It went on and on.
“Ridmark.”
A warm hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked up, blinking. Calliande stood over him, smiling. His concentration wavered, and he almost lost his mental grasp on Caledhmaer.
“Aye?” he said, his voice raw.
“They’re all through the gates, even the supply wagons,” said Calliande. “I think you can release the power now.”
Ridmark nodded, drew in a deep breath, and released the power. The sword responded, and both gates snapped shut. Ridmark got back to his feet, his knees and back and shoulders aching, and blinked.
He was surrounded by an army.
Two armies, in fact.
As far as he could see stood dwarven warriors, dwarven siege engines, proud manetaurs in chain mail, tygrai warriors marching in ranks, and taalkrazdors standing like bronze pillars. It was a vast host, and had it been at the battlefield following Tarrabus’s betrayal, it would have smashed the Frostborn and sent them fleeing back to their world gate in disarray.
Would it be enough now? The Frostborn were far stronger than they had been on the day Tarrabus and the Weaver and Imaria had murdered Uthanaric Pendragon.
“King Axazamar and Red King Turcontar agreed upon a plan of battle while their armies passed through the gates,” said Calliande. “The dwarven warriors will form up in the center with the tygrai, and the taalkrazdors will take the right wing and the manetaurs the left. Both the taalkrazdors and the manetaurs will strike simultaneously, hoping to break through the lines of the Frostborn, and the dwarves and the tygrai will attack through any gaps we make.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark, rolling his aching shoulders. It was a good plan. It was what he would have suggested, and indeed it was the only reasonable course of action. “When will they march?”
“They already are,” said Calliande, her voice tight.
“They ought to be arriving at Tarlion within the next two hours,” said Third.
“We should go with them,” said Ridmark. The power of the Keeper and the sword of the Dragon Knight would be needed in the battle to come.
“Aye, they’re not far,” said Caius, pointing. A few hundred yards away Ridmark saw Turcontar and Axazamar and their chief nobles. The dwarves’ horses did not care for the manetaurs but were well-trained enough not to bolt.
“Let’s join them,” said Ridmark. “We can then go where we are needed when the battle begins.”
“Agreed,” said Calliande. “We…”
Her voice trailed off. Even as it did, Ridmark saw a ripple of surprise in the ranks of the advancing warriors. Some of them turned, looking at the sky, and the orderly lines of both dwarven and tygrai ranks faltered. Ridmark looked up, wondering if the Frostborn had launched an attack with their frost drakes or locusari scouts, or if Imaria had unleashed more war beasts of the dark elves.
No. Any attack would have come from the south.
The tygrai and the manetaurs were staring to the north.
Ridmark turned and saw Cathair Solas.
The last city of the high elves rested on its platform of rough stone a thousand feet above the ground. The white towers glittered in the sun, still revolving slowly around the central tower even as the city’s shadow rolled across the ground. Cathair Solas was moving south, and Ridmark saw hundreds of small shapes circling around the towers. They were the bladeweavers and the magi of the high elves riding on the backs of their griffin mounts, escorting Cathair Solas as the city flew south to war.
“God and the apostles preserve us,” said Caius. “I forgot what a sight that is.”
“I suggest we speak to the kings,” said Third. “They may not view the sight of a flying city with calm equanimity.”
“No,” said Calliande, and she led the way to the royal parties. The dwarven taalmaks and the manetaur khalaths parted to let them pass, and Ridmark saw King Axazamar, Red King Turcontar, Prince Narzaxar, and Red Prince Curzonar gazing at Cathair Solas.
“What is it?” said Turcontar.
“I do not know, Red King,” said the arbiter Tazemazar, purple fire flickering around his claws as he cast a spell. “I do not know. But the magic is beyond anything I have ever seen.”
“Keeper,” said Axazamar. “Do you know what this is?”
“I do, King of Khald Tormen,” said Calliande. “The high elves are coming to aid us against the Frostborn.”
“The high elves?” said Curzonar. “They died out long ago.”
“No,” said Axazamar. “The records of the stonescribes speak of our ancestors' meetings with the high elves, though I have never seen one with my own eyes.”
“Someone had to found the Swordbearers and the Magistri among the humans,” said Narzaxar in a dry voice.
“But the high elves have not come forth from their city in strength for thousands of years,” said Axazamar. “They do not trouble themselves with the affairs of other kindreds. Why have they come now?”
“Because,” said Ridmark, and all eyes turned towards him. He looked up and saw two griffins descending towards them. “The Dragon Knight has always commanded the high elves in war, and I commanded them to join us.”
“They will fight alongside us against the Frostborn?” said Curzonar.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “The magic of the arbiters and the stonescribes is strong, but the magic of the high elves is stronger yet. We will need their aid against the Frostborn.” He looked as the two griffins dove towards the ground. One of the griffins’ riders wore golden armor and a winged helm, but the second wore a long red coat and carried a staff of red metal with a strange light on the end. “And I think they are coming to greet us.”
The two griffins landed, and the manetaurs and the dwarves watched with a mixture of wariness and wonder. Rhyannis and Ardrhythain dismounted from the backs of their animals as Cathair Solas drew ever nearer overhead.
“Greetings, King of Khald Tormen and Red King of the Range,” said Ardrhythain as he stopped a half-dozen yards away. “I am Ardrhythain, the last archmage of the Cathair Solas, and at the bidding of the Dragon Knight we have come to war against the Frostborn.”
The kings and their guards stared the two high elves.
Axazamar spoke first. “Your name is known to us, Ardrhythain of Cathair Solas, but we never thought to see you in the flesh.”
“Or your city,” said Curzonar. “Which is flying.”
Ardrhythain inclined his head. “I had hoped you would not see me in the flesh, for it is not the place of the high elves to rule the fate of other kindreds. Such was the folly of the dark elves who sought to conquer you, such as the Sculptor or the Jeweler or the Confessor.”
“Then what has brought you forth now?” said Turcontar.
“This is the end,” said Ardrhythain. “The Dragon Knight and the Keeper have told you the true nature of our foe, I trust. The shadow of Incariel destroyed my kindred, and now only a remnant of us remains. Our time has passed, and it is now the time of your kindreds. But the shadow of Incariel will destroy you unless it is stopped, and not even a remnant shall remain as the world is plunged into eternal chaos and madness. That is why we have come forth to fight, for this is the last battle of our war.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Turcontar loosed a rumbling growl. “Bah! If the Frostborn think to destroy us all, then we shall teach them the price of their folly.”
“Well spoken, Red King,” said Ardrhythain. “For the shadow of Incariel can be resisted. The price is high, but it can be resisted.”
“Will you aid us?” said Narzaxar.
“I shall,” said Ardrhythain. “Your plan of battle was obvious from the air, and it is sound. If you engage the warriors of the Frostborn, our magi and bladeweavers will contest with the magic of the Frostborn themselves. That will keep the Frostborn from bringing their magic to bear against you, and leave you free to engage their warriors without interference.”
“Then we shall welcome your aid,” said Turcontar.
“I am glad,” said Ardrhythain. “Your Majesties, I will leave you to command your forces. We shall not interfere with you, unless it is necessary to aid you or the Dragon Knight commands it.”
“Very well, archmage,” said Axazamar. “Then we welcome you, and hope we are victorious against our foes.”
The kings continued on their way as their hosts marched south, though they sent messengers to their captains, telling them that the flying city was on their side and that the high elves of legend had joined the battle against the Frostborn.
Ridmark supposed that would only boost morale.
He looked to see Calliande frowning at Ardrhythain.
###
The armies of the dwarves and the manetaurs and the tygrai marched south.
In another hour, maybe two, Calliande thought, they would meet the Frostborn in battle below the walls of Tarlion.
Yet she stared at Ardrhythain, a fear stirring in her mind.
It was his red staff.
The strange rings spun and slid around each other, faster and faster, and the light at the end of the staff was getting brighter. To Calliande’s eyes, the staff blazed with magical power…and it mirrored the spells that were keeping the massive weight of Cathair Solas suspended in the air. The flying city moved slowly, but it nonetheless followed the march of the army.
What would happen when it reached Tarlion?
Ardrhythain saw her looking at him, and she stepped closer.
“What is the Final Defense?” she said in a quiet voice.
“Do you not yet know?” said Ardrhythain.
“No,” said Calliande.
“The last weapon,” said Ardrhythain. “The one we never hoped to use.”
“If you hope not to use it,” said Calliande, “then why did you bring it?”
“Because we may lose the battle,” said Ardrhythain. “You and the Dragon Knight have done well. As well as you could have done. The combined force of the army you will throw against the Frostborn is powerful. Yet the Frostborn are also strong, and their magic may well be stronger than our own. And if this battle is lost, Imaria Shadowbearer will take the Well and free Incariel, and the world shall be plunged into chaos and madness for eternity.”
“I know that already,” said Calliande.
“We cannot allow that to happen,” said Ardrhythain. “Billions of lives and tens of thousands of generations yet unborn will perish. The Final Defense will save them, if necessary.” He drew himself up. “God go with you, Keeper of Andomhaim, and be with you in the battle to come.”
He turned and climbed onto his griffin, and he and Rhyannis took to the air once more.
“What was that about?” said Ridmark.
“I…don’t know,” said Calliande. “But whatever happens, we have to stop Imaria.”
Because if Ardrhythain used the Final Defense, if he employed the weapon to stop Imaria, she suspected the cost would be horrendous.
Ridmark nodded, and they joined the kings as the army marched to battle.
Chapter 21: Last Stand
Gavin stared in horror at the ruined gate.
He knew what that meant. With the gate destroyed, the Frostborn had created a weak point in the defenses of the city. Their hordes would pour towards the gate, and the men and orcs of Andomhaim would have to fight in the Forum of the North to hold them back. Already Gavin saw a huge river of medvarth warriors sprinting for the wrecked gate, their roars sounding like thunder booming across the plains.
And still the siege towers rolled towards the walls, the locusari warriors charging with their frozen poles.
“What…what should we do, sir?” said one of the militiamen, clutching his spear.
“We hold here!” snapped the knight commanding this section of the wall. “The High King’s banner is down there, he can hold the broken gate. More siege towers are coming, and if they get a foothold on the wall, we’re finished.”
He wasn’t wrong. Another siege tower was approaching their position, with two more only a few hundred yards behind it. If the medvarth got onto the ramparts, they could flank the men fighting in the Forum of the North. Or if the Frostborn forced their way into the city, they could trap the men still on the ramparts.
“Take cover!” said Antenora.
Gavin looked up just as the frost drake dove towards them.
His first thought was that the drake would not be able to harm them. The magical defenses of Tarlion’s walls had stopped the icy breath earlier. But now the plume of white mist plunged towards them, and Gavin realized that the destruction of the gate had broken the magical defenses.
He started to raise Truthseeker in defense, but Antenora struck first.
She thrust her staff over her head, and a cone of fire erupted from it. The frost drake’s breath crossed the fire, and both exploded into a plume of hissing steam. The drake let out a furious screech and turned away, and as it did, a ballista bolt from the wall caught it on the side. The drake’s screech of anger redoubled, and its Frostborn rider turned the creature away.
Three more frost drakes soared overhead, ignoring the walls and flying over the city, pouring their freezing breath on houses and workshops. Most likely they wanted to cause chaos behind the walls, hindering the army of Andomhaim as it rushed through the streets to the defense of the city.
“Here they come!” said the knight, and the siege tower shuddered forward another few yards, the hinges squealing as the ramp began to fall.
Kharlacht raised his greatsword, the blade stained with medvarth blood. Gavin took a deep breath, rolled his aching shoulders, and lifted his shield, his soulblade drawn back to strike. Camorak began another spell, as did Antenora.
Gavin shared a brief look with her, and he saw the resignation on her gaunt face and in her yellow eyes. She had never been optimistic about their chances, and with the gate shattered, she had decided that defeat seemed certain.
He found that he could not disagree with her.
It seemed they would die side-by-side after all.
The ramp fell from the tower, and once again Gavin fought for his life.
###
“Tell them to keep shooting,” said Arandar. “The fewer of them that reach the gate, the fewer we’ll have to kill the hard way.”
Corbanic turned and relayed the order. The attack of Imaria and the Frostborn had shattered the northern gate, but the nearby ramparts were intact and manned with crossbowmen, archers, and siege engines. The men upon the walls near the gate turned their fire on the mass of medvarth and locusari charging towards the city, and quarrels and arrows and ballista bolts fell like a rain of iron. Medvarth screamed and died, pierced and crushed, but there were so many of them that the rain of missiles made little difference.
Ahead of Arandar waited a wall of men-at-arms, shields raised to create an interlocking wall in the fashion of the Romans of old. Swordbearers waited before them, soulblades burning in their hands, and behind the men-at-arms stood companies of Anathgrimm, their black eyes already starting to gleam with the faint red light of orcish battle rage. Overhead frost drakes screamed and whirled, and to Arandar’s alarm, some of them flew over the city, spraying freezing mist over the houses. That was bad. If they caused a panic, it would be impossible to maintain control of the city, and the Frostborn would triumph.
But now, he could spare no thought for that. There were teams of men-at-arms with ballistae throughout the city, ready to respond to any attack from the frost drakes. Arandar hoped that would be enough. Right now, he needed to focus on the gate.
“Make ready!” roared old Dux Kors from where he stood behind the shield line.
The medvarth had almost reached the gates.
“Javelins!” Qhazulak stood nearby, hovering over Queen Mara like an armored shadow. “Javelins, now!”
The Anathgrimm roared in answer, drew back their arms, and hurled their javelins. They had been drilled in the technique since they had been old enough to walk and carry a sword, and the Anathgr
imm warriors flung their weapons flawlessly. Hundreds of the missiles soared in a smooth, precise arc, and landed in the medvarth warriors just as they scrambled over the wreckage of the broken gate and into the Forum. Dozens of medvarth fell, slain by the rain of javelins, and dozens more fell wounded, only to be trampled by the rush of their fellows as they charged into Tarlion.
The men-at-arms and Swordbearers and orcs met the enemy with a crash of steel, screams and shouts rising over the din of swords clashing against shields. Arandar saw a man-at-arms go down, his head half-hewn from his shoulders by the stroke of a medvarth sword. The medvarth warrior raised its sword for another blow, only for two spears to punch through its armor and into its vitals. The warrior collapsed to the ground, trampled by the armored boots of its fellows.
The men of Andomhaim strained against the medvarth horde. Even with the gate ruined, the breach in the wall was still relatively narrow, and Arandar had enough men to hold the line. Every time one of his men was slain or wounded, another rushed to fill the place of the fallen man. Up and down the length of the wall Arandar heard the sounds of fighting, and if he looked up to the ramparts, he saw men-at-arms and militiamen and bands of orcish warriors struggling against medvarth and locusari.
They were holding against the tide of the Frostborn.
Yet there were far too many of the enemy, and the Frostborn cared nothing for the lives of their soldiers. Step by step the medvarth forced the defensive line back, away from the gate and into the Forum. Soon the shield wall had retreated into the Forum itself. Qhazulak roared a command, and with a gleeful shout, the Anathgrimm charged from the sides, assailing the horde of medvarth that threatened to mushroom into the city. The Anathgrimm flung another volley of javelins and then formed a shield wall of their own, hacking down medvarth after medvarth.
Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15) Page 30