He rolled his shoulders, stretching tired muscles, and looked at his soldiers. The bulk of the Anathgrimm tended to their arms and armor. Kharlacht and Caius stood at the edge of the bank, arguing about some obscure point of theology. Qhazulak supervised the crossing, snarling imprecations at any Anathgrimm warrior who failed to meet the Champion’s standards. Accolon waited with Camorak, questioning the Magistrius on the nature of healing spells. Camorak, when he was sober, was an excellent teacher, and if Accolon lived to become High King, he would take the throne with a thorough knowledge of magical theory.
Blue fire swirled next to Ridmark, and Third appeared out of nothingness, a dark shadow in her armor. She stumbled on the uneven ground, and Ridmark caught her elbow, helping her to recover her balance.
“Thank you,” said Third, pulling away from him. She hated to have anyone touch her for any reason.
“Anything?” said Ridmark.
“As far as I am able to determine, we are unobserved,” said Third. “This ford will remain hidden for now.”
“Good,” said Ridmark. “We might need it again. The scouts have seen the locusari and the medvarth moving along the eastern bank in heavier numbers than usual.”
“Our raids have drawn a response,” said Third. “We may need to adjust our strategy.”
“Probably,” said Ridmark. “We will need to discuss it with the Queen and the Prince Consort.”
Third said nothing to that, her attention turning to the river, and Ridmark looked at the towering green wall of Nightmane Forest.
It was a huge line of oak trees, some of them rising over a hundred feet tall. The edge of the forest was as sharp and clear as if it had been cut by a razor. Beneath the boughs, Ridmark saw nothing but shadows. It was strange that he had come to think of the Forest as a refuge. All his life, the Traveler and his Anathgrimm had been mortal enemies of the High Kingdom. Then Mara had killed her insane father, and only Queen Mara and the Anathgrimm had kept Tarrabus Carhaine from total victory.
“Lord magister,” said Qhazulak, cutting into Ridmark’s thoughts. “All the warriors have crossed.”
“Good,” said Ridmark. “Into the Forest. Best not to linger.”
The Anathgrimm formed up, and they marched into Nightmane Forest, passing the boundary of the outer wards. Ridmark had no magical ability, and so could not sense when they passed the mighty layers of wards the Traveler had laid across the boundaries of his realm. Yet the symbols upon his staff flared with white fire for a moment, and Camorak grimaced and shook his head, rubbing his temples.
Nightmane Forest might have become a refuge, but Ridmark had to admit that it looked damned strange.
The maze of branches overhead blocked out most of the light, but Ridmark had no trouble seeing. An eerie, pale blue glow illuminated the trees, seeming to come from no obvious source. Strange plants grew upon the ground, odd ferns of blue color and mushrooms that gave off a flickering light. Here and there stood menhirs of white stone, carved with dark elven symbols and glowing with the blue fire of the Traveler’s spells. Between the menhirs ran a road of white stone, leading deeper into the Forest. The Traveler had never bothered constructing a citadel within the forest, save for the storehouses that held his vast hoard of weapons and food. Yet he had built roads within the trees, allowing the Anathgrimm to march in haste to the borders of his realm.
Four Anathgrimm moved along the road, crossbows in hand, and stopped as Ridmark and the others approached.
“Lord Magister, Lord Champion,” said the lead Anathgrimm in greeting. “The Queen bade us to wait for your return.”
“Where is she?” said Ridmark. “We have news for her.”
“The Eastern Court,” said the Anathgrimm.
“Lead on,” said Ridmark.
###
Two hours later they came to the Eastern Court of Nightmane Forest.
Most of Nightmane Forest was illuminated by the strange blue glow of the Traveler’s wards, motes of blue light dancing from branch to branch. Silence hung over the Forest, yet ahead Ridmark heard the murmur of voices and saw the flare of firelight. It never rained in Nightmane Forest, and it never snowed, but at the same time, it always remained a little chilly, so the fire’s warmth was a welcome relief as they approached.
“Qhazulak,” said Ridmark. “Make sure the men have rest and food.”
“It shall be done,” rasped the old orc, and he snapped orders to his lieutenants.
The Anathgrimm dispersed to their camps and barracks, and Ridmark, Qhazulak, Kharlacht, Caius, Camorak, Accolon, and Third walked into the Eastern Court.
The Court had been arranged with oak trees growing on the side, the trunks seeming like pillars and the interlocked branches overhead like a vaulted roof. At the far end of the impromptu hall stood a heaped mass of granite boulders, a few of them arranged to form a stone throne.
Mara, Queen of Nightmane Forest, sat upon the stone throne.
The chair dwarfed her. She was barely five feet tall, and she seemed like a tiny thing in her father’s seat. The dark elven armor and the diadem of blue steel that she wore made her seem taller, but not by very much. She had large green eyes and pale blond hair, the hair swept back to reveal the points of her half-dark elven ears. Once she had taken care to conceal those points, but no longer. Despite her size, she looked like a cold, aloof dark elven noblewoman.
The illusion shattered when she smiled.
“Somehow, I just knew you would return victorious,” said the halfling man standing next to the Queen’s throne. He was thin and lean and muscled, his voice surprisingly deep despite his size. Unlike his wife, he had not changed his usual style of clothing and wore black boots, black trousers, and a black leather vest over a crisp white shirt, a sword and a dagger at his belt. “Or with a pile of dead medvarth behind you.”
“As much as we might have wished to drag a pile of dead medvarth into Nightmane Forest,” said Caius, “I fear we would not wish to offend your wife the Queen.”
“A sensible policy,” said Jager, smiling as he brushed some dust from his sleeve.
“I have always thought so,” said Mara, rising from the throne. She had a soft voice, but when she spoke in Nightmane Forest, people listened. “Welcome home, my friends.”
Home? Had Nightmane Forest become Ridmark’s home? He didn’t know the answer to that. Castra Arban had once been his home, and then Castra Marcaine, but both places were lost to him. Perhaps a man like the Gray Knight would never have a home.
“Thank you,” said Ridmark, “my Queen.”
Mara smiled at him, took Jager’s hand, and walked forward. Others followed the Queen and Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest. There were a half a dozen Anathgrimm of the Queen’s Guard, the oldest and most vicious fighters of the Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht walked with the Queen’s Guard, wearing armor over his black robe. Once he had been a priest of the Traveler, wielding dark magic in the dark elven prince’s name. After accepting baptism and ordination from Caius, he had become Father Zhorlacht, one of the first the priests of the Dominus Christus among the Anathgrimm. If they lived long enough, Ridmark thought, Zhorlacht would likely become the first bishop of Nightmane Forest since the Anathgrimm would prefer priests from their own kindred.
They preferred priests of their own kindred, but they would accept no one else but Mara as their ruler.
One other walked behind Mara, a human girl of about ten years, wearing a blue dress, her resemblance to Accolon and Arandar obvious. Nyvane’s expression was grave, as she took her duties as the Queen’s handmaiden seriously, but she kept wanting to smile as she looked at her brother.
“We return with victory,” said Qhazulak. “Seven times we faced the foe, and seven times we were victorious.”
“I doubted it not, my Champion,” said Mara. She looked at Ridmark. “All fourteen of the warbands we sent returned. All have taken losses, yes, but all return with victories.”
“The souls of our brothers shall reside with Dominus Christus f
or eternity,” said Zhorlacht. “Nor were their deaths in vain, though all Anathgrimm desire a glorious death in battle surrounded by the corpses of our enemies. From what the other warbands have reported, we doubt the Frostborn will be able to assail Castra Marcaine this year.”
“They will bring reinforcements eventually,” said Ridmark.
Zhorlacht smiled behind his black tusks. Smiling only made the Anathgrimm look more ferocious. “Eventually. But not this year.”
“Which will give Prince Arandar the time he needs to claim the High King’s throne and bring a unified Andomhaim to our aid,” said Mara.
“We need to rethink our strategy,” said Ridmark. “Our successes will draw the notice of our enemies.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mara with a sigh. “Such is the nature of war.” She looked at Third. “And you, sister? Are you well?”
Third stared at Mara for a moment.
“No,” said Third at last, “but I am no worse than when I left and better than I have been for centuries. Therefore, I have no cause for complaint. I have done as you have commanded, and kept the Gray Knight safe.”
“Thank you,” said Mara. “We shall plan a new strategy tomorrow. Tonight, we shall feast in the Eastern Court, to celebrate our victories. The young Anathgrimm have brought food out of the storehouses without falling prey to the death spells so we may eat our fill.”
###
Later that night, hundreds of Anathgrimm feasted in the Eastern Court, listening as Caius recounted the tales of their battles in the Northerland. Neither Kharlacht nor Qhazulak were particularly eloquent, but Caius made up for it, and Ridmark had to admit Caius made the warband’s victories sound better than they had been. All Ridmark remembered was the blood and the screaming and the rage that never left him. From time to time Jager interspersed with comments that elicited roars of laughter from the Anathgrimm.
“That is a sound,” said Mara in a soft voice, “that I thought I would never hear in this place.”
“Perhaps it never was heard here before this year,” said Ridmark.
He walked alone with the Queen at the edge of the Eastern Court. Night had fallen, and the blue glow of Nightmane Forest had dimmed somewhat, though the motes of blue light still danced from branch to branch. The sight was eerie and alien, but it was nonetheless beautiful. The Traveler had been insane and cruel and twisted, but in his own way he had been brilliant, even if his gifts had been twisted in the service of his selfish evil.
“No,” said Mara. She looked up at him. “What do you think?”
He looked back at her. Ridmark had never had a sister, but if he had, he imagined he would have felt about her the way he felt about Mara. He had refused to kill her at the Iron Tower, she had saved their lives at Urd Morlemoch, and she had given him some good advice when he needed to hear it. Though Ridmark was not sure if he was the protective older brother, or if she was the wiser older sister.
Maybe they were both.
“I think,” said Ridmark, “that we will draw a response from the Frostborn sooner rather than later.”
“You are right,” said Mara. “While you were gone, they launched an attack on the northeastern border of the Forest, trying to break through the wards.”
“Did they succeed?” said Ridmark.
“No. Not even close,” said Mara, a dark satisfaction in her voice. “My father was a monster, but his warding spells were potent. Only the Warden’s warding spells were greater.”
“Perhaps the Traveler’s skill at wards were greater than the Warden’s,” said Ridmark, “given that he could leave Nightmane Forest and the Warden can never leave Urd Morlemoch.”
“Let us be grateful for small favors,” said Mara. “The magical attack upon the wards failed, so the Frostborn have turned to a different tactic. Zhorlacht’s scouts have seen bands of medvarth led by khaldjari building fortifications along the eastern bank of the Moradel. They are constructing small forts – little more than a tower, a ditch, and an earthwork wall, but forts nonetheless.”
“A sentry line,” said Ridmark. “Our raids have hurt them, so they are digging in along the Moradel, building a line of fortifications to stop and track our warbands.”
Mara nodded. “That was Zhorlacht’s thought. It seems we have indeed gained Andomhaim some time. Given the resources it will take the Frostborn to build that line, they will have to abandon their attack upon Castra Marcaine for another year.”
“We’ve gained time, but nothing else,” said Ridmark. “The forces Dux Gareth left at Castra Marcaine aren’t strong enough to do anything but hold the castra. And unless Arandar claims the realm soon, next year enough Frostborn reinforcements will come through the world gate that the Frostborn will be able to keep us bottled up in Nightmane Forest while they conquer the Northerland.”
“Yes,” said Mara. “We will not be completely trapped. There are exits from Nightmane Forest through the tunnels of the Deeps, and we can leave through the southern and western borders of the Forest.”
Ridmark nodded. “But our effectiveness will be reduced.”
“I fear so,” said Mara. She sighed. “The Anathgrimm are the deadliest warriors in this world…but even they cannot fight this war alone.”
She fell silent, gazing at the firelight from the Eastern Court.
“How has it been here?” said Ridmark.
Mara smiled a little. “I am grateful Jager stayed.”
“Stayed?” said Ridmark. “Why would he have left?”
“When he married me, he could not have possibly have known the kind of burden he would take on,” said Mara.
“The burden of the Anathgrimm,” said Ridmark.
“I could not bear it without him,” said Mara. “I was trained as an assassin. I do not like to speak to crowds. I do not like to give orders. Jager, though…Jager loves an audience. Jager likes to tell people what to do.”
Ridmark snorted. “The Queen has a gift for understatement.”
“As I said, I do not like to talk,” said Mara, and Ridmark laughed a little.
“We are talking now,” said Ridmark.
“That is different,” said Mara. “And the Anathgrimm…oh, God, Ridmark. Those poor men and women. The Anathgrimm need someone to tell them what to do.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Because of what the Traveler did to them,” said Ridmark.
“He ruined them,” said Mara. “He made them the finest soldiers the world has ever seen, but he hollowed them out to do it. They are devoted to war and nothing else. An Anathgrimm man’s highest ambition is to die gloriously in battle. An Anathgrimm woman’s highest hope is to bear sons who will die gloriously in battle.” She shook her head. “That, alone, could be cured in time…but they cannot think for themselves, Ridmark. They simply cannot. My father bred that into them, damn him. If I were not here, if Jager were not here…they would kill themselves. Or boil out of Nightmane Forest on a rampage and attack and attack until they were overwhelmed and slain. I want them to be free…but because of my father, they cannot be free.”
She sighed and fell silent.
“You did get what you wanted,” said Ridmark.
Mara blinked. “What?”
“A chance to undo some of your father’s evil work,” said Ridmark. “The Traveler would have slain the Anathgrimm all out of spite if he could have worked it. Or someone like the Matriarch would have made them slaves. You have made them as free as they can be, and if you had not, the Frostborn would have conquered Andomhaim and Tarrabus would be the undisputed High King of the realm.”
They stood in silence for a while.
“You always have a way,” said Mara, “of putting things into perspective.”
“Thank you,” said Ridmark.
“I only wish you could do the same for yourself,” said Mara.
“What do you mean?” he said, and then he grimaced. “Ah. The usual lecture. That I blame myself for Morigna as I blamed myself for Aelia? No. I could not hav
e saved Morigna. Nothing I might have done would have made a difference.”
“I know,” said Mara. “We were blindsided, all of us. I only mean…you have come to think like the Anathgrimm.”
Ridmark blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“They live to fight,” said Mara. “You live for revenge.”
The anger rolled through him, but it wasn’t aimed at her.
She wasn’t wrong, after all, and the anger had been a constant part of him ever since the fall of Dun Licinia.
“What else is there?” said Ridmark in a quiet voice. “I would never tell anyone else this, but you know as well as I do that we do not have much chance of winning this war.”
“I know,” said Mara. “We tried to stop it. You tried to stop it from happening, but it came anyway.”
Actually, they had stopped it…until Imaria Licinius had taken the mantle of Shadowbearer for herself.
For a brief, searing moment, he saw himself with his hands around her lying, treacherous throat, squeezing the breath from her as she tried to scream. As a young man, as a new-made Swordbearer, the thought of raising a hand against a woman would have horrified him.
Now, though…sometimes all he could think about was killing Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer.
“We tried, and we failed,” said Ridmark. “If we’re going to lose…then what is left but to take as many of them with us as possible?”
“I hope,” said Mara, “that you remember there is more than that.”
“Maybe,” said Ridmark, but he doubted it.
###
“Burn with me.”
Again Ridmark stood in that hall of glowing white stone, the woman robed in fire standing before him. Fire sheathed the curves of her body, blazed in her eyes, flowed down her hair. She stared at him, and he felt an overwhelming desire to go to her.
“Burn with me,” whispered the woman.
Frostborn: The False King Page 7