She had seen it before, centuries ago, during the first war against the Frostborn. The Frostborn had conquered most of the Northerland and much of Khaluusk and Caerdracon, but Andomhaim had been unified in those days, and the realm had held the Frostborn at bay. Yet every year the Frostborn had expanded a little further. Her predecessor as Keeper had started building a system of alliances against the Frostborn, and Calliande had finished the work, helping to create the army that drove the Frostborn back to their world gate.
So she had seen the Northerland in ruins before…and now she saw it again.
Most of the villages and towns of the Northerland clustered around the Moradel road or the shore of the Lake of Mourning, but the Moradel road led to the valley of Dun Licinia, and the Frostborn had marched south along that path. Consequently, every town and village they passed was in ruins or else held by the medvarth and the khaldjari. Dun Calpurnia had once been a prosperous town with a strong castra, but Arandar had been forced to abandon it, and the khaldjari had seized the emptied town, fortifying the walls with towers of ice.
Calliande’s escort gave the town a wide birth, cutting well away from its walls and the battlefield where so many had fallen.
After that they wove their way north, taking the road when it was safe and navigating through the pine-cloaked hills when it was not. Some of the villages had been fortified, holding garrisons of medvarth and revenants, locusari scouts or even frost drakes circling overhead. Sir Ector’s scouts were skilled, and Calliande’s Sight gave them forewarning, so they gave the enemy parties a wide berth. Other villages were nothing more than shattered, scorched ruins, weeds growing up through the paving stones. Calliande wondered what had happened to the people who had lived there. Many of them had fled to the safety of Nightmane Forest, sheltering behind the mighty wards the Traveler had left behind. Others had fled to the strong walls of Castra Marcaine.
Many had been killed or taken captive. The Frostborn often took slaves. Some they used for raw labor. Others they used in experiments, trying to alter them as they had altered the khaldjari and the medvarth. Some they simply fed to their other slaves – the Frostborn had no other use for halflings, and so bred them to feed to the medvarth as a reward for a successful campaign.
It was a cold thing to do…but that was the essence of the Frostborn. Coldly cruel and coldly rational, cold and patient as they prepared to bring the world into their Dominion. If they succeeded, they would conquer Andomhaim and the rest of the world, ruling it with their iron fist as they continued their mad quest to perfect the cosmos.
Unless she found a way to stop them. Unless she found allies to defeat them.
The dark memories of the past repeating now in the present drove her on.
“There has been much fighting here, my lady Keeper,” said Ector on their third day in the Northerland. They had been seeking a place to ford the River Moradel and enter the Nightmane Forest, but so far they hadn’t found a ford, and they didn’t dare stop long enough to build rafts. Calliande knew the Anathgrimm had hidden fords in the Moradel, but they had not been able to locate one yet. She wondered if Ridmark had ordered the fords destroyed to defend Nightmane Forest.
That, at the moment, was a distant concern.
The corpses lying scattered across the road held her attention.
Nearly forty dead medvarth and a dozen khaldjari lay prone across the ground, the stench of rotting flesh filling the hot summer afternoon. A score more of smashed locusari scouts lay scattered alongside the road.
“Substantial fighting,” said Antenora.
Ector gave her a sidelong glance. None of the knights of Andomhaim were entirely comfortable with Antenora, but she was too useful in battle to be ignored. “Indeed, my lady.”
“I just see medvarth, khaldjari, and locusari,” said Gavin, frowning as he tapped Truthseeker’s hilt. “No sign of their foes.”
“The Anathgrimm, probably,” said Calliande. “They always hated leaving their dead behind. The Traveler commanded it of them. He didn’t want the other dark elven lords dissecting them to learn the secrets of his mutation spells. The Anathgrimm themselves probably made a tradition of it.”
“This is the fourth such battlefield we have seen,” said Ector. “It seems the Anathgrimm warriors have been hitting the enemy hard.”
“Just as well that they have,” said Calliande. “Else the Frostborn would have overrun us in Caerdracon months ago.”
She was not surprised. Mara had given Ridmark command of the Anathgrimm, and Ridmark would never give up. It wasn’t in his nature. He would harry the Frostborn to the end of his strength…or possibly the end of the Anathgrimm. Calliande hoped it would not come to that.
“I suggest we follow their trail,” said Ector. “It heads north, and I suspect it will turn west. If we follow their trail, we may find a ford to the Forest, or even find the Anathgrimm themselves.”
“Very well,” said Calliande. “Lead on.”
They rode for the rest of the day, pausing only long enough to avoid a pair of locusari scouts flying overhead, and camped in a narrow ravine a half-mile from the road. The next morning they returned to the road, the Moradel a sheet of gray water to the west, the pine forests and hills of the Northerland rising to the east. It was a gray day, the skies overhead heavy with iron-colored clouds. Calliande suspected that a storm was coming, and they would have to ride in the rain.
She drew on the Sight every few moments, sweeping the countryside around them. The locusari could be stealthy when they set their minds to it, though the medvarth had a harder time moving quietly. Yet the khaldjari and the cogitaers both used magic, and the revenants gave off a constant aura of cold, necromantic power. The Frostborn themselves blazed with arcane power to the Sight, and Calliande doubted they could have concealed themselves from her.
Yet she saw nothing with the Sight, and neither did Antenora. Sir Ector’s scouts found no one, and they rode north along the bank of the Moradel, looking for a safe place to cross the river.
Then, about an hour before noon, one of the scouts returned.
“There is a knight standing in the middle of the road, Sir Ector,” said the scout, a grim commoner named Decimus.
“A knight?” said Ector, his scowl making the lines on his face deeper. His skin was leathery and weathered, likely from years spent riding across the sunlit plains of Caertigris.
“He wears the colors of Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Decimus.
“He must be a messenger,” said Calliande. “Someone Tarrabus sent to treat with the Frostborn.”
“I thought so, my lady,” said Decimus, “but he is alone. He has no horse with him, and I could find no trace of his companions. Surely a knight would not travel alone through the Northerland, not even one loyal to Tarrabus Carhaine.”
“What was he doing?” said Ector.
“Just…standing there, sir knight,” said Decimus. “I think he is waiting for us.”
“We should go around him,” said Antenora at once. “If this man is acting so foolishly, clearly this is a trap. Best to avoid it.”
“He’s just one man,” said Gavin. “Even if he’s Enlightened, he couldn’t take all of us, not with the Keeper’s spells.”
“Best to move cautiously,” said Ector. “As Lady Antenora says, it may be best to avoid this knight…but that may also be what our foes want us to do.”
Calliande frowned, tapping her fingers against her staff, and cast her Sight forward. She sensed no magical auras nearby, not even the dark presence of the shadow of Incariel. Of course, if the knight was Enlightened, Calliande’s Sight would not detect the shadow until the Enlightened actually called upon his dark powers.
“Very well,” said Calliande. “Sir Ector, with your leave, I think we should continue along the road. If our enemies have laid a trap for us, we will walk into it with open eyes. Be cautious.”
Ector nodded and gave the orders, the men-at-arms drawing weapons and readying bows. Gavin drew Truthseeker, an
d Antenora’s staff began to glimmer with fiery magic. Calliande readied her own power, drawing upon the magic of the Well and the mantle of the Keeper. She did not think one lone knight would pose much threat.
Nevertheless, she had been wrong before, and it was best to be prepared.
They rode ahead, following the curve of the road, the silent green wall of Nightmane Forest visible to the west. The road circled around the base of a rocky hill, and ahead Calliande saw a single figure in gleaming plate mail, wearing a blue surcoat with a black dragon sigil over his armor. He had a blond beard and a haughty, contemptuous expression, and with a shock Calliande recognized him.
Sir Ector called for the men-at-arms to halt, and they obeyed, holding their weapons as they eyed the blond knight.
“Name yourself, sir,” called Ector, “and state your business.”
“Oh,” said the blond knight, smiling, “the up-jumped whore who calls herself the Keeper of Andomhaim knows who I am.”
“Sir Caradog Lordac,” said Calliande in a cool voice, “how pleasant to see you again.” Sir Caradog Lordac was one of Tarrabus’s household knights, sworn directly to the Dux of Caerdracon. At Dun Calpurnia, Sir Caradog and Sir Aventine Rocarn had tried to arrest and execute Ridmark before he warned Uthanaric Pendragon of Tarrabus’s crimes. Later, when Ridmark had rescued Accolon from Tarrabus’s captivity, Aventine Rocarn had gotten killed in the process, though Ridmark had never gone into detail about what had happened.
But what was Caradog doing here, and why on earth had he come alone? They were a long way from Tarrabus’s siege of Tarlion. For that matter, while the Frostborn would have permitted an emissary of Tarrabus to pass, the Anathgrimm would extend no such courtesy.
Caradog had to have soldiers with him. But where?
“You will speak to the Keeper with more respect, traitor and apostate,” said Ector, his contempt plain.
“Traitor?” said Caradog, spreading his hands. His sword hung at his belt alongside a dagger, but he wasn’t holding any weapons. “I serve Tarrabus Carhaine, by right of conquest the lawful High King of Andomhaim…”
“The false king,” spat Ector.
“And apostate?” said Caradog with a sneering laugh. “The Enlighted have cast off the old superstition of the Dominus Christus. We have found a better way, a power that will make men as gods…”
“Just as the serpent promised in days of old,” said Calliande.
Caradog’s sneer turned in her direction. “The serpent failed. The shadow of Incariel grants true power, and with that power, mankind will subjugate this world and rule all other kindreds.”
“Unless,” said Calliande, “that power twists you a nightmare first. Ask Sir Claudius Agrell. He would tell you, had he not perished in the fall of Castra Carhaine to the Prince Regent.”
“A minor setback,” said Caradog. “Soon the High King Tarrabus will claim Tarlion and the Citadel of the High King. When he does, he shall seize the Well and cut off the Magistri from the source of their magic. And when he does, we shall sweep aside your bastard ‘Prince Regent’ like the empty shell that he is.”
“Aye,” said Ector, “and perhaps your new masters the Frostborn will permit you to crouch at their feet and lick their boots.”
“The Enlightened shall deal with the Frostborn in time,” said Caradog, “but you, fool, will not be there to see it.”
“As delightful as this parley is,” said Calliande, “I am sure you did not travel all this way to spout insults at me, as entertaining as your efforts to do so have been.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing a flicker of irritation go over his face, and then his contemptuous mask returned.
“I have come to present the High King Tarrabus’s demands,” said Caradog.
“To Prince Arandar?” said Calliande. “I fear he is presently at Castra Carhaine, drinking Tarrabus’s wines and eating out of Tarrabus’s larder. If you turn around and head back at once, you should arrive in ten days or so, assuming an urvaalg does not eat you first.”
“No,” said Caradog. “His demands to you, personally.”
“Me?” said Calliande.
“You will surrender and accompany me to Tarlion at once,” said Caradog.
“Ah,” said Calliande. “Let me make a small guess. Comes Corbanic raised the wards of defense around Tarlion’s walls, and Tarrabus can’t break through them, is that it? So he thinks that I know how to lower them.”
“This is not a parley,” said Caradog. “You will come with me voluntarily, and surrender into my custody. If you do not, I shall kill all those with you, and take you by force.” He leered at her. “The choice is yours, though I would enjoy taking you by force.”
Her stomach twisted with revulsion, but Calliande kept her face calm.
“I reject your demands,” said Calliande, “and you will get out of our way, or we will get you out of our way.”
“Ah,” said Caradog. “I hoped you would say that.”
He shouted a phrase in a language Calliande did not recognize for an instant. Then the recognition clicked. Dvargirish, he was speaking dvargirish. Why would he do that? It…
Pain exploded through her, and something hard slammed into Calliande’s stomach. The impact hurled her backward from the saddle, and she hit the ground, fresh pain exploding through her. She would have screamed, but she could not draw breath.
A crossbow bolt of black dvargir steel jutted from her stomach, its side glistening with dark grease. On reflex, Calliande reached for magic, but burning pain spread from the wound in her stomach, disrupting her grip on the power.
The bolt had been poisoned, and the poison was blocking her magic.
Then she realized greenish mist was rolling through the horsemen, causing them to fall from their saddles. It was sleeping gas, another weapon of the dvargir, and Calliande managed to turn her head to see short, stocky forms in black armor hurrying from the trees. They looked like dwarves, with the same granite-colored gray skin, but shadows filled their eyes, and instead of dwarven steel their armor had been made from a strange, wet-looking black metal that seemed to drink the light.
There had been reports that Tarrabus had hired great numbers of dvargir mercenaries. Some of them must have been shadowscribes, and they had used their power to cloak themselves. They had set a trap for her, and she had blundered right into it.
Fool, fool, fool!
“Take the Keeper alive,” she heard Caradog say, “and make sure you put the chains and the collar on her. Kill the rest of them.”
Calliande struggled to sit up, struggled to draw on her power, but she could barely breathe through the pain.
Her head slumped against the road.
And as it did, she started to hallucinate.
At least that was the only possible explanation. A pillar of blue fire swirled at the edge of the river, and for a moment, Calliande was sure that she was about to see Mara. The fire vanished to reveal a gaunt, pale woman in black armor, blue fire crackling in her dead black eyes.
No. Only Mara could do that. Calliande had to be hallucinating.
She fought against the pain as the dvargir warriors closed around her.
Chapter 6: Reunion
As Calliande fell from her horse and green smoke erupted around them, Gavin reacted on instinct.
He leaped from his saddle, drawing upon Truthseeker’s magic, and the soulblade’s power flowed through him. The noxious green mist filled his lungs, but it didn’t do much physical damage to him, and the soulblade was able to heal it at once.
His first thought was to charge Caradog Lordac and cut the treacherous knight down.
Then he saw the crossbow bolt jutting from Calliande’s stomach, her face glistening with sweat, her blue eyes wide and unfocused. He had to get that bolt out of her and heal her. He was the only other one with access to healing magic, though it would take Truthseeker a long time to heal a wound that severe.
“Gavin Swordbearer!”
Antenora’s voic
e cracked over the road, and Gavin looked up.
Everywhere he saw men-at-arms falling from their saddles. Sir Ector had already collapsed. Without the benefit of a soulblade’s healing, the green mist was putting them to sleep. Through the greenish haze of the mist, Gavin saw dvargir warriors advancing from the nearby hills.
This whole thing had been an ambush, and they had blundered right into it.
He spotted Antenora as she ran to Calliande’s side, coming to a stop to stand guard over the Keeper. Gavin wondered how Antenora had stayed conscious in the fog, and then remembered that she had no need to breathe save for the purposes of speech.
“We must defend the Keeper!” said Antenora.
He nodded and stepped to her side, lifting Truthseeker, the blade glowing with white fire in response to the dark power around the dvargir. Gavin didn’t know how long he could last against dozens of dvargir, even with the fury of Antenora’s magic to back him up.
“What’s this?” said Caradog. “The commoner with a soulblade and the withered wretch of a sorceress? Kill them both and bring me the Keeper!”
Despite Caradog’s command the dvargir did not go any faster, black shields raised and swords drawn back. Gavin wondered if Caradog was in command or if he only thought that he was in command. For that matter, the Enlightened knight made no move to join the battle. Likely he was content to let the dvargir take the risks.
Antenora thrust her staff, the symbols upon its length glowing, and a wall of flame erupted from the ground, cutting the road off from the hillside, the dvargir trapped on the other side. That left Gavin facing only Sir Caradog, and the traitorous knight showed no inclination to move. A dozen plans flashed through Gavin’s mind in a heartbeat. Perhaps he could take Calliande and escape. No, he could not abandon Sir Ector and his men. Maybe Truthseeker’s power would let him heal the men enough to awaken them, to allow them to fight back.
But there were two times as many dvargir as men-at-arms, maybe even three times as many. Even if all the men-at-arms had been awake and ready, they still would have been outnumbered. They had been prepared to avoid the patrols of the Frostborn. They had not anticipated that Tarrabus would go to such lengths to capture Calliande.
Frostborn: The False King Page 9