Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  By then Calliande had finished her next spell, and another wave of white fire swept across the hall. The remaining two knights staggered as the fire touched them, and Ridmark attacked again. Caledhmaer ripped through a knight’s neck, shattering the dark armor and sending its armored body to the floor. Caius and Third attacked the remaining knight in concert. Ridmark suspected the creatures would have been immune to normal steel, but dark elven steel at least slowed them.

  It certainly slowed the creature long enough for Ridmark to land a killing blow with Caledhmaer.

  The final body clanged against the ground…and shadows began bleeding from it, and more shadows poured from the other two creatures. The armor plates began to bulge and deform as if something massive was trying to claw its way free from inside the armor.

  “Ridmark!” said Calliande. “Flames! Burn the bodies! I think that’s the only way!”

  “Get back!” said Ridmark. Third and Caius backed away, and Calliande started casting a spell. Ridmark moved to her side and pointed Caledhmaer, calling on the sword’s wrath. He wasn’t sure how he did it. It wasn’t a spell or an inborn power like Third’s ability to travel. It felt more like the bond he had once shared with the soulblade Heartwarden.

  Ridmark called on the sword’s power, and flames erupted from the blade as Calliande finished her spell. She flung a sphere of fire towards the downed knights, similar to the spheres that her apprentice Antenora used in battle. It exploded amidst the armored forms, spreading in a cloud of flame, and a howling cone of fire burst from the end of Caledhmaer. Ridmark swept the blade back and forth, the fire of the sword mixing with and augmenting Calliande’s elemental fire, and the end of the great hall erupted into a snarling firestorm. The heat of it hammered at Ridmark’s face, his gray cloak snapping behind him in the hot wind rising from the flames.

  Slowly the flames died away.

  When they cleared, there was no trace of the knights or the ruptured carapaces of the creatures that had spawned them.

  “Weakness indeed,” said Caius. “If Imaria shows any more of such weakness to us, we may be overcome.”

  “Or if she uses those powers against the host of Andomhaim,” said Third.

  “It’s time to move,” said Ridmark. He had wondered if the defeat of Tarrabus and the destruction of the Enlightened would demoralize Imaria. It was clear that her madness and her power had transcended all such concerns. She would use the Frostborn to seize the Well of Tarlion and free Incariel from its prison. Nothing else mattered to her. Just as Tymandain Shadowbearer had used and discarded the dark elves and the urdmordar, so Imaria cared nothing for the defeat of Tarrabus and the Enlightened.

  But the Frostborn would not be so easily overcome, and with them, Imaria might free Incariel and plunge the world into the hell of her madness.

  “Dun Calpurnia?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark nodded. “Dun Calpurnia.”

  He lifted Caledhmaer before him, reaching into the sword’s presence and asking it to open a doorway to the ruined town. The air rippled before him, a curtain of gray mist rising from the ground. The mist folded into the rippling air, and pale light came from it.

  The gate to Dun Calpurnia was open.

  “This way,” said Ridmark, and he led the way into the gate.

  Chapter 2: Retreat

  The host of Andomhaim and the three orcish kingdoms had prevailed against the Frostborn at Dun Calpurnia, but the victory had been as terrible as a defeat.

  Arandar Pendragon, High King of Andomhaim, strode through the host and listened to the reports as they were brought to him. The remains of his bodyguard, the Swordbearers and the Magistri assigned to protect him from assassins, followed him. Both Gavin and Antenora looked exhausted and grim. Antenora’s black clothing was tattered and torn, and Gavin’s face was coated with dust from the destruction of Dun Calpurnia’s northern gate. Camorak stumbled on his feet like he did when he was drunk, but he wasn’t drunk, just exhausted. Again and again the Magistri in Arandar’s bodyguard stopped to help heal the worst of the wounded, to at least get them on their feet for the march south.

  Arandar let the Magistri go about their work. They would need every man able to hold a spear soon enough, and anyway he had to stop often as messengers brought him news.

  Nearly all the news was bad. Arandar supposed the only good news was that they were still alive to receive bad news. The Frostborn had almost destroyed the army of Andomhaim below the walls of Dun Calpurnia. If Calliande had not returned with Ridmark, if Ridmark hadn’t unleashed the sword of the Dragon Knight in the battle, then the Frostborn would have triumphed.

  One messenger reported that Prince Cadwall Gwyrdragon thought twenty-five hundred men and orcs had been killed in total. No doubt many more had been wounded.

  Another messenger reported that Sir Joram Agramore was pulling their remaining supplies from the ruins of Dun Calpurnia and sending them south on the Moradel road as fast as he could manage it. No doubt Joram and the other lords and knights thought Arandar intended to fall back to Castra Carhaine and await the Frostborn there.

  But based on what Calliande had told Arandar before she had disappeared, he suspected they had no choice but to fall back all the way to Tarlion itself.

  Another messenger told him that Master Kurastus’s body had been found. He had been killed in the destruction of the northern gate, and the Magistrius Vesilius had been named the interim Master of the Order until the Magistri could hold a proper election in their Tower at Tarlion.

  Still another messenger said that Sir Tormark and Sir Constantine had taken command of their slain fathers’ vassals as the new Dux of Taliand and Dux of the Northerland, and were pulling their men out of the town. Silent Malhask, King of Khaluusk, and his chief headmen and warriors had been killed by one of those damned trebuchet firebombs. But old King Ulakhamar had awakened from his blow to the head with his wits intact, and the warriors and headmen of Khaluusk would follow his leadership until the headmen of Khaluusk could elect a new King from their number in accordance with ancient tradition.

  So many men had died. Arandar could scarce keep track of them all, but it was his duty.

  He sent orders of his own back with the messengers, instructing the lords and headmen and chief knights to gather at his banner as soon as possible for a council of war. The lords of Andomhaim had to know the truth. They had to know why Tymandain Shadowbearer had unleashed the Frostborn upon them, and they had to know that Imaria Shadowbearer must be kept from the well of Tarlion.

  No matter what, Tarlion had to be kept out of the hands of the enemy.

  As they walked through the soldiers, Arandar listened for the news he wanted to hear. Had Calliande found Ridmark? Had the Keeper kept the new Dragon Knight from succumbing to his madness?

  But he heard nothing. The Keeper and the Dragon Knight had disappeared.

  And without them, Arandar did not see a path forward to victory.

  ###

  Gavin had been this exhausted a few times before.

  After they had escaped from the Warden’s clutches at Urd Morlemoch, for one. Maybe after his father had died and they had defeated Agrimnalazur. Or after Ridmark had killed Tymandain Shadowbearer in the circle of dark elven standing stones upon the slopes of Black Mountain. Yet those had been victories, and after those victories, Gavin had been able to rest before they resumed their quest.

  He supposed this was a victory as well.

  It just didn’t feel like it.

  As ever, he found himself admiring the High King’s energy. Arandar Pendragon’s armor was battered and dented and splashed with the blood of medvarth warriors and the yellowish slime that served as the blood of the locusari. His face and armor were covered with a layer of dust and soot from the fires within the walls of Dun Calpurnia. Arandar looked as if he ought to collapse to the ground. Yet none of it showed in his voice or his movements, and the High King strode back and forth as he always did, giving commands in a firm voice. Gavin could
not understand why Arandar wasn’t exhausted.

  Or maybe he was, and he just hid it well.

  Antenora walked next to Gavin. She looked battered and bloody, her clothes dusty and torn. Yet she had already recovered from her wounds. The curse upon her let her feel neither pain nor pleasure and took from her the need to eat and drink and sleep. Yet Gavin supposed the curse had its advantages. She did not need to rest, and her strength and stamina had already recovered from her wounds.

  In fact, she was keeping close to him. As if she feared she would need to support him if he collapsed.

  It wasn’t an unreasonable fear.

  Another messenger from Prince Cadwall arrived, and Arandar stopped to speak with the man. Gavin drew Truthseeker, pushed the soulblade’s point into the earth, and leaned upon the sword’s hilt, taking some of the weight from his aching legs. He supposed using a soulblade like that was disrespectful, but at the moment he was too tired to worry about it. Besides, Truthseeker’s power had given him the strength to remaining fighting through the entire battle, so he supposed this was no different.

  “How are you?” said Antenora in a low voice.

  “Tired,” Gavin admitted, watching as Arandar spoke with the messenger. “But I’ll keep going. It seems I don’t have any other choice.”

  “None of us do,” said Antenora. “A victory so near to defeat…we shall have to move soon. The Frostborn were bloodied, but they were nowhere near beaten. As soon as they recover themselves, they will attack again.” She hesitated. “Or once they realize that the Dragon Knight is no longer with us. Fear of him will keep them at bay, but not for long.”

  They stood in silence for a while.

  “Do you think Ridmark is still alive?” said Gavin. “His face…I’ve never seen him like that. Not even after Imaria killed Morigna. And the sword…it was like it was burning him up.”

  “I do not know,” said Antenora. “I saw the sword’s power through the Sight. Never have I seen such potent magic, not in the hands of Tymandain Shadowbearer, or the Traveler, or even the Frostborn themselves. It was magic never meant for mortal hands, and I fear it was indeed burning him out from the inside. But the Keeper was with him.” She grimaced. “I should have gone with the Keeper.”

  “But she disappeared again so quickly,” said Gavin.

  “True.” She hesitated. “And…I did not wish to leave your side, Gavin Swordbearer. Not while the battle still raged and you were in danger. Just as you could not have left me at the gate.”

  “I couldn’t have,” Gavin admitted. After the Frostborn had destroyed the northern gate of Dun Calpurnia, Antenora’s leg had been injured, leaving her unable to walk. Gavin had found that he could not bring himself to leave her, that he had been prepared to die fighting at her side rather than to leave her behind.

  He loved her too much to do anything else.

  She couldn’t feel his touch, and if he kissed her for too long his mouth would go numb, but he loved her too much to leave her for the Frostborn.

  “I know,” said Antenora. “I hope the Keeper can bring the Dragon Knight back from madness.”

  “She can,” said Gavin. “If anyone can do it, it’s Calliande. She was the only one Ridmark would ever listen to anyway.”

  “Perhaps,” said Antenora. “For if she cannot, without the power of the Keeper and the power of the Dragon Knight, we have no hope of victory.”

  Gavin opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it. She was right. The Frostborn had pushed them out of Dun Calpurnia, turning the town into a fiery death trap. Their armies had pinned the host of Andomhaim below the southern walls of the town, and if not for Ridmark’s arrival, the Frostborn would have won a crushing victory.

  They still might, if Ridmark did not return or the army did not move soon.

  The messenger bowed to the High King, climbed into his saddle, and rode off. Arandar turned and looked at them.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s make for my banner. A council of war awaits, and we have a battle to plan.”

  ###

  Most of the lords and knights of Andomhaim had gathered near the Pendragon banner by the time Arandar arrived.

  At least, those who had survived.

  It was almost shocking not to see Leogrance Arban and Gareth Licinius there. Both men had followed Arandar after Tarrabus had betrayed them at Dun Calpurnia. He had relied heavily upon their counsel in the year of civil war that had followed, and during the campaign north to Dun Calpurnia.

  They had spent their lives in service to the realm of Andomhaim. Arandar supposed that their duties had ended at last.

  His continued.

  “My lords,” said Arandar, and the lords and knights fell silent. All of them looked weary, but there was work to be done. “Thank you for coming. We have much to do and little time in which to do it, so I shall be brief. First, I regret to say that Dux Leogrance Arban, Dux Gareth Licinius, Master Kurastus of the Magistri, and King Malhask of Khaluusk all fell in the fighting. The High King formally recognizes that Constantine Licinius and Tormark Arban are the new Dux of the Northerland and the Dux of Taliand.”

  The two men looked at him. Tormark Arban was about Arandar’s own age, and he looked like an older, fleshier version of Ridmark, though he had lost a great deal of weight on the campaign. Constantine Licinius was in his twenties and looked like his sister Imaria, or the way that Imaria had looked before the shadow had taken her, with the same green eyes, curly black hair, and olive-toned skin. Despite his relative youth, he had begun taking some of the grim air of Gareth Licinius. All of Constantine’s brothers had died years ago. Mhalek had killed his sister Aelia. His sister Imaria had become the new Shadowbearer. Now his father had fallen in battle, and Constantine had taken the burden of the Dux of the Northerland.

  Assuming, of course, that they ever managed to drive the Frostborn out of the Northerland.

  “Thank you, High King,” said Tormark.

  “We shall strive to fulfill our oaths before God and man as our fathers did,” said Constantine.

  “I know that you shall,” said Arandar. “I fear that the formal oaths and investiture will have to wait until the crisis is past. Master Vesilius has been chosen as acting Master of the Order until an election can be held, and as the senior of the orcish kings, King Ulakhamar will act as regent of Khaluusk until the headmen can elect a new king. Until then, we must act.”

  “We had better retreat at once,” said old Dux Kors Durius, scowling behind his bushy gray beard. “If we try to fight the Frostborn again in the open field, we’re going to get whipped. Better to abandon all of Caerdracon to them and fall back to Castra Carhaine.”

  “If we do that, we shall be trapped within the walls of Castra Carhaine,” said Prince Cadwall of Cintarra, “just as we were nearly trapped inside Dun Calpurnia. No, it is clear that we must find our allies before we can face the Frostborn once more.”

  “More to the point, we need the Keeper and the Dragon Knight,” said Master Marhand, the grizzled old Swordbearer who commanded the Order of the Soulblade. “Aye, we fought well, but the Frostborn still had us beaten. If the Dragon Knight hadn’t shown up and burned the revenants, we would have been finished. Where did Ridmark Arban and the Keeper go?”

  “I do not know,” said Arandar, and a low mutter went through the assembled lords and knights.

  “Without the Keeper and the Dragon Knight, we cannot win,” said Dux Sebastian Aurelius. He had been badly wounded, and one of the Magistri had healed him, though his armor and torn surcoat were still stained with blood. “We saw that firsthand today.”

  “Before she left, the Keeper told me that Ridmark needed to master the sword,” said Arandar. “The sword of the Dragon Knight will destroy an unworthy wielder, and Ridmark was struggling to wield it. I assume the Keeper took him somewhere to gain mastery of the weapon.”

  Arandar only hoped that Ridmark did not kill her and himself in his madness.

  “We cannot wait here until they return,
” said Cadwall. “The Frostborn could stir at any moment.”

  “We cannot,” agreed Arandar. “And the Keeper learned something new about our foes, something that must change our strategy.”

  “What is that?” said Master Marhand.

  “The true reason that Shadowbearer summoned the Frostborn to our world,” said Arandar. “It was not merely for conquest. No, the bearer of Incariel’s shadow wants to seize control of Tarlion and the Well in the Citadel.”

  Arandar recounted what Calliande had told them, how first Tymandain Shadowbearer and now Imaria needed to seize the Well of Tarlion to shatter the prison holding Incariel. The lords listened in silence, without questions or interruptions.

  “The tale makes sense,” rumbled old King Ulakhamar. The old orc was scarred and battered, his tusks jutting like spikes from his long gray beard, but he had come through the battle. “Always the Black Mountain was a sacred place to the dark elves and the dvargir, though we never knew why. If the shadow they worship is imprisoned within the mountain, that would explain why they hold it in such reverence.”

  “And the Enlightened were even greater fools than we thought,” said Kors. “We thought Tarrabus the dupe of the Frostborn with his demon-worship. But the Frostborn themselves are the dupes of Imaria.”

  Constantine shook his head. “And my sister fell into this folly as well.”

  “After the battle, Calliande thought it likely that the Frostborn would drive hard to seize Tarlion,” said Arandar. “Imaria Shadowbearer wants the city, and she doesn’t care how many people she has to kill to get it. Likely she will convince the Frostborn that they can win by seizing the Well and using its power against us.”

  “Then the Frostborn will come right through us,” said Constantine. “We are sitting on the Moradel road, and that is the most direct route to Tarlion.”

  “They won’t need to bother with the road,” said Tormark. “You saw how they froze the River Moradel to use those trebuchets against us. They can make their own road to Tarlion. All they need to do is freeze the river and march south. They might get to Tarlion before we do.”