Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Greeting, Ridmark,” said Tomia Arban.

  His mother looked just as he remembered before she had taken sick, tall and strong with long black hair and a face that looked a great deal like his own. Ridmark and his four brothers had inherited their eyes from their father, but everything else in their features had been taken from their mother.

  She had been dead…twenty-two years, twenty-three years?

  Ridmark had been devastated by her death. As the youngest son, he had spent more time with her than his brothers, who had already been serving as squires and even knights in the courts of other great lords. After she had died, he had been sent to serve as a page in Gareth Licinius’s court.

  Maybe that was why he had never liked to return to Castra Arban. The memories there had been too sharp.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “No, I’m not doing this. You’re not Tomia Arban. You’re not my mother. You’re an urshane or a shapechanger or an illusion or some other damned thing. My mother died when I was a boy.”

  “All that is correct, Ridmark,” said Tomia. God, but she sounded exactly as he remembered. The same accent of Durandis, where she had grown up before marrying Leogrance Arban. The same faint smile as she looked at him, the same sparkle in her dark eyes. “I have been dead for quite a long time, but I am your mother.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Ridmark.

  “Perhaps I am her spirit returned to speak with you,” said Tomia, “like your lover Morigna. A pity I never got to meet the girl. I think I would have liked her. A pity I never got to meet any of your women. Perhaps I could have given you better guidance.”

  “You’re not my mother,” said Ridmark.

  “How do you know?”

  “For one, you’re not translucent,” said Ridmark. “For another, Morigna used dark magic, and that seems to have kept her soul from moving on. You never used magic.”

  “No,” said Tomia. “But I am your mother. At least, I am your memories of her.”

  “Then this is a trick,” said Ridmark.

  “It’s not a trick, my son,” said Tomia. “It is the truth.”

  “The truth of what?” said Ridmark.

  “Your memories. That is what I am, am I not? Your memories of me.”

  “You tell me,” said Ridmark.

  “Do you remember how I died?” said Tomia.

  “A foolish question.”

  “Yet,” said Tomia with kindly patience, “I note that you do not answer it.”

  “You were sick,” said Ridmark. “Father was traveling, and his Magistri were with him. By the time he returned, it was too late. The physicians and the Magistri could do nothing for you. Maybe they wouldn’t have been able to do anything for you. Their healing magic doesn’t always work on illnesses.”

  “No,” said Tomia, the glitter in her eyes brightening. “And so I died.”

  She seemed to have become thinner in the last few moments, her cheekbones sharper, her eyes sinking into her face. She was starting to look the way she had in the final weeks of her life as the illness consumed her. Old memories and old pain surged through Ridmark’s mind at the sight. His mother’s death had been the first time anyone he had loved had died. He did not care to relive the experience.

  “And so you died,” said Ridmark. “It was a long time ago.”

  “It was,” said Tomia. Her voice remained calm, though her eyes glinted with fever, her skin becoming tight and waxy against her skull. “A long time ago, and you thought the pain buried. But it has always been with you, hasn’t it? It has always been part of the man you have become.”

  “Is that meant to rattle me?” said Ridmark. “Most people live long enough to see their mother and father die. Better that than the other way around.”

  “Do you blame yourself?” said Tomia. Her face had sharpened to an exhausted mask now, the way it had in the final days before her illness. “Did you blame yourself for my death?”

  “For your illness?” said Ridmark. “No. Sometimes people get sick and die. It is sad, but it’s no one’s fault.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “Maybe it was your fault.”

  “I fail to see how.”

  “You were my fifth son,” said Tomia. “Every birth was harder than the last. I miscarried four children as well. Nine pregnancies, and they were all exhausting. You pushed me over the edge, Ridmark. I never quite recovered from your birth.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I was eight years old when you died. If childbirth was going to kill you, it would have been long before that.”

  “I was sick so often,” said Tomia. Her breathing had turned into a raspy whistle. “Do you remember? I was sick half the time, and more and more as you got older. The years had eroded my health, and perhaps you were the final straw…”

  “What is the point of this?” snapped Ridmark, his temper fraying. “Do you want me to blame myself for your death? I don’t. A disease killed you, not me. If this is some sort of trial, it is a poor one.”

  “Oh, Ridmark,” said Tomia. “I don’t want you to think about my death. I want you to think about yours.”

  “And how you’ll bring it about?” said Ridmark.

  “Wouldn’t it have been better,” said Tomia, “if you had never been born?”

  Hearing his own mother speak those words, even if he knew that she was an illusion, hit him like a blow to the gut.

  “What?” said Ridmark.

  “If you had never been born,” said Tomia, “perhaps I would still be alive. Perhaps I would have lived long enough to have seen grandchildren.”

  “Absurd,” said Ridmark. “No one can see what might have been.”

  “But you can, Ridmark,” said Tomia. “You always could. You’ve done so much harm in your life. You know that as well as I do. If you had never been born, then Aelia would still be alive, wouldn’t she? She would have married some other man and have surrounded herself with children by now. Morigna would be alive as well, safe and secure. And Calliande…”

  “Don’t talk about her,” said Ridmark.

  “The poor woman,” said Tomia, “to fall in love with a man like you. Hasn’t she suffered enough? Hasn’t she endured enough? How much pain have you brought into her life? Wouldn’t it have been better to spare her all that?” She gave a sad shake of her head. “And you failed Aelia and Morigna. You failed to save them. You’ll fail to save Calliande. Wouldn’t it be better to spare her that? Wouldn’t it have been better if you had never been born?”

  Ridmark had no answer for her. Her words made a disturbing amount of sense. Maybe it would have been better if he had never been born. Maybe…

  He rebuked himself. She wasn’t real. His mother had died over twenty years ago. Either she was a shapeshifter like an urshane or the Weaver, or the sword of the Dragon Knight was reflecting his memories back at him in some damn test or another. On the other side of the square room, he saw an archway opening into another corridor, and the heartbeat in his head seemed to be coming from that direction.

  “Whether or not they would be better off if I had never been born is moot,” said Ridmark. “I was born, I’m here, and I don’t intend to kill myself.”

  He started towards the far archway,

  “My poor son,” said Tomia. “Don’t you deserve death?”

  “Because of my failures, you mean?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Tomia. “So you can rest at last.”

  He hadn’t expected that answer, and he came to a stop, looking back at her.

  “What?”

  “You’ve suffered so much,” said Tomia. “You’ve seen those you love suffer so much. Don’t you deserve to rest? Don’t you deserve to know the peace of death at last? Haven’t you carried enough sorrow?”

  “Not yet,” said Ridmark.

  “I disagree,” said Tomia, and she stepped forward and changed.

  One moment she looked just as his mother had on the day she had died, thin and wan and exhausted. The next her vigor had returned, but overlappin
g plates of black armor covered her body, her hands concealed beneath gauntlets tipped with razor-edged talons. Great black wings unfolded from her back, and blue fire started to dance around her clawed hands.

  His mother had just transformed into an urdhracos.

  “Then, my son,” said Tomia, “I shall give you the peace of death with my own hands.”

  She leaped, wings lifting her into the air. Then the wings folded and she dove, claws sweeping for his throat. But Ridmark had fought enough urdhracosi to see the maneuver coming, and he dodged the blow, the black claws screeching against the white stone of the floor. He struck with the staff, and the weapon hit the urdhracos in the knee.

  The creature reared back with a scream, and his mother’s face twisted with pain.

  Ridmark went on the offensive, swinging his staff and snatching his dwarven axe from his belt. The urdhracos retreated, the staff rebounding from the claws, the wings curling around her like shields. Again and again Ridmark struck, forcing the urdhracos back, and at last, he saw an opening through the creature’s guard.

  His axe blurred towards her neck.

  At the last moment, the urdhracos vanished, replaced by Tomia Arban as she looked in the prime of her life before the illness had taken her.

  She screamed as his axe sank into her neck, blood gushing across the blade.

  “Ridmark,” she croaked, falling to her knees.

  Ridmark stared at her, horrified, watching her die for a second time.

  Tomia Arban slumped to the floor and then vanished as if she had never been there.

  Ridmark stepped back, taking a moment to get his breathing under control.

  “What was the point of that?” he shouted. “Just be cruel? Did you think that would stop me? I’ve fought urshanes before.”

  No one answered. He hadn’t expected that anyone would.

  Ridmark gave an angry shake of his head. Maybe that was the point of the trial, to make him kill duplicates of his loved ones. But that trick had been used on him several times before, and while it infuriated him, it wouldn’t stop him or break his mind with madness.

  He remembered what he had thought about Tarrabus Carhaine, about how terrible it would be to live forever. Ridmark had lost so much already. How much more would he lose if he lived forever?

  Didn’t he deserve to die already? He had caused so much pain. Maybe be it would be better…

  He grimaced, shook off the dark thoughts, and turned towards the far archway.

  People were depending on him, and he had work to do. Calliande was waiting for him.

  Ridmark walked deeper into the Tomb of the Dragon Knight.

  Chapter 16: Fire and Ice

  Gavin climbed to the ramparts of Dun Calpurnia, Truthseeker burning in his hand.

  The walls of Dun Calpurnia were nowhere near as strong as the walls of Tarlion, which was bad. They were, however, much stronger than the walls of Dun Licinia, which was reassuring. The walls of Dun Calpurnia stood thirty feet tall and ten thick, with numerous watch towers topped with siege engines. Against a normal army, Gavin knew they could hold out indefinitely. Against the Frostborn, he hoped they would be able to hold out long enough for help to arrive.

  Antenora followed him, her black staff tapping against the stones as she climbed the stairs. Kharlacht, Caius, Third, and Camorak followed Antenora. He had thought they would stay back and guard Arandar, but the High King would remain in the northern forum below the gate, directing the battle. Every Swordbearer was needed upon the wall, and Antenora’s fire magic was a deadly weapon against the creatures of the Frostborn.

  Gavin hurried around the base of one of the gate towers and came to the section of wall directly over the northern gate. To the north, the drums boomed out, again and again, and the masses of medvarth and locusari warriors were moving. A score of white-robed Magistri had gathered over the gate, guarded by men-at-arms with crossbows and a dozen Swordbearers. Master Kurastus stood in their midst, directing the Magistri.

  “Sir Gavin, welcome,” said Kurastus. “The High King and his captains have given us the responsibility of casting protective wards against the magic of the Frostborn and the freezing breath of their drakes.”

  “Then it seems our task,” said Caius, “will be to keep you alive while you do that.”

  “That would be helpful, yes,” said Kurastus.

  Camorak shook his head. “I’m no good at this kind of magic.”

  “Better to save your strength for healing spells, Magistrius,” said Kurastus. “Wards may not be your strength, but we have few healers to equal you.” The old man took a deep breath. “We will need that soon enough.”

  Camorak gave a grim nod.

  “Lady Antenora,” said Kurastus, “please, strike as you see fit. If the Frostborn bring their ice against us, answer them in kind with your fire.”

  “I shall focus on keeping the enemy from reaching the walls,” said Antenora. Already the sigils in her staff burned with harsh light.

  “That shall be wise,” said Kurastus.

  And with that, there was nothing left to do but wait.

  Gavin divided his attention between watching the approaching army and the frost drakes circling overhead, ready to call out a warning if the frost drakes descended. So far, the drakes and their Frostborn riders appeared content to watch the battle, staying out of range of the engines upon the walls. The medvarth lines advanced at a slow, methodical pace, the locusari skittering before them, but the khaldjari had not begun pulling their siege engines forward, and neither the cogitaers nor the Frostborn themselves had moved closer to the wall.

  “The khaldjari are calling upon their powers,” said Antenora.

  “Are they working a spell, my lady?” said Kurastus.

  “Not one of great power,” said Antenora, her eyelids fluttering as she drew upon the Sight. “Rather, it seems as if many of them are working together to combine their abilities.”

  “Siege ladders,” said Kharlacht.

  They all looked at him.

  The big orc grunted. “They must be making siege ladders. The khaldjari can call forth blades of ice from their hands, and they helped build fortifications of ice and stone for their masters. Why not use their powers to fashion siege ladders wrought of ice? Surely it is less work than cutting down trees and sawing planks.”

  “That is likely it,” said Kurastus. He looked at one of the younger Magistri. “Quickly, go to the High King and give him this news. He must be warned.”

  “No need, Magistrius,” said Third, and she vanished in a swirl of blue fire.

  “A useful talent,” said Kurastus.

  “We’ve often found it so,” said Caius.

  A moment later Third returned, the blue fire dimming in her veins. “The High King has been warned. He has sent word to those commanding on the wall to expect siege ladders of ice.”

  “We will not need to wait long,” said Caius. “Here they come.”

  Gavin watched as the lines of the locusari warriors parted, and groups of medvarth rushed forward. In one hand, each medvarth carried a massive tower shield, raised to protect their bodies. In the other hand, the medvarth carried something that looked like a long pole of glittering blue ice.

  A pole? What use would a pole be?

  The medvarth couldn’t use that to scale the walls. Was it a giant spear of some kind? Then Gavin saw the columns of locusari running after each group of medvarth, and he understood. The medvarth might not be able to scale the poles, but the locusari would scamper up them with ease.

  And then the fighting on the ramparts would begin in earnest.

  Commands rang along the ramparts, and the crossbowmen and the catapults loosed a storm of missiles. Volleys of bolts slammed into the shields, quivering there, and catapult stones landed in the locusari columns, shattering them. Antenora flung a fireball, and the sphere landed in a group of medvarth and exploded, sheathing the bear-like creatures in flame and shattering their frozen pole into tumbling pieces. About
half the groups of medvarth were killed or scattered before they could reach the town, their frozen poles dropping to the ground.

  The rest reached the walls, flinging their poles against the battlements. The magic within the poles flared as they touched the walls, and a layer of thick frost spread against the stones, holding the poles at a steep angle to the ground. A human would not have been able to scale the poles, and neither could a medvarth.

  The locusari had no such trouble, and they swarmed up the poles and attacked.

  ###

  Arandar watched the fighting on the walls, his sword hand closing and opening again and again.

  He felt the urge to rush to the ramparts and join the fray, but he held himself back. He was the High King, and his role was to command the battle, not to fight in the front line. Granted, he had done a lot of fighting at Tarlion, but that battle had been a chaotic mess, and both sides had nearly been defeated until Ridmark had beaten Tarrabus and the enemy had collapsed. If Arandar rushed to the walls and got himself killed for nothing, it would be a grave defeat for the army and would cause chaos until Dux Leogrance took command as regent.

  It would also leave Accolon and Nyvane as orphans.

  So Arandar watched, surrounded by his bodyguards, as the men of Andomhaim struggled against the locusari.

  It looked as if the defenders were having the better of the first attack. Here and there Arandar saw a man-at-arms or a militiaman fall, killed by the scythed forelimbs of the locusari, but he saw far more locusari go tumbling over the battlements or fall dead into the town below. White fire flashed amidst the melee as the Swordbearers pushed back the locusari, shattering the frozen poles they had used to ascend the walls. A bloom of fire rushed over a portion of the wall as Antenora brought her power to bear, melting the icy poles.

  “A weak attack,” said Dux Sebastian, who stood near Arandar with the other chief nobles.

  “It is,” said Dux Leogrance. “But this is just the beginning. A probing attack, to assess our strength.”

  “They began much the same way at the siege of Dun Licinia,” said Dux Gareth. “Lighter attacks, followed by heavier ones. There the Frostborn started by sending groups of locusari scouts to open the gates.”