“The bulk of the Frostborn force,” said Uthanaric, “is these medvarth creatures?”
“Most likely,” said Calliande. “They have other servants, but the medvarth form most of their infantry.”
“That is our advantage” said Uthanaric. “The River Moradel is broad and deep here, and five miles to the north the road bends to follow a curve in the river. Our army shall depart Dun Calpurnia and march five miles north, and there construct earthworks and fortifications while the horsemen move into the hills. When the Frostborn attack, the footmen shall hold them at the fortifications, while the horsemen charge from the hills. We will push the medvarth onto the bend, trapping them with water on three sides, and slaughter them or drive them into the river.”
Calliande considered the plan, looking for risks. In truth, it was a good plan, one that exploited the weakness of the medvarth, maybe the only weakness of the medvarth, and turned it to Andomhaim’s advantage. Yet she saw numerous things that could go wrong, but before she could speak, the nobles began to point them out.
“What of the sorcery of the Frostborn?” said Leogrance. “All the histories agree that the Frostborn wielded terrible spells of ice and cold, and Dux Gareth’s vassals and knights confirm it. How shall we protect ourselves against those spells?”
“Over a thousand Magistri accompany our host,” said Uthanaric. “Their attention shall be upon warding and defense, as it was during the realm’s campaigns against the urdmordar in centuries past. The Frostborn are individually powerful, but scores of Magistri working in harmony can counter their magic.”
“The Frostborn will almost certainly know what we intend,” said Gareth. “Likely their locusari scouts are overflying our camps even now.”
“Beyond all doubt,” said Uthanaric. “However, we likewise know what our enemies plan. They will come to us, and therefore we shall have ample opportunity to make ready for them.”
“What of the frost drakes?” said Joram Agramore, standing next to Gareth. “They are dangerous foes, and we have no way to counter them.”
“Such beasts are vulnerable to arrows, as are wyverns and fire drakes,” said Uthanaric. “We shall lose some men to their attacks. That is simply the nature of war. Yet our Swordbearers are practiced in dealing with such threats.”
“I shall keep the Swordbearers in reserve, concentrated to strike at once to attack any powerful threat,” said Master Marhand. Tarrabus frowned a little at that, but his expression soon returned to its neutral mask. “Should it be necessary to fight the frost drakes, or individual Frostborn themselves, the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade are the best able to handle such foes. Our soulblades will protect us from their power.”
Calliande nodded. She had seen what teams of Swordbearers could do. Gavin and Arandar together had defeated Rhogrimnalazur at Urd Cystaanl, though Calliande had helped them. A hundred Swordbearers could stand against an army, and even Tymandain Shadowbearer had not been able to save himself from a soulblade.
The Frostborn would be no different.
“No one doubts the prowess of the Swordbearers,” said Dux Kors. “Yet we face not a few creatures of powerful magic, but many. These cold undead, these revenants, trouble me. If the histories are true, we once faced thousands of them.”
“Tens of thousands,” said Calliande, shuddering a little at the memory.
“These creatures can kill with a touch, freezing the blood of an armored man in his veins,” said Kors. “How can we face so many? Would the Magistri be able to shield the entire army from their power?”
“They could not,” said Calliande, “but I can.”
Every eye in the hall turned towards her.
“How?” said Uthanaric. “If I recall, the Keeper was unable to provide any such protection during the last war with the Frostborn.”
“My predecessor could not,” said Calliande, “and I could not, but with the aid of my apprentice, I can.” She gestured at Antenora. “This is Antenora. In ancient days she was the apprentice of the Keeper upon Old Earth. Cursed by the dark magic of Mordred Pendragon, she has spent centuries seeking to cross the dark places between the worlds to rejoin the Keeper.”
That was all she wanted to tell the lords of Antenora’s history. Calliande trusted her apprentice, but if Tarrabus learned Antenora had once wielded dark magic, he would use that against her.
“Is this true?” said Uthanaric.
Antenora reached back with her free hand and drew back her hood, revealing her gaunt, gray face, her brittle black hair, and her harsh yellow eyes.
“It is, High King,” said Antenora. “I failed to accompany the Keeper and Malahan Pendragon to Andomhaim, and I have regretted it every day of every year since. At last I found a way between the worlds, and I now seek to redeem my failures at the side of the Keeper.”
“Indeed,” said Uthanaric. “Then you truly walked under the sun of the Old Earth?”
“I did,” said Antenora. “For long centuries. I spoke with your distant ancestor, Arthur Pendragon, the High King of Britannia. I saw the splendor of his court and the valor of his knights. I saw the treachery of Lancelot and Guinevere tear the court apart, and I saw Mordred Pendragon deal the fatal blow.” She let out a long, weary sigh. “It was so long ago, and I have seen so many wars and kingdoms and empires since. So very many.”
“Well and good,” said Uthanaric. “Any ally is welcome in these dark times. How, though, can your apprentice assist us?”
“Antenora has lived for over a thousand years, cursed by dark magic to never die,” said Calliande. “In that time, she has developed her skill with the magic of elemental fire to unmatched levels. Even I could not match her in a contest of fire, and nor could any of the other Keepers. By contrast, the Frostborn wield the power of elemental ice and cold. With Antenora’s skill joined to the power of the Keeper, together we can cast a ward that will shield every fighting man in the army from the cold.”
“Truly?” said Uthanaric, leaning back in the curule chair.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “It shall take some time to prepare. Nor will it provide complete protection from the power of elemental ice. The spells of the Frostborn will still kill, and the icy breath of the frost drakes will still wound. Yet the ward will provide some protection, and it should protect the men from the freezing touch of the revenants.”
“Good,” said Uthanaric. “Very good. As I understand, the Frostborn typically used their revenants as fodder, driving them against stronger enemy forces to weaken them.”
“They did, lord High King,” said Calliande. “But if the men are shielded from their freezing power, the revenants will lose much of their effectiveness.”
“Good,” said Uthanaric again. “How soon can you work the spell?”
“Dawn tomorrow,” said Calliande.
“Do so,” said Uthanaric. “My lords, you have heard my will. Make your men ready. Tonight we shall gather in Dun Calpurnia’s church, to seek the blessing of God before we go into battle. Tomorrow we shall march to the bend of the Moradel and make ready to meet the enemy.”
Without another word Uthanaric rose, leaning upon his cane, and limped through the door behind the curule chair. The Masters and his knights and men-at-arms followed him, and the lords began streaming through the double doors, pouring out into the courtyard.
All except Tarrabus Carhaine.
The Dux of Caerdracon walked alone to the stairs to the balcony overlooking the basilica’s hall. He vanished up the stairs as Calliande watched.
Where was he going? Perhaps to meet with one of his allies. Perhaps he wanted to be alone to think. Calliande was sure that no one was up there.
Perhaps…
Was it too late for him?
Could he yet turn back from his path? She thought again of that ancient writer, of his speculation of what Caesar and Pompey might have done if they had put aside their enmity and worked together.
It was a ridiculous thought. Tarrabus was the leader of the Enlighte
ned. He had chosen his path, and had more crimes to his name than Calliande could count.
But if he did repent, if he did turn aside from his path…how much evil could yet be averted?
Calliande decided that it was worth the risk.
“Come with me,” she murmured to Antenora and Gavin, heading towards the stairs leading to the balcony.
Chapter 14: Questions and Answers
“Burn with me,” murmured the woman’s voice, beautiful and alien and melodious and terrifying.
Ridmark stood in the hall of glowing white stone. The woman waited before the dais, gowned in fire, her eyes burning with the same flame. The heat of it beat upon his face, heating his dark elven armor against his clothes like a pan lifted from an oven. It should have been painful. Part of his mind noted that it was painful, that he really ought to move before the heat blistered his skin and cooked him inside his armor.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
The fire held his attention. He had a vision of holding it, of using it to make the world clean, sweeping away the Frostborn and the Enlightened of Incariel in a single terrible blow.
“Burn with me,” whispered the woman. One minute she was Morigna, the next Aelia, the next Calliande. Yet the fire in her eyes never changed, nor did the flames she wore in lieu of clothing. “Take me and burn with me.”
“She’s chosen you, boy, I’m sure of it,” said the old knight upon the throne. He gave a tired shake of his head. “I’m sorry about that, truly. It’s a heavy burden, and she might burn you to ashes. It was never meant to pass to mortal men like you and me. But there was no one else, was there? The proper bearers are all dead. We acted when no one else would. I suppose that’s why she chose me, and why she’s chosen you now.”
“I don’t understand,” said Ridmark.
“You’d better figure it out soon,” said the old knight. “This war has been going on since long before you and I were born, but the next battle’s going to begin very soon. You’re right in the center of it.” He grunted and scratched at his chin. “Figure it out soon, or you won’t even have a chance to burn.”
“Burn with me,” murmured the woman, opening her arms to him.
Fire exploded in all directions…
“Ridmark,” said a man’s voice, harsh and weary.
The fire transmuted the walls into red gold, gleaming and molten-hot…
“Ridmark,” said the man again. “Jager’s back.”
Ridmark opened his eyes.
For a moment he could not remember where he was or how he had gotten there. He lay wrapped in a dusty brown cloak, the setting sun throwing long shadows through the rows of tents. Arandar squatted next to him, one hand on Heartwarden’s hilt, which sent a stab of pain through Ridmark’s head. Jager stood a few paces away, a bundle of cloth under one hand, a brown cloak pulled up over his head.
Clarity returned through the confusion, the echoes of the strange dream fading away. Ridmark and Arandar and Jager had disguised themselves, moving through the camp of the Dux of Calvus, which was right next to the camp of Tarrabus Carhaine and his men. Ridmark had sent Jager off to find a few things and follow a man. Since there had been nothing better to do until Jager returned, Ridmark had laid down next to a wagon to rest until the halfling returned.
Evidently he had been more tired than he had thought.
“Bad dreams?” said Jager.
Ridmark got to his feet, leaning a little on his staff. “Are there any other kind?”
He tried to recall the dream, but it faded from his thoughts.
“Did you get them?” said Arandar.
“I did.” Jager grinned and unfurled the bundle, revealing two of the blue tabards worn by the men-at-arms of Tarrabus Carhaine.
“Were you seen?” said Ridmark.
“Of course I was seen,” said Jager. He changed his voice, putting on the diffident tone of a halfling servant. “Pardon, madam, but my master wishes tabards for his men-at-arms, and has sent me to fetch them.” He shrugged and handed the tabards to Ridmark and Arandar. “That’s the problem with you nobles. Halfling servants are invisible to you. I swear, we could decide to knife the lot of you in your sleep, and you wouldn’t see it coming.”
Arandar snorted as he pulled on the tabard. “I thought that was your wife’s job.”
Jager shrugged. “She has the Anathgrimm to do that for her now.”
“Did you find him?” said Ridmark, pulling on his own tabard. It was a bit large for him, but that was just as well, since it helped conceal the dwarven war axe and Morigna’s dwarven dagger at his belt.
“Easily,” said Jager. “He was exactly where you said he would be.”
“Sir Aventine Rocarn,” said Ridmark, “struck me as a very predictable man.”
“How did you find the brothel?” said Arandar.
Jager rolled his eyes.
“You, Prince Consort, are a married man,” said Arandar.
“Happily, too,” said Jager. “But I’m a man of business, and whores follow every army that ever marched. I suppose it is simply one of those immutable laws of nature, like water running downhill.”
Once again Ridmark wished that Morigna were here, if only because her barbed remarks often put a stop to Jager’s penchant for philosophizing.
“Let’s go,” said Ridmark. “Jager, lead the way. If anyone asks…”
“I know,” said Jager, adjusting his hood. “You are two Carhaine men-at-arms, and I am your halfling servant.” He flourished his cloak. “Do I look servile enough?”
“I’m tempted to ask you to do my laundry,” said Arandar, “though I shudder to think of what you would do to it.”
“Let’s not find out,” said Ridmark. “Go.”
He headed into the camp, Arandar and Jager following him. Ridmark had spent a lot of time marching with Dux Gareth’s men-at-arms and knights as a younger man, and he had learned that the camp of a large army was almost always the same. There were the rows of tents, the air heavy with the smells of wood smoke and horse droppings and unwashed bodies. Men-at-arms and knights stood before their tents or sat around campfires. The diligent ones prepared their weapons and armor for the coming battle, cleaning and sharpening and oiling their equipment. The less diligent ones played games of cards and dice, laughing and jesting and drinking. Ridmark wondered how many of them had sworn to the Enlightened of Incariel.
He wondered if he would have to kill any of them before this was over.
Just as every large army had a camp, so too did it have camp followers. There were always men looking to sell things to the soldiers, whether food or drink or gambling or things they could not obtain from the quartermaster, and invariably a tent housing a tavern and brothel appeared outside the camp. Prudent commanders, Ridmark had noted, usually turned a blind eye, though he could imagine what Calliande thought.
On the other hand, Calliande had been in as many battles as Ridmark had, maybe more.
They left the camp proper, moving past Dun Calpurnia and towards the hills of the Northerland as the sunset gave way to dusk. Ridmark spotted the camp of the Anathgrimm perched upon a hill, ringed with an earthwork ditch and lined with sharpened wooden stakes. The Anathgrimm warriors worked with the speed and focus of bees when they put their minds to it, and it had taken them less than an hour to raise a fortified camp worthy of the legions of the Empire of the Romans upon Old Earth.
He saw Arandar staring at the camp, his expression distant.
“She will be safe there,” said Ridmark.
“I know,” said Arandar. “Nonetheless, I wish I was with her, or she with me. You never had children, did you?”
“No,” said Ridmark. It was not a topic on which he wished to dwell. Both Aelia and Morigna had died before the opportunity had come.
“When I was a young man I wished to win renown and glory,” said Arandar. “Then my son and daughter came…and I wished for them to live in peace and plenty. That was why I went to Urd Morlemoch. Not fo
r my own glory. For my children’s lives”
“Maybe they will have the chance to live in peace when this is all over,” said Ridmark.
Southwest of the town stood a ragged, haphazard collection of tents, pavilions, and wagons. The camp followers had set up shop here, and the scent of cooking food and cheap wine came to Ridmark’s nostrils. Firelight spilled into the night from the tents, along with the sound of raucous laughter and music. A cold-eyed woman with a tight dress and a wide smile stood before a tent, and she met Ridmark’s gaze, strutting a little as if displaying herself to him. For a moment he considered hiring her for an hour, to see if the experience would make him forget, if only for a little while.
Then he thought of Morigna again, and he felt cold and tired.
Ridmark walked on without stopping.
“There,” said Jager, pointing at a large pavilion. “That’s the tent.”
“Wait here,” said Ridmark.
He lifted the pavilion’s flap and ducked inside. At once the smell of beer and burnt bread assaulted his nostrils. Rows of benches and rough-hewn tables had been set up, and men-at-arms and militiamen sat at the tables, drinking and eating. A few of them had women upon their knees. Ridmark spotted Sir Aventine Rocarn at once. The black-bearded knight had not one but two whores upon his lap, a drunken smile on his face. A sour-faced man in an apron was the proprietor, and he scowled at a trio of beleaguered-looking halfling servants who scurried back and forth from the back entrance with trays of food and drink. Likely the proprietor had built himself a cooking fire there.
Ridmark stepped back outside before anyone could notice him.
“Is he still in there?” said Arandar.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “You know what to do.”
Jager sighed, rolled his wrist with a flourish, and produced a small scroll. “Let’s get this over with.” In addition to his other skills, Jager had a knack for forgery. He held a “letter” from Master Kurastus of the Order of the Magistri, commanding Aventine’s presence at once. Sir Aventine might have been a cruel man, and unless Ridmark missed his guess he was one of the Enlightened, but even he would not dare refuse a summons from the Master of the Magistri.
Frostborn: The High Lords Page 20