Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  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 Comite
s 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.