“Your wife?” said Accolon, incredulous.
“Your father was there to see it,” said Calliande, “but he can tell you the tale later. Did you find any proof against Tarrabus?”
“Yes,” said Ridmark, his voice distant as he looked to the north. “Quite a lot of it. Enough to send Tarrabus and several other people to the executioner’s block.”
“Good,” said Calliande. “We have to find the High King at once and warn him. Though perhaps it would be better to wait until after the battle. I think the Frostborn surprised even Tarrabus with their haste…”
“No,” said Ridmark. “No. I…fear that Imaria was right.”
Calliande blinked. “What?”
“We’re too late,” said Ridmark.
###
Ridmark looked north, past the smoke of the burning grass, and saw the lines of the battle taking shape.
It was already beginning.
From this distance, the opposing armies looked like masses of insects, but he could pick out the banners easily enough, and he had been in enough battles to make out what was happening. The Frostborn had come down in great numbers from the north, and a huge of wave of revenants, maybe fifteen thousand, were advancing. After them came ranks of medvarth and locusari warriors, with columns of khaldjari guarding massive constructions of metal that looked like siege engines. Hundreds of Frostborn walked in the rear of the vast army, no doubt overseeing the battle.
The army of Andomhaim marched to meet them.
The orcish warriors of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk made up the vanguard, along with the men of the Northerland. By long tradition, the orcish warriors insisted upon making up the vanguard, thirsting for battle in a way that even the most seasoned human knight did not. The High King’s dragon banner floated over the center, flanked by the banners of the Prince of Cintarra, the Dux of Taliand, the Dux of Caertigris, and the Dux of Durandis. The Swordbearers remained in reserve, nearly a thousand, ready to attack when they were needed. The Duxi of Arduran and Calvus were on the left wing, and Ridmark saw the banners of Tarrabus Carhaine and the Dux of Tarras upon the army’s right wing.
The shape of the lines dictated the opposing armies’ plans. The Frostborn would launch their revenants in a massive wave, pinning down the vanguard of Andomhaim, while the medvarth and locusari warriors attacked the left and right wings. The khaldjari siege engines would launch salvos from a distance, and the Frostborn themselves would fling their magic into the fray while their frost drakes circled overhead.
The High King, for his part, had adapted his battle plan. The vanguard would hold the revenants in place while the footmen advanced and the heavy cavalry circled behind their lines, dividing into two massive wings. When they were ready, they would charge into the advancing medvarth and locusari, and the sheer weight of the armored horsemen would break through. Both the medvarth and the locusari were formidable, but lacked the ability to withstand a cavalry charge. If the horsemen broke their lines, the Frostborn army would collapse in flight back to their citadel at Dun Licinia. Looking at the two armies, Ridmark would have said that the High King would win.
But Tarrabus had laid his trap too well.
With sick horror Ridmark saw that Imaria had been right. It was too late. The trap had already been laid…and the jaws were closing even as he watched.
“How is it too late?” said Calliande. “Tarrabus is on the right wing, not the vanguard. He’s not anywhere near the High King. Even if he abandons the field to the Frostborn, the army of Andomhaim will still win through.”
“It is too late,” said Ridmark, “because Tarrabus isn’t the only Enlightened among the Duxi.”
“What?” said Calliande.
“The letters we found,” said Arandar, his face grim. Likely he had realized the truth, just as Ridmark had. “The Duxi of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras are all part of the Enlightened, along with the greater part of their vassals.”
“No,” said Calliande. “No, that can’t be. Not that many, surely.”
“Look at how they are arrayed,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus and the Dux of Tarras on the right, Calvus and Arduran upon the left. They’ll wait until the vanguard of orcs and the men of the Northerland have broken through the revenant line and the High King has ordered the footmen to advance. Then Tarrabus and his allies…”
“They’ll pull back,” said Calliande. She sounded dazed. “They’ll pull back, meaning the entire left and right wings will fall back.”
“Leaving the vanguard and the center to be encircled and slaughtered,” said Ridmark.
“Can’t we warn them?” said Jager. “If we hurry…”
Ridmark shook his head. “It’s already beginning. You can see the maneuvering there, if you look. Tarrabus and his allies are getting ready to withdraw. By the time we reach them, it will already be over…wait. Calliande. You can speak to the Magistri over a great distance. Can you contact Camorak or Kurastus, or any of the Magistri, and warn them what Tarrabus intends?”
“Maybe.” Hope flickered over her face, and she closed her eyes and cast a spell. For a moment her eyes twitched behind closed lids, and she let out a sound of pure anger and frustration. “I can’t. The Magistri have all cast their battle wards. That shields them from magical attack…”
“And blocks them from magical communication,” said Ridmark. “Likely that’s why the Weaver and Imaria chose this moment to assassinate you, to keep you from interfering.”
“They needn’t have bothered,” said Calliande. “I can do nothing to interfere from here.”
Ridmark nodded, his mind seizing upon plans and discarding them. If only Mara had been here, she could have traveled with haste to warn the High King. If only they had fast horses. If only Ridmark had figured out the truth sooner, had realized the extent of Tarrabus’s treachery. He could have warned the High King.
No matter what choice he made, no matter what decision or course of action, he saw utter catastrophe staring him in the face, and he could think of no way to stop it.
“Father,” said Accolon. “What are we going to do?”
Ridmark had no idea.
Chapter 20: Enlightenment
Tarrabus Carhaine sat atop his horse, clad in armor of the best steel from the smiths of Tarlion, a blue surcoat with the black dragon of Caerdracon over his cuirass. It was his finest armor, an utter masterwork.
Armor fit for a king.
It seemed appropriate to wear it today.
Around him waited his household knights and men-at-arms, all of them loyal, all of them belonging to one circle or another of the Initiated of the Enlightened of Incariel. They had known his secrets and kept them for years, and today he would reward them for their loyalty.
His moment of triumph had come at last.
Yet, strangely, his thoughts lingered upon Aelia.
It was the Keeper’s fault. He smiled a little at the thought of her. She was a remarkably attractive woman, though he had not seriously thought he would be able to seduce her, and attempting to force the Keeper would have been suicidal even with the powers that Incariel’s shadow gave him. Nonetheless it had been amusing to watch her revolted reaction to the kiss.
She had made him think of Aelia, though.
Tarrabus watched the battle unfold, the drums of the medvarth and the khaldjari booming over the fields north of Dun Calpurnia. The orcish warriors of the baptized kingdoms charged forward, flanked by the men of the Northerland, rushing to meet the revenants as they advanced. The orcs were savage and stupid, but effective fodder, and Tarrabus looked forward to ridding himself of them. Their devotion to the church and the High King was cumbersome, and the revenants and the medvarth would dispose of them. Though the orcs would prove more effective than the Frostborn expected, since the Keeper had finished her mighty warding spell.
Which would have left her vulnerable to the Keeper and mad little Imaria. Tarrabus supposed Aelia would have been horrified to learn what had become of Imaria. She had always loved her little siste
r, even if Imaria had failed to realize it.
He wondered if Aelia would have understood what he intended to do today.
Likely not, given that he would send her father and her brother to their deaths within the hour. And Ridmark, since he and his little band of outcasts were probably with Gareth Licinius. Aelia would definitely not have approved of that. For whatever reason, Ridmark – stupid, plodding Ridmark – had captured Aelia’s heart, and that was that. To this day Tarrabus wondered why. Ridmark was a Dux’s son, true, but Tarrabus had been a Dux’s heir. Tarrabus had been just as capable as a swordsman. And Tarrabus was the stronger of the two men.
Ridmark had proven that when he had failed to save her.
But would she have understood that the plan of the Enlightened was necessary? She had been so devoted to the feeble myths and superstitions of the church. Andomhaim was surrounded by powerful enemies, by urdmordar and dark elves and dvargir and worse things, and mankind was weak, with a life of only seventy or eighty years while the dark elves and the urdmordar could live forever. How could humanity compete with such enemies? Mankind had to evolve. Mankind had to grow, to become immortal and powerful…and the shadow of Incariel offered such power. His alliance with the Frostborn gave Tarrabus the time necessary to spread the word of Incariel to the men of Andomhaim, and eventually he would defeat the Frostborn and mankind would rule the entirety of this world, immortal and all-powerful.
Surely Aelia would have realized that was necessary.
The trumpets blared, and the orcs started forward with a ferocious howl, running to meet the advancing lines of the revenants.
No, Tarrabus decided, Aelia would not have understood. She would have recoiled in horror if she had learned the truth, if she had known that Tarrabus would fulfill a plan that had been in motion ever since Tymandain Shadowbearer had founded the Enlightened after the defeat of the Frostborn. She would have turned on him, and become his implacable enemy.
She would not have understood…but she had almost made Tarrabus understand.
If she had chosen him over Ridmark, Tarrabus knew, he would have left the Enlightened behind. She was the opposite of everything that his father had believed, and for her, he would have forsaken the Enlightened.
So, in a way, her death had made today’s triumph possible.
Yes. He liked that thought. Aelia’s death would be the catalyst that would save mankind.
He watched the orcs engage the revenants, and then glanced to the southeast. Imaria and the Weaver ought to have finished off the Keeper by now. He didn’t regret her death. Calliande had been a beautiful woman…but, well, beautiful women were easy enough to find.
Soon Imaria and the Weaver would arrive, and then Tarrabus would become the new High King of Andomhaim.
###
Imaria walked past the ranks of the waiting Swordbearers with the Weaver.
Had any one of the Swordbearers seen her or the Weaver for what they truly were, they would have struck her down at once. For all of Imaria’s power, soulblades were just as powerful, and Imaria had no wish to face a man wielding one, and nor did the shadow that now filled her heart and mind.
Her mouth twisted inside her cowl, the shadow snarling within her. Ridmark was still alive, as was Calliande, though Imaria cared less about her. The shadow within her insisted that Calliande was the greater threat to her eternal freedom, and Imaria knew that the shadow was correct. Yet she only regarded Calliande as an obstacle to be destroyed.
She hated Ridmark in a way that only the shadow could understand.
She would make him pay. She would make him scream. She had already started by murdering his Wilderland whore in Dun Licinia. When she had finished, he would beg for the release of death.
But what she would do today would cause him great pain…and that pleased her. That it took her another step closer to her freedom was almost incidental.
She and the Weaver walked unnoticed past the Swordbearers. The Weaver had taken the form of an elderly monk in a flowing brown robe and rope belt, hands tucked into his sleeves, his head bowed in solemn prayer. The shadow of Incariel had given Imaria many powers, but the ability to change her form had not been one of them, so she had simply killed one of the monks of the town’s abbey and taken his robe. It was voluminous enough to conceal her figure, and she and the Weaver simply looked like another pair of monks, saying prayers for God to watch over the men of Andomhaim.
Most of those men would be dead within the hour.
Imaria thought of her father and brother, fighting in the vanguard with the orcish rabble, and smiled beneath her cowl. They deserved to die for what they had done. They had forgiven Ridmark for Aelia’s death, which was bad enough, but then they had helped him when he had returned from the Wilderland, which was worse. Just as well that Ridmark had escaped death so far, then. It would pain him when Dux Gareth and Sir Constantine perished in the battle.
The shadow within her hissed with pleasure at the thought, and she and the Weaver made their way closer to the High King’s banner.
###
Tarrabus kept his face calm despite his growing excitement.
The orcs and the battle-hardened men of the Northerland, shielded by the Keeper’s ward, proved more than a match for the revenants. In a matter of moments wedges of Rhaluuskan orcs and Northerland men-at-arms had carved their way through the revenants, pressing towards the ranks of the medvarth and the locusari warriors.
Trumpets rang out, and the footmen in the center began to advance, preparing to join the vanguard. Behind the center the heavy horsemen wheeled, preparing the massive charge upon the left and right wings. Old Uthanaric might have been a fool, but Tarrabus conceded that the High King had come up with a good battle plan. The Frostborn force was larger, but the men of Andomhaim were better positioned. One good charge of horsemen would break the lines of the Frostborn, and Uthanaric had positioned the army so he could unleash two charges at once. In the chaos that followed the horsemen, the infantry could advance and push the medvarth and locusari into the river while the Swordbearers and the Magistri dealt with the Frostborn themselves.
It was a good plan, and it would have worked, but Uthanaric did not have all the facts.
Tarrabus turned his attention towards the High King’s banner and waited.
###
Imaria approached the High King’s party, the Weaver gliding next to her in silence.
Uthanaric Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim, sat atop a magnificent war horse, the beast stamping its hooves in its eagerness to engage the foe. The High King wore armor of burnished steel, adorned with gold and silver on the edges, his crisp blue surcoat showing the red dragon sigil of the House of Pendragon. The ancient soulblade Excalibur rested at his belt, and he wore a helm wrought to allow the red gold Pendragon Crown to rest upon his head. A nervous-looking squire sat on a horse behind the High King, carrying Uthanaric’s shield and lance. Crown Prince Kaldraine and the High King’s other two sons waited nearby, clad in armor of similar splendor. Two Swordbearers on foot flanked Uthanaric’s horse, ready to defend the High King from any foes, while two young Magistri stood nearby, shimmering with the white light of defensive wards.
“The Swordbearers first,” murmured Imaria.
The Weaver inclined his cowled head a fraction of an inch.
“My lord High King!” A messenger in Pendragon colors ran up to the High King’s horse and bowed. “The vanguard has broken through the revenants.”
“Good,” said the High King. “The trumpeters are to signal the advance. As soon as they are committed, the horsemen are to charge from the flanks at once. This day we shall break the Frostborn, and send them scurrying back to their frozen world.”
The messenger bowed and ran off, and Imaria smiled, shivering with anticipation, the shadow murmuring its pleasure. In a way, it was historic.
The very last Pendragon High King of Andomhaim sat a few yards away. Tarrabus had wasted a lot of time and money gradually poisoning Uthan
aric and his sons with that dvargir poison, but it had proven unnecessary. Imaria herself would succeed where the poison had failed.
It would have been historic…but soon the shadow of Incariel would destroy time itself, and man would be free from the tyranny of past and present and future.
“My lord High King,” said the Weaver in a quavering voice, and Uthanaric and his sons and his guards looked at him. “A blessing for you, on the day of this great battle to speed you to victory.”
“Yes, yes,” snapped Uthanaric, “but be quick about it, brother.”
The shadow gathered in Imaria, drawing power to her. One of the Magistri frowned and started to turn.
The Weaver bowed deep, stopping within a few yards of Uthanaric’s horse…and then his hands exploded from his sleeves.
Of course, in his current form he didn’t have hands but blades, long, serrated blades, much like a locusari warrior’s forelimbs but much longer and stronger. The Weaver spun in a blur, and before anyone could react, he had killed both of the Swordbearers, his serrated blades opening their throats, blood spattering across the dusty ground.
Uthanaric reacted faster than she expected. “Treachery!” The old man scrabbled for Excalibur’s hilt, while both of the young Magistri began casting spells. “Treachery! To me, my…”
Imaria threw back her head and screamed, and the power of Incariel exploded from her.
A ring of enveloping shadows rushed from her body, rolling over the High King, his sons, his guards, and the two Magistri. For a moment the wards of the two Magistri sparked and flared, holding back the darkness. But next to Calliande’s power and skill they were but feeble children, and the power of Incariel smashed their wards, the shadows pouring into them. Around her men screamed and died as the shadows found their hearts and drank away their lives. Imaria groaned in ecstasy as the stolen lives rushed into her, fueling her own power and making her stronger.
As the shadows held her victims fast, the Weaver exploded into motion.
Frostborn: The High Lords Page 27