duties before the gods of stone and silence…”
“I left,” said Caius, “because I saw where the burden of government had led me. What it had compelled me to do. What kind of man it had made of me…”
“You did your duty as a Taalkhan of the royal house of Khald Tormen,” said Narzaxar. “Those duties carried a price. You paid that price unflinchingly…”
“I was wrong to do so,” said Caius.
Narzaxar let out an exasperated sigh, which was the most emotion the old dwarf had shown yet. “Grief is natural and to be accepted without complaint.”
“It was not grief that drove me from Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “but a recognition of my own folly. Others paid the price for my folly far more sharply than I did.”
“It is not your grief that it is the problem,” said Narzaxar. “Do you not think I know what it is to lose a son?”
“You do,” said Caius. “I know you do.”
“It is this…outlandish human religion you have brought to Khald Tormen,” said Narzaxar.
“It is not outlandish, my lord Taalkhan,” said Azakhun, speaking for the first time. “It is the truth.”
Again, Narzaxar let out that exasperated sigh. “It is a philosophy of the humans.”
“It is a faith for all nations and all kindreds, my lord Taalkhan,” said Azakhun. “Even ours.”
“It is a philosophy of consolation for the humans and nothing more,” said Narzaxar. “The Dominus Christus will rescue them from death? Humans live barely sixty years, seventy if they are lucky. We khaldari have no such limitations and can live for five centuries. That means we are wiser, for we have the perspective of longer years. We can accept death with the stoicism and dignity taught by the gods of stone and silence. Silence and darkness await us after death, and all things pass away into oblivion. Because of their short lives, humans cannot accept this truth. We can, and we can endure it with strength, for it is our duty. For you to embrace this human religion is…” Narzaxar seemed to struggle to find the word. “Untoward. It is untoward.”
“That is not stoicism but pride, brother,” said Caius. “An empty pride brought from our longer lives. We are no less mortal than the humans. Is there no less evil in our hearts?”
“We do not war upon each other as the humans do,” said Narzaxar. “Yes, we can commit actions of evil, but we are less prone to the…explosive and sel
f-destructive violence of humanity.”
“I contend that our stoicism is nothing more than fatalistic pride,” said Caius. “We are like men sitting in a burning foundry, taking pride in our ability to withstand the flames without flinching. Then a man offers us a way out, and we refuse because of our pride! Is that not folly?”
“That is an insult to the gods of stone and silence,” said Narzaxar, his cold mask returning.
“It is not,” said Caius. “It is a pathway to something better, brother. Our people do not laugh. Our people have no joy in their lives, for they believe nothingness awaits them. We are strong enough to live in despair, but that despair has eaten us out from the inside, and our only release is in labor and drink. The Dominus Christus offers us a hope beyond the grave.”
“And hope, perhaps, of assuaging your own guilt?” snapped Narzaxar.
For a moment, no one said anything.
“Forgive me, brother,” said Narzaxar, adjusting his golden amulet. “Forgive me. That was…inappropriate.”
“You are not wrong,” said Caius. “I do blame myself.”
Narzaxar sighed again. “And so we return to the beginning of the same argument, like a broken clock forever repeating the same moment.”
“I take it,” said Calliande, “we have found the source of the dissension within Khald Tormen.”
“The Keeper is wise,” said Narzaxar. “Yes. Taalmak Azakhun and his followers,” he glanced at the younger dwarf, “have been preaching the human religion to anyone who will listen. Already they have several hundred followers, mostly among the younger nobles and the commoners. It has caused great concern among the lords of the King’s court.”
“And you fear this will lead to civil war within Khald Tormen?” said Calliande.
“What?” said Caius and Narzaxar in unison.
They looked at each other, and Caius gestured for his older brother to continue.
“No, that is not our way,” said Narzaxar. “Humans and orcs and dark elves and manetaurs war among each other. The khaldari do not. The last time the khaldari fought amongst ourselves, the followers of Incariel became the dvargir…and I fear they were no longer khaldari, for the shadow of Incariel had twisted them. Instead of civil war, we will discuss the matter at length.”
“For decades,” said Caius. “Perhaps centuries.”
“In other words,” said Ridmark, “you will be paralyzed by discussion.”
Caius and Narzaxar shared a look.
“It is untoward for an outsider to comment on the affairs of the khaldari,” said Narzaxar, “but I fear you have the right of it.”
“You were kind enough to call me wise, lord Prince,” said Calliande. “Then I beg of you, accept this wisdom. Perhaps some of the khaldari will remain loyal to the gods of stone and silence, and perhaps some shall accept baptism and become followers of the Dominus Christus. The Frostborn will not care, and they will destroy and enslave both groups.”
“You are right,” said Narzaxar, “and you must share your wisdom with King Axazamar.” He waved a hand, a jeweled ring glinting upon his gray finger. “Forgive us, Keeper of Andomhaim. We should not have brought up our quarrels before outsiders.”
“There is no offense,” said Calliande. “If it will comfort you, before the manetaurs agreed to help us we became involved in one of their family quarrels, and it was bloodier than any quarrel among the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms.”
Ridmark remembered the desperate hunt through the Labyrinth as Ralakahr hunted him, remember the claws and fangs slicing into his flesh…
“I imagine so,” said Narzaxar. “Calliande of Tarlion, Keeper of Andomhaim, King Axazamar invites you to stand before his throne in the Stone Heart at sunset this day, where you will discuss the dangers that face the khaldari kindred. After your meeting, you and your companions are invited to a feast in your honor, for the Keeper of Andomhaim is a prestigious guest indeed.”
“I thank you, Taalkhan Narzaxar,” said Calliande with a bow.
“Taalmak Azakhun,” said Narzaxar, and Azakhun stepped forward, flanked by his retainers. “See our guests to their lodgings. Keeper, you and your companions shall be lodged in the Dormari Market at the Nobles’ House. Once you are refreshed from your journey, Azakhun shall bring you to the Stone Heart and the seat of King Axazamar.”
“I thank you again,” said Calliande, and she bowed once more.
“I hope you can persuade the King, my lady Keeper,” said Narzaxar. He glanced at Azakhun. “I fear that this new religion among us is a sign of doom and a herald of the doom of the khaldari kindred. And perhaps the Frostborn shall destroy us all…but we are all doomed to perish in the end, are we not, and destined to pass forever into the oblivion of silent darkness?”
Suddenly Ridmark understood why the faith of the Dominus Christus had such appeal to Caius and Azakhun.
Chapter 8: Discords
Gavin looked back and forth between the others.
When Calliande took on the role of Keeper and treated with kings and princes, Gavin always kept his mouth shut. He was a Swordbearer, true, but even that lofty rank seemed too much for him. If he was honest with himself, he was a capable swordsman, but Gavin had a long way to go before he would be the match of someone like Ridmark or Arandar or Kharlacht. So, Gavin kept his mouth silent when Calliande spoke with high lords and princes and kings. It wasn’t his place to speak at such times, and Calliande addressed the nobles with regal eloquence.
But Gavin was stunned to learn that Caius was actually a prince.
Or a…Taalkhan, that was the dwarven word for it. Maybe Gavin shouldn’t have been surprised. Calliande had turned out to be the legendary Keeper of Andomhaim. Arandar had been revealed to be the High King’s bastard son, and if they were victorious, he would become the High King. Mara had killed her wicked father and become a Queen, and now Caius was a prince of Khald Tormen. If this kept up, maybe Kharlacht would turn out to be the secret warlord of Vhaluusk or Gavin would be descended from a king.
He thought that unlikely. His father Cornelius of Aranaeus had been many things, some good, some bad, but he had most assuredly not been a king.
Calazon’s voice cut into Gavin’s thoughts.
“By your leave, lord Taalkhan,” said the stonescribe, “I would like to accompany the Taalmak’s party. It seems they have seen many strange things,” he glanced at Third, “and I would like to learn more of them so they can be recorded in our histories.”
“As you will,” said Narzaxar. “If you have no objection, Keeper?”
“Of course,” said Calliande. “He can walk with us to the Nobles’ House.”
“Splendid,” said Calazon. It was the most excited that Gavin had ever seen a dwarf, except for Caius.
Narzaxar and his retainers departed, and after a moment Azakhun indicated they should follow. Ridmark, Calliande, and Caius took the lead, walking with Azakhun and speaking in low voices. Kharlacht and Camorak came next, and Gavin found himself walking with Third and Antenora, while Sir Ector and his men-at-arms brought up the back. Gavin wondered if they could bring the horses into the halls of Khald Tormen. Would it be offensive if one of the horses dropped a load of dung within the galleries of the city? Gavin started to worry about it, decided that it was Calliande’s job to worry about such problems, and put it out of his mind.
To his mild surprise, Calazon ignored the others and headed for Gavin.
“You are a Swordbearer, am I correct?” said Calazon in his soft, raspy voice.
“Yes…ah, lord stonescribe,” said Gavin.
Calazon blinked his amethyst-colored eyes. “Your politeness does you credit, sir knight, but I am no lord. Merely a stonescribe. Might I have the honor of knowing your names?”
“I am Gavin of Aranaeus,” said Gavin, “and this is Antenora, the apprentice of the Keeper, and Third, the, ah…half-sister of Queen Mara.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure if you actually have a title.”
The pale woman almost smiled. “I requi
re no title.”
“Fascinating,” said Calazon. Gavin thought he was talking to Third, but the stonescribe was looking at him. “It is strange to see a Swordbearer so young.”
“It was forced upon me,” said Gavin. “We were trapped in Urd Morlemoch, and there was another Swordbearer who had died there, Sir Judicaeus Carhaine. Sir Arandar…ah, Prince Arandar did the ceremony, and I have been a Swordbearer ever since.”
“Interesting,” said Calazon. “There have been Swordbearers of your age in the past, but usually only in the times of most desperate peril for Andomhaim. When the Two Orders were founded during the war against the urdmordar, for instance, or during the previous war against the Frostborn. The attrition rate for Swordbearers was high, and younger and younger knights had to take up the soulblades of their fallen brothers.” He paused. “It is, in fact, remarkable that you have survived this long.”
“Thank you,” said Gavin. “I think.”
He wasn’t sure if he ought to be offended or not, but then they walked through the massive doors of dwarven steel and into the Hall of the Great Gate, and sheer wonder stole his breath.
The Hall of the West in Khald Azalar had been magnificent. Granted, it had been littered with the slain bones of the dwarves and the Frostborn from the long-ago fall of the city, but it had still had a grandeur to it. The Hall of the Great Gate of Khald Tormen was vast, so vast that it could have held almost every other building that Gavin had ever visited, save perhaps Urd Morlemoch itself. The granite floor had been polished to gleaming brightness, and Gavin saw his distorted reflection in the stone. Enormous square pillars like stone trees supported the vaulted ceiling, their sides carved with dwarven glyphs and reliefs of dwarven warriors in battle against dark elves and urdmordar. Glowstones shone from the ceiling, and rows of dwarven glyphs gleamed with pale white light upon the wall, driving back the shadows.
“God and the saints,” said Gavin.
“An impressive feat of engineering,” said Third. She gestured at the ceiling, and then at the walls behind the pillars. “There are drains overhead for pouring boiling oil or acidic substances, and nests for archers concealed in the walls. I also suspect that there are several trapdoors in the floors beneath us. Any army that breaks through the gate and enters the Hall will be slaughtered.”
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 11