Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Mara was not a scholar or a theologian, but she expected the priests of Andomhaim and the Magistri might have a problem with that argument.

  But Andomhaim had larger difficulties at the moment.

  “We have marched swiftly from the wards of Nightmane Forest,” said Zhorlacht. “Best we are at our full strength when we ford the Moradel. The current is treacherous, and drowning in a river is no fit death for an Anathgrimm.”

  “Especially since we may have to construct rafts,” said Jager.

  “It will be as the Queen wishes,” said Qhazulak.

  “Thank you, Qhazulak,” said Mara. “Fear not. I expect we shall have our fill of battle tomorrow.”

  “The Frostborn would have brought battle to the men of Andomhaim by now,” said Qhazulak. “We shall see if they are strong enough to hold without our help or not. I shall see to the preparations of the camp.”

  Mara nodded, and Qhazulak strode away, bellowing orders in his hoarse voice. The Anathgrimm began settling down to rest. The Traveler’s brutal training ensured that the Anathgrimm preferred to rest in a fortified camp, though in an emergency they could discard the fortifications. They were in haste, and most likely the entire wrath of the Frostborn was turned towards the host of Andomhaim at Dun Calpurnia.

  For the moment, they were safe enough.

  “My lady,” said a girl’s voice, quiet and soft. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Mara turned as a human girl of about eleven years approached. She had thick black hair and dark eyes, and wore a traveling dress of faded blue. A dagger hung sheathed at her belt, since the Anathgrimm found the idea of anyone going about unarmed to be incomprehensible, but Mara knew that the girl would have little idea of what to do with the weapon if they were attacked.

  “No, thank you, Nyvane,” said Mara to the daughter of the High King Arandar Pendragon. “We’re going to stop for a few hours. I think you ought to get some sleep.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Nyvane, and she bowed and stepped back just as her older brother approached.

  “Is there anything you need, lord prince?” said Accolon Pendragon. He had grown nearly a foot since he had come to Nightmane Forest, and his warbling voice had settled into a deep bass tone. He looked a great deal like his father and grandfather, and once they returned to the host of Andomhaim, Mara supposed he would make a splendid young knight.

  “Yes, about a gallon of wine and a hot bath,” said Jager.

  As ever, Accolon kept a straight face with Jager’s jokes. “I fear both are unavailable.”

  “Pity,” said Jager. “Other than that, I don’t need anything. Go with Lord Qhazulak for now. You can learn about fortifying a camp and other knightly things.”

  “Lord prince,” said Accolon with a bow, and he jogged off after Qhazulak.

  Mara looked to Nyvane, but she saw that the girl had already lain down, wrapped herself in her cloak, and gone to sleep. She put on a brave face, but the rapid march from Nightmane Forest had exhausted her.

  “This isn’t a safe place for the children,” said Mara in a quiet voice.

  “Lady Miriam tries,” said Jager. Miriam, the sister of the High King’s late wife, had accompanied them after the first battle of Dun Calpurnia, and she had done her best to look after both Nyvane and Accolon. But Nightmane Forest was simply not a good place for human children. Though Accolon was almost a man, come to think of it.

  Jager shrugged. “Well, these days, is anywhere safe? We couldn’t leave them in Nightmane Forest. Still, now that Tarrabus is broken and the Enlightened are defeated,” he couldn’t hide the profound satisfaction in his voice, “they ought to go back to their father. Besides, Accolon is going to be High King if we’re not all killed first. He needs to know about war.”

  “Not Nyvane, though,” said Mara, looking at the sleeping girl. “She doesn’t have the nature for it. She’ll be a gentle wife for some fortunate nobleman someday and a good mother to his children. I wish she hadn’t been forced to see so much fighting.”

  Mara wondered what that would have been like. She was a daughter of the Traveler, her mother one of his human slaves, and conflict and death were bred into her very bones. While she regretted killing when necessary, that regret never stopped her. If Mara had been raised in a quiet village or a nobleman’s castra someplace, would she had been different kind of woman?

  Then again, if she had been born anywhere else she would not be herself, so it was a futile exercise.

  Jager snorted. “I wish that I hadn’t seen so much fighting. I could be at home in my domus in Cintarra with a glass of spiced wine and a belly full of expensive food.”

  Mara smiled. “But then you would never have met me.”

  “True, true,” said Jager. He took her hands and kissed her. “I’m going to make sure the supplies were brought in properly. Do you want to come?”

  “No,” said Mara. “I think I will get some rest while I can. I expect we shall have some fighting tomorrow, and I may need to scout myself.”

  Jager grimaced. He didn’t like it when she went off to scout by herself, using her power to travel in haste, and neither did Qhazulak and Zhorlacht and her other captains. They had mostly stopped trying to talk her out of it, since her power was too useful not to use. Her ability to travel quickly and to employ the Sight had saved the Anathgrimm from disaster on multiple occasions, and so close to the host of the Frostborn, it might save them from disaster again.

  “Sleep well, then,” said Jager, kissing her again. “I’ll make sure the Anathgrimm didn’t forget any of our supplies. I swear they would abandon all our food so they could win an even more glorious victory while starving to death.”

  “Don’t give them ideas,” said Mara.

  Jager laughed once, offered her a florid bow, and walked off. Mara watched him go and smiled. She knew that by any standard they were an odd couple, but they were good for each other. Though when they had married, Mara had no idea that one day she would be the Queen of Nightmane Forest and Jager would be her Prince Consort.

  What did Brother Caius like to say? God worked in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, that was it. Certainly, Mara’s own life was proof enough of that.

  She hoped that Caius was safe, wherever he was. She hoped all her friends were safe, Third and Kharlacht and Gavin and Camorak and all the others. That made her think of Ridmark and Calliande. Betrothed! It was about time. The two of them had obviously been in love for a while, but in too much pain to do anything about it.

  Mara laughed a little to herself. War raged around her, and she was the Queen of the Anathgrimm, yet she still worried about her friends. Perhaps that was a good thing. Poor old Uthanaric Pendragon had seemed like he had no friends, and a wretched man like Tarrabus Carhaine had only servants and allies of convenience, but no friends.

  Well, she ought to take her own advice and get some rest.

  Mara lay down, wrapped herself in her cloak, and fell asleep at once.

  And in her sleep, she dreamed.

  She was back in Coldinium, in the fine domus that she and Jager had shared before they had drawn the near-fatal attention of Tarrabus Carhaine. Mara walked through the atrium, the floor adorned with an expensive mosaic, and into the dining room. A long table of polished wood ran the length of the room, and paintings hung on the walls.

  Mara and Jager had fled here after escaping from the Red Family and the Matriarch, and Mara had been expecting to live quietly in austere circumstances somewhere. But Jager had money, lots of money, and between his instinct for business and his aptitude for thievery, they had lived quite comfortably. If anything, Jager had enjoyed flaunting his money too much. Most halflings in Andomhaim were the sworn servants of some noble house or another, and Jager had grown up desiring to become the perfect halfling servant, just like his father Hilder.

  Then Paul Tallmane had murdered Hilder, and Jager had become a thief and a merchant in defiance. It had been years ago, but she knew some of the bitterness would
always remain with him, that he would always derive satisfaction from standing in front of the lords of Andomhaim as the wealthy Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest.

  Mara couldn’t blame him.

  She knew all about rebelling against one’s upbringing, given that she had killed her father with her own hands.

  So, Mara was not surprised that she would dream of Jager’s domus in Coldinium.

  She was, however, quite surprised to see Morigna sitting at the table, looking at her surroundings with amusement.

  Morigna looked just as she had on the day that Imaria Licinius and the Weaver had murdered her, black-eyed and black-haired, clad in wool and leather and her tattered cloak of brown and green strips. She looked at Mara and smirked.

  “This is where you and Jager lived in Coldinium?” said Morigna. Her stately, archaic accent had not changed. “One always suspected that Jager had gaudy tastes, but truly one had no idea.”

  Mara pulled out a chair and sat across from Morigna. “Greetings.”

  “You do not seem surprised to see me,” observed Morigna.

  “Upon reflection, not really,” said Mara.

  “One would think that the appearance of a dead woman would provoke some surprise,” said Morigna.

  “I don’t usually have lucid dreams like this,” said Mara. Except when she had confronted the power of her dark elven blood in the ruins of the Iron Tower, but that had never happened again. “But I know that Calliande and Ridmark both have had dreams like this. Third kept saying Ridmark had nightmares. That, and you had absorbed some of the Warden’s dark magic at Urd Morlemoch. So, I expect you are speaking to me in my dreams to warn me of something.”

  Morigna’s usual smirk turned into a smile. “I see a crown has not dulled your wits. Given some of the nobles I met in Andomhaim, I had feared that becoming the Queen of the Anathgrimm would make you slow-witted.”

  Mara shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But the habits of a lifetime are not easily unlearned.”

  “I must say that you are handling this better than Arandar did,” said Morigna.

  “You appeared in the High King’s dreams?” said Mara. Despite herself, she laughed. “You never got along. That must have rattled him.”

  “It did,” said Morigna. “He did heed the warning, though, as best as he could, though it was barely enough.”

  “Then you have come to give me a warning,” said Mara.

  “Yes,” said Morigna. “You are moving in the wrong direction. Go north, not south.”

  “Actually, we need to go east,” said Mara. “The River Moradel is in that direction.”

  “You are going southeast,” said Morigna. “You will have far better chances of success if you go to the northeast.”

  Mara frowned. “That will be closer to the Frostborn and their creatures. If we come up south of Dun Calpurnia, I thought we might have a better chance of taking the Frostborn unawares.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Morigna, “you shall have far better chances of success if you cross the River Moradel to the northeast instead of the southeast.”

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me why?” said Mara.

  “Alas, I cannot,” said Morigna. “I am dead and therefore no longer completely bound by the strictures of time, but there are limits to how I can communicate with you. Even by offering you advice, I have come up against those limits.”

  Mara nodded. “Very well.” She thought for a moment. “Can you give me any news? What happened to Ridmark and Calliande?”

  “They are both alive,” said Morigna. “The sword of the Dragon Knight almost consumed Ridmark, but with Calliande’s help, he mastered it. Now he is the Dragon Knight, as he was intended to be, and he is rallying the dwarves, the manetaurs, and the high elves to come to the aid of the realm of Andomhaim.”

  “The Dragon Knight,” said Mara, astonished. “Truly, we live in age of legends returned to the light. First the Keeper, then Tymandain Shadowbearer, then the Frostborn, and now the Dragon Knight.” She hesitated, thinking. “Will the power of the Dragon Knight be enough to defeat the Frostborn?”

  “I do not know,” said Morigna. “I am unbound by time, but the future does not exist yet. Only its possibilities. One of those possibilities is that Ridmark helps you and Andomhaim and the others win a great victory over the Frostborn. In another possibility, you are defeated and the Frostborn conquer Andomhaim and the rest of the world.”

  “Then we shall strive not to be defeated,” said Mara. She paused. “I have missed you, Morigna.” She tried to think of a way to ask the next question. “Are you…”

  “Damned, you mean?” said Morigna. “I do not think so. Granted, I was never a close follower of the Dominus Christus, but I was baptized as a child, so I suppose that counts for something. But the dark magic I took from the Warden changed things. That dark magic was used to open the world gate of the Frostborn, and it bound me here. I have a penance to work off, it seems, and I can start by doing it here.”

  “I am sorry,” said Mara.

  “Do not be,” said Morigna. “It was, after all, my own doing. And I have been of use since.”

  “And I am also sorry that…you had to see Ridmark betrothed to Calliande,” said Mara. “That must have been difficult.”

  To her surprise, Morigna laughed. “It was not. I love Ridmark, yes. But the dead do not love as the living do. And Ridmark and Calliande need each other in a way that Ridmark and I never did.” She shrugged. “Were I still alive, I would feel different. But what is done is done…and I am afraid, my friend, that you still have quite a bit of work to do.”

  The dining room dissolved into nothingness, and Mara fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  ###

  Mara opened her eyes.

  Around the Anathgrimm broke up their camp, preparing to march. In the distance, she heard the boom of Qhazulak’s voice as he shouted orders.

  She sat up as Jager, Accolon, and Nyvane all approached at once.

  “We’re breaking camp a little early,” said Jager. He looked a bit ragged. Mara wondered if he had gotten any sleep. “The scouts saw some locusari flying overhead, so the Frostborn probably know where we are. We had better get to the Moradel today.”

  “No,” said Mara, getting to her feet.

  “No?” said Jager, surprised.

  “We need to go northeast,” said Mara.

  Chapter 6: King and Queen

  “Let me see if I understand,” said Jager about twenty minutes later.

  Mara stood with her chief captains gathered around her. She heard the noise as the Anathgrimm finished breaking camp and prepared to march. It did not take them long. For all the love of violence and battle that her father had bred into the Anathgrimm, he had also instilled in them a loathing for those unwilling to do their own work. An arrogant knight like Paul Tallmane might refuse to tend to his own equipment and quarters, expecting his squires and servants to do it for him. The Anathgrimm would have held him in contempt.

  “Go on,” said Mara.

  “The ghost of a woman who has been dead for a year and a half appeared inside your dreams,” said Jager, “and told you that we need to march northeast instead of due east.”

  “That’s right,” said Mara.

  Qhazulak growled. “Do you doubt the word of the Queen?”

  “No,” said Jager. “I knew her before any of you did, I should point out.” He shook his head. “That sounds just like Morigna. Not even death could stop that woman from having the last word. What Ridmark saw in her, I’ll never…” He stopped, shook his head, and looked at Mara. “But it doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is what you think. Did you believe her?”

  “Yes,” said Mara. “Ridmark had been having nightmares. Third told me. I think Morigna’s spirit was trying to warn him of something.”

  “Then we are going northeast,” said Jager.

  “Also,” said Mara, “something is happening to the northeast. I’m not sure what. But the Sight can
detect it.”

  Jager, Qhazulak, Zhorlacht, and the other captains shared a look. They all knew that Mara had the Sight, that she could see currents of magical force as if they were letters of fire written into air and stone and flesh. Calliande and Antenora could sometimes use the Sight to catch glimpses of the past and the future and far-off places, but Mara’s Sight wasn’t nearly as powerful.

  Nevertheless, she did see something strange happening to the northeast.

  “Are the Frostborn casting a spell?” said Jager.

  “I think so,” said Mara. “I’m not sure, though. I won’t know until we get closer.”

  “If the Frostborn are casting a spell there,” said Zhorlacht, “they might be close enough to reach Dun Calpurnia with it.”

  Qhazulak grunted. “A threat that the High King cannot see. The dagger from behind is always the most dangerous.”

  The captains nodded in unison. Evidently, that was a proverb among the Anathgrimm.

  “If we can disrupt whatever spell the Frostborn are casting,” said Mara, “that will be a heavy blow against the Frostborn.”

  Qhazulak nodded. “As you wish, my Queen. We shall move out at once.”

  ###

  Jager really, really wished he had a horse.

  Not that he was uncomfortable walking long distances every day. He had done it often. When he had fled from his childhood home, he had wound up walking all the way to Cintarra. It had been a few years before he could afford to purchase a horse. Then, of course, he had walked all the way from Coldinium to Urd Morlemoch with Ridmark and the others, and then from Urd Morlemoch to Khald Azalar and to Dun Licinia.