Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  The walls of Tarlion looked unassailable, and as Gavin followed Arandar and the others, he saw why Tarlion had stood for a thousand years, why the dark elves and the pagan orcs and the urdmordar had failed again and again to take the High King’s city.

  Though because the walls were so high, Gavin had a good look at the vast horde assembling north of Tarlion.

  And that horde might be able to succeed where so many others had failed.

  Locusari scouts constantly circled over the city, flying high enough to stay out of range of both the crossbows and the siege engines, though Antenora had been able to blast a few out of the sky. Arandar had finally asked her to stop doing that since she was of tremendous value to the host of Andomhaim, and she should only reveal her position when necessary. Though Gavin supposed the locusari already knew the position of every soldier in Tarlion. Their patrols overhead never ceased.

  The Frostborn themselves had established their camp several miles north of the city, inside a glittering fort of glacial ice and earthworks that the khaldjari had raised. South of the fort a score of camps holding medvarth warriors had gone up, and Gavin guessed that each one was large enough to hold ten thousand medvarth. In the space between the fortified camps khaldjari engineers were hard at work, assembling siege engines and what looked like massive towers of iron and wood. The locusari warriors had no need of tents, and they waited in motionless rows.

  In front of the camps of the enemy army stood revenants, tens of thousands of revenants, their eyes and shoulders shining with ghostly blue fire. Gavin had hoped that Ridmark had destroyed the entirety of the enemy revenants at Dun Calpurnia, but that had proven optimistic. The revenants stood in a thin line before the enemy camps, spread out to cover the entire host. Their line was thin, and a wedge of horsemen could break through them with ease, but they would slow any sortie long enough for the Frostborn to answer.

  A dozen frost drakes circled over the enemy camps, keeping out of range of the ballistae. Sometimes one of the drakes landed, no doubt to rest, but another took to the air, wings beating. Gavin looked northwest to the frozen ribbon of the Moradel, and the icy river was choked with a line of carts pulled by ox-sized insect-like beasts that Gavin had never seen before. Camorak had seen them in the Northerland, and he said the Frostborn called them maurzechts. Evidently, the Frostborn used them as beasts of burden, and sometimes the medvarth killed them for food, though the medvarth would eat almost anything.

  “A vast host,” said Gavin in a quiet voice.

  He half-expected Antenora to say that it was small compared to some of the wars she had seen in centuries past on Old Earth, but she only nodded. “A vast host, and a strong one. I see no weaknesses in it at all. Sometimes an army is large and lacks discipline, or cannot feed itself. The Frostborn discipline their soldiers with iron brutality and they have taken great care to ensure that they are well-supplied.”

  “Our position here is strong,” said Gavin.

  “It is,” said Antenora. “The strongest I have seen in Andomhaim, save perhaps for the kingdoms of the dwarves. I hope it will be enough.” She sighed. “I wish the Keeper were here.”

  “She will return,” said Gavin. “She and Ridmark both, and they’ll bring the dwarves and the manetaurs with them. You saw how the manetaurs fight. Imagine fifteen thousand of them charging the medvarth. Or remember the taalkrazdors? A hundred of them hitting the Frostborn at once would make them take notice.”

  “You are right,” said Antenora. “It...this is the end, Gavin Swordbearer. Either we shall defeat the Frostborn, or we shall all perish together.”

  Gavin nodded, a lump in his throat as he thought about it. If they were victorious, if they defeated the Frostborn, Antenora would have fulfilled her promise to Calliande. Her curse would be lifted, and she would die at last.

  And if they failed…well, they would all die anyway.

  He tried to put it from his mind.

  But looking at that vast army, he feared that it was likely that they were all about to die.

  The High King’s party came to the ramparts over the northern gate, overlooking the pitted fields that had once held the siege walls. Several of the chief nobles stood there, including Dux Leogrance, Dux Constantine, Dux Kors, the two orcish kings, Prince Cadwall, and Queen Mara. Gavin exchanged nods with Constantine as Arandar came to a stop. It seemed odd that his friend was now the Dux of the Northerland. They had fought alongside each other in a hundred battles and had drunk too much together in the camp. Now Constantine occupied the place that old Gareth Licinius had once filled, though at the moment the Frostborn ruled what had once been the Northerland.

  Prince Cadwall had cleaned and polished his armor and wore a flowing cloak adorned with the green dragon sigil of Cintarra. Since Gavin had come to Andomhaim, he had heard that the knights of Cintarra put great stock in their courtly traditions, that they enjoyed tales of dashing knights and fair ladies, and they liked to look the part of the heroes of their tales. Mara stood next to Cadwall, wearing blue dark elven armor over her black clothing, a crown of blue dark elven steel on her pale hair. She looked the part of some fierce dark elven noblewoman out of the distant past, albeit she was a little too short for the part.

  “Your Majesty,” said Sir Corbanic, turning from the battlements. “It seems the enemy has come for us.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” said Arandar. “And in vast numbers, too.”

  “At least two hundred thousand strong, all told,” said Dux Sebastian in a quiet voice. “Maybe a quarter of a million.”

  Gavin blinked. The number stunned him. A quarter of a million? He couldn’t even visualize such a vast host of warriors. Though come to think of it, he didn’t need to imagine it. He just had to look over the battlements and see the horde for himself.

  “A quarter of a million,” said Dux Tormark. He looked like an older and somewhat thicker version of Ridmark, with the same cold blue eyes and black hair, though right now he looked as grim as Ridmark. “My father used to say that to take a fortified place, you needed ten men for every man atop the walls.”

  “We’re in good stead, then,” said Prince Cadwall. “Between our men, the Anathgrimm, and the warriors of the orcish kings, we’ve nearly fifty thousand men under arms. The Frostborn are short by a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers.” His tone was light, but his face was as grim as Tormark’s.

  “That does not consider the magic of the Frostborn,” said Master Vesilius.

  “No,” said Arandar. “But we have our own magic with the Magistri and the Swordbearers, and the magical defenses that the Keepers of old built.” For some reason, he looked towards the northern gate as he said that, and then shook his head and kept speaking. “Our position is far stronger here than it was at Dun Calpurnia. I would say we have even odds against the Frostborn, especially since we know their true reasons for attacking Tarlion. If we are to serve as the anvil and the armies of the dwarves and the manetaurs as the hammer, then by God we shall be an unyielding anvil.”

  Qhazulak grunted. “Perhaps the Frostborn shall learn that the hard way.”

  “We can hope,” said Arandar.

  “Maybe we should consider launching a cavalry sortie,” said Prince Cadwall. “The line of revenants is thin enough. If we hit hard, we can punch through and disrupt the khaldjari and their work upon the siege engines.”

  Arandar shook his head. “No. Not yet, anyway. Those revenants are a feint and a lure.”

  “To see if the Dragon Knight is here,” said Mara.

  “Yes,” said Arandar. “He smashed their revenants at Dun Calpurnia. Those revenants are also here to slow down any horsemen. If we try to punch through with a cavalry sortie, the medvarth will organize to stop us, and I suspect they have cogitaers ready to attack.”

  “I think you are right, High King,” said Mara, shading her eyes for a moment. Gavin wondered if that helped with the Sight. “I can see cogitaers holding magical power ready to strike.”

  “Well, if the en
emy has laid a trap for us, we shall not walk into it,” said Arandar. “Not until we can turn it upon them.”

  “Very well,” said Prince Cadwall. “But it chafes to sit behind these walls and do nothing after all the losses they inflicted upon us at Dun Calpurnia.”

  Gavin knew Arandar well enough to see the flicker of pain that went over the older man’s face. “Agreed. But as at Dun Calpurnia, delay and time are on our side. The longer we hold here, the longer we have for the Dragon Knight to bring allies to our aid.”

  Qhazulak let out another rumble. “Something comes.”

  Mara pointed. “A large group of locusari scouts. They’re heading for the gate.”

  “An attempt at assassination?” said Qhazulak. “Many of our captains have gathered here.”

  “No, that’s not it,” said Arandar. “We’ve seen this before.”

  A chill went through Gavin, accompanying a premonition of impending doom. It had happened just like this at Dun Calpurnia. The locusari scouts had come with an offer of parley, and the battle had begun soon after.

  A flight of about fifty locusari scouts landed before the northern gate. Hundreds of crossbowmen leveled their weapons. Arandar turned and gave a command to Dux Tormark, and the order to hold fire was shouted up and down the battlements.

  As one, the locusari scouts rotated their heads to look up at them.

  “We come with a message for the High King of Andomhaim,” said the fifty locusari. Their voices sounded like tearing metal, a ghastly droning shriek, but they spoke flawless Latin without a trace of an accent. Gavin thought that if a machine could somehow speak, it would sound like that.

  “A parley again?” said Prince Cadwall. “Why bother?”

  “We come with a message for the High King of Andomhaim,” said the locusari again.

  “They will repeat that until you answer or we shoot them,” said Mara.

  “Aye,” said Arandar. “Well, if we must play this game again, then play it we shall. Delay advantages us, not the Frostborn.”

  He climbed onto the battlements, looking down at the locusari scouts.

  “I am Arandar Pendragon, High King of Andomhaim!” he shouted. “You have a message for me?”

  “The High Lord Kajaldrakthor, Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard, extends an invitation,” said the locusari scouts. “He wishes to meet you at the halfway point between the walls and the host of the High Lords to discuss matters of importance.”

  It was identical to the message they had offered before the battle of Dun Calpurnia.

  “Do you think it might be a trap?” said Tormark. “They gave us the same speech at Dun Calpurnia.”

  “They let us go after the parley,” said Arandar, “even after Imaria Licinius almost provoked a fight.”

  “They might intend to lure you into a trap and kill you,” said Tormark, “after allowing the first parley to pass without incident.”

  The locusari repeated their invitation to parley again.

  “I doubt that,” said Mara. “The Frostborn are nothing if not arrogant. They are practical and cold and rational, but they are also arrogant. They will let you go to the parley and return unharmed because they are confident they can take Tarlion and kill us all anyway.”

  And Gavin knew the Frostborn might be powerful enough to back up that arrogance. If not for Ridmark, they would have made good their threats at Dun Calpurnia.

  The locusari repeated their invitation a third time.

  “Agreed,” said Arandar, and he looked down at the locusari scouts and shouted his acceptance of their offer.

  A moment later Arandar and his guard descended from the ramparts.

  ###

  Mara settled into her saddle, adjusting the reins. She had never been more than an indifferent rider, and had always preferred her own feet. After she had gained control of dark elven blood, she had been able to travel faster than a horse anyway. But she was the Queen of Nightmane Forest, and she supposed it was proper that she would take a horse to the parley with the Frostborn.

  She wanted to see them with her own eyes. Well, that wasn’t quite right. She had fought the Frostborn in the Northerland, had helped kill a few of them with her own hands. But she had never stood a few yards away from a Frostborn and spoken with one. It would accomplish nothing. She knew what the Frostborn were, and what they wanted to do. Talking to them would change nothing.

  But nevertheless, she still wanted to talk to them at least once.

  Next to her, Jager stirred in his saddle, adjusting his armor. He was wearing his dark elven armor, which relieved her, just in case the Frostborn decided on treachery. She could tell that it pleased him a little to be riding with so many lords and knights as an equal, though he would never admit it.

  “Ready?” said Master Marhand, who was commanding the High King’s guard for the parley. A strong guard of Swordbearers and Magistri would accompany Arandar, Gavin, Antenora, Sir Valmark, and Kharlacht with them. Mara and Jager would ride with them as well, while Prince Cadwall and Dux Tormark and the orcish kings would remain behind to command the city in the event of treachery.

  “We are ready, Master Marhand,” said Arandar. “Lead the way.”

  Marhand shouted a command, and with a series of metallic clangs and booming thuds, the massive northern gates of Tarlion swung open. They put spurs to their horses and then rode onto the scarred field north of the city. The waiting locusari scouts took to the air, their gossamer wings blurring. They split into two groups. Mara wondered if they intended to attack, but then the locusari scouts settled on either side of them to form an escort.

  They rode north towards the waiting line of revenants. The line of undead parted, and a score of armored Frostborn warriors strode forth, their swords in their sheaths over their shoulders. They were approaching without weapons in hand, which was good. Of course, they didn’t need weapons to kill. Mara’s Sight stirred within her as the Frostborn approached, and she saw the cold magic that animated the revenants and gave their dead flesh its killing, freezing touch. She also saw the radiant power within the Frostborn. Each Frostborn was a well of power, and it reminded her of the power that had surrounded the urdmordar Rhogrimnalazur. The Frostborn were power, and it was little wonder they thought that power gave them the right, even the duty, to conquer all other kindreds and order the cosmos as they pleased.

  Arandar and his guard reined up halfway between the walls and the waiting revenants. The Frostborn strode towards them and stopped a dozen yards away.

  Mara gazed at her enemies. Each one of them stood eight to ten feet tall, clad in gray armor the color of old, hard ice, their greatswords sheathed over their shoulders. Their crystalline skin glittered beneath their spike-crowned helmets. Blue fire flowed through their veins, visible through the crystalline skin, and their eyes burned with harsh blue-white light, like the sunlight reflecting on a frozen lake in the utter heart of winter.

  One of the Frostborn stepped forward. His armor was more ornate with the others, carved with reliefs showing strange, geometric scenes. His burning white eyes swept over them and then settled on Arandar.

  “We meet again, High King Arandar Pendragon,” said the Frostborn in Latin, his voice deep and melodious. It almost sounded like thunder, if thunder could speak.

  “Lord Commander Kajaldrakthor,” said Arandar. “We do indeed meet again.”

  “You have acquired additional allies since our last encounter,” said Kajaldrakthor. His burning eyes shifted to Mara and Qhazulak and the other Anathgrimm of the Queen’s Guard. “The mutated orcs who fought us for so long in the Northerland.”

  Qhazulak said nothing but scowled behind his tusks.

  “You could speak more respectfully to them,” said Jager, brushing some dust from his sleeve. Mara doubted there was any dust there. It was just a gesture he used to feign disinterest. “If they caused you such trouble.”

  “They did,” said Kajaldrakthor without rancor. “Their raids forced us to set back the tim
etable for our conquest of this world by five to seven years. Rarely have we faced such effective and determined resistance.”

  “Your medvarth fought valiantly,” said Qhazulak. “It did not save them in the end, though.”

  “Nor will it save you in the end,” said Kajaldrakthor. His glowing eyes turned to Mara. “You are the ruler of the Anathgrimm now? The Order of the Inquisition said that you slew your dark elven father and took control of his armies.”

  “That’s correct,” said Mara.

  “The ferocity of your soldiers has earned you a place within the Dominion of the Assembly of the High Lords,” said Kajaldrakthor. “Join us, and you and your mutant orcs shall serve us as vassals of the Assembly. You shall retain sovereignty over your own lands, and if you wish, you can be appointed as governor of any nation or kindred you wish once the conquest of your world is complete.”

  “You ask me to betray my friends in exchange for power?” said Mara. “That is an offensive offer, Lord Commander. We do not look kindly upon traitors here.”

  “Your primitive moralizing is obsolete,” said Kajaldrakthor. “The High Lords shall conquer and perfect the cosmos. You may aid us and take your place in the Dominion as our vassals. You may serve us as slaves. Or you may be exterminated as unfit.”

  “Those aren’t very good choices,” said Jager. “Are all Frostborn so terrible at negotiating?”