Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. A great host…but even that might not be enough to turn back the Frostborn.

  He had hopes for the future, but those hopes might yet come to naught.

  Ridmark walked a short distance to a group of dwarven warriors. Brother Caius stood before them, leading them in prayer, and when he finished, the warriors rose and went about their duties. Many of the dwarves wore crosses made of dwarven steel.

  “It seems,” said Ridmark, “that you have made some converts.”

  “Not as many as I might wish,” said Caius. “Hope is still an alien concept to us. But such things are in the hands of God. I am the messenger and nothing more.” He laughed. “I confess I had a fantasy of delivering a sermon that would change the hearts of thousands of my kindred at once, but that was only a childish dream.”

  “Childish dreams at your age?” said Ridmark.

  “A man must live in hope,” said Caius. “My kindred believe that hope is only a foolish lie, but my hope is that the teachings of the Dominus Christus will convince them otherwise.”

  “I am surprised,” said Third.

  “About what?” said Caius.

  “That we’re all still alive?” said Ridmark. “I am surprised as well.”

  “True,” said Third. “Something else surprises me. A new religion has come among your kindred, Brother Caius. I expected it to lead to civil war and schism. Instead, Khald Tormen now marches to war against the Frostborn.”

  “We were right. Nothing inspires unity like a common foe,” said Ridmark.

  “Truly,” said Caius. “But it is not in our nature to war against each other.” He sighed. “I fear instead I would have brought paralysis to Khald Tormen, that we would have debated the matter for centuries. The threat of first the Sculptor and now the Frostborn means we will lay the matter aside to focus upon our foes. If anything converts the khaldari, it will be the experience of the war. Nothing makes a man understand what is truly important like facing the danger of war.”

  “No,” said Ridmark, looking towards the gate as Calliande emerged, flanked by Gavin, Antenora, Camorak, and Kharlacht, Sir Ector’s men following her. “No, nothing else does.”

  He went to join the Keeper, Third and Caius following him, and Calliande smiled as he approached.

  “To Tarlion?” she said.

  He nodded. “To Tarlion.”

  They left Khald Tormen, the valley ringing with the sound of dwarves preparing for battle.

  Epilogue

  Queen Mara of Nightmane Forest stood on the eastern bank of the River Moradel, listening to the report from the scouts.

  To her east rose the rocky hills of the Northerland, their slopes cloaked in pine trees. Once the hills of the Northerland had belonged to the High King and Dux Gareth of Castra Marcaine. For the past year and a half, the hills had been the site of bitter fighting as Ridmark and Qhazulak led endless raids against the medvarth and locusari warriors ranging from the great citadel of the Frostborn at Dun Licinia.

  And now, Mara knew with a sinking feeling, those hills would belong to the Frostborn.

  “The scouts have returned,” growled old Qhazulak. Most people had a hard time telling the Anathgrimm apart from one another, thanks to their masks of black bone. After nearly two years as their Queen, Mara could tell them apart at a glance. “A great force of medvarth and khaldjari have come from the world gate.”

  “How many?” said Mara.

  “At least thirty thousand,” said Qhazulak. “Likely more. The scouts dared not stay to count.”

  “I dislike those odds,” said her husband. Jager, as ever, wore his crisp white shirt and black leather vest, though he had also taken to wearing dark elven armor when in the field. “I very much dislike those odds.”

  “With those numbers,” said Zhorlacht, the first priest of the Dominus Christus among the Anathgrimm, “the Frostborn will be able to fortify the Moradel bank and keep us at bay while they assault Castra Marcaine.”

  “The entire Northerland might fall to them before the month is out,” said Qhazulak.

  “And then,” said Mara, remembering the terrible battle of Dun Calpurnia, “the Frostborn will be able to invade Caerdracon…and both Prince Arandar and the traitor Tarrabus are marching on Tarlion. There will be no one left to stop them.”

  They stood in silence, contemplating the hopeless odds.

  “There is one good report,” said Zhorlacht. “One of our scouts spoke to a human trader who claimed that large numbers of manetaurs and tygrai are marching from the east.”

  “Then maybe Ridmark and Calliande were successful,” said Jager, “and the manetaurs are coming to aid us against the Frostborn.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mara, looking to the west, to Nightmane Forest and beyond.

  She prayed that Ridmark and Calliande and her other friends were safe.

  Most of all, she prayed that they would hurry. If the Frostborn were not stopped soon, Mara did not think they could ever be defeated.

  ###

  Tarrabus Carhaine stalked into his pavilion in disgust, throwing his gauntlets upon the table. They skidded to a stop next to Excalibur, the sword as ever concealed in its ornate scabbard. It was the badge of his office as High King, but he dared not touch the weapon without a sheath.

  Two of his squires awaited him, hurrying to attend his needs.

  “Get out,” snapped Tarrabus. “Out!”

  The squires bowed and fled from the tent.

  Tarrabus flung himself into the chair before his map table, took the Pendragon Crown off his head, and set it on the table, scowling. The siege of Tarlion had dragged on far too long. He had expected to have complete control of Andomhaim by now, the work of spreading the truth of the Enlightened among the people well underway. A unified Andomhaim, backed by the power of the shadow of Incariel, would have treated with the Frostborn from a position of strength.

  Instead, over a year after the fool Uthanaric’s death, Andomhaim was still shattered. Caerdracon had fallen to the rebels, and Arandar Pendragon was marching south. Worse, Tarrabus still had not taken Tarlion, even with the aid of his dvargir allies. That stubborn idiot Corbanic Lamorus refused to yield the city, and with the help of Tarlion’s ancient magical defenses, he had held out despite a year of siege.

  Tarrabus was looking forward to executing Sir Corbanic slowly and painfully.

  He was also looking forward to killing Ridmark Arban. Everything had gone according to plan, and that stubborn imbecile had caused setback after setback. Still, Tarrabus knew that Imaria had sent the Weaver after both Ridmark and the Keeper, and the Weaver never failed…

  The shadow of Incariel stirred within him.

  Tarrabus looked up.

  Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer stepped out of the gloom of the tent, staring at him.

  Once, she had been a strikingly beautiful woman, at least as beautiful as her sister, who had been the only woman Tarrabus had ever cared about. While Imaria was still attractive, it was a corrupted beauty. Her eyes had turned to quicksilver, and Tarrabus saw his distorted reflection within them. Her veins had turned black as if shadows filled her flesh, and her skin had taken a grayish tone that made her oddly corpse-like.

  “Well?” said Tarrabus. “You better have some good news for me.”

  In answer, she pulled off her robe and other garments, standing naked before him. The black veins flowed over her body like lines upon a map, but she was still a desirable woman, even if she bore the shadow of Incariel and spoke with its voice.

  They wound up on the ground together. With surprising strength, she flipped Tarrabus onto his back and straddled him, her cold hands pushing against his chest. There was a strange expression on her face, a mixture of rage and hate and lust and madness, and more than once Tarrabus wondered if she intended to drive a dagger into his heart at the moment of her climax.

  She did not.

  After they had finished, he lay on the ground, breathing hard, while she rose and wandered around t
he tent, fingers flexing.

  “I do not have long,” she said, speaking in her strange double voice. Half of the voice belonged to Imaria Licinius, cold and proud and arrogant. The other half was a snarling, inhuman rasp, the voice of the shadow of Incariel, and it spoke in perfect time with Imaria’s voice, echoing as if it came from a long distance away. “Ardrhythain is in the threshold now, but he will return to the material world soon, and if I am not within the citadel of the Frostborn by then, he will come for me.”

  “You have news, then?” said Tarrabus.

  “The Weaver is dead,” said Imaria with indifference. “Ridmark and the Keeper slew him. He was weak, and he failed, so he deserved to die for his weakness.”

  “What?” said Tarrabus, surging to his feet.

  “They are coming for you now,” said Imaria. “I suggest you prepare yourself.”

  “You should have told me this sooner!” said Tarrabus.

  She shrugged, her slim shoulders twitching, and retrieved her robe. “I just did.”

  With a snarl, he grabbed her, spun her around, and drew back his hand to strike her.

  Imaria only smiled at him, but her shadow boiled up behind her, rising like a falcon about to pounce upon its prey.

  “You should not touch me unless I wish it,” said Imaria, still smiling that unnerving smile.

  Tarrabus stepped back. “Your sister was a stronger woman.”

  Once that would have sent her into a fury. Imaria had always been mad, but there had been a cringing weakness within her madness, a pathetic desire to be loved and admired. Looking at her face, Tarrabus realized that the weakness had been consumed by the madness.

  And the shadow of Incariel that now filled her.

  “She is dead, and I am not,” said Imaria. She finished getting dressed, tying the black sash around her white robe. “Make yourself ready. I must get into Tarlion. I must enter the Citadel and open the Well. Only then shall we be free. Only then shall we unlock the chains of matter and time, and revel in freedom from causality and the flesh.”

  “Tarlion is too well protected to fall,” said Tarrabus.

  She gave an indifferent shrug. “If you fail, I shall find a different tool.”

  His fist curled in rage. He was the High King of Andomhaim! He was the one who would lead humanity’s transformation into immortal gods. She should not speak to him with such impudence. With an effort of will, he forced down the rage. He needed her for now, especially if the Keeper was coming for him.

  “Then what do you suggest?” said Tarrabus.

  “Speak to the Rzarns of the dvargir,” said Imaria. “Tell them the time has come to summon a Deep Walker.”

  Tarrabus blinked. “Are you mad? The Deep Walkers? Just one of those things wiped out a score of Swordbearers and Magistri. Not even the Rzarns can control them…”

  “But they will heed the commands of the Shadowbearer,” said Imaria serenely, “and I command it. I will speak to the Rzarns before I depart. Likely they will require a sacrifice of several hundred slaves to summon a Deep Walker. I suggest you start gathering victims at once.”

  Shadow swirled around her, and she vanished.

  Tarrabus let out a long, ragged breath, got dressed, and poured himself a goblet of wine. He sat at his table and considered for a moment. Summoning a Deep Walker was risky, yes, and might backfire.

  But if it worked…

  If it worked. Tarlion would be his. The rebels would be defeated.

  And he would, at last, repay Ridmark Arban for all the trouble that the damnable Gray Knight had caused.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE DWARVEN PRINCE. Look for Ridmark's next adventure, FROSTBORN: EXCALIBUR, to appear in early 2017. 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.

  A Second Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE DWARVEN PRINCE!

  The FROSTBORN series gained many new readers in 2016 (thank you, all!), and consequently, I have received many emails and Facebook messages wondering how long the entire series would be. That is an eminently fair question, so I thought I would answer it here.

  FROSTBORN: THE DWARVEN PRINCE was the twelfth book in the series, and there will be a grand total of fifteen books. I planned for fifteen books when I plotted out the series in 2012, and the goal has always been to write fifteen books. FROSTBORN: EXCALIBUR will be the thirteenth book, and it should come out in the first quarter of 2017.

  If all goes well, the final books of the series will come out in 2017. Brother Caius would probably quote James 4:13-15 about the dangers of long-term planning, but God, health, weather and life permitting, I plan to publish the last book of the FROSTBORN series in mid 2017.

  Thank you all for reading, and I hope to see you in 2017 for FROSTBORN: EXCALIBUR.

  -Jonathan Moeller

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