Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  A horseman galloped towards them, dust rising behind his mount. He was one of Sebastian’s scouts, and his expression was tight with urgency.

  “What is it?” said Arandar.

  “Your Majesty, I think you need to come at once,” said the scout.

  “The Frostborn?” said Arandar.

  “No,” said the scout. “I think it might be good news.”

  ###

  “Why are they making that noise?” said Qhazulak, glaring at the wagon drivers.

  “They’re cheering you,” said Mara. In fact, the cheers were spreading. The army of Andomhaim was retreating south in haste and had been spread in a long column down the Moradel road and the cleared land on either side. News of the arrival of allies was spreading like wildfire through the host.

  “Why?” said Qhazulak, blinking behind his mask of black bone.

  “Because, my dear Lord Captain,” said Jager, “the last time these men saw the Anathgrimm, you saved them from the Frostborn after Tarrabus abandoned them to die.”

  The cheering got louder. Qhazulak blinked a few times and then shook his head.

  “Such a strange thing,” he said at last. “I have indeed grown old, my Queen. I remember when humans fled with fear at our approach. Now they cheer for our appearance. I have lived to see strange things.”

  “I hope,” said Mara, “that you can live to see a few stranger things yet.”

  “If the Dominus Christus wills it,” said Qhazulak. “But I think it is inevitable that we all shall die gloriously in battle.” He smiled at the thought.

  Jager sighed. “You always say that.”

  Hoofbeats drummed against the Moradel road, and a group of horsemen approached. One of them flew the Pendragon banner from his lance, a red dragon upon a field of blue, and Mara smiled as she spotted Gavin and Antenora and Kharlacht and Camorak among them, though she wondered where Caius and Third had gone. Arandar Pendragon rode at their head, clad in steel plate and a blue surcoat with the red dragon upon his chest, the sword Excalibur glowing with power at his hip to Mara’s Sight, a simple circlet of gold upon his forehead. He looked older and more tired than when Mara had last seen him at Dun Calpurnia, but still regal. If the army had suffered a defeat at Dun Calpurnia, it had been Arandar’s force of will that had…

  “Papa!”

  Before anyone could stop her, Nyvane shot forward like a crossbow bolt, her boots tearing at the road as she ran to her father. Arandar looked at her in astonishment, blinked, and then vaulted from the saddle of his surprised horse and caught his daughter in his arms, laughing. Accolon started forward and then seemed to remember his dignity and stopped.

  “Come,” said Mara. “Let us greet the High King.”

  She walked to Arandar, Jager, Accolon, Qhazulak, Zhorlacht, and Lady Miriam following her. Mara offered a bow, and Arandar smiled at her. It made him look years younger.

  “High King,” said Mara.

  “Queen Mara,” said Arandar. “I am very pleased to see you and the Anathgrimm.” His eyes shifted to Accolon. “Have you been well, my son?”

  “Yes, father,” said Accolon. “Queen Mara and her court have looked after us.”

  “Prince Accolon has served ably and well as a squire for both Lord Ridmark and Lord Captain Qhazulak,” said Mara.

  “He fights well, for one who is not Anathgrimm,” said Qhazulak, which was the closest the Anathgrimm ever came to extending a compliment.

  “And I, of course,” said Jager, “have undertaken to fill in the gaps in his education.”

  “God save us, you rascal,” said Arandar, but he smiled. “You’ll corrupt the Crown Prince.”

  “I am the Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest,” said Jager. “I prefer to think of it as doing my duty to the younger generation.”

  “Come, all of you,” said Arandar. “We should not linger here. You are most welcome, but we must stay on the move. Lord Captain Qhazulak, I shall send Sir Joram and Dux Constantine to speak with you.” Dux Constantine? Old Gareth must have fallen in the fighting. “We will find a place for the Anathgrimm in the order of march. But we must reach Tarlion before the Frostborn.”

  “Tarlion?” said Jager, frowning. “Why are the Frostborn going to Tarlion?”

  “Such an advance would leave their flanks and rear vulnerable,” said Zhorlacht.

  Qhazulak nodded. “Perhaps we shall teach them the folly of making war upon the Anathgrimm.”

  “There is much I need to tell you, Queen Mara,” said Arandar. “It seems that even the Frostborn are not our true enemy, but Imaria Shadowbearer herself.” He hesitated, looking at his daughter. No doubt he needed to speak to Mara of dark things, but he didn’t wish to discuss them in front of his daughter.

  “Tonight, then,” said Mara. “When the army stops to rest. Once you have finished speaking with your children.”

  “Thank you,” said Arandar. “In the meantime, Sir Joram can see to your position in the line of march.”

  “Is he your quartermaster, then?” said Jager. “I could make some suggestions. I have some experience moving things about in haste.”

  “Jager,” said Mara.

  He grinned at her. “I’m only trying to be helpful.”

  ###

  Later that night Arandar rode alongside Queen Mara. He had loaned her one of the royal horses, and she had accepted it with gratitude. Arandar could not help but think she made for a strange sight. With her dark clothing and armor of blue dark elven steel, a diadem of the same metal upon her pale hair, and her pointed elven ears, she looked like some dark elven noblewoman of legend, one attended by legions of fanatical orcish warriors.

  Except she was much too short to be a dark elven noblewoman. And she smiled too much. And Zhorlacht and the other priests circled through the Anathgrimm and led them through prayers to the Dominus Christus with the efficiency of a centurion of the ancient Romans leading his legionaries through battle drill. And her husband was not some bloodthirsty dark elven warrior, but a luxury-loving halfling thief who was in the process of usurping the authority of the quartermaster of the army. Arandar had intended to put a stop to it, but Sir Joram had seized upon Jager’s suggestions with enthusiasm, and Arandar had thought Sir Joram needed someone to share the burden anyway, so he let it pass.

  No, despite her appearance, Queen Mara was nothing like the dark elven warlords of old. She was something new, something that had confounded both the Warden and the Traveler. If not for her, Tymandain Shadowbearer and his army of Mhorites would have smashed Dun Licinia, and the Frostborn would have destroyed the loyalists at Dun Calpurnia after Tarrabus’s betrayal.

  “Then Ridmark is the Dragon Knight,” said Mara, blinking. “Yes. I am not surprised. In hindsight, it always seemed clear that God had chosen a mighty destiny for him.”

  “It is not one I would have wished for myself,” said Arandar. “I think the sword almost drove him mad. Calliande must have brought him back from the brink, but God and the saints, it would have been close.”

  Mara laughed.

  “What?” said Arandar.

  “Given that you were alone in the Torn Hills when we met and you are now the High King of Andomhaim,” said Mara, “it seems odd to hear you talk of mighty destinies.”

  Despite himself, Arandar laughed. “Indeed? You slew the Traveler and became Queen of the Anathgrimm.”

  Mara smiled. “True. I did not seek that any more than you sought your own crown, but here we are.” She considered for a moment. “Do you think we can hold Tarlion until Ridmark arrives with help?”

  Arandar had told her the entire story of the battle at Dun Calpurnia. Mara, in turn, had told him about the strange dream from Morigna. It was just as well that Mara had heeded the warning. Had she continued on her original path, the Anathgrimm might have run right into the bulk of the Frostborn forces rather than the host of Andomhaim.

  “I don’t know,” said Arandar. He could admit his doubts to her if no one else. She was a fellow monarch, after
all. “The walls of Tarlion are strong and reinforced with ancient magical defenses laid by the Keepers themselves. Sir Corbanic held Tarrabus at bay for a year, and he was outnumbered nearly fifteen to one. Yet I thought we could hold the Frostborn at Dun Calpurnia, and that nearly ended in disaster.”

  “But we haven’t any choice, do we?” said Mara. “The Shadowbearer is driving the war, and the Shadowbearer wants the Well. We cannot let Imaria have it. Even if the Frostborn conquer the world and make us all their slaves, it will still be better than if Imaria releases Incariel from its prison. Just touching the shadow of Incariel made the Warden and my father and Tarrabus Carhaine into monsters. What will Incariel do to the world if it is free from all constraint?”

  “Aye,” said Arandar. “In the final battle with Tarrabus, some of the Enlightened lost control of themselves and twisted into monsters. I had never seen such hideous things, not even in Urd Morlemoch. That is what Incariel will do to the world.”

  “Then we must fight,” said Mara. She sighed. “The Anathgrimm will be pleased. Fighting in an apocalyptic battle is what they want. And Ridmark and Calliande will come through for us, especially if Third and Caius are with them. They will only fail if they are slain.”

  “You are right,” said Arandar.

  Mara blinked. “You are smiling. It is hardly a cheerful topic.”

  “No,” said Arandar, and he shook his head and laughed at himself. “Forgive me for the thought, but I almost wish we could have met under different circumstances. I cannot help but think of what a magnificent High Queen you would have made.”

  This time Mara did laugh. “Why, your Majesty! What a flattering thing to say. But it wouldn’t have worked. You need to have more children to secure your throne, and I cannot have any. Besides, I would have to leave Jager for you, and that would be intolerable.” She smiled at a distant memory. “Do you know that when I first met him, I had come to kill him?”

  “Truly?” said Arandar. “He mentioned something like that once, but…”

  “It was when I was still part of the Red Family of the Matriarch,” said Mara. “I had been hired to kill him, so I thought to poison his wine. He outwitted me, though, and then he tried to seduce me.”

  “Tried?” said Arandar.

  “One can try something successfully,” said Mara. “He didn’t view me as a weapon like the Traveler or the Matriarch. He was the first one to treat me like…well, like a living woman, and not as a tool. Ridmark did something similar.”

  “Ridmark?” said Arandar.

  “I was going to kill myself,” said Mara. “Right before the battle at the Iron Tower. My dark elven blood was going to transform me into an urdhracos, and I thought the only way to stop it was to kill myself. Ridmark talked me out of it. He refused to give up, like he always refuses to give up. And if he hadn’t…I suppose none of us would be alive now, would we?”

  “No,” said Arandar.

  Her green eyes met his. “He will come through for us, I am certain of it. Just as he did for me at the Iron Tower.”

  Arandar nodded. “Then we’ll just have to make sure Tarlion is still there when he returns, won’t we?”

  Chapter 7: The Final Defense

  Ridmark stepped through the gate and waited for Calliande and Third and Caius to follow him.

  As he waited, he looked around.

  The sight was familiar. Ridmark stood on a causeway of white stone that ran to the center of a lake. The lake was about five miles across, its center dominated by an island two miles in diameter. The steep slopes of a crater encircled the lake, the rocky surfaces dotted with trees. Calliande had called the crater a caldera, the shell of a long-dead volcano, and the lake had pooled here after the last of the molten stone had drained away.

  The causeway stretched to the island, and the city rose from the island.

  “God and the saints,” said Caius. “That is Cathair Solas?”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark, looking at the white towers of the last city of the high elves.

  It reminded Ridmark of the Tower of the Moon in Tarlion, and it also reminded him of Urd Morlemoch and the other dark elven ruins he had visited over the years. Cathair Solas had been built of the same gleaming white stone as the dark elven ruins. The central tower of the city was enormous, nearly a mile high and hundreds of yards thick, and it looked like a larger version of Tarlion’s Tower of the Moon. Hundreds of smaller towers stood around its base like slender blades of grass, and an intricate maze of delicate walkways interconnected the towers. Ridmark knew firsthand that the walkways formed a bewildering maze, yet the entire city looked stunningly beautiful. The dark elven ruins had an unsettling, eerie beauty, one alien and inimical to human sensibilities. Cathair Solas had the beauty of the straight line, of order and harmony and purpose.

  And the city was also moving.

  The smaller towers slowly revolved around the central tower. The bridges from tower to tower moved as well, as if the entire city was one massive clockwork device. Cathair Solas looked like a mechanism created by a blacksmith with a flair for artistic work, or a clockmaker of genius. The thousands of tons of stone slid around each other without a sound or even a vibration.

  “A remarkable sight,” said Third. “Why does the city move like that?”

  “The high elves built the city to change position based on the position of the thirteen moons of this world,” said Calliande, her staff tapping against the causeway as she stepped next to Ridmark. Both her green cloak and her blond hair streamed out in the cool wind coming across the lake. “It is somewhat like an astrolabe, I suppose. Some of the towers can augment and focus certain kinds of magic, and the effect is even more pronounced if it happens when the moons are in a particular configuration.”

  “I wonder how they get the city to move like that,” said Caius. “The engineering work must be prodigious.”

  Ridmark smiled to himself. When he had come here with Calliande for the first time, he had thought Caius would marvel at the skill of the engineering involved.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “There is also a great deal of magic. Elemental spells are laid upon each of the towers, and the spells also have something to do with lodestones.” She shrugged. “I am afraid it is beyond my capacity to explain. Someone like the Warden might understand, but I do not.”

  “It seems that the high elves are waiting for us,” said Third.

  She was right. Figures in the golden armor of bladeweavers waited at the end of the causeway, motionless and silent as statues. With them stood tall figures in red coats, and one high elf in a black-trimmed red coat, light flashing from a staff of red metal in his left hand.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”

  He reached for Caledhmaer with his mind and dismissed the sword. It dissolved into yellow-orange sparks and vanished from sight. It felt odd to be carrying no weapons at all, but he could call Caledhmaer back to his hand at will.

  Ridmark started towards Cathair Solas and the waiting high elves, Calliande and Caius and Third accompanying him.

  ###

  Calliande watched the high elves, a flicker of fear in her throat.

  It was irrational, she knew. The high elves might not be willing to help them, but neither would they harm Calliande and the others. Yet the sword of the Dragon Knight had almost destroyed Ridmark. Centuries before that, she had watched that same sword kill six knights before Kalomarus had bent the weapon to his will.

  The high elves meant them no ill, but nonetheless, most of Calliande’s memories of Cathair Solas were dark ones.

  It was the difference in their natures. The high elves were too powerful, and they could not help but alter the course of the lives of the less powerful kindreds around them. No wonder the high elves’ threefold law forbade them from ruling over weaker kindreds. Calliande was probably the most powerful human wielder of magic in the world, and she had fought Tymandain Shadowbearer and survived, yet she was still daunted by the amou
nt of magical power gathered within Cathair Solas.

  Or the power gathered within the high elves waiting at the end of the causeway.

  Ten of the high elves wore the golden armor of bladeweavers, soulblades sheathed at their belts, and Calliande recognized Rhyannis standing among them. Twelve of the high elves wore red coats buttoned to their throats and carried black staffs in their hands. One of them wore a red coat with black trim upon the sleeves, and in his hand, he carried a staff of red metal. At the top of the staff was a…

  Calliande wasn’t sure what was at the end of the staff of Ardrhythain, last archmage of the high elves. The last time she had been here, Ardrhythain’s staff had been topped with a ring of red metal, something like a captured star shining in its center. Now there were five rings at the end of his staff, and they were in constant motion, spinning and sliding around each other. The light within the rings had grown brighter, and now it seemed as if a miniature sun burned within the rings. To Calliande’s Sight, the staff shone with power as great as the magic that bound Cathair Solas. In fact, the staff seemed somehow linked to the city, though she could not say how.

  Ardrhythain stepped forward, the end of his staff ringing against the causeway, his red coat and his black hair stirring in the wind. His golden eyes, deep and timeless and powerful, regarded them all for a moment.

  Then he smiled.

  “Ridmark Arban,” he said, his voice deeper and more melodious than any human voice. “You have returned to Cathair Solas.”

  “I have,” said Ridmark.

  “Your coming is fraught with a doom that you know not,” said Ardrhythain, “and the fate of every kindred of this world hangs in the balance. Yet I am glad to see you nonetheless. I am pleased the sword did not devour you.”

  “It was a close thing,” said Ridmark. “It would have destroyed me if not for Calliande.”

  “And you are now wed,” said Ardrhythain.