Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Third appeared behind one of the creatures, driving her short swords into its back. Yet even the steel of the dark elves could not overcome that black armor. Her blades rebounded with a loud clang, and the creature whirled with the grace of a cat, its greatsword aiming for her neck. Third vanished back into blue fire an instant before the huge sword would have taken off her head.

  But the moment of distraction let Ridmark recover his balance, and he attacked. Caledhmaer’s blade plunged into the nearest creature’s chest, and the fire exploded through the armored warrior. Blazing cracks appeared in its black armor, and the sword’s flame blasted the dark warrior apart, the chunks of armor evaporating as they hit the ground.

  The remaining three creatures came after Ridmark, but he kept ahead of them. Calliande hit one of the warriors with another burst of white fire, and the creature staggered. Ridmark retreated, his mind divided between trying to stay ahead of his foes and his link to Caledhmaer.

  Suddenly he felt the surge of power through the bond.

  ###

  Calliande drew together as much power as she could manage, preparing to hit the creatures again.

  The magic of the Well fused with the power of the Keeper could slow and damage the armored warriors, but it seemed unable to damage them. Since the sword of the Dragon Knight could destroy them, it wasn’t a fatal problem.

  The creatures’ speed and strength might be that fatal problem.

  Ridmark was having a hard time keeping ahead of them. They had proved immune to Third’s weapons, and Caius simply couldn’t catch them. The dwarven friar stood staring at them in frustration, hammer in hand, bearded lips moving through a silent prayer. Ridmark had been forced to use the sword’s power to stop time to defeat the ursaars, and that had left him vulnerable to the fury of the armored creatures.

  Calliande desperately wished they had a Swordbearer with them, or both Gavin and Antenora. A single Swordbearer would not have been able to kill twelve ursaars in the blink of an eye, but a soulblade would have destroyed the armored creatures of darkness that now pursued Ridmark. Antenora’s fire might have slowed them, and Calliande and her apprentice could have distracted multiple creatures at once.

  Calliande cast another spell, hitting one of the warriors with a burst of white fire. The creature stumbled, but it did not fall, and it kept pursuing Ridmark. How much longer could Ridmark hold them at bay? Or would Imaria launch another attack while he was distracted with the warriors? Imaria might also try to kill Calliande, and certainly the Shadowbearer would kill both Third and Caius out of simple spite.

  Then fire exploded across Calliande’s field of vision, and Ridmark moved in a blur.

  He reappeared a dozen yards behind the creatures, the sword burning in his fist as molten cracks spread through the black armor. The remaining warriors exploded in a spray of flame and shadow, pieces of black armor unraveling into smoke.

  Ridmark turned, seeking more foes, and Calliande summoned the Sight, sweeping it over the field.

  “Anything?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Calliande. “I think that is the last of them.”

  “What were those devils?” said Caius. “I have never seen anything like them.”

  “Nor have I,” said Third, “and I have seen almost anything.”

  “I don’t know,” said Ridmark.

  “I think,” said Calliande, “that they were somehow part of the shadow of Incariel. Like a piece of it, broken off and given physical form.”

  “Then it is as Imaria threatened,” said Caius. “She relies not upon her own strength, but the strength of the shadow.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “And it almost worked, too.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “If those armored things had been a little faster, or if I had stumbled even once, we would be dead.” He looked at Third. “Thank you, by the way. Your timing was perfect.”

  Third twitched her thin shoulders in a shrug. “I doubted my weapons could harm the creature, but it seemed likely that I could distract it.”

  “And you did,” said Ridmark.

  Caius snorted. “And I was all but useless, I fear.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ridmark, looking to the west. “I suspect we will need you soon enough.”

  Calliande followed his gaze, and as she did, the Sight rose within her. To the west, she saw a familiar aura of magic, magic both powerful and stern and unyielding.

  It was the magic of the dwarven stonescribes, spells carved with glyphs onto stone and dwarven steel.

  Her eyes of flesh caught the sight of sunlight flashing against polished armor.

  They had found the dwarven army.

  Chapter 14: Dwarven Steel

  “This way,” said Ridmark, heading towards the approaching dwarven scouts.

  He dismissed Caledhmaer, letting the sword dissolve into sparks, though he still felt its power against his mind, waiting to be called forth again. The manetaurs would have regarded anyone who approached them without weapons as weak, and they might even have been offended. The dwarves, however, would view someone approaching them with a drawn sword as a hostile act.

  “I wonder how they knew to find us here,” said Calliande.

  Third glanced over her shoulder as they walked. “Likely the smoke drew them.”

  Ridmark looked back. The battle had set a good quantity of grass ablaze, and the smoke rose upward, stark against the blue sky. It would be visible for miles.

  “The Dragon Knight,” said Third, “does use a great deal of fire in battle.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “It works.”

  They kept walking, and they drew closer to a dwarven patrol. Dozens of dwarven warriors marched in formation, wearing bronze-colored armor of dwarven steel, shields on their left arms and swords in their right hands. That metal was one of the reasons the dwarves were so formidable on the battlefield. Every soldier in the armies of the Three Kingdoms, no matter how poor, wore armor of dwarven steel. Combined with their discipline and engineering skill, it was little wonder that Khald Tormen had never fallen to any foes.

  Of course, the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves had once been nine. From what Ridmark had seen of the dwarves, it was astonishing that the dark elves and the urdmordar had managed to destroy six of their kingdoms.

  As he drew closer, he spotted a screen of scouts around the dwarven patrol. Unlike the rest of the warriors, the scouts wore armor of gray chain mail. At least, the mail started out gray, but as they moved, by the craft of the dwarven smiths the armor took on the color of their surroundings. Right now, their armor was the mottled green and brown of the field around them.

  Ridmark came to a stop as the scouts approached. He recognized the leader of the scouts, a weathered-looking dwarf of middle years, a scar twisting his bearded lip into a perpetual scowl. The dwarves prized stoicism and taciturnity, though the scout nonetheless had the grizzled, cynical air shared by a veteran decurion or optio.

  “Malzuraxis,” called Ridmark.

  “Lord magister,” said Malzuraxis, offering a polite bow. “Lady Third, Lady Keeper, and…ah, Prince Azaanbar.”

  “It is good to see you again, Malzuraxis,” said Caius. “The last time we visited, we brought chaos in our wake, and I fear we bring more.”

  Malzuraxis snorted. “Begging your pardon, lord Prince, but you’ve already done that with your human god. But we’ve a war to fight, don’t we? The Taalmak will want to talk with you. Come with me, please.”

  Ridmark nodded, and they followed Malzuraxis to the dwarven warriors. The soldiers had come to a stop, watching the newcomers, and the leader removed his helmet. He looked young for a dwarf, no more than a century old, and wore the armor of a Taalmak, the dwarven equivalent to a knight. The dwarf’s beard and hair were jet-black, and his eyes looked like disks of polished malachite. Around his neck, he wore a slender chain supporting a small cross fashioned of dwarven steel. Some of the warriors wore the crosses, mostly the younger men, while other did not.

  “Taa
lmak Azakhun,” said Ridmark.

  “Lord magister,” said Azakhun. “It is good to see you again. The armies of the Three Kingdoms have marched to war against the Frostborn, and we are eager to come to grips with the foe.”

  “Can you take us to King Axazamar and Prince Narzaxar?” said Ridmark. “We have news that they will want to hear.”

  “Of course,” said Azakhun. “We shall be honored to escort you. This way.”

  ###

  About ten minutes later, Calliande saw the first taalkrazdor.

  It lumbered along on the outskirts of the dwarven army, its large strides covering distance quickly, the earth shivering a beneath the massive weight of its metal footfalls. The armor stood a dozen feet high. Glyphs of harsh white light blazed on its legs and arms and cuirass, and the faceplate of its helmet had been wrought in a stylized dwarven face. This taalkrazdor had a hammer for a left hand, and in its right hand, it carried a huge sword.

  It looked like a colossal statue of dwarven steel that had somehow come to life. Yet Calliande knew that it was a suit of magical armor, one of the supreme achievements of the stonescribes and armorers of the dwarves. Within the taalkrazdor was a dwarven warrior, and that suit of magical armor allowed that warrior fight a small army on his own.

  And the dwarves had hundreds of the things. Calliande saw dozens of them striding up and down the sides of the column. That many taalkrazdors gathered together was a titanic force.

  The host of the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms was no less impressive.

  It spread out across the plains of Kothluusk like a sea of dwarven steel, taalkrazdors rising from its midst like metal towers. Both scouts with crossbows and taalkrazdors screened the flanks of the marching columns, and Calliande doubted that anything moved within ten miles without the dwarves’ knowledge. She also spotted mobile ballistae on wagons pulled by pairs of dwarven soldiers, similar to the ones that Arandar had ordered built. Evidently, the dwarves had experienced similar problems with frost drake raiders.

  Azakhun and Malzuraxis led them deeper into the host. Calliande saw thousands of wagons pulled by teams of murrags, the truculent lizards that dwelled in the Deeps. She also saw the dwarves riding on Kothluuskan horses, short, shaggy beasts with thick legs and wide hooves compared to the horses common in Andomhaim. The Deeps were a hostile environment for horses, but the dwarves lived in both the Deeps and on the surface, and they bred the horses in the valleys they controlled in the mountains of Kothluusk. The Mhorite orcs coveted the horses and stole them whenever they could get away with it.

  Though since Ridmark had killed Mournacht on the slopes of the Black Mountain and the host of Kothluusk had been slaughtered below the walls of Dun Licinia, Calliande supposed the Mhorites had been less troublesome of late.

  A party of horsemen rode behind one of the marching columns of dwarven warriors, flying red banners adorned with golden dwarven glyphs. Calliande recognized the royal glyphs of Khald Tormen upon the banners. The dwarves on horseback wore the armor of powerful lords or the simple robes of stonescribes.

  Two of the older dwarves caught her attention. One of them had a fringe of white hair, and deep lines marked his face. It was almost as if she could see a map of his many years written into his gray skin. He had eyes like blue marble, and he wore the ornate armor of a Taalkhan of the dwarves, a prince of the royal house, the dwarven steel adorned with inlays of gold and silver. His helmet rested upon the horn of his saddle, the faceplate adorned an image of a dwarf’s bearded face in silver. Despite his age, Prince Narzaxar had fought with fury in the final terrible battle before the Stone Heart.

  The dwarf riding next to him was even older. King Axazamar of Khald Tormen wore armor just as magnificent as his younger brother’s, though a diadem of dwarven steel rested upon his bald head. Narzaxar looked elderly, but Axazamar seemed ancient. The lines in his face were as deep as canyons, his beard as white as ice. Yet his blue eyes were clear and calm and sharp, and they fell upon Calliande with all the weight of his great age.

  And both men looked like Caius. If Caius lived another century, he would look like Prince Narzaxar. A century and a half, and he would look like King Axazamar.

  “My King,” said Azakhun with a bow. “I have the honor to present Calliande, the Keeper of Andomhaim, Ridmark Arban, the magister militum of Nightmane Forest, Lady Third of Nightmane Forest, and the Taalkhan Azaanbar, who has taken the name Brother Caius during his time with the humans.”

  “And in his devotion to the human god,” said Narzaxar. There was a flicker of dry humor in his deep voice, which was as close as the Taalkhan would ever come to making a joke. “Perhaps you shall take a new name as well, Taalmak.”

  Azakhun hesitated. “I do not feel called to the priesthood, lord Taalkhan.”

  “Just as well,” said Narzaxar. “We need every blade and axe and bow in the days to come.”

  “Thank you for bringing them before us,” said Axazamar, and Azakhun bowed again. They fell in around the horses of the King and his brother, flanked by the high nobles and the stonescribes and the Taalmaks of the King’s guard. “It is good to see you again. You showed yourself to be true friends of Khald Tormen when you stopped the Sculptor and his treachery.”

  Calliande frowned. “I fear that was partly my doing. The Sculptor had hidden himself in Khald Tormen because he knew I was coming.”

  “Do not blame yourself, Keeper,” said Narzaxar. “The Sculptor also desired to unlock the power of the Stone Heart and intended to use you as his key. Had you not come, no doubt he would have found some other method…and we would not have had your wisdom and the Gray Knight’s valor to defeat the trap.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said Caius, “his wonders to perform.”

  Narzaxar looked at his younger brother and snorted. “Or perhaps the gods of stone and silence had decreed that we should not yet pass into the eternal silence beyond death.”

  “Whatever fate might await us beyond the mortal coil, we would have met it sooner without your help,” said King Axazamar with some asperity. Calliande suspected he had grown weary of the theological debate in Khald Tormen over the teachings of the church. “And we may yet meet it sooner than we wish. The Keeper did not exaggerate when she spoke of the power of the Frostborn. They have returned with their full fury and strength, just as they did in the days of my father.”

  “You have fought the Frostborn already, lord King?” said Ridmark.

  “Twice,” said Axazamar.

  “Twice they have tried to assassinate the King and the chief nobles and magistrates of the Three Kingdoms,” said Narzaxar, “while riding their winged frost drakes. Fortunately, the stonescribes prepared protections in the event of such an attack.” He tapped his bracers, and the pieces of armor suddenly glowed with fiery dwarven glyphs. “Our siege engines then brought down the drakes, and the taalkrazdors ripped the Frostborn apart.”

  “The Frostborn attempted the same tactic on High King Arandar several times,” said Third. “Fortunately, we were able to thwart them.”

  “Then Arandar is indeed the High King of a reunified Andomhaim?” said Narzaxar. “Queen Mara said she had heard rumors when we spoke with her ten days ago, but she could not yet confirm it.”

  Calliande blinked. Ten days? That wasn’t right. The battle of Dun Calpurnia had only been two days ago. She started to say something, then saw Ridmark give a quick shake of his head.

  “It is true, lord King,” said Ridmark. “Arandar defeated the traitor Tarrabus Carhaine outside the walls of Tarlion and claimed the High Kingship of Andomhaim. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Caius snorted. “And you participated rather more directly.”

  “Yes, no doubt,” said Axazamar with the same flash of dry humor that his brother had displayed. “Having seen you wield a taalkrazdor, I can believe that.”

  “We have other news for you as well,” said Calliande. “The High King marched to Dun Calpurnia, hoping to meet you, the manetaurs, and the
Anathgrimm there.”

  “A logical place,” said Narzaxar.

  “Unfortunately, the Frostborn struck before you could arrive,” said Calliande. “Arandar managed to repulse them, but he had no choice but to fall back to Tarlion.”

  “Tarlion?” said Axazamar. “Why Tarlion? That is a long way from the Northerland.”

  “Because the Frostborn believe that seizing the Well of Tarlion will guarantee their victory over their foes,” said Calliande.

  “That makes no military sense,” said Narzaxar. “If the Frostborn advance from the Northerland and attack Tarlion, they will leave themselves exposed on their flanks and their strongholds in the Northerland vulnerable to attack. Their previous strategy of slow, methodical conquest would have served them better.”

  “It would have,” said Calliande, looking at her husband, “but they were persuaded otherwise. Which leads us to the other piece of news we must share with you.”

  “The Dragon Knight has been found,” said Ridmark.

  “He has?” said Axazamar. “That is excellent news. In the last war, the Dragon Knight’s power was instrumental in our victory. Where is he?”

  “Behold,” said Ridmark, and he extended his hand. Sparks and flame swirled in his grasp, and the sword of red gold appeared in his fingers, the blade bursting into fire. A murmur went up through the dwarven nobles and the stonescribes, and some of the stonescribes reached for batons or tablets of dwarven steel carved with glowing glyphs.

  “Ah,” said Axazamar. “That is good news indeed. It seems you are to serve as the Dragon Knight’s successor, Lord Ridmark? Perhaps I should not be surprised. It is a rare human who could seize control of a taalkrazdor and use it to duel a shapeshifting demon. Where was the sword hidden, might I ask?”

  “Cathair Solas,” said Ridmark. “The high elves had it in their keeping.”