Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “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, swea
ring 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, lif
ting 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.”