Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  He could excel under any conditions. Adaptability, that was the key to a happy life.

  Nevertheless, he really wished he had a horse.

  Unfortunately, that was not likely. The Anathgrimm disdained horses and preferred to travel upon their own feet, which was just as well because something in their scent drove horses into a frenzy. Also, Accolon didn’t have a horse, and he was the Crown Prince of Andomhaim. Since he was currently Jager’s squire, Jager felt he had a duty to model hardihood and adaptability to the young man.

  And Accolon was going to be the High King of Andomhaim someday. Ridmark and Qhazulak had already given the young man a thorough education in every kind of weapon. Jager decided it was then his responsibility to teach the Crown Prince about courtly manners, and far more importantly, the nature of commerce.

  “I always thought that your grandfather relied too much on his nobles,” said Jager, walking with Mara and the Queen’s Guard. Mara was looking to the northeast, her green eyes distant, which meant she was using the Sight. The vast column of Anathgrimm warriors, over ten thousand strong, was marching northeast along the plains of northern Khaluusk. This part of the countryside was empty since the orcs of Khaluusk had lived in fortified villages further south to protect themselves from the Traveler’s raids.

  Jager wondered if that would change now that Mara was Queen.

  Perhaps in time. The Traveler had ruled in Nightmane Forest since before the founding of Andomhaim, and it would take a long time for his dark legend to fade.

  “What do you mean, lord prince?” said Accolon.

  “He should have turned to the merchants for support,” said Jager. “The merchants of the realm would have eagerly offered more support to the High King, especially if he protected them from tolls and fines levied by greedy local lords.”

  “The merchants do not have knights and men-at-arms,” said Accolon in a dry voice, “and nor do they have the right to call out the local militias. Coin might be useful for waging war, but it is hard to fight a war with money and nothing else.”

  “But if the High King gained the support of the merchants against the nobles,” said Jager, “he could have used the resultant taxes to field a much larger army of his own without relying on the nobles. If he had done that, then he would have been in a much stronger position, and someone like Tarrabus Carhaine wouldn’t have become so powerful.”

  “The nobles hold land,” said Accolon. He was arguing against Jager’s suggestions, but he wasn’t rejecting them out of hand. Jager thought that a good sign. He liked Arandar since the man had been smart enough to see Tarrabus Carhaine for the snake that he was even before the betrayal of Uthanaric Pendragon, but Arandar was too rigid in his thinking for Jager’s liking. “My father always said land was the only true form of wealth.”

  “Glory in battle is the only true form of wealth,” rumbled one of the Queen’s Guard. “All else is a transient fancy of humans and halflings.”

  “Land is another form of wealth,” said Jager, “which proves my point. Land is valuable because it’s the only way to grow food. Even the Anathgrimm need to eat occasionally.” The Guardsman grunted, but showed no further sign of wishing to speak. “There are two ways of making money, Crown Prince. Do you know what they are?”

  Accolon thought about it. “Working for a living and selling crops?”

  “Those are either sides of the same coin,” said Jager. He ticked off the points on his fingers. “You can either make money through trade – selling your labor or your crops or your goods. Or you can make money by taking it from someone by the point of the sword. That’s all trade is in the end, really. A way of getting the things you need without having to kill someone for them.”

  “So, trade is war by a more civilized means?” said Accolon with a laugh.

  “Yes!” said Jager, pleased. “Yes, exactly. I am hoping to convince the Anathgrimm of this once we are victorious over the Frostborn.” He refused to entertain thoughts that they would be defeated, at least while the High King’s children and Mara could overhear his private doubts. “After all, the Anathgrimm were bred to war, and what is commerce but a more civilized from of warfare? If I can convince them that commerce is just as noble as warfare…”

  “Ha!” said another Guardsman. “Not likely.”

  Jager grinned at the Anathgrimm. They might think it unlikely, but he knew better. The Anathgrimm could not wage perpetual war now that the Traveler was dead. The Frostborn occupied their time and attention now, but once the Frostborn were defeated (if the Frostborn were defeated), the Anathgrimm would need something to do. Mara wouldn’t let them wage eternal war against the rest of the world.

  He knew the problem of what to do with the Anathgrimm weighed heavy upon Mara’s mind, and he wanted to find a way to ease her burden.

  But if Jager could convince the Anathgrimm that commerce was a different form of warfare, if he could persuade them that winning wealth for their families was just as noble as butchering the Traveler’s enemies…why, he might just save the Anathgrimm from themselves.

  “Stop,” said Mara, her soft voice cutting into his thoughts. “Qhazulak, stop.”

  The Lord Captain turned and shouted a command, and the officers of the Anathgrimm bellowed the command down the line. The host of the Anathgrimm came to a stop far quicker than Jager would have thought possible.

  “What is it?” said Jager.

  “I’m not sure,” said Mara. “I need a closer look. Wait here.”

  He wanted to protest, but he knew it would have been a wasted effort. Mara took a step forward, blue fire burning in her veins, and she vanished from sight.

  Jager settled down to wait.

  ###

  Mara covered the last mile to the River Moradel in three jumps, using the burning power of her blood to move from place to place in the blink of an eye. Once she had lived in fear of the Traveler’s song, fear that his aura would dominate and enslave her, but now her own song burned in her blood.

  She reached the bank of the Moradel and stopped, weapons ready in her hands, both her physical senses and her Sight scanning for any foes.

  There were no enemies nearby.

  Nevertheless, power blazed before her Sight.

  That magical power was freezing the River Moradel.

  Mara blinked in surprise. The river had frozen over, the ice at least a foot thick. It seemed impossible. Summer was just starting to fade into autumn, and while the nights were getting chilly, it was far too warm for any ice to form on the river, let alone a sheet of granite-hard ice a foot thick.

  The Frostborn were freezing the river. To the south, she saw the edge of the spell of the Frostborn creeping forward. The river was still liquid there, and the edge of the ice was creeping forward a few yards every second. The Frostborn were expending a great deal of magical power to freeze the river. But why? What use would it serve?

  “Ah,” breathed Mara.

  A highway, of course. Perhaps the Frostborn had enough troops to keep Arandar and the host of Andomhaim bottled up at Dun Calpurnia. But Dun Calpurnia blocked the road south into Caerdracon. If the Frostborn froze the Moradel, they could use the river as a road and bypass Dun Calpurnia.

  But right here, right now, was an opportunity. Mara had been wondering how they would cross the Moradel. Trees were in short supply in this part of Khaluusk, and the hidden fords the Anathgrimm had built over the centuries were further north and blocked by the fortifications of the Frostborn. But if the Frostborn intended to use the frozen Moradel as a road, if the Anathgrimm hastened they could use it as a bridge instead.

  She looked to the other side of the river. There was an enemy force on the eastern bank, but it not a strong one. A few hundred medvarth and locusari warriors, and they seemed to be an advance force. They would not present serious resistance to the Anathgrimm.

  Mara drew on her power and traveled back to her waiting army.

  ###

  It only took Qhazulak and Zhorlacht and the ot
hers a short time to turn Mara’s plans into a reality.

  She stood with Jager, Accolon, and Nyvane as a broad front of Anathgrimm warriors marched to the western bank of the Moradel, shields held ready before them, their free hands grasping short javelins with iron shafts. Mara held herself ready, watching with the Sight for any signs of cogitaers or the Frostborn themselves. Her biggest fear was that the Frostborn would realize what was happening and cancel the spell, sending her soldiers plunging into the swift-flowing waters of the Moradel. The Anathgrimm could swim, but between their external bone spikes and their heavy armor, they had a hard time in the water, and the enemy could rain crossbow bolts upon them with impunity.

  But the spell on the waters remained. Perhaps the Frostborn could not break the spell. Maybe freezing that much water at once was like getting a stone rolling downhill, and it took some time to bring it to a halt.

  Or maybe Morigna’s hint had been correct, and for once the Anathgrimm had gotten the jump on the Frostborn.

  Mara watched the Anathgrimm march in lockstep towards the eastern bank, a twinge of guilt going through her. They were her soldiers, and she felt like she would have been with them. But Jager and Qhazulak and Zhorlacht would have been united in their disapproval, and Mara saw their point. If she was killed, she wasn’t sure how the Anathgrimm would react.

  So, she waited and watched as the Anathgrimm charged, still moving in lockstep to present a shield wall to the enemy. The Anathgrimm drew back their arms and hurled their javelins in unison with a great shout, sending a rain of iron shafts into the locusari warriors and the medvarth. Mara had never found out if the Traveler had come up with the design for the javelins on his own, or if he had been inspired by the javelins the legions of the Empire of the Romans had once carried upon Old Earth.

  Either way, the effect was the same. The enemy had been scattered along the bank, but they had managed to draw themselves up into a defensive formation as the Anathgrimm charged. The rain of iron shattered the defense, and the Anathgrimm crashed into their enemies, swords rising and falling as they killed. The wizards among the Anathgrimm ranks cast spells of earth magic, causing the ground to fold beneath their foes, or for sleeping mists to roll over them, or for entangling roots to rise from the ground.

  Between the assault of iron and magic, the enemy collapsed, falling back towards the forest on the far side of the road. The Anathgrimm line broke into individual parties, hunting down the survivors to keep them from reporting to their Frostborn masters. Mara doubted they would be successful. The locusari warriors were simply too fast, but the fewer that returned to the Frostborn, the fewer enemies her warriors would have to face later.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jager, shading his eyes as he looked to the east.

  “What is it?” said Mara. “Is something wrong?”

  “Are those horsemen?” said Jager.

  ###

  As he had during the march from Tarlion to Dun Calpurnia, Arandar rode up and down the marching column, trying to encourage the men.

  He wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. Certainly, the men seemed heartened to see the High King stopping to speak with them, and Arandar made sure to project confidence. Yet he knew how quickly morale could ebb in the face of a powerful and determined enemy.

  Still, it could have been worse. Arandar had made sure that every man in the army knew the truth, that the Frostborn were marching to Tarlion to seize the Well and unleash the shadow of Incariel upon the world. And, truth be told, Calliande’s message to Camorak had been a godsend. The thought that the Dragon Knight had indeed returned, that he was rallying the dwarves and the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs to their side, had lifted morale. The army had needed good news, and they had seized upon it.

  Without it, Arandar feared that morale might have collapsed. Dun Calpurnia had been a victory, but only thanks to the last-minute intervention of the Dragon Knight, and the men of Andomhaim knew they would not be able to prevail against the Frostborn without allies.

  Arandar rode up and down the lines of marching soldiers, his bodyguard around him. As usual, Gavin and Antenora and Camorak and Kharlacht accompanied him, along with Master Marhand and Master Vesilius. The ascetic-looking Magistrius was soft-spoken, but he had proven as strict a taskmaster as Marhand. That was good. Right now, the army needed confident leaders, and it also needed the Magistri. By now most of the wounded who could be saved had been healed, and Vesilius had instructed the Magistri to hold their strength back for warding spells if the frost drakes returned.

  So far, the frost drakes had not. The locusari scouts made regular flights over the marching army, but their frequency had diminished. Dux Sebastian had sent as many scouts north as he dared, and they reported that the Frostborn had been making a cautious advance south, freezing the Moradel as they went. They were taking their time as they marched south, using the broad highway of the frozen river to bring up a vast quantity of supplies.

  That was good news and bad news. The good news was that it gave Arandar more time to get the army to Tarlion and to prepare to defend the city. The bad news was that it meant the Frostborn would be able to launch their full power against the walls of Tarlion. The defenses of Tarlion had defeated orcish warlocks and dark elven princes and urdmordar and the Enlightened of Incariel.

  Arandar was not sure they would be able to defeat the wrath of the Frostborn.

  Arandar reined up as he came to the banner of the House of the Licinii, a white hart upon a field of green. Dux Constantine Licinius rode at the head of his vassals, Brightherald waiting in its scabbard at his side. Both Constantine and Tormark Arban were experienced knights, and there had been no challenges from their vassals. Sometimes when a new Dux succeeded his father, the Comites and the knights of his duxarchate sought to test the strength of their new liege lord with a rebellion. None of that had happened with Constantine and Tormark. If it had, Arandar would have put a stop to it at once. There was no time for strife when the realm faced a foe like the Frostborn.

  “Dux Constantine,” said Arandar. “How goes the march?”

  “Well enough, High King,” said Constantine. “Given everything we have faced. If we keep up this pace, we ought to reach Castra Carhaine in another two or three days.”

  “Aye,” said Arandar. “Then we can cross the River Mourning and get to Tarlion in haste. Sir Joram arranged for many barges to be left there, and he thinks the current of the Moradel flows faster than the ice of the Frostborn can advance. We ought to be able to ship most of the supplies down the river, and reach the walls of Tarlion before the Frostborn.”

  “Where we shall wait for the Dragon Knight to arrive with as many allies as he can gather?” said Constantine.

  “Yes,” said Arandar. “And if God is with us, we can smash the Frostborn against the walls of Tarlion.” He paused. “And kill Imaria before she can seize the Well in the Citadel. It is cruel, I know, but…”

  “No, it must be done,” said Constantine with a sigh. “She is my last living kin in this world, and she has given herself over to the powers of evil. All of this – the civil war, the Frostborn, the loss of the Northerland, all the death and destruction we have seen, Imaria was the ultimate author behind it. Had she not opened the world gate, none of this would have happened. She has earned her death a thousand times over.” Constantine sighed. “But it is still a hard thing to say. And I am the last of the Licinii. If I do not wed and father sons soon, then the House of the Licinii will die with me.”

  “Once we’ve reached Tarlion,” said Arandar, “we can discuss it more.”

  Constantine nodded. “After the Dragon Knight has helped us smash the Frostborn?”

  “If God wills it, yes,” said Arandar.

  “Ridmark Arban the Dragon Knight,” said Constantine with a shake of his head. “A strange thing to say, is it not?”

  Arandar shrugged. “Perhaps not for me. When I first met him, he was going to Urd Morlemoch. It was the mad sort of thing a Dragon Knight ought to do.”


  For the first time, Constantine almost smiled. “From what I heard of the tale, High King, you were going to Urd Morlemoch as well.”

  “Aye, but it was to rescue my son,” said Arandar. “Ridmark went there to find the truth of the Frostborn. To warn us all that this was going to happen.”

  “It is the sort of thing he would do,” said Constantine. “But I knew him when he was a boy. I was even younger, true, but he was still a boy. Then he slew an urdmordar and went to Urd Morlemoch the first time and married my sister…ah, the legend was beginning even then. Then he was the Gray Knight, the man who warned us that the Frostborn would return even though we all thought him deranged from grief. I am not surprised he is now the Dragon Knight…but it seems odd to speak of a legend and know the man within the legend.”

  “I suppose it was ever thus,” said Arandar. “We talk about figures of the distant past like the High King Arthur Pendragon, or Sir Lancelot or Sir Gawain or Dux Marcaine who conquered the Northerland, or Sir Nicodemus Arban who drove the orcish warlocks out of Taliand. We have statues and tapestries of them, and the bards sing their songs. Yet they were men as we are…and I suppose sometimes they wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a gallon of spice wine.”

  “Or three gallons,” said Camorak.

  Constantine laughed. “It is heartening to think of, is it not?”

  “I think so,” said Arandar. “Have you seen Sir Joram?”

  “Back further along the column,” said Constantine. “Some of the wagons broke an axle, and he wanted to encourage the drivers to hasten with the repairs.”

  Master Marhand snorted. “Fear of the Frostborn will do that.”

  “Probably,” said Arandar. He decided to check on the wagons himself. Even the porters and the wagon drivers needed to know that the High King appreciated their work…and that his eye was on any malingerers. “We will…no, wait a moment.”