“It is mad,” said Ridmark. “A mad, proud, cruel plan. Exactly what Tarrabus would do. Likely the Enlightened have been planning it for a century and a half. Tymandain Shadowbearer set this all in motion long ago. Tarrabus is the one who gets to bring it all to fruition.” His face hardened into that cold mask. “Tarrabus, and Imaria.”
“We must warn the High King,” said Arandar. “At once. The Frostborn could come upon us at any moment. You were right, Ridmark. One man in the right place at the right time can change the course of the battle, and Tarrabus has thousands at his command. If he betrays the High King at the right time during the battle…God and the apostles, the Frostborn could smash the army of the realm.”
“He won’t listen,” said Jager with disgust. “Not even if Accolon tells him everything. You heard his little speech about Arthur and Lancelot. He thinks this is all about Ridmark and Tarrabus competing over a dead woman.”
“Then we make him listen,” said Ridmark. “We find proof. Jager. Go back to the guard room and get a weapon and a shield for Accolon.”
“Then we’re going into the armory before we warn the High King?” said Arandar.
“We don’t have any other choice,” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn could attack at any moment within the next few days. The army of the realm has to be ready to face them…and if Tarrabus still has the High King’s trust at the moment of the battle, it will be a disaster. I would rather that we take your son to safety, but…”
“No, sir,” said Accolon, drawing himself up. “I will be a knight someday, and if the realm is in peril I cannot flinch from my duty.”
Jager snorted. “Like father, like son.” He turned and hurried back towards the guard room, and returned a moment later with a sword and a shield.
“Thank you,” said Arandar as Accolon took the sword and the shield.
Jager nodded. Arandar did not want his son to see the dead men in the guard room. On the other hand, his son had already seen fighting when he had faced Sir Linus Rillon. And when the Frostborn came down from the north, a lot of men were going to die. Arandar wished his son would not have to face that. He supposed all fathers felt that way.
Though his own father did not.
Arandar could not stop his son from facing trials…but he could make sure that Accolon was prepared to face them.
“You’re holding your shield properly,” said Arandar. “Good.”
Accolon took a deep breath. “I am ready, father.”
Arandar nodded. In Durandis, more than once he had seen boys of Accolon’s age take up arms to fight Mhorite raiders from Kothluusk in desperate defense of their villages. Some of them had survived.
Some of them had not.
Arandar said a silent prayer that Accolon would survive.
“If the fate of the realm hangs on what we’re going to do in, oh, the next hour,” said Jager, “then we really had better get moving, hadn’t we?”
“Sound counsel,” said Ridmark.
###
Silence ruled in the darkness of the ruin.
Jager, ever enterprising, had retrieved torches from the guard room, and Ridmark took the lead, torch in his left hand, staff in the right. Arandar followed him, and then Jager, and by mutual agreement, Accolon took up the back, shield and sword ready with the stiff formality of a squire. Ridmark wished they could have sent him to the Anathgrimm, but he wasn’t about to send the boy through the hills alone, and Ridmark didn’t dare go back to the town and return. This was his best chance to find the evidence he needed to stop Tarrabus.
Arandar had risked so much to save his son, and it would be hideously cruel if his Accolon died here.
Still, if Ridmark could make sure that Accolon survived, he would do it.
The corridor ended in a spiral stair that sank deeper into the earth. Ridmark waved his torch back and forth, but saw no sign of anyone waiting for them.
Jager sniffed. “Blood. Old blood, from the stench of it.”
Accolon gave a shaking nod. “The shadow-worshippers…the Enlightened, you called them, worship the shadow down there. Sometimes they kill people. Dux Tarrabus made me watch once.”
“If anyone else is going to die here,” said Ridmark, “it won’t be us.”
He descended the stairs, the others following. After the third turn, Ridmark could smell the old blood, but he also felt a faint wind against his face. There was an opening to the surface nearby, likely the escape tunnel that Accolon had mentioned.
The stairs ended, and Ridmark lifted his torch to reveal a large vaulted chamber. Moldering wooden racks along the walls held rusting swords and spears. A large block of stone sat against one wall, its surface covered with dried bloodstains. It gave Ridmark a prickling, uneasy feeling as he looked at it, and if Calliande or Antenora or Mara had been here, no doubt their Sight would have detected the presence of Incariel’s shadow around the altar.
The wooden table against the wall was more interesting.
Ridmark walked towards it. The table held a variety of papers, and a quick glance revealed that they were letters. There was a bracket on the wall over the table, and Ridmark slid the torch into it and started sorting through the papers.
“Letters?” said Jager, peering at the table.
“Aye,” muttered Ridmark. “Tarrabus wrote these himself. I recognize his hand. He…”
His voice trailed off.
Many of the letters were in Tarrabus’s own hand…but the replies were not.
“I know that seal,” said Accolon, pointing at one of the letters. “That belongs to the Dux of Arduran.”
“The Dux of Caertigris,” said Arandar, tapping another.
“The Dux of Calvus,” said Jager, looking at still another. “It looks like all three of them have been corresponding with Tarrabus.”
“Here,” said Ridmark, passing them the thick papers. “Help me read through these, quickly.” He wished that Calliande was here. During their travels together, there had been little opportunity to read anything, but when it had happened she could read so fast that it amazed him. Ridmark knew how read and write in Latin, but he had never found it an enjoyable experience, and preferred to have a weapon in his hand as opposed to a pen or a book.
But what he read right now disturbed him.
“They’re Enlightened,” said Arandar. “All three of them. The Duxi of Calvus, Tarras, and Arduran.”
“And if these letters are true, a great many of their vassals,” said Jager.
“Between the four of them,” said Arandar, “Tarrabus and the other three Duxi command nearly a third of the realm’s fighting men. If they turn on the High King during the battle…”
“He won’t bother,” said Ridmark, finishing the letter he held. “It seems our guess was correct. Tarrabus will wait until the Frostborn attack, and then withdraw with the other Enlightened nobles. He’ll let the Frostborn slaughter the High King and the loyalists, and then claim the crown of Andomhaim once the Pendragons are dead.” He looked at Arandar. “That’s why he needed you and your children out of the way. Even a bastard son of Uthanaric Pendragon would have a better claim to the throne than anyone else. Once the Frostborn are victorious, he will offer Andomhaim as a vassal state to the Frostborn and spread the cult of the Enlightened.”
“I had hoped you were unduly pessimistic,” said Arandar, “but this is worse than I could have imagined.”
“Father,” said Accolon. “Tarrabus will destroy the realm utterly.”
“Not if we stop him first,” said Ridmark. He swept the letters into a stack, found a satchel under the table, and stuffed the papers into the bag. “And if we bring these to the High King and the Masters of the Two Orders, we will finish Tarrabus.”
“Especially since the fools applied their own seals to the letters,” said Jager, shaking his head with disapproval.
“They think they will win,” said Ridmark, lifting the satchel.
“I can take that, sir,” said Accolon. “I suppose it would be be
tter if you were unencumbered to fight.”
“It would at that,” said Ridmark, handing him the satchel. “Thank you. Let’s go. We…”
“Ridmark!” said Jager in alarm.
A blue glow came from the opposite wall.
In its light Ridmark caught the shadowy outline of the bolt hole that led back to the surface. A cold wind blew in through the tunnel, making the remaining papers upon the table rustle and whisper, Ridmark’s gray cloak billowing out behind him. Suddenly the air around him grew cold, as it had when facing the revenants at Dun Licinia.
A heartbeat a Frostborn woman stepped through the archway and into the old armory.
Like Rjalmandrakur, she stood nearly nine feet tall. Her skin was like polished crystal, and cold blue fires burned in her eyes, and veins of the same fire spread beneath her crystalline skin. She wore armor the color of old ice, close-fitting and engraved with elaborate reliefs, and in her right hand she carried a huge sword carved with symbols. The sigils burned with cold, and a thin layer of frost spread across the floor near her armored boots.
For a moment Ridmark and the others stared at the Frostborn woman.
“God and the saints,” muttered Jager. “Why do they always have to be so tall?”
“That is her, father,” said Accolon, sword and shield clutched tight. “The crystal woman.”
“I see,” said the Frostborn woman at last in Latin, her voice alien and musical and terrifying, her burning eyes upon Accolon. “It seems Tarrabus has been unable to secure his prisoners. Recruiting competent allies from among the natives is ever a difficult task.” The burning eyes turned to Ridmark and narrowed. “The gray cloak and the coward’s brand. You must be the warrior known as the Gray Knight. Tarrabus holds you in contempt, but the medvarth and the khaldjari spoke highly of your prowess during the assault upon Dun Licinia.”
“You know quite a lot about me,” said Ridmark, watching the Frostborn woman. To his right Arandar moved to the side, soulblade gleaming with white fire in his hand as it reacted to the cold power around the Frostborn. “It is only fair that I should know more about you.”
To his surprise, she answered. “I am Arlmagnava, a Seeker of the Order of the Inquisition.”
“Arlmagnava?” said Ridmark. “You’re the one Antenora fought upon the threshold.”
“The anomaly?” said Arlmagnava. “Then she did indeed escape. It seems, Gray Knight, that you already know more about me than you suspected.”
“The Order of the Inquisition,” said Ridmark, remembering what Calliande had told him about the Frostborn. “You’re…spies, aren’t you?”
“Among other duties,” said Arlmagnava. “The task of the Dominion of the High Lords is to perfect creation, to bring all worlds and all kindreds into the harmonious order of the Dominion. My Order’s portion of this task is to recruit allies from among the natives of worlds that have not yet been brought into the Dominion, and to ensure the loyalty of those allies.” A strange, alien smile went over the crystalline face, both beautiful and unnerving at once. “Consequently, we know a great deal about you and your kindred, Ridmark Arban.”
“Not everything,” said Ridmark, his mind racing for a plan. Ardrhythain’s staff shielded Ridmark from the shadow of Incariel, but he knew the staff would not protect him from the magic of the Frostborn. “Did you know that Tarrabus is planning to betray you?”
“Of course,” said Arlmagnava without surprise. “This is a very, very old world, even by the standards of the Dominion, and mankind is a young kindred. Tarrabus and his allies have tapped into the shadow of a demon imprisoned upon this world since the moment of its creation. He thinks the power of that shadow will elevate your kindred to the next level of evolution, but he is mistaken. The power is addictive and corrupting, and extremely difficult to control. For every human like Tarrabus who masters it, another ten will go insane or mutate into creatures similar to the war beasts the dark elves created in ancient days. The Dominion has observed similar patterns upon other worlds, before they were pacified and brought to harmony.”
“If you know that Tarrabus is going to betray you,” said Ridmark, “then why are you allied with him?”
“He is a useful tool for now, and represents no threats to the goals of the Dominion,” said Arlmagnava. “Like any other tool, once his purpose has been fulfilled, he shall be discarded. For this world will be brought into the Dominion.”
“Are you so sure of that?” said Ridmark. “You tried once before, and the Keeper stopped you.”
“We were defeated,” said Arlmagnava. “Does it surprise you that we admit it? The High Lords govern themselves through reason and logic, not emotions and animal passions as do the lesser kindreds. Self-deception has no place among us. Once before your Keeper and your realm of Andomhaim defeated us. They shall not do so again. The bearer of the demon’s shadow has rotted Andomhaim out like a dying tree, and it shall fall before our storm.”
“Not yet,” said Ridmark.
“The conquest of this world is inevitable,” said Arlmagnava. “It has already begun, and no individual warrior, no matter how skilled, can stop it. The kindreds of this world face three choices. You may accept your place in the Dominion voluntarily. You may do so by force. Or we shall exterminate you.”
“You’re about to make me an offer, aren’t you?” said Ridmark.
“Indeed,” said Arlmagnava. “Tarrabus did underestimate you. Join with us voluntarily, and you shall be given great authority and autonomy to do as you see fit within certain bounds. Perhaps you may even become the Exarch of Andomhaim, governing the realm in the name of the Assembly of the Dominion. You could purge the realm of the Enlightened, if you wished it. They are useful allies in the short term, but in the long term their madness and instability shall prove an unwelcome liability.”
“Why would you even ask me that?” said Ridmark. “If you know about me, then you know I would refuse such an offer.”
“It is regrettable to waste talent and skill,” said Arlmagnava, “and you would make a valuable addition to the Dominion of the High Lords. For all shall join the Dominion in time, whether they know it or not, and join us in the noble work of perfecting creation. Tarrabus prays to the shadow of the demon. You pray to the crucified deity from your world of origin. The High Lords know the truth. There are no gods, and when creation has been perfected, when the entire cosmos has been brought to harmony, then never again shall there be war or conflict.”
“No matter how many people you have to kill to get there?” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Arlmagnava. “Order must be maintained against chaos.”
“If you know me as you say,” said Ridmark, “then you know how I will answer such a question.”
“As will we all,” said Arandar. Jager nodded, and Accolon just watched the Frostborn Seeker for any sign of attack.
“Regrettable,” said Arlmagnava. “Unsurprising, but regrettable.”
“We can’t allow you to leave and warn Tarrabus,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff. Arandar brought Heartwarden to the ready position, the sword shimmering with white fire.
“You are too late,” said Arlmagnava. “Whether I fall here or not, the fate of Andomhaim is sealed. Of course, I have no intention of falling here.”
Her free hand snapped up, blue-white fire snarling around her armored fingers as she worked a spell.
“Get down!” snapped Arandar, and freezing mist exploded from Arlmagnava’s hand.
The air turned deathly cold, and the freezing mist spread in a wall across the armory, dividing it in half. Ridmark ducked and rolled, hoping to get out of its reach, yet the mist stopped. As it did, it seemed to solidify and harden with a crackling noise, and suddenly the mist became a wall of ice, thick and gray and opaque.
Arlmagnava had sealed off the room with a wall of ice, covering her escape through the bolt hole.
“Arandar!” shouted Ridmark, but the Swordbearer was already moving. He swung Heartwarden with all the stre
ngth granted by the soulblade’s power, and the weapon bounced off the ice, a crack spreading through the wall. Arandar hit it five times in rapid succession, and on the sixth strike a section of the wall shattered. It had been thinner than it had looked, and Arandar scrambled over the broken fragments of ice, heading towards the escape tunnel. Ridmark sprinted after him, Jager and Accolon trailing behind.
The tunnel was narrow and dark, built of rough-hewn stone, still cold from Arlmagnava’s passage. Ridmark saw the light of the moons ahead. He burst onto the hillside, the smell of the pine trees filling his nostrils. To judge from the position of the stars and the moons and the steep pitch of the ground, they were on the western face of the hill. Ridmark looked around, trying to spot Arlmagnava, but the Frostborn had vanished. How the devil had she done that? She was nine feet tall with glowing eyes. The Frostborn were powerful, but they were not particularly stealthy.
A winged shadow passed overhead, flying away to the northwest. Ridmark caught a glimpse of the silvery-gray bulk of a frost drake, the glowing eyes of Arlmagnava, and then the shadow vanished with terrific speed.
“She had the frost drake waiting here,” said Jager. “Handy for a quick escape.”
“It was,” said Ridmark, a growing dread in the pit of his stomach. Why had Arlmagnava risked flying to the secret camp? Arlmagnava could have flown a circuitous course over the hills, but there was always the risk that someone would spot her, and even the frost drakes could not have infinite stamina.
Unless she had a reason to risk the journey…
Ridmark drew in a hissing breath as the answer came to him.
“What is it?” said Jager.
“The Frostborn are attacking,” said Ridmark. “If not now, then soon, this very day. They moved faster than we thought they could. That’s why Arlmagnava risked coming here. She wanted to pass word to Tarrabus ready himself.”
“Then the High King…” started Arandar.
“The High King and two thirds of the armies of the realm will die today if we do not warn them in time,” said Ridmark.
Frostborn: The High Lords Page 24