Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13)

by Jonathan Moeller

  The Swordbearers rushed to surround her.

  ###

  Gavin charged as the dragon crashed into the ground, Truthseeker drawn back to strike.

  Soulbreaker was already rising, and Gavin swung Truthseeker with all his strength. The soulblade bit through the armored scales of Soulbreaker’s left forelimb and sank deep, white fire blazing from the sword and sinking into the flesh. The dragon screamed and her head twisted around, fire glimmering behind her fangs, but by then the other Swordbearers were there. Soulblades slammed into Soulbreaker’s sides, some of them sinking to the hilt, and again Soulbreaker screamed, a spasm going through her armored body. Master Marhand stepped behind the dragon’s neck, Torchbrand in both hands, and raised his sword high and brought it down three times in rapid succession.

  The soulblade sheared through the dragon’s thick neck, her armored head hitting the ground.

  A ripple went through the dragon’s body, and it shrank, the shadows melting away like snow in the sun.

  “God and the saints,” said one of the other Swordbearers. Gavin thought it was Sir Valmark.

  The dragon vanished, and in her place lay a headless woman wearing the rough clothes of a commoner. No blood leaked from her severed head or the stump of her neck, and to judge from her appearance, she had been dead for some time.

  “What black magic is this?” said a Swordbearer that Gavin did not know.

  “You answered your own question,” said Marhand, cleaning Torchbrand’s blade. “Make sure the Keeper is safe. That creature was here for her.” He looked at the corpses upon the ground and grimaced. “And collect the soulblades of our fallen brothers. We must make new Swordbearers before the dawn comes. We cannot afford to let a single soulblade lie idle.”

  ###

  “It was a Deep Walker,” said Calliande.

  She sat in Arandar’s pavilion with Ridmark, Antenora, Gavin, Caius, Kharlacht, and Third. Ridmark passed her a goblet of wine, and she took it with gratitude. Her throat felt like the dust of the desert.

  “What is a Deep Walker?” said Arandar. “I’ve never heard of such a creature.”

  “Brother Caius?” said Calliande. The dwarves had far more experience fighting Deep Walkers than humans did.

  “A powerful creature of the lowest caverns of the Deeps,” said Caius. “There are many such creatures in the Deeps, alien to all other kindreds, the trolldomr and the malophages and others. Of them, the Deep Walkers are the most malevolent. They have great powers of dark magic and shapeshifting, but they do have two weaknesses. They have no physical forms of their own but must inhabit the corpse of a slain mortal. Additionally, they cannot harm a mortal unless the mortal first harms them…or unless a wizard summons and binds them.”

  “Tarrabus in his folly has removed the creature’s weaknesses,” said Calliande. “He summoned it and bound it to kill me. Those corpses Third saw are likely vessels for the creature. Tarrabus might have commanded the Deep Walker to kill me, but if the creature is successful, it will no longer be bound and will be able to do as it wishes.”

  “And what does it want?” said Arandar, frowning.

  “To feed,” said Calliande.

  “Like many creatures of dark magic, it feeds upon the deaths of its victims, and grows stronger which each kill,” said Caius. “In their past wars against my kindred, both the dark elves and the dvargir and a few of the more ambitious orcish warlocks summoned and bound Deep Walkers to use against us. Every single time, the Deep Walkers turned against their masters and devoured them, and the Deep Walkers were only defeated at great cost. Not even the dvargir will attempt to summon them any longer.”

  Arandar’s scowl deepened. “Another crime to lay at the feet of Tarrabus Carhaine.”

  “Is it defeated?” said Gavin. “We killed the dragon, and it turned into that poor dead woman.”

  “It was defeated,” said Caius, “but it will be back.”

  Calliande took a drink of the wine. It felt good against her raw throat. Her jaw was hurting again. She had to remember to stop clenching it.

  “Those six corpses that Third saw?” said Calliande. “I think there were originally seven. The Deep Walker inhabited the first corpse, and we defeated it. As soon as it inhabits another of the prepared vessels, it will attack again.”

  Gavin was aghast. “Does that mean we’ll have to fight and defeat it six more times?”

  “Yes,” said Calliande.

  “God have mercy,” said Gavin. “It killed four Swordbearers in the last fight.”

  “And it will kill more unless it is stopped,” said Calliande.

  “Then that makes our task even more urgent,” said Ridmark. “The sooner we can break this siege and defeat Tarrabus, the sooner we can break the spells upon the Deep Walker.”

  Chapter 13: Fire

  Ridmark walked with Third to the quays near the camp of the House of the Licinii.

  Despite the late hour, the camp was still busy. Arandar feared that Tarrabus would use Soulbreaker’s attack to cover an assault upon the siege wall, and so had ordered a double watch kept, with the men to sleep in their armor with weapons at hand.

  So far, it seemed, Tarrabus had not taken advantage of the chaos to attack, which confirmed Third’s suspicions that Tarrabus would assault Tarlion once the city ran out of food. Had Ridmark been in Tarrabus’s position, he would have sent Soulbreaker to attack the men-at-arms and the crossbowmen, men who could not hope to defend against Soulbreaker’s power, and when the Swordbearers and the Magistri rushed to deal with the threat, he would have launched a full attack on the siege wall.

  As he thought about it, that seemed like the best plan. Why hadn’t Tarrabus done that? If he had, he might have forced Arandar’s army to retreat, giving Tarrabus and his men time to resupply and take Tarlion without interruption.

  “You are troubled,” said Third in a quiet voice as she walked at his side.

  “Considerably,” said Ridmark. He did not bother asking how she knew. She knew him well enough to read him by now, and she had centuries of experience in observation. “Our foe’s strategy does not make sense.”

  Third shrugged. “You mean why Tarrabus did not send Soulbreaker to attack those unable to defend against her?”

  “Exactly,” said Ridmark.

  “Likely he could not,” said Third. “He bound the Deep Walker to attack Calliande, Prince Arandar, and probably you. Calliande and Arandar are the biggest threat to him, and he hates you personally. Therefore, he sent the Deep Walker after the Keeper.” She shrugged once more. “It is as the Keeper and Brother Caius have said. A Deep Walker is almost impossible to control. Even if Tarrabus regretted his decision, he cannot change it now.”

  “He should have sent the Deep Walker after Arandar,” said Ridmark.

  “Probably,” said Third. “But it is obvious that he is not thinking clearly, and has allowed pride and hatred to govern his reason. You have seen the proof of this with your own eyes.”

  “All of this,” said Ridmark, waving a hand in the direction of the siege walls.

  “Something smaller,” said Third. “Excalibur.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ridmark.

  “You said he carried Excalibur to the parley,” said Third. “That was a poor decision.”

  “He has to carry Excalibur and wear the Pendragon Crown,” said Ridmark. “The High King has always carried Excalibur and worn the Pendragon Crown.”

  “But it is foolish for him to carry that sword,” said Third. “He is Enlightened, and he cannot even use the blade. Even the touch of a soulblade would cause him excruciating pain. In battle, the easiest way to defeat him would be to force him to touch Excalibur, and then kill him before he recovered from the unexpected pain.”

  “Very practical,” said Ridmark.

  “That is the best way to do things,” said Third.

  They walked in silence for a moment, leaving the camp behind and heading towards the broad expanse of the River Moradel. The water
reflected the moonlight, shimmering and silvery.

  “His pride,” said Ridmark. “It’s caused him to make another mistake, hasn’t it? He ought to have abandoned his siege of Tarlion and marched to face Arandar, instead of building that contravallation wall.”

  “Beyond question,” said Third. “If he had fought and defeated the Prince, he could have resumed his siege at leisure with ample supplies. Instead, he finds himself trapped between the walls and the Prince’s army with no chance of resupplying. Consequently, he finds his position growing more and more desperate with every passing day while the Prince’s grows stronger.”

  “Pride,” said Ridmark. Everything Third had said had rung true. Was there a way to use that against Tarrabus? He would have to think about it.

  Ridmark found himself glancing back at the camp. He did not like leaving Calliande there, though she was as safe as she would ever be. Arandar had ordered a dozen Swordbearers to remain around her at all times, and Gavin and Antenora and Camorak and Kharlacht and Caius were also with her. They would protect her while she prepared the spell to break the walls, and Soulbreaker would not be able to take her unawares again.

  Nevertheless, Ridmark felt like he ought to have stayed with her.

  He pushed aside the thought. The best way to keep Calliande safe was to defeat Tarrabus Carhaine as soon as possible, and the best way to do that was to have Corbanic Lamorus attack from the walls of Tarlion at the same moment Arandar attacked through the breach in the walls Calliande would create.

  Which meant that Ridmark needed to get into Tarlion and out again.

  He shook his head.

  “What is it?” said Third.

  “I was raised and trained as a knight, a warrior meant to face an opponent openly on a field of battle,” said Ridmark. “For all that, I spend a lot of time sneaking into places.”

  “We could walk up to Tarrabus’s gate in a knightly fashion and ask him to let us pass,” said Third. “Of course, we would then be shot to death with crossbows.”

  Ridmark looked at her.

  “That was a joke,” said Third. “I need more practice.”

  “You are improving,” said Ridmark.

  They reached the wooden quays. Next to one of the quays sat a small boat, little more than a skiff. It was low and flat, almost a raft, and narrow enough that Ridmark could have reached both sides without stretching. Smiling Otto waited next to the skiff, scowling, a metal flask in hand. He took a drink and tucked the flask into the interior pocket of his coat.

  “You’re still set upon this folly, then?” said Otto.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Changed your mind?”

  Otto smirked. “No. Sir Joram is paying me enough for it. And if this works, I’ll be a hero. The bold waterman who smuggled messengers into Tarlion, allowing the fierce Constable to sally forth to rescue the noble Prince. Maybe it will even be a song.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Ridmark. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” said Otto. “Both of you, shut up and listen.” He pointed at the skiff. “My boat has a shallow draft. It won’t leave much of a wake, but if you move suddenly, we’ll capsize. Then we’ll have to swim to shore.” He looked at Ridmark. “Or you’ll drown in your armor, and I’ll swim to shore. I’ll handle the tiller. You, Lady Third, will stay in the prow. They say you’re some kind of spooky dark elven assassin, so you probably can see in the dark.”

  “Yes,” said Third.

  Otto grunted and looked at Ridmark. “You’re the biggest and the strongest of the three of us, so you’ll row. I wish you weren’t so tall. Halflings make the best smugglers because we’re harder to see. I don’t know what God was thinking when he made you lot too damned tall.”

  “Perhaps he thought that you would not have to row the boat,” said Ridmark.

  “Who can question the wisdom of the Most High?” said Otto, looking at the sky. “Let’s go. The moons will be at their darkest in a few hours, and we need to be in the harbor of Tarlion by then.”

  They boarded the boat at Otto’s instructions. Ridmark got in first, seating himself in the center upon a rough plank that served as a bench, tucking his staff beneath the bench. Otto got in the back, grasping the tiller, and Third sat cross-legged in the front, securing her short swords in a shoulder harness so they would not bump against the sides of the boat and make noise.

  Otto scowled at Third. “You’ve heavier than you look.”

  “This is true,” said Third.

  Otto sighed. “Don’t move around unless necessary.”

  “I have some practice in the matter,” said Third.

  “One last thing,” said Otto. “Don’t speak unless necessary, and even then, do not speak above a whisper. Sound can carry a surprising way on the water at night.” He pointed at Ridmark. “Don’t make a lot of noise when rowing.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s get on with it, and hope that God and the saints are feeling generous tonight.”

  He untied the mooring line, and Ridmark used the starboard oar to push them away from the quay.

  A few strokes of the oars, and they were upon the river proper.

  The oars made less sound that Ridmark expected. They were long and narrow, and they had been bound to the sides of the boat with iron rings at an angle that made it difficult to splash them about. Granted, that made it harder to row, but Ridmark preferred silence to efficiency.

  They rowed a hundred yards onto the river, and then let the current take them. Ridmark watched in silence as the boat carried them past the three lines of earthen walls, fires burning within Tarrabus’s camp. Beyond the circumvallation wall lay hundreds of yards of deserted, battle-scarred ground, and then the walls of Tarlion itself. The walls came up right to the water itself, and the skill of the engineers who had built the walls had left not a yard of open ground between the base of the wall and the river. The ancient builders had left no access in the wester wall, fearing attacks from the orcish warlords who had then ruled what was now Taliand. Ridmark appreciated their efforts, but he wished they had left an entrance in the western wall.

  At Otto’s direction, he stayed close to the shore, keeping away from the main force of the current, which would have carried them out to sea. Ridmark’s arms soon ached from the effort of steady rowing, but it was no worse than wielding his staff or axe in battle, and he ignored the ache.

  Soon they left the Moradel behind and rowed onto the waves of the sea, heading east along the walls of Tarlion. Otto squinted at the city, using the luminous shaft of the Tower of the Moon to guide his course. In the light of the moons, the Tower absorbed and amplified the light, painting the city of Tarlion in ghostly radiance. Ridmark had never considered the Tower’s potential use as a lighthouse, but he had to admit it was effective.

  In the distance, he saw more lights.

  The points of light were the running lanterns of the warships facing each other outside the harbor of Tarlion.

  “Stop,” said Otto, and Ridmark banked the oars, taking a moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his face. Otto produced an anchor tied to a coil of rope, eased it into the waves, and unspooled the thick rope foot by foot until it went slack. “All right. That should keep us from getting washed ashore.”

  “What now?” said Third.

  “We wait here for a while,” said Otto. “In a few hours, the moons will change position, and it will be far darker. Once it is, we’ll slip into the harbor and seek out this Constable of yours.”

  “What do you need me to do?” said Ridmark.

  “Wait patiently,” said Otto. “You might as well rest. Once the time comes, you’ll need to row quickly.”

  Ridmark nodded and waited. He intended to stay awake and remain vigilant, but the strain of the last few weeks weighed on him, and the battle with Soulbreaker’s shadows had tired him. He had spent enough time on campaign to know that a soldier needed to grab some sleep whenever it was offered, and soon he rested his chin against his chest and fell asleep.

  And
in his sleep, he dreamed.

  The heartbeat thundered through the hall of luminous white stone.

  Ridmark turned in a circle, his eyes sweeping the hall. The old knight sat upon the throne, Morigna standing at the foot of the dais in her tattered cloak, her carved staff in hand. The woman gowned in flames stood before the throne, her features changing and flowing, her eyes blazing with fire.

  “Burn with me,” she said, beckoning to him. “Burn with me.”

  The heartbeat was coming from her.

  Ridmark blinked and stepped closer. “It’s…you, isn’t it? You’re the one making that noise Calliande and I can hear.”

  “Told you, boy,” grunted the gray-haired old knight, slapping the arm of his throne for emphasis. “She’s calling to you. She’s going to keep calling to you until you find her. The Keeper too, since she’s the one who put her there.”

  “Burn with me,” murmured the woman once more, reaching for him.

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark, and then something else occurred to him. “You’re in the highest chamber of the Tower of the Keeper, whoever you are. That’s where Calliande said the sound was.”

  “Burn with me,” said the woman, the flame blazing brighter.

  “Are you a prisoner there?” said Ridmark, though that seemed unlikely even as he said it. He doubted Calliande would have kept someone prisoner in the Tower of the Keeper for two centuries.

  She was only that harsh to herself.

  “Burn with me,” said the woman, the flames pooling around her feet.

  What if she wasn’t a prisoner? What if someone was bound in magical sleep within the Tower of the Keeper, sleeping as Calliande herself had slumbered beneath the Tower of Vigilance for two centuries? Someone else with the same powers as the Keeper, perhaps?

  Or someone who should be kept locked away?

  “She is calling to you,” said Morigna. “For nearly a year now, she has been calling to you…and very soon now, you will meet her.”