“My services, while skillfully executed, have been of no consequence,” said Third.
“You did go into Tarlion with Ridmark and ask Sir Corbanic to charge the foe,” said Caius.
“Thereby helping to turn the tide of the battle at a critical moment,” said Camorak.
“Ah, I see,” said Third. She smiled briefly. She didn’t do that very often. “After our battles together, you hold me in sufficient esteem that you are comfortable teasing me. That is a…pleasant feeling.”
“Caerdracon, Arduran, Tarras, and Calvus all need new Duxi,” said Caius, “and there are hundreds of small benefices that need new Comites and knights. Why not you?”
“I would make a poor ruler,” said Third. “I would execute any malefactors as a matter of efficiency.”
Kharlacht snorted. “There are worse ways to go about it.”
“I have no desire to rule, nor for lands or power,” said Third. “I was made for battle and assassination. For centuries, I used those skills in my father’s service, and now I am very pleased to use them in service to a worthy cause.”
“Besides, my lady,” said Camorak, “you are already a princess.”
Third frowned. “I wish people would stop saying that.”
“I fear it is true,” said Caius. “You are the sister of a queen, and therefore you are a princess. Or a high noblewoman. Perhaps Queen Mara could name you a high noble of Nightmane Forest.”
Gavin frowned. “I don’t think the Anathgrimm have high nobles.”
Camorak shrugged. “They would if Mara told them to have some.”
“I shall worry about such matters once the war is finished and we are victorious,” said Third. “Should God grant us the victory, I shall return to Nightmane Forest and accept whatever tasks my sister the Queen sets for me.”
“What about you, Kharlacht?” said Gavin. “What will you do when the war is over?”
“I shall return to Nightmane Forest and wed my betrothed,” said Kharlacht at once.
“I shall officiate, of course,” said Caius.
“Of course,” said Kharlacht. “After that…I do not know. She has been baptized, so she likely will not wish to return to Vhaluusk. Perhaps we will settle in Rhaluusk. The headman Crowlacht has offered me a place in his warband, should I wish it, and that seems a good life.”
“I can think of worse ones,” said Camorak. He snorted and waved a hand at the column of horsemen hastening north. “Like this!”
“What about you, Camorak?” said Gavin.
“I will get drunk,” said Camorak.
“Obviously,” said Third.
Camorak shrugged. “I’ll go where the Order of the Magistri tells me. Suppose there will be a lot of work for the Magistri after the war.” His bloodshot eyes shifted to Gavin. “What about you, Sir Gavin? You’re a young man yet. I keep telling you that you need to find yourself a lusty lass and plant a baby or two in her.”
Gavin hesitated, glancing at Antenora. What he wanted, after the war, was to spend more time with Antenora. To kiss her and know that she could feel it. But he knew that was impossible. If they were victorious, the curse on her would end, and she would die at last.
“I suppose,” said Gavin, “that I’ll go where the Order of the Soulblade sends me. There will also be a lot of work for Swordbearers.”
“There’s God’s own truth, my lad,” said Camorak. “See, you should go rescue some farm wench from an urvaalg, and then plow her field with…”
Third raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps if you did not consume so much strong drink, you could plow your own fields.”
“Ah, well,” said Camorak. “No one’s perfect. And I am getting older, I fear.”
Gavin met Antenora’s eyes for a moment, and she gave him a sad smile and turned her attention to her reins.
He knew her well enough to read the twin meanings in her expression.
First, she knew they could never be together as they wished.
Second, all this talk of the future after the war was a way to distract themselves from the coming battle. The Frostborn were coming with all their power, and despite the High King's preparations and allies, the Frostborn might win.
And then they would all die together.
Gavin tried to put such thoughts from his mind, but they haunted him as he rode north.
###
A few days later, they came within sight of the walls of Dun Calpurnia.
A chill went down Gavin’s spine as he looked at the ruined town. He had been thinking about the possibility of defeat, but the loyalists had almost been defeated here, and Gavin himself had almost been killed several times.
A lot of good men had been killed during the battle.
Dun Calpurnia had been a strong town with stout fortifications. The town occupied a hill about a mile and a half from the broad expanse of the River Moradel, its castra crowning the hill. A stone wall studded with watch towers and siege engines had encircled the town. High King Uthanaric had originally marched here to meet the Mhorites in battle, and the walls of Dun Calpurnia would have held against the entirety of Mournacht’s host. Gavin was not sure how long it would last against the Frostborn.
He supposed he was going to find out in short order.
Assuming, of course, that they could take Dun Calpurnia in the first place.
The wall and the gates and the castra were intact, though the town itself lay in ruins. It had been abandoned after Uthanaric’s death since Arandar and the loyalists had not been able to spare any forces to hold it. The townspeople had either fled south with Arandar’s army or into Nightmane Forest to shelter with Queen Mara and the Anathgrimm. At some point, a fire must have raged through the town, because half the houses were empty stone shells, and Dun Calpurnia’s fine stone church had half-collapsed into ruin.
The sight made Gavin sad. Once Dun Calpurnia had been prosperous, and now it was a ruined shell.
He supposed the same thing would happen to Andomhaim if the Frostborn were not stopped.
Right now, he needed to focus on the problem at hand, so he looked at Dun Calpurnia with an eye grown experienced in sieges. The town’s southern gate was closed, and he saw figures patrolling the ramparts of the town. It was hard to tell from this distance, but he thought medvarth warriors patrolled the walls, along with some cogitaers. A few locusari scouts flew back and forth overhead, though they hadn’t dipped low enough to engage the horsemen. The enemy had to know that Prince Cadwall’s horsemen were here…and they had to know that Prince Cadwall’s force had no way of getting inside a fortified wall.
Or so they thought.
“Medvarth, locusari, and a few cogitaers,” said Sir Valmark Arban, shading his eyes as he examined the town. “Can’t see any Frostborn, but they may be within the castra itself.”
“I don’t believe there are any siege engines left on the towers of the castra,” said Sir Constantine Licinius, standing next to Gavin and Valmark. “If we can get into the walls, we shouldn’t have to worry about any missile fire from the castra.”
“It is the revenants that worry me,” said Cadwall, his voice grim as he considered the town.
“Revenants?” said Gavin. They had not encountered any of the Frostborn-created undead on the march north.
“There were thousands of corpses after the battle,” said Cadwall, “and not enough time to burn them all. At Dun Licinia, the Frostborn raised the Mhorite and dvargir dead and added them to their army as revenants. There might be only a few hundred medvarth and khaldjari within the town, but there could be thousands of revenants within the ruined houses.” He snorted. “I suppose the Frostborn could stack them like firewood.”
“The Keeper’s spell will protect us from their freezing touch,” said Gavin, glancing at the hilltop where Calliande had cast the great spell.
“Aye,” said Cadwall, “but we can still be swarmed by thousands of dead men who feel neither fear nor pain.” He leaned back in his saddle with a grunt, brushing some dust from
his gleaming bracers. “Well, we shall know soon enough.”
As it happened, they only had to wait another quarter hour or so. Blue fire swirled in front of the horses, and Third stepped out of the flames, breathing hard and sweating a little. Antenora handed her a skin of watered wine, and Third nodded her thanks and drained half of it in a single swallow, like an exhausted swordsman after a difficult bout of training.
“My lady Third,” said Cadwall. “What do you see?”
“I estimate the town is held by approximately five hundred enemy warriors,” said Third. “Mostly medvarth and locusari, with some khaldjari. There are no Frostborn within the walls that I could find. There are a group of three to five cogitaer sorceresses, and I suspect they are in command within the walls.”
“Did you see any revenants?” said Cadwall.
“None,” said Third.
Cadwall frowned. “None? Are you sure?”
“I am certain, lord Prince,” said Third. “I fought revenants many times with the Anathgrimm, and I know what they look like. For that matter, they are difficult to conceal, thanks to the blue fire in their eyes.”
“True,” conceded Cadwall, mulling this over. “And you didn’t see a single revenant?”
“Not a single one,” said Third. “Should there be revenants in the town?”
“This was where Tarrabus Carhaine betrayed and murdered the High King’s father, and where the Anathgrimm rescued us from the Frostborn,” said Gavin. He supposed that Third had still been an urdhracos at the time. “Many men and orcs and medvarth and khaldjari were slain. The Frostborn could have easily raised thousands of revenants from their corpses.”
“Mayhap they did, Sir Gavin,” said Caius, “and sent the revenants to hold their forts on the eastern bank of the Moradel. The revenants are dangerous but limited, and they would make ideal garrison troops, especially with a khaldjari or a cogitaer to command them.”
“True,” said Cadwall.
“The Frostborn know we are here, my lord Prince,” said Constantine, “but save for their locusari and their drakes, they do not have any forces capable of moving at the speed of our horsemen, even our heavy horsemen. It is possible we have arrived at Dun Calpurnia before they could react, especially if they fear action from the Anathgrimm.”
“Your counsel is sound, Sir Constantine,” said Cadwall. “Very well. We shall continue with our original plan. Swordbearers, make ready to attack as soon as the gate is open. Lady Antenora, Lady Third, are you ready to proceed?”
“I am,” said Third. She wiped some sweat from her forehead. “Antenora?”
“I am prepared,” said Antenora.
“Be careful,” said Gavin.
“I shall,” said Antenora.
Gavin watched as Third and Antenora left the horsemen, creeping towards the wall of Dun Calpurnia. Third moved with the silence of a spirit, but Antenora was quite stealthy herself when she put her mind to it. No doubt there had been ample opportunity to hone her skills in stealth during the long centuries of war on Old Earth. He wished he could have gone with her, but it was impossible. Third’s power let her transport someone with her over a short distance, but she couldn’t transport anyone carrying a soulstone, and Truthseeker had a soulstone worked into its blade.
The plan was simple. Third would transport herself and Antenora into the gatehouse. Antenora would use her spells to seal off the room with the control mechanism for the gate, and Third would open it. Then Cadwall’s horsemen would charge into the town, and the Swordbearers would hasten to secure the gate before the enemy could overwhelm Third and Antenora.
It ought to work. It was a variant of the same plan that Arandar had used to end the siege of Castra Carhaine and take the fortress. Gavin just hoped that it worked here.
Third and Antenora soon vanished from sight, thanks to their dark clothing, and Gavin did not see the flash of blue fire when Third drew upon her power. Hopefully, the guards upon the walls had not seen any flash as well. Gavin waited with the others, his fingers tapping against Truthseeker’s pommel, his whole mind and body tense for the onset of battle. He had once heard an old man-at-arms say that the waiting before the fight was the hardest part of all, that moment of tension and fear that seemed to stretch for eternity. Gavin understood his point, but wasn’t sure he agreed – not getting killed in the fight certainly seemed much harder!
Nevertheless, he did not enjoy the waiting. It felt like an eternity of tension, though he knew it would take no more than a few moments. One way or another, the situation would be resolved soon…
A clang rang from the walls of Dun Calpurnia, capturing Gavin’s attention. An instant later a bloom of yellow-orange flame erupted from several of the windows on the western gate tower. Antenora and Third had opened the gate, and they were fighting to hold it.
“Now!” said Cadwall. “Sound the charge! For God and the High King!”
One of Cadwall’s standardbearers blew the charge, and a shout rose from the knights. Gavin put his spurs to his horse and drew Truthseeker, the blade flashing white in the noon sunlight. The ground rumbled as the horsemen surged forward, but the twenty Swordbearers who had accompanied Cadwall were the head of the spear. The medvarth and khaldjari on the ramparts scrambled, and Gavin saw the medvarth raising javelins, while the khaldjari lifted their deadly crossbows.
“Shields!” shouted Gavin, raising his own shield of dwarven steel to cover his body. “Shields!”
The cry went up from the other Swordbearers and knights, and they lifted their shields as the medvarth hurled their javelins and the khaldjari fired their crossbows. A knight screamed as a javelin hit him in the chest and hurled him from his saddle. The javelin might have dealt a mortal wound, but if it hadn’t, the stamping hooves of the other horsemen would. More crossbow quarrels landed in their midst, the scream of wounded men coming to Gavin’s ears. A quarrel clanged off his shield and bounced away, the shock from the impact shooting up his left arm and shoulder. For all that he worried about Antenora, the truth of the matter was that he was more vulnerable than she was. A crossbow quarrel to the chest would irritate her. A crossbow quarrel to the chest would kill him.
Then they were through the gate, galloping into a broad forum lined with ruined shops and burned taverns. Gavin turned his horse hard to the left, riding into the street between the town proper and its defensive wall. Around him, the other Swordbearers reined up, and Gavin leaped from the saddle, Truthseeker flashing in his hand. The rest of the knights thundered into the forum. Some headed for the road climbing to the castra, others headed to secure the northern gate, and other groups dismounted and charged onto the ramparts, intending to sweep them of enemy soldiers.
Gavin ran to the towers of the gate and kicked open the door.
Smoke stung his eyes, and he saw small fires burning here and there on the floor and walls. Several dead khaldjari lay before him, some of them burned beyond recognition. The creatures looked a great deal like dwarves, with the same bulky build, the same low height, and the same granite-colored gray skin. Their eyes glowed with the same harsh white-blue as their Frostborn masters, though death had darkened their eyes.
Gavin dashed up the stairs, Sir Valmark and Sir Constantine and the other Swordbearers following. He ran through one tower room, and then another, and came to a wooden door that led to the narrow room over the gate itself that housed the machinery for opening and closing the doors. The door had been blasted off its hinges, and lay smoking on the floor.
Gavin darted through the door and into the midst of a battle.
Third and Antenora stood back to back in the center of the room, Third’s short swords covered with the dark red blood of the medvarth, Antenora’s staff burning with elemental fire. Five hulking medvarth encircled them, axes and swords in hand, their jaws snapping and frothing with rage. Gavin always thought that the medvarth looked like bears that walked as men, though unlike actual bears, they could hold weapons, and they wore armor, massive coats of chain mail as
large as tents.
Antenora hurled a gout of fire at the medvarth, and they reeled back, raising their arms to shield their faces. Another medvarth lunged at her, and Third intercepted the creature, blue swords blurring, and the medvarth reeled back with a scream of rage.
Gavin charged into the fray, Truthseeker drawn back to strike, and plunged the sword into the back of the wounded medvarth. The warrior’s scream of rage turned into a dying gurgle, and Gavin ripped the soulblade free and turned to face the others. A second medvarth hammered an axe at him, and Gavin caught the blow on his shield, Truthseeker’s power surging through his arm and giving him the strength to stand. He thrust the soulblade, opening a cut on the medvarth’s neck, and the creature reeled back. Before it could recover, Third leaped up behind it and opened its throat with a double slash of her swords.
Soulblades flashed as the rest of the Swordbearers charged into the room, and a short time later the remaining medvarth warriors were dead.
“Well done, Lady Third,” said Constantine, lowering Brightherald. “We would have lost many men if we tried to storm the gate.”
Third shrugged, wiping the blood from her swords. “If we had to break the gate, it would be of less use against the Frostborn when they march against us.”
“True,” said Constantine.
Antenora looked at the wall, frowning, her staff still smoldering in her gloved hand.
“What is it?” said Gavin. When she had that expression, she was usually drawing on the Sight.
“Someone is using magic with the town,” said Antenora. “Near the castra itself, I think.”
“All our Magistri should still be outside the wall,” said Constantine.
“Cogitaers,” said Third. “We should hasten to the castra at once. The soulblades might be needed there.”
Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14) Page 12