“Nothing of significance,” said Third, unruffled. “I traveled next to a pair of medvarth warriors who took exception to my arrival. Dux Sebastian’s raids are causing a degree of chaos among the enemy scouts, so I was able to observe for longer than I expected.” She straightened up and faced Arandar. “The initial estimations were correct. The enemy has brought between forty-five thousand and fifty-five thousand warriors. Mostly medvarth, locusari, and khaldjari, though there are significant numbers of cogitaers and the Frostborn themselves.” She frowned. “I also suspect they are just the first wave, and another large host is coming down the road behind them. Perhaps another twenty or thirty thousand.”
A few of the Swordbearers swore under their breath.
“That does not change our strategy,” said Arandar, loud enough that everyone could hear him. “We will still wait here for the Anathgrimm and the dwarves and the manetaurs. If they catch the Frostborn against the walls, we will inflict a crushing defeat on them.”
They waited, watching the enemy array themselves. One by one the scouting parties returned, some of them with wounded. The Frostborn had gotten serious about ridding themselves of the raiders attacking their scouts. Arandar waited until the last scouting party had ridden through the gates and into the increasingly crowded town. The High King of Andomhaim would be the last man through the walls. It was only a symbolic gesture, he knew, but symbolic gestures were part of the work of ruling.
“Back to the town,” said Arandar. “We will await the…”
“What are they doing?” said Constantine.
A group of about twenty locusari scouts had broken free of the main host and were flying towards the town, hovering no more than two or three yards from the ground. The only time the locusari scouts ever flew that close to the ground was to attack. For them to fly so low for so long was out of character.
“They’re heading right for us,” said Constantine. “We should return to the walls now.”
“Wait,” said Arandar. “I don’t think they’re here to attack.”
The locusari scouts slowed and landed perhaps thirty yards from Arandar’s party, wings fluttering. Arandar felt the black, faceted eyes staring at him, but the creatures did not otherwise move.
“I think they’re here to parley,” said Arandar.
The locusari scouts began speaking in unison.
“We come with a message for the High King of Andomhaim,” said the locusari. Their voices sounded like tearing metal, a ghastly droning shriek, but they spoke flawless Latin without a trace of an accent.
“It seems you were right, your Majesty,” said Caius. “The Frostborn do wish to parley.”
“And what shall we parley about?” said Constantine, incredulous. “They have already destroyed the Northerland and laid Castra Marcaine waste. What do they expect? That we shall surrender without a fight?”
“I do not know,” said Arandar.
The locusari spoke again. “We come with a message for the High King of Andomhaim.”
Kharlacht grunted. “Insistent devils, aren’t they?”
“It may be a trap,” said Antenora. “The Frostborn tried to kill you already. They may wish to lure you to a meeting to slay you. Such things have happened several times on Old Earth.”
“Maybe,” said Arandar, intrigued. Why would the Frostborn want to parley? They had demanded surrender at Dun Licinia, but Dux Gareth had refused them. “Meeting with the Frostborn would be a waste of time…but wasting time will hurt them more than us. The Anathgrimm and the dwarves and possibly the manetaurs are on the way. The more we delay, the better.”
“We come with a message for the High King of Andomhaim,” chorused the locusari. It sounded like a score of blacksmiths cutting through a sheet of metal at the same time.
“Perhaps you should see what the message is,” said Third. “The locusari lack imagination. They will stand there and repeat their message until they are acknowledged.”
“Very well,” said Arandar.
He eased his horse forward a few steps, his guards following close. The heads of the locusari scouts swiveled to face him in unison. It was an eerie sight.
“We come with a message for the High King of Andomhaim,” said the locusari.
“I am Arandar Pendragon, rightful High King of Andomhaim,” said Arandar.
“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.”
“And what matters are those?” said Arandar.
“Matters of importance.”
“The Frostborn have waged war against the realm of Andomhaim,” said Arandar. “What could we possibly have to discuss?”
“Matters of importance.”
Both Calliande and Third and Antenora had said the locusari tended towards literal-mindedness. They had not been exaggerating.
“This meeting may be an attempt at treachery,” said Arandar.
“The High Lord Kajaldrakthor, Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard, will guarantee your safety for your journey to the meeting, the duration of the meeting, and your return to the town of Dun Calpurnia,” said the locusari. “You may bring up to one hundred guards with you, should you feel it necessary.”
“And why would I wish to meet with the Lord Commander?” said Arandar.
“Unnecessary bloodshed may be avoided,” said the locusari.
“Since when are the Frostborn opposed to bloodshed?” said Arandar. “They have certainly wrought enough of it during their time on this world.”
“Unnecessary bloodshed may be avoided,” said the locusari.
“Very well,” said Arandar. “I will speak with the Lord Commander. We will depart in a few moments.”
“We shall escort you to the High Lord Kajaldrakthor, Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard,” said the locusari.
“Lady Third,” said Arandar. “Please go to Dux Leogrance and Prince Cadwall. Tell them that I am meeting with the Lord Commander to gain time for our allies to arrive. If I am slain, Dux Leogrance is to assume his role as regent at once.”
“You are the High King of Andomhaim,” said Constantine. “Perhaps you should not gamble with your life in this fashion.”
“Perhaps,” said Arandar. “But we shall gamble with all our lives in a few hours, one way or another.” He turned back to the locusari scouts as Third vanished. “I am ready. You may take us there now.” He looked back at the others. “If any of you wish to remain behind, you may do so.”
No one left.
Arandar nodded, turned his horse, and followed the locusari as they rose into the air. His guards and companions closed around him, and they rode at a trot as the locusari glided forward, their gossamer wings blurring. As they drew closer to the massive host of the Frostborn, Arandar spotted a dozen towering figures in gray armor striding from the lines of the waiting medvarth.
The Frostborn themselves.
The locusari stopped and landed, and Arandar reined up his horse, the others following suit. He scanned the lines of the enemy host as he waited for the Frostborn to approach. The medvarth had gathered in block-like formations, ready to protect themselves with massive steel shields. The locusari warriors waited in orderly lines before the medvarth, and Arandar glimpsed khaldjari working to assemble catapults and ballistae.
Then his attention turned to the Frostborn themselves.
Each one of them stood eight to ten feet tall, clad in gray armor the color of old, hard ice. Their crystalline skin glittered beneath their spike-crowned helmets, and each warrior carried a massive sword strapped to their back. 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. Arandar was struck by the aura of power around the creatures, a sense of strength and potency. He h
ad felt something of the same when he had confronted Rhogrimnalazur in Urd Cystaanl, the same sense of ancient power and terrible strength.
The urdmordar had been malicious and hungry. The Frostborn lacked that malice, but they were cold and merciless and as strong as the winter itself.
Arandar waited, watching as the Frostborn stopped a dozen yards away. Behind him the others shifted, hands waiting near their weapons. He spotted Arlmagnava standing with the Frostborn and felt the cold weight of her attention. One of the other Frostborn stepped forward, a tall male in gray armor, the ghostly fire flickering and dancing within in his veins.
“High King Arandar Pendragon?” said the Frostborn, his voice like melodious thunder.
“I am,” said Arandar.
“I am Kajaldrakthor, Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard,” said the Frostborn.
“Yes,” said Arandar. “I assume you succeeded Rjalmandrakur after the Gray Knight slew him upon this very field?”
He wanted to see if Kajaldrakthor would respond to the barb, but the Frostborn didn’t even blink. Calliande had said that the Frostborn had little emotion, but instead were ruled by cold and calculating logic that knew neither pity nor mercy.
“That is correct,” said Kajaldrakthor. “I was the subcommander of the Order of the Vanguard, so I took Rjalmandrakur’s place when he was slain. Should I be slain in battle, my own subcommander shall take my place, and the great mission of the High Lords of the Dominion shall continue.”
“Or you could be defeated utterly,” said Arandar.
“One defeat is of no consequence in the long-term,” said Kajaldrakthor. “Even the most optimistic among us thought it would take a minimum of a century and a half to subjugate this world and bring its kindreds into the fold of the Dominion. An additional year is of no importance.”
“Or we could drive you back to your own world and close your gate behind you,” said Arandar.
“You shall not,” said Kajaldrakthor. “Already we are sufficiently entrenched around the world gate that it would take years of campaigning to dislodge us from our fortifications, and we can bring more reinforcements through the gate on a regular basis. Our ally is able to recharge the gate in a short time after every use.”
He beckoned, and Arlmagnava stepped to the side, revealing a shorter figure in black armor.
Arandar kept himself from flinching, but his hand twitched a few inches towards Excalibur’s hilt.
Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer took a few steps forward, gazing up at him as her shadow rotated around her feet like a living thing.
When Arandar had last seen her, she had still been wearing the white robe of the Magistri. She had abandoned that for close-fitting black armor of dvargir design, fashioned of interlocking plates of dvargirish steel. The Frostborn had veins of icy fire, but Imaria now had veins of shadow, veins that seemed linked with her armor. Her face was pallid and corpselike, and her eyes were like quicksilver, distorted mirrors that showed a twisted reflection of everything around them.
She tilted her head to the side as she regarded Arandar. The armor on her chest shifted and moved, the plates sliding over each other like shuffled cards, and he had the strange feeling that the armor was alive somehow, fused to her flesh like a living creature.
“The High King of Andomhaim,” said Imaria. It was as if two voices were speaking through her lips at the same time. One of the voice of Imaria Licinius, the voice of a noblewoman of Andomhaim. The second voice was an inhuman, twisted rasp, a voice that no human throat should have been able to produce.
“Surprised?” said Arandar. “Were you expecting Tarrabus Carhaine to march forth and grovel before the boots of the Frostborn?”
“Tarrabus was a tool,” said Imaria. “He was either fit to serve his purpose, or he was not. This was also true of the Enlightened. They claimed to be strong, but when put to the test, they proved to be weak. By their own doctrines, they were defeated, for they said the strong would rule the weak, and they were crushed.” Her eyes gazed at Arandar without blinking, and something about them made his skin crawl. Or maybe it was the way her shadow kept rotating around her. “In the end, they served a purpose, and that purpose has ended. Just as Imaria Licinius was the larval form of Imaria Shadowbearer, so were the Enlightened the predecessor to what is to come. I am the herald of change, the handmaiden of rebirth, and I shall be the gateway for our liberation from time and space and matter.”
Silence answered that speech. The expressions of the Frostborn were alien, but from the way they looked at Imaria, Arandar suspected that they had heard that speech many times before.
“A great many words,” said Arandar, “to say yes or no. And you didn’t actually answer the question, traitor.”
“Our ally,” said Kajaldrakthor before Imaria could speak again, “opened the world gate for us, as part of our pact with her predecessor Tymandain Shadowbearer. We would destroy the realm of Andomhaim for her, and in exchange, she would open the way for us. She has fulfilled her side of the pact. The world gate is open, and she recharges it regularly, allowing us to bring additional forces from our worlds in the Dominion.” The alien eyes turned back to Arandar. “Which brings us to the reason for this meeting.”
Arandar snorted. “You have admitted that you intend to destroy Andomhaim. I intend to stop you. What more is there to discuss?”
“Potentially, a great deal,” said Kajaldrakthor. “Your realm and the rest of this world will be made part of the Dominion of the High Lords. That is our objective. The methods by which those objectives will be accomplished is immaterial.”
“Is it?” said Arandar. “Because I intend to resist every single one of your methods.”
Kajaldrakthor looked at Arlmagnava. “Your assessment of him was correct, Seeker.”
“And what assessment was that?” said Arandar.
“You will recall we encountered one another briefly before the battle of Dun Calpurnia,” said Arlmagnava. “At that encounter, you came close to slaying me. Tarrabus Carhaine was wise to seek your death, though he abjectly failed with that as with numerous other tasks. The Order of the Inquisition concluded that Tarrabus would have been an easier ruler to manipulate, and making him into a vassal of the Dominion would have been a straightforward process. You, however, we may have to destroy utterly.”
“Unless you are willing to listen to the path of logic,” said Kajaldrakthor.
Imaria looked at the Lord Commander, and for just a moment Arandar saw the sneer of contempt there. He was certain, utterly certain, that Imaria was using the Frostborn for something, though he could not imagine what. He wondered if Kajaldrakthor had seen it.
“And what path is that?” said Arandar.
“Your realm and the rest of this world are going to become part of the Dominion of the High Lords,” said Kajaldrakthor. “This is inevitable. We can sustain the conquest of this world for centuries if necessary. Can you say the same? Your lives are only seventy or eighty years, and only if some mischance does not claim you first. Our lives are far longer, and we can plan for a far more distant future. Perhaps you will hold us at bay, but shall your son say the same? Shall his grandson?”
“What is your point, Lord Commander?” said Arandar. He kept his voice hard, but the utter certainty in the words of the Frostborn chilled him. Kajaldrakthor spoke not with bravado or haughtiness, but with cold, simple logic, and that simple logic foretold the destruction and conquest of Andomhaim.
“Your world will become part of the Dominion of the High Lords,” said Kajaldrakthor. “That is inevitable. But your realm need not be destroyed. You could choose to submit to us willingly.”
“And why would I do that?” said Arandar. “You supported Tarrabus Carhaine and helped him seize the throne of Andomhaim. He murdered my father, and he did his best to murder my children. Many good men died because of his vile treachery.” He looked at Imaria. “And because of the wicked cult he spread among the men of Andomhaim.”
Imaria did
not respond, but her shadow kept twisting around her feet.
“We did support Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Arlmagnava. “He proved himself unworthy of trust, and you are now the High King of Andomhaim by right of blood and right of conquest. Therefore, we make our offer to you.”
“Submit to us willingly,” said Kajaldrakthor, “and you shall join the Dominion of the High Lords as vassals. You shall join us in the great work of perfecting the cosmos. The kindreds within reach of your authority shall be uplifted.”
“Uplifted?” said Arandar.
“Our magic and our sciences can accomplish much,” said Kajaldrakthor. “The medvarth were once little more than savage beasts, warring against each other endlessly. We taught them the use of letters and tools, and they now serve us as soldiers. The khaldjari were struggling to survive when we found them. We gave them the ability to control ice and frost, and they serve as the engineers of the Order of the Tower. The locusari were mere animals when we found them. We gave them the ability of thought and language and gave them a purpose beyond mere life and death. The High Lords can do the same with humans and orcs. We can extend your lives significantly and overcome some of the defects caused by your inferior physical configurations. In exchange, you shall join the Dominion of the High Lords, and assist us in the conquest of the cosmos.”
“And if we refuse?” said Arandar.
“If you refuse,” said Kajaldrakthor, “then you shall be destroyed. Your world shall be cleansed and made habitable for other kindreds that have submitted to the Dominion. Humans and orcs might be kept as slaves, or we may exterminate them. The halfling kindred we shall certainly exterminate, for they are too small and weak to be of any use as soldiers or as workers. It is inevitable that your world shall be conquered and made part of the Dominion. All that is left to you is to choose the method by which you shall join us.”
“This is a poor attempt at negotiation,” said Arandar. “You offer us the choice of voluntary enslavement or involuntary enslavement. We reject both.”
“This is not a negotiation,” said Kajaldrakthor. “It is a statement of simple fact. If you wish for as many of your people to be preserved as possible, High King of Andomhaim, you will submit to us, and the process shall be easier. If you defy us, we will break you and remake your world as we please. Either way, your kindreds and your world shall join our great work to perfect the cosmos.”
Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14) Page 18