Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Perhaps twenty miles,” said Antenora. “They are drawing closer.”

  “Then they are preparing to attack us,” said Calliande, releasing the Sight. “That veil requires a great deal of power, and would be a challenge for even the Frostborn to hold. If they’re making the effort, then they are coming for us. The High King must be warned.”

  She headed for the stairs. Gavin insisted on walking before her, which touched Calliande, and Antenora came behind. They descended to the courtyard and entered the great hall of the basilica. Already it was filling up with the lords and knights of Andomhaim. As before, the knights and lords supporting Tarrabus Carhaine were standing along the pillars on the right side of the hall, while those supporting Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance and their friends were upon the left. Though Calliande supposed that from the dais, Tarrabus would be on the left and Gareth and Leogrance on the right.

  She dismissed the silly thought and walked into the hall.

  “The council hasn’t started yet,” said Gavin. “The High King is late.”

  “In gatherings of this nature,” said Antenora, a dry note in her voice, “it is impossible for the High King to be late. It begins when he arrives.”

  For a moment Calliande paused, aware that many of the lords were staring at her. Where should she stand? As Keeper, her obligation was to protect the entire realm from dark magic. Yet she wanted to make it clear that she did not support Tarrabus Carhaine, that Tarrabus was an enemy of the realm, and…

  Two men approached her, putting a sudden end to the political calculation.

  One was stocky, strong, and gray-bearded, wearing the sigil and colors of Durandis over his plate armor. He was Kors Durius, Dux of Durandis, and Arandar had told her of his time serving under the Dux as a man-at-arms and then a knight.

  With him came Leogrance Arban.

  “My lady Keeper,” said Leogrance. Again his voice was so similar to Ridmark’s that it startled Calliande. “Thank you for joining us.”

  “So you truly are the Keeper, then?” said Kors in his rumbling voice.

  “I have that duty,” said Calliande.

  “You knew my ancestor Morin, then,” said Kors. “He fought against the Frostborn.”

  “I did,” said Calliande, remembering. “In truth, my lord, he looked a great deal like you.”

  Kors let out a laugh at that. “The poor fool. Well, there are worse things than to resemble a famed ancestor.” He bowed over her hand and planted a brief kiss upon her knuckles, the bristly hair of his beard scratching against her skin. “If old Kurastus and Gareth say you are the Keeper, that is good enough for me. Though you are a pretty young thing. Hard to believe that you are so old.”

  “I imagine,” said Calliande with a smile, “that with the cares of my office, I shall soon look even older than you.”

  Leogrance smiled briefly at that, and Kors threw back his head and laughed.

  “I like you,” he said, still chuckling. His amusement faded. “I must speak with the scouts before the High King arrives. Some of the enemy have been sighted north of Dun Calpurnia.”

  Calliande frowned. “The locusari?”

  “Those flying things?” said Kors. “Aye, we’ve been seeing them for days. Old Gareth’s idea of a bounty was a good one. The scouts have seen other things, though. Corpses with freezing hands, and those bear-creatures the histories spoke of…medvarth, I think they’re called.”

  “The undead are revenants,” said Calliande, alarmed. The Frostborn only rarely used the medvarth for scouting, and they never used the revenants for anything except shock troops. If the scouts had seen both revenants and medvarth, that meant the Frostborn host was not far behind. “The Frostborn use their powers of ice magic to fill them with a terrible cold. Their touch can freeze a man’s blood in his veins.”

  “Aye, some of the scouts returned with terrible wounds,” said Kors, “as if they had been frostbitten. It will be a dire thing to face a host of those creatures.”

  “I may be able to help with that,” said Calliande, recalling one of her plans. “A protective spell, one to ward every fighting man of Andomhaim at once. I could not have cast it before,” she glanced at Antenora, “but things are different now.”

  “Any aid would be welcome,” said Kors. “If you will excuse me, I must hasten.”

  He departed, leaving Calliande, Antenora, and Gavin alone with Leogrance.

  “I wish to ask you a question, my lady Keeper,” said Leogrance.

  “Of course, my lord,” said Calliande.

  “How is my son?”

  Calliande blinked. She had not expected that, not after how Leogrance had ignored Ridmark at the audience.

  “He is…in truth, he is not well, my lord,” said Calliande. “Physically, he is hale. Yet his mood is grim and full of wrath. He…suffered heavy losses, and his vengeance upon the enemies of Andomhaim will be terrible.”

  The old man sighed. “He still mourns for his wife, then?”

  “No,” said Calliande. Leogrance blinked in surprise, and Calliande amended her answer. “He always will, I think. A loss like that…it is like losing a limb. A man learns to live with the loss, but he shall never be the same.”

  “I know it well,” said Leogrance. “My wife Tomia died when Ridmark was a child. Of all my sons, I think the loss hit him the hardest.”

  Perhaps it had. Ridmark rarely spoke of his father and brothers. He had never, not even once, spoken of his mother.

  “His grief was a madness in him,” said Calliande. “Yet he moved beyond it, I think. He met another woman during our travels, a woman of the Wilderland named Morigna. Ridmark fell in love with her, and Imaria Shadowbearer murdered her to spite him. He has not been the same since.”

  Leogrance closed his eyes for a moment. “That he should have to endure such a loss twice is an ill thing. What do you think of him, Keeper? I ask for the truth.”

  Calliande hesitated, unsure of how to phrase her thoughts about Ridmark.

  “He…is brave, my lord,” said Calliande. “Perhaps the bravest man I have ever met. He does not give up, not for anything, not ever. Before the Iron Tower, Mara had despaired of life, and we despaired with her. Ridmark refused to hear of it. Because of his wisdom, Mara was transformed, and she slew the Traveler and liberated the Anathgrimm from their bondage. So much evil was averted because of him.”

  “My lord,” said Gavin, hesitant. “It is not my place to speak, but…”

  “You are a Swordbearer and you returned from the shadows of Urd Morlemoch,” said Leogrance. “If that does not give a man the right to speak, then nothing does.”

  “I saw Ridmark kill an urdmordar, my lord,” said Gavin. “Without a soulblade or any magic. He outwitted her and killed her.”

  “It is rare for even a lone Swordbearer to defeat an urdmordar,” said Leogrance.

  “He did it,” said Gavin, “and I’ve followed the Gray Knight ever since.”

  “He killed Mournacht of Kothluusk and Tymandain Shadowbearer, at the very moment of Shadowbearer’s triumph. He saved my life,” said Calliande. “On the day I awoke, before I recovered my memories and powers. He saved me from the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, and countless other times. The only reason I am still alive today is because of Ridmark Arban.”

  “You think most highly of him, then,” said Leogrance.

  “I do,” said Calliande.

  “She loves him,” said Antenora in a quiet voice.

  Calliande glared at Antenora, furious and embarrassed that the ancient sorceress would reveal that secret. Of course, Calliande supposed it was obvious to anyone who had eyes.

  “They all do,” said Antenora. “All those who travel with him. I am very old, my lord, and I have seen it before, though not often. The Gray Knight saved them, so the Keeper and the dwarven friar and the master thief and Gavin Swordbearer all follow him. He has a genius for war. It is well that he is on your side. If he had a mind to do so, he could lay Andomhaim waste, or present it as a gift t
o the Frostborn.”

  “He was a bold child,” murmured Leogrance, his lined face distant with memory, “and he took to the sword like a bird to the air. He became a Swordbearer at eighteen, and slew an urdmordar not soon after. In the village of Victrix, as it happens, not far from where we now stand. After he was banished, I feared I would never see him again…but it seems he has done great deeds nonetheless.”

  “You should speak with him, my lord,” said Calliande. “It would hearten him. I know he was glad to see Tormark.”

  “I cannot,” said Leogrance. “The Dux of Taliand may not speak with a branded exile.”

  “His banishment was unjust,” said Calliande. “Tarrabus saw him as an enemy, and he wanted Ridmark out of the way. So he used Ridmark’s guilt over Aelia’s death as a club against him. Surely you can see that.”

  “I do,” said Leogrance, “but it matters not. The Duxarchate of Taliand is the oldest in the High Kingdom, and the Dux of Taliand was the first vassal created by the High King. The Dux of Taliand must uphold the laws and traditions of the realm of Andomhaim, regardless of the cost.” He offered a short bow. “If you will excuse me, my lady Keeper.”

  Leogrance turned and walked to join Prince Cadwall of Cintarra, and Calliande let out a long sigh.

  “A stubborn man,” said Antenora.

  “Ridmark slew an urdmordar, Mournacht, and Shadowbearer himself,” said Gavin, incredulous. “What more would he have to do for his father to speak with him? Capture all the thirteen moons and make them into a necklace?”

  “Perhaps we can see,” said Antenora, “from where our Gray Knight inherited his implacable resolve.”

  Calliande shook her head, and a group of Anathgrimm entered hall, Qhazulak and Zhorlacht at their head. Mara walked between them, and for a moment Calliande did not recognize her. She had donned dark elven armor of blue steel, overlapping plates and a skirt of mail than hung to her knees. A black-trimmed blue cloak hung from her shoulders, and a sword and dagger rested at her belt, her boots fashioned of gleaming black leather. Upon her blond hair rested a diadem of dark elven steel, adorned with miniature daggers, so it looked as if Mara wore a crown of blades. A choker chain of silver encircled her throat, holding a sapphire the size of a small egg in the center.

  She looked exactly the way some dark elven queen of old might have looked (albeit shorter), save for the wooden cross she wore from a cord around her neck, stark and simple against her elaborate armor.

  “Impressive armor,” said Calliande.

  Mara sighed. “It is a bit much, isn’t it? Zhorlacht suggested it. Since I am the Queen of Nightmane Forest, I suppose I ought to look the part. Given that I’ve spent most of my life trying to remain inconspicuous, it will take some time to get used to the idea.” She fingered the cross as Caius and Kharlacht came up behind her. “Thankfully Caius was able to make this for me.”

  “These princes and lords should know that you are the Queen of the Anathgrimm,” said Qhazulak.

  “Especially,” said Zhorlacht, his smooth voice a contrast with Qhazulak’s rough rasp, “since you could kill most of them in the space of three heartbeats.”

  “It hardly seems wise to remind them of that,” said Mara.

  Zhorlacht shrugged, his armor creaking against the bone spikes on his forearms. “Yet they carry their swords, do they not? What is that, if not a promise of violence?”

  Qhazulak shook his head. “You always think too much.”

  “The child,” said Calliande.

  “Safe within the camp,” said Mara. “Along with Lady Miriam. I suspect the Anathgrimm scare her half to death, but she’ll get used to it. We camped southeast of the town, as Ridmark advised.”

  “Good,” said Calliande. “Whatever happens, we may need the aid of the Anathgrimm in a hurry. Any news from Jager?”

  “No,” said Mara.

  Calliande nodded, trying to ignore the flicker of fear that went through her. Ridmark, Arandar, and Jager had disappeared together, following Ridmark’s plan to free Accolon and find evidence of Tarrabus’s crimes. Calliande hoped that Ridmark knew what he was doing. Once, she would have been certain of that. After what Morigna’s death had done to him, after his mad charge into that burning keep…she was not so sure.

  No. Ridmark would not throw away his life. Not until he had his chance for vengeance upon Imaria and the Weaver.

  She wished he could find something else to live for.

  “Here he comes,” murmured Mara.

  Tarrabus Carhaine and his allies entered the basilica, taking their previous places. Tarrabus glanced at Calliande as he passed, his eyes lingering upon her for a moment, and then looked away. As he did, a young knight in Pendragon colors stepped upon the dais.

  “Hearken!” the knight shouted, his voice ringing through the basilica. “Uthanaric Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim and the Lord of Tarlion, comes! Let his lords attend him, that we may plan for the defense of the realm and victory over our enemies.”

  Everyone in the hall knelt, and the High King’s knights and men-at-arms moved onto the dais, followed by the Masters of the Two Orders. Uthanaric Pendragon himself entered a moment later, limping and leaning upon his cane. He dropped into the curule chair with a scowl, Kaldraine and his other two sons taking position behind him, and gestured for the nobles to rise.

  As she rose, Calliande’s mind sorted through possible plans. There had to be a way to warn the High King of Tarrabus’s treachery. She considered denouncing Tarrabus to Uthanaric at once, telling the High King that Tarrabus had been poisoning him.

  Except…there was no way to prove it. Not unless Ridmark returned with proof.

  It was so damnably clever. The shadow of sorrows must have cost Tarrabus a fortune, but he had put it to good use. The poison was impossible to detect, and since it was impossible to detect, it was impossible to prove to the High King. Worse, it was difficult to heal its results through magic, so Calliande simply couldn’t walk up to the High King, heal him, and use the results as proof.

  And if she accused Tarrabus, she knew exactly how the conversation would play out. Tarrabus would claim that she was a supporter of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance, and that she was abusing her office as Keeper to speak calumnies against him. Or he would claim that she was so besotted with Ridmark that she would say any lie in support of him.

  Worse, the High King would believe him. Cynical and jaded by decades of court politics, he would assume that anything Calliande said was part of Dux Gareth’s maneuvering against Tarrabus. It was maddening. The realm needed to stand unified against the Frostborn…and Tarrabus would use that need for unity as a shield to protect himself.

  It was maddening…but not surprising. Calliande supposed that politics was the curse of humanity. One of the ancient authors of Old Earth had claimed that if Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great had put aside their differences and joined forces, they could have conquered the entirety of Old Earth for the Empire of the Romans. Perhaps Ridmark and Tarrabus could have done the same.

  Yet Calliande was certain that neither Julius Caesar nor Pompey the Great had served powers as dark as the shadow of Incariel.

  The High King’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  “Thank you for coming, my lords,” said Uthanaric. He tapped Excalibur’s pommel for a moment. “It seems that we have a battle to plan. Dux Kors?”

  Kors Durius stepped forward. “My lord High King, my scouts have returned. They report that a great mass of these bear-creatures…”

  “Medvarth,” said Uthanaric. “Let us call our foes by their names.”

  “These medvarth,” said Kors, “advance south along the Moradel road. My scouts have seen undead with freezing hands in the woods, and drakes circling overhead. It seems clear the Frostborn are marching south in haste to bring us to battle.”

  “They must be fools,” said Master Kurastus of the Magistri, shaking his gray-haired head. “The entire strength of the realm has gathered here.”

  “Eit
her they are fools,” said Master Marhand of the Order of the Soulblade, “or they believe they can crush the entire strength of the realm in a single blow.”

  “They could, my lords,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn invaders are not yet as strong as they were in the days of your fathers. The army that seized Dun Licinia and advances against you is but the vanguard of their force. They will be formidable, but by the mercy of God we can overcome them. We must seize their world gate before they can summon reinforcements, or we shall face another fifty years of war.”

  Or a far shorter war, one that would end with the Frostborn crushing every last trace of resistance.

  “The Keeper speaks the truth, my lords,” said Gareth. “I have seen this army, and it is the Northerland that has borne the brunt of the fighting so far. I believe we can prevail, though it shall take the entirety of our strength. And if the Frostborn have come for us, they have the opportunity to crush us…but we, in turn, have the opportunity to crush them. Had they withdrawn into the citadels they constructed near Dun Licinia, we would have laid siege for months, long enough for their reinforcements to arrive. Now, at least, we have the chance for victory.”

  “Do we, though?” said Prince Cadwall. He spoke Latin with the same flourish as Jager. Calliande wondered if Jager had consciously copied the Prince’s oratorical style, or if he had adopted a Cintarran accent while living in the city. “We are all experienced in war, my lords, and we know that in battle victory comes to the man who takes the initiative. The Frostborn are taking the initiative. Are we walking into a trap?”

  “The Frostborn have indeed taken the initiative,” said Uthanaric, “but an advantage also lies with the defender. More, we have time to pick ground of our choosing, and shape the battlefield to our advantage.” His dark eyes turned to Calliande. “My lady Keeper, is it true that the medvarth detest water?”

  “They do,” said Calliande. “They are capable of swimming, but their great bulk makes it difficult, and they always wear heavy armor in battle.”