Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Chapter 7: Forewarning

  The army of Andomhaim continued its northward march, leaving Castra Carhaine behind and following the Moradel road into the Northerland.

  As they rode north, Arandar saw the mountains of Taliand fade away to the south, replaced by the dense trees of the Shaluuskan Forest. It was a pity that the ghost orcs were so reclusive. Their ability to turn invisible would have made them invaluable scouts against the Frostborn, but Arandar knew better than to send ambassadors to them. Anyone who entered the Shaluuskan Forest never returned, and the ghost orcs only ventured forth when they happened to feel like making war upon someone.

  Perhaps they would come to regret that when the Frostborn razed their forests and reduced them to slaves.

  Arandar rebuked himself for the dark thoughts. So long as the ghost orcs left Andomhaim alone during the war, he would repay them in kind. And the Shaluuskan Forest would only be destroyed if Andomhaim was defeated and the Frostborn had the leisure to turn their attention to lesser threats.

  Unfortunately, the constant presence of the Frostborn scouts made it easy to entertain dark thoughts.

  After the ambush on the River Mourning, the Frostborn had not tried to assassinate him or any of the chief nobles. The assassination attempt had been led by Arlmagnava, a Seeker of the Order of the Inquisition, and from what Arandar had learned from Calliande and Antenora, the Order of the Inquisition served as the spies and assassins and secret police of the Frostborn. Arlmagnava had been at Dun Calpurnia before the battle, and she had been the one who had arranged Tarrabus’s secret pact with the Frostborn. With the defeat of their puppet Tarrabus, the Frostborn had likely decided to try and eliminate the new High King with one blow.

  The plan had almost worked.

  Arandar found it necessary to take extra precautions. He kept a guard of Swordbearers and Magistri around him, and at least four of the ballistae and their attendant men-at-arms. He felt a bit foolish with all the extra guards, but he recognized the bitter necessity. He was the High King, and his son and heir was in Nightmane Forest. If he was killed, the army would fall into chaos until a new leader could be chosen, and the Frostborn would take advantage of that chaos to deadly effect.

  Other dark rumors came to his ears.

  They passed many villages on the Moradel road, and the freeholders spoke of seeing locusari and medvarth warriors in the woods. Some outlying freeholds had been sacked and burned, their inhabitants either killed or taken as slaves. The freeholders had also seen locusari scouts and frost drakes flying overhead.

  It seemed certain the Frostborn had overrun Castra Marcaine and the whole of the Northerland and were now sending scouting parties unhindered into Caerdracon. Arandar wondered what had happened to the Anathgrimm. Had they been slain and Nightmane Forest overrun? Or had they been forced to retreat into Nightmane Forest and behind the Traveler’s ancient wards?

  Arandar wished the Keeper was here. She had far greater skill with the Sight than Antenora, and the Sight might have provided answers. He envied the ability of the Frostborn to use frost drakes to scout. More and more, he felt the disadvantages of facing a foe with such an effective method of scouting. The ballistae might keep the frost drakes from descending low enough to attack, but that did not prevent them from observing the army.

  And observe the army they did.

  As he watched yet another frost drake circle high overhead, Arandar realized that it was time to change his plans.

  When the army camped that night, he called together the chief lords and knights for a council of war.

  “My lords,” said Arandar, standing at the map table in his pavilion. With all the lords crammed into the pavilion and gathered around the table, the air smelled of sweat and horse and oiled steel. “We must address two items tonight. First, the matter of the succession.”

  “Your son Accolon is the lawful heir to the throne of Andomhaim,” said Dux Gareth. The march was wearing on the old Dux, and the lines in his face seemed deeper than ever, though his vigor had not waned. “Should tragedy befall him, your daughter Nyvane is the lawful heir.”

  “Both my children are safe in Nightmane Forest at the moment,” said Arandar. At least, he hoped that they were safe. If they had been slain…no, he dared not dwell on that, not now, not when so much depended on his judgment. “However, both my children are young. Accolon is not yet ready to lead a host into battle.” He took a deep breath. “Therefore, I think it is best that we decide who among you will serve as regent for my son if I am slain in the battle to come. Andomhaim cannot wait for my son to take his crown and grow to maturity if I am killed. Strong leadership will be needed at once in the face of such a deadly foe.”

  This brought a low rumble from the lords and knights. The High Kings of Andomhaim had rarely named potential regents since that invited the assassination of the High King. The Red Family of Cintarra had left its bloody fingerprints on the history of Andomhaim more than once.

  “This seems a wise course to me,” rumbled old King Ulakhamar of Rhaluusk, his tusks jutting from his gray beard like spikes of rock from a river. “Better to decide this now than to have a debate during a battle.” Silent Malhask of Khaluusk nodded his agreement, his scars as transforming his face into a scowl.

  “An army must have one commander,” said Master Marhand, his arms folded across his chest. “The heat of battle is no time for an argument.”

  Several other lords voiced their agreement.

  “Very well,” said Arandar. “If I am killed in battle, it is my wish that Dux Leogrance Arban of Castra Arban serve as regent until Accolon comes of age.” Leogrance’s blue eyes turned towards Arandar. Even with the rigors and the dust of the march, Leogrance still looked regal and lordly, like a Senator of the Romans from Old Earth in ancient days. “Dux Leogrance has been the Dux of Taliand for many years and is familiar with the burdens of government. Taliand is the oldest of the duxarchates of Andomhaim as well. And if you will forgive my bluntness, Dux Leogrance is among the oldest of us as well.” A low rumble of laughter went up from the lords. “Ruling a realm and commanding a host in battle is best left to a seasoned man, not to a hotheaded youngster. Dux Leogrance, would you accept this burden?”

  “I do not wish it, your Majesty,” said Leogrance with a sigh, “but if it is your wish, I shall accept this charge, and pray that I never need to execute it.”

  “Thank you,” said Arandar. “If both Dux Leogrance and I are slain in battle, I wish the regency to pass to Prince Cadwall Gwyrdragon of Cintarra.” Prince Cadwall looked up, his eyebrows rising in mild surprise. Despite the long march, he still managed to cut the figure of a dashing Cintarran knight, albeit something of a dusty one. The House of Gwyrdragon was a bastard offshoot of the House of Pendragon, given the princedom of Cintarra in exchange for removing themselves from the line of succession to the High King’s throne, and no Gwyrdragon had ever served as regent. Nevertheless, if Arandar and his children were all killed, the lords would likely choose either Leogrance Arban or Cadwall Gwyrdragon to serve as the new High King. “We all know that Prince Cadwall has governed Cintarra ably for years, and he helped turn the tide against Tarrabus at Tarlion. If both Dux Leogrance and I are slain in the battle, Prince Cadwall, it is my wish that you then serve as regent of Andomhaim until my son comes of age. Will you accept this charge?”

  “Like the honorable Dux Leogrance, I do not wish this burden,” said Cadwall. “Nevertheless, if disaster befalls us and both the High King and the Dux of Taliand are killed on the same day, then I will accept this charge.”

  “Thank you, lord Prince,” said Arandar. “And if I am killed alongside the Prince and the Dux in the same day…well, we shall have likely suffered a catastrophic defeat, and then I fear you shall have to decide to do as you think best.”

  No one said anything for a while, contemplating that grim possibility.

  Master Marhand then led the lords and the knights in an oath, promising before God and the Dominus Christus to s
upport Dux Leogrance as regent if Arandar was slain, and Prince Cadwall as regent if both Arandar and Leogrance were killed. If all went well, they would never need to use these arrangements.

  And if things did not go well…Arandar had done what he could. He was not like Calliande, and would not try to influence events long after he should have died. Arandar would try to do his duty in the time that had been given to him. What happened after his death was beyond his ability to control.

  “There is a second matter we need to address,” said Arandar. “It seems that circumstances require a change to our strategy.”

  “I fear so, your Majesty,” said Dux Sebastian. “All the scouts agree, and all the reports we have heard say the same thing. The Frostborn have taken Castra Marcaine, and they no longer face any opposition in the Northerland. The Anathgrimm have either been defeated or forced to withdraw.”

  Accolon and Nyvane were with them…

  Arandar forced himself not to think about that.

  “If the Anathgrimm have been withdrawn,” said Dux Gareth, “and if the Frostborn have control over the Northerland, marching directly into the Northerland could mean disaster. There are a thousand valleys and ravines in the hills of the Northerland where even an army of this size can be ambushed.”

  “We have come this far,” said Dux Kors. “We cannot turn back now.”

  “No,” said Arandar. “We have to take the fight to the Frostborn. But if we march blindly into the Northerland, we may well face disaster. Instead, I propose that we take some strong place and wait for the Frostborn to come to us. Our allies will have a better chance of finding us, and we can hold the Frostborn there.”

  “That will give the Frostborn ample chance to fortify themselves in the Northerland,” said Leogrance.

  “The Frostborn already have had ample chance to fortify themselves in the Northerland,” said Gareth. “Even before we withdrew, the scouts reported that the Frostborn and their khaldjari engineers were building a huge citadel over the ruins of Dun Licinia. God only knows how many other fortifications they have had the chance to build over the last year.”

  “We cannot be under any illusions that this will be a quick war,” said Prince Cadwall. “We may face years of battle before we can push the Frostborn back to their world gate.”

  “Then it is best that we take a strong place and meet our allies there,” said Arandar.

  “Castra Carhaine itself?” said Dux Sebastian. “It is the strongest fortress in Caerdracon.

  “It’s too far south,” said Dux Kors. “We’ll lose all of Caerdracon by the time we come to grips with the Frostborn, and if we do, we might never get it back.”

  “Dun Calpurnia,” said Arandar. “We had planned to fortify it anyway, so we may as well make our stand there. The walls and castra were strong, and likely the Frostborn have not damaged them too much. It is close to the River Moradel, and we can use the river to bring up supplies by water.”

  “The Frostborn will know our plans as soon as we implement them,” said Dux Kors. “Those damned frost drakes keep flying over our army and reporting our movements. They can take their bloody time preparing for us.”

  “The frost drakes can move swiftly,” said Arandar, “but none of the other slave kindreds of the Frostborn can move with such haste. Our horsemen can outpace all but the locusari warriors.”

  Silence answered him as the others considered that.

  “Then you want to send the horsemen ahead to seize Dun Calpurnia first,” said Prince Cadwall.

  “Yes,” said Arandar. “The sooner we can take Dun Calpurnia and fortify it, the better.”

  “Splitting our host is a grave risk,” said Leogrance.

  “It worked at Tarlion against the usurper,” said Sebastian.

  “That was a close-fought thing,” said Kors. “We might have lost if a dozen things had happened differently. If the Keeper hadn’t broken the walls, or if the Gray Knight hadn’t beaten Tarrabus in that duel, or if Corbanic hadn’t charged the enemy when he did.”

  “It was a risk,” said Arandar. “If we hadn’t taken that risk, then we would almost certainly have been defeated when Tarrabus ignited the dvargir mine. I fear if we do not take some risks now, we will lose the war. Prince Cadwall.” The prince of Cintarra straightened. “Take command of the heavy horsemen and ride to Dun Calpurnia. Dux Sebastian, provide scouts and skirmishers for him. I will bring up the rest of the army with all speed, and I will also send Lady Third and Lady Antenora along with you. Their…unique abilities should prove useful to take the ruins of the town.”

  “It is possible,” said Cadwall, “that the Frostborn might already have a strong garrison there. If they do, horsemen alone will not be able to take the town.”

  “If so, return to the host, and we will make different plans,” said Arandar. “But if we can take Dun Calpurnia and hold it until the Frostborn arrive, we can keep them bottled up there. Perhaps the dwarves or the manetaurs or the Anathgrimm will be able to pin them against the walls. It is worth the gamble, I think. My lords, we have our work before us. Prince Cadwall, I would like you to ride tomorrow.”

  ###

  That night Arandar lay on the cot in his pavilion, staring at the cloth ceiling overhead.

  He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be yet another busy day, and he needed his wits about him.

  Exhaustion clouded his mind, but sleep eluded him.

  His thoughts chased each other around his mind, and a thousand different details worried at him. Maybe it would have been better to fall back to Castra Carhaine. Or maybe it would have been better to press to the Northerland at once, throwing the Frostborn into chaos and making an opening for the Anathgrimm and the dwarves and the manetaurs to arrive. So many decisions to make and every single one of them could lead to disaster and defeat…

  Arandar rebuked himself. He could not second-guess himself. Once he had made his decision, he had to hold firm to it. If he spent too much time second-guessing himself, it would lead to paralysis at a moment of crisis.

  He had never wanted to be High King because he had known it would be like this. When he had been a decurion and then a knight, a poor decision could have led to the deaths of a few hundred men.

  A bad decision from the High King could lead to the deaths of thousands and the destruction of Andomhaim. Which meant he needed a clear mind to make good decisions.

  Which meant he needed some damned sleep.

  Once again, he felt the urge to invite a woman to his bed. He had always slept well after that. But this wasn’t the time for such things, so instead, he focused on slowing his breathing and clearing his mind.

  To his mild surprise, it worked.

  And in his sleep, Arandar dreamed.

  In his dream, he walked through the battlefield of Dun Calpurnia on the grim, bloody day that Tarrabus Carhaine had betrayed Uthanaric Pendragon and his trueborn sons to the Frostborn. Arandar walked past fields salted with corpses, the air heavy with the scents of blood and ruptured bowels and the alien, musky smell of slain medvarth warriors. They had tried to burn as many of the bodies as possible to keep the Frostborn from raising them as revenants, but there had been so many that there hadn’t been time to burn them all. That was another matter to concern him in the battle to come, that the Frostborn could raise the dead as soldiers for their own side.

  A raven flapped overhead and landed a few yards away, watching him.

  For some reason, the raven caught Arandar’s attention.

  There had been thousands of carrion birds after the battle, vultures and ravens and crows, gorging themselves on a feast of the slain. One raven was not so remarkable. Yet this raven was not joining its brothers as they rushed to their feast. The raven just sat there, watching him with a glinting black eye, and Arandar had the feeling he had seen this bird, this exact bird, somewhere before.

  “Well. One finds that you are more your father’s son than you thought, Arandar Pendragon.”

  The fema
le voice was a bit acerbic and spoke Latin with a peculiar, archaic stateliness. Arandar stiffened as the voice filled his ears. He knew that voice. He knew that voice very well.

  He turned as the woman approached.

  She was lean with thick black hair bound in a long braid and black eyes like polished stones. Her clothing was a rough mixture of leather and wool with well-worn boots, and she wore an odd cloak of tattered brown and green strips that would serve as effective camouflage in the forests. In her right hand, she carried a wooden staff carved with magical symbols.

  “You,” said Arandar, astonished.

  “Yes, me,” said Morigna. “One is pleased to see that your accession to the throne has not fuddled your wits more than they already were. Pleased, if rather surprised.”

  “You’re dead,” said Arandar.

  “Obviously.”

  “I was thinking about lying with a woman, and now I am dreaming of you,” said Arandar. “Dear God in heaven, but the mind can play ghastly tricks.”

  Morigna’s mouth twisted. “How very flattering, High King. But just because I am dead and this is a dream does not mean that we are not speaking in truth.”

  “Yes, it does,” said Arandar.

  He had never liked Morigna, and he had never been able to understand why Ridmark found her attractive. Certainly, she had been physically attractive, but Calliande had been besotted with Ridmark at the same time, and Arandar had never grasped why Ridmark had chosen Morigna over Calliande. Morigna had been waspish, arrogant, and argumentative, and she had also practiced forbidden magic and scorned the church of the Dominus Christus. She had delighted in needling Arandar.

  Maybe Arandar ought to have been grateful. It had been good practice for his current role. And maybe that was why she had been drawn to Ridmark. He was a strong man, and it took a strong man to tame a virago like Morigna of the Wilderland.

  “Such flattering thoughts, High King,” said Morigna. “But consider. Lady Third reported my presence in the Tower of the Keeper. Does she seem the sort to make up stories for the enjoyment of it?”