Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Arandar had led them to their deaths.

  He had led a lot of men to their deaths today.

  “Lord High King,” said Constantine, his voice raw. “We must go.”

  “Yes,” said Arandar, heaving to his feet. “Yes. You are right.”

  It would have been only just if he had died with the others, but Arandar still had his duty. He would hold to that duty until the end of his life.

  Which might be sooner than he had thought.

  “Quickly!” said Constantine. “To the High King! Quickly!”

  The surviving knights and Swordbearers and Magistri gathered around Arandar. He looked around, trying to take stock of who had survived. He couldn’t account for everyone. Maybe some of the others had escaped.

  Maybe they had been buried beneath the collapsing wall.

  “To the southern gate,” said Arandar, once they had gathered around him. “Hurry.” The others nodded and started forward, and Arandar grabbed Constantine’s shoulder. “Dux Constantine. Thank you.”

  Constantine blinked, looked back at his father, and a brief spasm went over his face. Then he nodded and joined the others. Arandar supposed that Tormark Arban was now Dux of Taliand if he was still alive. He had been with Sir Joram and some of the Comites from Taliand, commanding the reserve companies. Hopefully, he had been able to get out of Dun Calpurnia and form up to the south.

  They hastened through the streets, joining the flow of men heading for the southern gate. Arandar jogged ahead of his surviving bodyguard, speaking to the men, urging them onward. He could not let any of his regret and guilt and fear show. If anything was to be salvaged from this disaster, he could not waver.

  A few moments later he was through the gate, and Arandar gestured to his standardbearers. They ran forward, stopping out of catapult range of the southern walls, and planted his standard. It had come through the attack mostly undamaged, though there were scorch marks here and there.

  His standardbearers sounded the call to assemble, and as the army retreated through the gate, it began to reform around Arandar’s banner. He looked around, trying to get an assessment of the situation. Most of the army of Andomhaim would escape from the town, though they had taken losses, and he saw many wounded men. Traversing the ruined town would slow the Frostborn, and it would give the men of Andomhaim time to reform their lines.

  But it would not be much time.

  The magic of the Frostborn had frozen the Moradel this far south, and already formations of medvarth and revenants marched down the frozen river, forming up for a charge on their flanks. Worse, the khaldjari had dismantled some of their trebuchets and moved them down the frozen river, hastening to reassemble them. Arandar dared not lead his men onto the frozen water since he suspected the Frostborn could cancel their magic at will and send his men plunging into the waters.

  To the east, he saw more medvarth hastening around the town, forming themselves up to charge at the wavering army of Andomhaim. Arandar had hoped that he might be able to fall back to Castra Carhaine good order, keeping the army together, but he now saw that was impossible. If the army tried to withdraw, the Frostborn would come at them with their full power, and it would be easy for the enemy to break them and send them flying down the road.

  The only hope was that one of their allies might arrive in time to turn the tide, but it was a thin hope.

  ###

  “I think I can walk now,” said Antenora.

  Kharlacht grunted, slowed, and set down Antenora. Gavin moved to her side, ready to catch her if she fell. She wobbled a bit, using her staff to help support her weight as her injured leg clenched, but she kept her balance. That was the advantage of her curse. Anyone else would have been in too much pain to move.

  “Keep moving,” said Camorak. “The Frostborn are coming around the town. If we’re caught out in the open like this, we’re finished.”

  The host of Andomhaim was pulling itself together in the fields south of Dun Calpurnia, the standardbearers sounding the call to assemble. For lack of anywhere better to go, they headed towards the red dragon banner of the High King where it flapped in the breeze over the center of the army.

  “Why are we standing and fighting?” said Camorak. “We can’t remain. If we do, the Frostborn will overwhelm us.”

  “I fear,” said Caius in a quiet voice, “that if we try to retreat, the Frostborn will break us. The frost drakes can attack at will, and the Magistri will run out of strength before the drakes run out of freezing breath. If the High King and enough of the nobles are killed here, the army of the realm will collapse, and nothing can put it together again. Andomhaim will become a collection of fiefdoms, and the Frostborn will devour them one by one.”

  Gavin looked at Antenora, and he saw the same grim hopelessness reflected there.

  Something cold and resigned settled over him.

  It seemed they would die fighting alongside each other after all.

  ###

  Arandar readied himself for the next battle.

  The men of Andomhaim and the three orcish kingdoms reformed their lines with admirable speed, but it would not be enough. Too many of their leaders had been killed or wounded in the frantic retreat from Dun Calpurnia. Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance had not been the only ones. Silent Malhask of Khaluusk and his chief headmen and warriors had been wiped out by one of those damned trebuchet missiles, and King Ulakhamar of Rhaluusk had been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head and had been carried out by Crowlacht and his other headmen. Men had been wounded and killed in the withdrawal, and they would not be able to fight as effectively as they had before the trap.

  Blue fire swirled next to Arandar, and Third stepped out of the flames. She was breathing hard, and both her short swords were in hand, the blades dark with the blood of the medvarth. Third took a step back, stumbled, and went to one knee.

  “Are you injured?” said Arandar. If there were any Magistri with remaining strength, he would have her healed. Her ability to travel quickly might be one of the few remaining advantages they possessed.

  “No,” croaked Third. She shook her head and pushed back to her feet. “I had to travel in haste, and I landed in a group of medvarth three or four jumps ago.” She began cleaning the blood from her swords with the fluid motions of long-ingrained habits. “I did manage to find the Anathgrimm. They are moving with haste, but my sister’s army is at least a day away.”

  “A day,” said Arandar, and with those words, he felt the jaws of the trap tighten around him for the last time.

  They could not escape, and they had no hope of rescue. The best Arandar and the host of Andomhaim could hope to do was to weaken the Frostborn enough that the Anathgrimm and the dwarves and the manetaurs could defeat them. He hoped Calliande was still alive, wherever she was. She might be the only one capable of holding such the alliance together.

  “A day,” said Third.

  “Then we will make our stand here,” said Arandar, “and commit our fates to God.”

  For Arandar thought he would stand before the throne of the Dominus Christus soon enough.

  He hoped God would be merciful to a failed High King.

  Chapter 21: Knights

  Ridmark strode deeper into the Tomb, his thoughts chasing each other in circles, his ears straining for any sign of foes.

  He had no weapons left. He had tried drawing his bow, but it had crumbled into dust as he lifted it. Evidently, whatever power protected the Tomb did not want him bringing weapons this far into its depths. If more creatures from his past appeared, or if some other phantasm tried to kill him, he was going to be in trouble.

  But no more enemies appeared. The Tomb did not change shape to landscapes he had visited in years past. Instead found himself walking through silent corridors and wide halls of white stone, the mist forever swirling around his knees.

  He almost wished that more enemies would appear to fight.

  It would have given him something to think about other than his doubts. />
  His failures circled through his mind, accompanied by the taunts and promises of the phantasms that he had faced. He thought of all the disasters he had seen, all those who had died, all those he had been unable to save.

  Could he save them all by destroying himself with the sword of the Dragon Knight?

  Maybe that was the central question.

  Would the world be better off if he had never been born? Would the lives of his friends and loved ones be better if Ridmark had never been born? Usually, that was an utterly meaningless question, the sort of thought that popped into a man’s head in the dark reaches of the night as he brooded upon his failures. For the most part, it was an idle doubt, gone with the rise of the sun.

  But the sword might give Ridmark the power to answer the question.

  And as he thought upon his failures, he began to think that the answer to the question was yes.

  The world would have been better if he had never been born.

  Ridmark stepped through another archway and into a long hall of white stone, and the mist vanished. He looked around the hall, and saw that it ended in a pair of double golden doors about a hundred yards away. Reliefs of dragons and armored high elven warriors covered the doors. Niches lined the walls of the long hall, and in the niches stood statues of red gold.

  They were statues of the Dragon Knights of past epochs.

  All of them were high elven men, and wore armor of similar design to the armor that Rhyannis and Lanethran and the other bladeweavers had worn. Some of the Knights wore winged helms, and some of them were bareheaded. Some carried shields, and some did not. But all the Knights bore an identical weapon, a longsword, unadorned save for its pommel, which was worked in the shape of a dragon’s head.

  Ridmark kept walking, drawing closer to the doors.

  The statue in the final niche before the doors was different.

  It showed a human man of advancing years, wearing battle-scarred armor of plate and chain. He had thick hair and a tangled beard, and he held the sword of the Dragon Knight in his right hand. This had to be Kalomarus, the first human Dragon Knight and the last Dragon Knight, the Dragon Knight who had been buried in this Tomb.

  He looked exactly like the old knight in Ridmark’s dreams.

  The spirit of the last Dragon Knight had indeed been calling to him, just as the sword itself had been summoning him.

  Ridmark stepped away from the statue and crossed to the doors. There was no obvious handle or bar, and he touched the doors, wondering if the handle was hidden or if he would need to push them open. The doors shivered at his touch and swung open on silent hinges. Pale white light spilled into the long hall, washing over him like a cold wind.

  The chamber from his visions opened before him.

  It was a long hall of unadorned white stone, beautiful in a stark and austere kind of way. There was no mist in the hall, and the stone of the floor and walls and ceiling gave off a gentle white glow. Ridmark stepped into the hall, his boots clicking against the smooth stone, his eyes fixed on the dais at the far end of the hall.

  There were two people on the dais. One was the old knight, seated on the throne, the sheathed longsword across his knees. His gray-maned head rose as Ridmark approached, his eyes solemn. Before the dais stood the woman gowned in flame, her features shifting from those of Aelia to Morigna to Calliande and back again, over and over.

  “Burn with me, Ridmark Arban,” said the woman.

  “So, boy,” said the old knight, watching Ridmark from the throne. “Looks like you survived long enough to make it here. Can’t say that I expected it…but can’t say that I’m surprised, either. You always seemed like a determined one. The sword called you, and neither the shadow of Incariel nor the hordes of the Frostborn stopped you.”

  “Burn with me, Ridmark Arban,” said the woman. “Burn with me, and I shall burn out your record from the pages of history. All that you have done shall be undone. All that you have wrought shall be no more. All those who suffered because of you shall suffer no more.”

  A shiver of despair and hope went through Ridmark at those words.

  He walked the length of the hall, drawing closer to the old knight and the woman gowned in flame. The woman watched him with a gentle smile, even as her features cycled through the women that Ridmark had loved. The old knight did not rise, but his gaze did not waver. Here, in the flesh, he looked more tired and older than in the dream, but the sense of iron strength that hung around him only seemed sharper.

  “Burn with me, Ridmark Arban,” said the woman, “and undo all the harm that you have done.”

  “You’re Kalomarus, aren’t you?” said Ridmark at last. “The last Dragon Knight.”

  The old knight inclined his head. “That I am. I suppose you have all kinds of questions for me. Go on, ask them. I’m likely the only man in the world who can answer some of them.”

  “How are you still alive?” said Ridmark.

  “Sword wouldn’t let me die,” said Kalomarus. “I knew those shadow-worshipping morons were going to help old Shadowbearer summon up the Frostborn again, and the Keeper knew it as well. After I had put her to sleep under the Tower of Vigilance, when I came here, I came here to die. I was an old man, and my work was done, but God and the high elves had one last job for me. I was to be the sword’s custodian until the time came to bestow the blade on a new Knight.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. I slept for most of it until the gate opening woke me up.” A flicker of sympathy went through his hard eyes. “Sorry about Morigna, boy. She was a mouthy wench, but I liked her. If I was two hundred and fifty years younger and she was still alive, I would have charmed her away from you.”

  “Burn with me, Ridmark Arban,” said the woman.

  “Do you,” said Ridmark. He took a deep breath and tried to get his twisting emotions under control. “Do you see her?”

  “The spirit of the sword?” said Kalomarus, glancing at her. “Aye, I can see her.”

  “What does that mean?” said Ridmark. “Burn with me?”

  “That’s what she’s been telling you?” said Kalomarus.

  “You can’t hear her?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Kalomarus. “She’s been talking to you, boy. You’re the one she’s chosen. Her words are for you and you alone.”

  “She told me that I can kill myself with the sword,” said Ridmark. “That if I kill myself with the sword, its magic will rewrite history so that I never existed, that everything I’ve ever done will be undone.”

  Kalomarus grunted. “That so?”

  “Is she telling the truth?” said Ridmark.

  “Hell if I know,” said Kalomarus. “I never thought about killing myself.” He smiled behind his beard. “My weaknesses were of a different kind. Guess she’s found your weakness and is hammering on it.”

  “But can the sword do it?” said Ridmark. “Destroy someone so they never existed?”

  Kalomarus shrugged. “Maybe. I used the sword to open gates, to set the weapons of my allies ablaze, to call fire to destroy my enemies, and to slow and speed up time when I needed. That’s all I used the sword to do. Oh, and to kill a whole lot of Frostborn, of course. Can it change the past?” He frowned. “Strange idea. Never heard of such a thing. Suppose it might be possible.” His eyes narrowed. “But that’s your trial, I think.”

  “How?” said Ridmark.

  “To choose whether you believe the sword or not,” said Kalomarus. “She’s going to try to destroy you. That’s just her nature. She holds the fire of the old dragons, and fire never serves a weak master. On the other hand, the old dragons had power. Maybe they can do it.” He leaned back in the throne, frowning. “You ready for this?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I’m not…I don’t know if the sword is telling the truth or not.”

  “Neither do I,” said Kalomarus. “But it has to be you or no one else. The sword’s chosen you. She won’t accept another, not while you still live.” He drummed his fingers on the stone arm of the
throne. “And I wager the realm needs the Dragon Knight. Else you wouldn’t be here and I’d still be sleeping.”

  “It does,” said Ridmark.

  “Burn with me, Ridmark Arban,” said the woman in flames. “Burn with me, and I will undo all your mistakes. Burn with me, and you will know rest at last.”

  “There is only one piece of advice I can give you,” said Kalomarus. “Calliande. Does she need you to take up the sword?”

  “She does,” said Ridmark.

  Kalomarus nodded. “Then you’d better risk it, I think. She was always such a brave child. She takes on too much.” He sighed like a father worried about an overworked daughter. “She needs someone to help her. You love her, don’t you, boy?”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark.

  “Then take the sword and trust her,” said Kalomarus. “She needs you, but I think you need her.” He sighed. “It’s up to you now, Ridmark Arban. Morigna told me about some of the things you have done. Great deeds, aye, but this will be your hardest challenge yet.”

  “So be it,” said Ridmark. “I will accept the sword.”

  “Burn with me, Ridmark Arban,” said the woman in flames.

  “Then I will tell you a secret known only to the Dragon Knights,” said Kalomarus. He grunted, moving slowly, and grasped the sheathed sword on his knees. He gripped the blade and presented the hilt to Ridmark. “Not even Ardrhythain knows this. Only the dragons of old knew this secret, and now only the Dragon Knights.”

  “What is the secret?” said Ridmark.

  “The name of the sword of the Dragon Knight,” said Kalomarus. “Its true name, a name that can only be spoken by its chosen wielder.” He lifted the hilt towards Ridmark. “Speak its name and draw the sword.”