“Neither choice pleases me,” said Arandar. “Instead, I shall offer you two choices of my own. Take your slaves, march back into the Northerland, withdraw through your world gate, and close it behind you. Or else we shall break your armies and drive you back to the gate.”
He knew that would take years of fighting. But he would not hand Andomhaim to these arrogant tyrants on a silver platter. Nor would he consent even to surrendering kindreds and nations not under the authority of the High King to the Frostborn. If the Frostborn wanted this world, they would have to take it, step by bloody step.
“His defiance is expected, Lord Commander,” said Arlmagnava. “The Order of the Inquisition did not think he would yield. We shall have to destroy him.”
“Agreed,” said Kajaldrakthor. “It is regrettable but necessary. You would have made a capable governor of some of the conquered territories. But if we must destroy your world and your nations, that too will bring them closer to perfection in our work of remaking the cosmos. Return to your soldiers, High King of Andomhaim. When you do, the battle shall begin, and you will die with your army.”
“Many a man confident of victory,” said Arandar, “lay dead upon the field once the battle was over.”
Kajaldrakthor said nothing. Evidently, the Frostborn did not feel the need to have the last word the way someone like Tarrabus Carhaine would have. They turned and walked back towards their waiting army, and the locusari scouts who had delivered their message took to the air and flew away.
Imaria remained behind, gazing at nothing, her expression distant. For a moment, Arandar considered attacking her. The parley was obviously over, and Arandar doubted the Frostborn would take it as a breach of the parley if he cut her down. More, he would be well within his rights to do it. Her predecessor had engineered the return of the Frostborn, and he had no doubt that Imaria had inherited his goals. More, Imaria had murdered Uthanaric Pendragon and the Crown Prince Kaldraine and Morigna and God knew how many others. She was a murderess and a traitor, and the High King would be well within his rights to execute her here and now for her many, many crimes.
The quicksilver eyes turned to Arandar, and she smiled.
“Do not fear, High King of Andomhaim,” said Imaria. “I would see Ridmark and Calliande dead for the joy of it, but not you. You, too, shall be free of matter and causality once my work is finished.”
“No,” said Arandar. “You have shed innocent blood in service to a false and demon god. I will defeat you just as the Enlightened were defeated.”
He almost drew Excalibur, but Imaria took the decision from him. She vanished in a swirl of darkness, leaving Arandar and his guards alone on the field between the town and the Frostborn.
“We’re done,” said Arandar, turning his horse. “Let’s return to Dun Calpurnia.”
The battle, he knew, would begin within moments.
###
Gavin and Antenora reined up in the northern forum of Dun Calpurnia. Behind them the men-at-arms pushed the doors shut with a boom, sealing the gate with heavy timbers. The gate had been built of massive beams sheathed in bands of iron, and it looked strong enough to hold an army at bay.
He wondered how long it would last against the wrath of the Frostborn.
Dux Leogrance, Dux Gareth, and Prince Cadwall awaited the High King, and Gavin listened to their conversation.
“What did the Frostborn want?” said Gareth.
“They more or less restated the demands they gave us the first day at Dun Licinia,” said Arandar, dropping from his saddle as his squires tended to his horse. “We can choose to join their Dominion of our own will, or we will be forced to join the Frostborn. Their conquest is inevitable, and they will perfect the cosmos and all their usual nonsense.”
“A waste of time, then,” said Leogrance.
“As a negotiation, yes,” said Cadwall. “But every moment we delay gives Queen Mara another moment to arrive with the Anathgrimm and the dwarves.”
“Yes,” said Arandar. “Send word to the other Duxi and Comites. The Frostborn will attack at any moment.”
“We are ready,” said Gareth as Cadwall dispatched some of his squires to serve as messengers. “The siege engines are sighted and prepared, and we have enough men to hold the entire wall with ample reserves. We should be able to hold until help arrives, if God wills it.”
“If God wills it,” said Arandar.
Gavin hoped that he was right. He wished that Calliande was here. In the past battles with the Frostborn, her powers had been invaluable, even critical.
Drums boomed out from outside the wall, deep and solemn.
The Frostborn were coming, and the battle was about to begin.
Chapter 15: The Tomb of the Dragon Knight
Utter silence hung over the corridor as Ridmark walked forward.
In some ways, the Tomb of the Dragon Knight reminded him of the dark elven ruins he had visited in the past. The walls and floors and ceilings were fashioned of the same sort of white stone, hard and impenetrable and strong enough to endure millennia without crumbling into dust. The same silence hung over the Tomb,and Ridmark's ears strained to hear anything but the rasp of his own breathing and the drumbeat of his own heart.
And the heartbeat inside his own head, of course.
Yet there were obvious differences. In places the walls glowed, giving off their own pale light, identical to the hall of white stone he had seen in his dreams of Morigna and the burning woman. The Tomb also lacked the strange, alien angles of the dark elven ruins. It also lacked the aura of ancient malice that always hung over the ruins of the dark elves. Instead, the Tomb felt…
Watchful, somehow. Like it was waiting.
Ridmark supposed that it had been waiting for him.
A thick mist coiled and flowed across the floor, coming up to his knees and lapping at the pale walls. Ridmark ran his fingers through the mist, but he felt nothing at all, no moisture, no chill, nothing. The walls ought to have been damp with it, but the floor was as dry as dust.
That meant the mist was magical. Ridmark wished Calliande was here. With the Sight, she could have taken one look at the mist and told him its function and purpose. Without her, he could only guess, though it did not seem to harm him.
Still, he was glad she wasn’t here. The danger had come to him, and Ridmark was glad he could face it without exposing her to risk.
The corridor continued deeper into the Tomb. Ridmark supposed he was underneath the level of the lake by now, though the walls remained dry. He felt the need to hurry, though he supposed it was unnecessary. If the rate of time flowed differently inside the Tomb than it did on the outside, Ridmark could spend days here and only a few hours would pass in the caverns outside. Still, he wanted to return to Calliande, and he wanted to return to Arandar and the others with the power of the Dragon Knight in hand. He wondered what had happened since he and Calliande had been snatched from Tarlion. If time was flowing faster outside of Cathair Solas than it was within, the host of Andomhaim might well have reached the Northerland by now. Had Mara and the Anathgrimm joined them? Or the dwarves and the manetaurs?
Ridmark didn’t know, but it was his duty to aid them. He had helped Calliande build the alliance that had brought the dwarves and the manetaurs to war against the Frostborn, and he would not leave them to face the Frostborn alone.
That meant he needed to find the sword of the Dragon Knight as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure what the sword could do, but if it could command the fire of dragons, that would be of immense use against the Frostborn. If the sword could create gates like the one in the Tower of the Keeper, gates that had carried Ridmark and Calliande over a thousand miles in the blink of an eye, that would be of tremendous value in battle.
If he had been able to do that, he could have killed Mhalek and saved Aelia. He could have killed Tarrabus Carhaine before Uthanaric Pendragon was murdered. Maybe he could have even saved Morigna before Imaria and the Weaver murdered her.
Ridmar
k shook his head, pushing away the dark thoughts. He had to focus on the future now. What was done was done, and he had to think about those who yet lived, who yet could be saved.
He had to think about Calliande.
At last, the corridor ended in a high stone hall, and Ridmark looked around with a scowl.
“A maze,” he muttered. “Of course, it had to be a maze.”
The hall was about the size of a large church, and a balcony went along all four walls. Ahead of Ridmark opened another corridor, and two more on either wall. Three more corridors opened off the balconies as well. Ridmark was reminded of the Labyrinth near Bastoth, of how Ralakahr had hunted him through the silent ruins of the dark elves.
Hopefully, there wasn’t anything as dangerous as Ralakahr down here.
He stepped forward, the mist swirling around his boots, and looked at the different corridors. Each corridor seemed identical to the others, but it seemed like the heartbeat in his head coming from the corridor at the far end of the stone hall. But the one on the balcony or the one on the ground level? Ridmark could not tell.
He decided to start with the lower corridor. Even the engineering of the high elves could not have dug into the earth forever, and he could search the lower levels and make his way to the higher levels if he found nothing.
He took a step towards the corridor, and the quiet voice came to his ears.
“It is good to see you again, my love, though I fear to see you in this place.”
Ridmark swallowed, took a moment to collect his composure, and turned around.
The spirit of Morigna stood a few yards behind him, translucent enough that he could see the mist swirling through her body. She wore her usual wool and leather and tattered cloak, her long black hair bound back in a thick braid. A sharp tangle of emotion went through him. Her spirit had haunted his dreams for nearly a year, and he had forgotten those dreams until he had seen her spirit atop the Tower of the Keeper. Then the shock of the gate and the necessity of keeping himself and Calliande alive had occupied his attention.
There had not been time to process how sad and how strange seeing Morigna again had been.
“Was it really you?” Ridmark heard himself say.
“Do elaborate,” said Morigna, raising an eyebrow.
“The dreams,” said Ridmark. “I had those dreams of you and the spirit of the sword of the Dragon Knight for over a year. Was it really you? Or was I hallucinating?”
“Was it all a dream, you mean?” said Morigna.
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Was it?”
“Not in the least,” said Morigna. “I am dead, of course, but I still have work to do. Absorbing some of the Warden’s dark magic to escape Urd Morlemoch carried a price, and I must work off that price before I can move on.” She shrugged. “There are more disagreeable ways to spend one’s time, and the work is important.”
Ridmark stared at Morigna. There were a thousand things he wanted to say to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
“For what?” said Morigna.
“For not saving you from Imaria and the Weaver,” said Ridmark.
“That was hardly your fault.”
“Maybe not,” said Ridmark. “But I’m sorry nonetheless. I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t take you to Tarlion like I said I would. And…I am sorry that I fell for Calliande so soon after you died.”
Something like pity flickered over her face. It was a strange sight on her usually harsh expression. “Ridmark. You always did torment yourself more than was necessary. The dead do not love as the living do, nor are the dead given in marriage. Did I not tell you that you needed Calliande?”
“You did,” said Ridmark. “Several times. Though I never remembered when I woke up.”
“The peril of speaking through dreams, alas,” said Morigna. “The waking mind cannot always recall what the sleeping mind has learned. But the sword chose you, and it was reaching out for you. We had to warn you.”
“But I am sorry,” said Ridmark. “I wish…” What did he wish? He was glad to be betrothed to Calliande and frankly wanted to be back in Tarlion with her. But he wished Morigna hadn’t died. He wished she was here now in the flesh. “I wish things could have been different.”
“So do I,” said Morigna. “But if you do one thing in my memory, Ridmark, then do this. Do not feel guilty on my account. Do not blame yourself for my death. What is done is done. And you need Calliande as much as she needs you.”
“I will try,” said Ridmark.
Morigna’s mouth curled in a smile. “And Calliande does indeed need you, Ridmark. She has never known the touch of a man…and do you have any idea how often she has thought about your touch, shall we say? Sometimes it is all she can think about. One does forget how eager virgins can be. Really, it would be cruel to make her wait any…”
“For God’s sake,” said Ridmark, and despite himself, he laughed. “Death hasn’t changed you much, has it?”
“People keep telling me that,” said Morigna, and her smile faded. “Listen to me, Ridmark. I have come to warn you.”
“About the sword?” said Ridmark.
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Can you tell me about the trial? Calliande and Ardrhythain both said that the sword would try to test me somehow, but Calliande didn’t know any details, and Ardrhythain would not speak of it.”
“The sword of the Dragon Knight can only be mastered by strength,” said Morigna. “It will try to dominate you by turning your weaknesses against you. It will be able to read your mind, find your deepest weaknesses, and exploit them to the fullest.”
“That sounds dangerous,” said Ridmark.
“It is,” said Morigna. “And I fear it is especially dangerous to you, my love.”
“How so?” said Ridmark.
“When your wife was killed at Mhalek’s hands, you blamed yourself and plunged into the Wilderland to find the secret of the Frostborn,” said Morigna. “It was a noble quest, but you hoped it would kill you in retribution for her death. When Imaria and the Weaver slew me, you dedicated yourself to avenging my death, even at the cost of your own life.”
“I don’t want to get myself killed now,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want to leave Calliande bereft.” He grimaced. “I’ve known that too often to inflict that upon her.”
“Remember that!” said Morigna. “Remember that and hold tight to it, Ridmark, for that will be the trial. That will be the weapon the sword will use against you. There has always been an urge for your own death in your nature, like a flaw in a pane of glass. That will be how the sword attacks you.”
“But I don’t want to die,” said Ridmark. “At least…I don’t think I do, not now. I won’t deny that I’ve wanted to in the past…”
“I should hope not,” said Morigna in her familiar acerbic tones. “As well deny that the sky is blue or that water flows downhill.”
Ridmark sighed. Death had indeed failed to change her. “I won’t. But I don’t want to die now.”
“Really?” said Morigna. “Perhaps I misspoke. What you have really wanted, buried deep within your heart, is to sacrifice yourself for those you love. If the chance came to throw yourself on a sword to save Calliande…I fear that is a temptation you would be hard-pressed to resist. And that is the weapon the sword will use against you.”
“All right,” said Ridmark. “I will be on my guard against that.”
“It will be harder than you think,” said Morigna. She sighed. “And I have given you all the aid that I am permitted. The rules may be bent, but not broken. Be very careful, my love. I wish you to be united with Calliande in life…and not joined with me in death before your proper hour.”
She vanished without another word, the mist swirling through the spot she had occupied a moment earlier.
Ridmark closed his eyes and let out a long breath, regret and grief and sorrow twisting through him. They hadn’t been just dreams. Morigna had been speaking
to him.
And the thought that she approved of his betrothal to Calliande…it surprised Ridmark how much better that made him feel.
Yet her warning troubled him. If there was a death wish buried within his very nature, how would the sword try to use it against him? Visions of some kind?
Would it simply try to drive him mad?
There was nothing to do but to continue onward.
Ridmark sighed, gripped his staff, and strode towards the entrance on the far wall. The corridor beyond stretched for forty yards and then ended in a spiral stairwell that sank deeper into the earth. Ridmark took the stairs, staff held in guard before him. At last the stairs ended and opened into a large square room, the floor covered with tiles of white stone inscribed with symbols, the ceiling rising in a vault of pale stone. The white stone gave off a faint glow, providing enough light that it was almost like standing in moonlight.
A tall woman stood in the center of the room, her back to Ridmark. She was wearing a blue gown with black trim and a blue mantle, a common outfit among the noblewomen of Andomhaim. A black leather belt encircled her waist, holding a sheathed dagger at her hip, and her black hair hung in dark waves down her shoulders and back.
Ridmark looked a careful step forward, watching the noblewoman. He was certain, of course, that she was not actually a noblewoman of Andomhaim. No doubt she was a disguised urshane or an illusion spun by the magic of the Tomb. Yet he recognized her. He was sure he recognized her, and something stirred in his mind at the sight.
Ridmark took a step to the left, intending to circle around the woman, and she turned to face him.
A jolt of recognition went through him, and for a moment he was frozen with shock.
Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14) Page 19