They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crackle of the fire and the sounds of the camp.
“I forgot,” said Caius.
Calliande blinked. “Forgot what?
“How young you are,” said Caius.
Calliande laughed. “I’m not, you know. Not even remotely. I don’t know how old I am, but it’s at least two hundred and fifty years old.”
“But you were asleep for two hundred and twenty of those years,” said Caius. “Of those two and a half centuries, you were awake for…twenty-five years? Twenty-eight? I have never been skilled at gauging the age of humans, save to note that you do not look two and a half centuries old.”
“High praise, indeed,” said Calliande. “But what does that have to do with failure?”
“You’re not used to it,” said Caius. “I fear that is a lesson that comes with age. No matter how prepared you are, no matter how smart, no matter how diligent, something always goes wrong.”
“For the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,” murmured Calliande, “but time and chance overtake them all.”
“As King Solomon knew in ancient days upon Old Earth,” said Caius. “In the face of setbacks, one must simply…persist. It is something my kindred know well, for all our grim mood. Persistence is not the greatest of the virtues, but it is still important.”
“Have you persisted?” said Calliande.
“For centuries.” The smile behind his graying beard made his face look older, every line in sharp relief. “And through grave failures. Not just through simple mistakes, though I’ve made those, or mere setbacks, for I’ve experienced those too. But true failures, times when I made the wrong decision and have regretted it ever since.”
Again they lapsed into silence.
“Thank you,” said Calliande. “I don’t think I feel better…but I suppose I feel calmer.”
Caius inclined his head.
“I’ve missed these talks,” said Calliande.
“As have I,” said Caius. “You and Ridmark…”
“What?” said Calliande, suddenly embarrassed. “What about Ridmark and me? What are you going to say?” Was he going to reprove her for how she felt about him? Calliande might have wished that things had turned out differently, but at least she knew she had not done anything inappropriate or dishonorable with Ridmark. She could not control her heart, but she could control her actions, and she had done so.
Caius gazed at her for a moment.
“I…may have overreacted,” said Calliande.
“I was going to say,” said Caius, “that you and Ridmark have more in common than you think. Or he’s worn off on you. He spent all those years blaming himself for his wife’s death. It seems you have acquired his taste for blaming yourself for things beyond your control…”
Calliande sighed. “I now understand how he felt when I lectured him about it.”
Caius laughed. “The shoe is ever uncomfortable on the other foot, is it not? At least Ridmark does not blame himself for Morigna’s death.”
“No,” said Calliande, the flicker of amusement vanishing. “No, he’s too angry for that. That’s all he has left within him. Rage and a thirst for vengeance.” She shook her head. “I wish…”
Her voice trailed off and she stared into the fire.
“He does love you,” said Caius.
Calliande’s eyes snapped up.
“What?” she said. “How…how did you know that? Did he say something?”
“Because it is obvious,” said Caius. “Maybe not to you, and maybe not to him, but to anyone with a pair of eyes.”
It took Calliande a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Then,” she said in a small voice, “what should I do?”
“Give him time,” said Caius. “A loss such as he has suffered…a wound such as that never goes away, not really, but in time it becomes a scar instead of a bleeding wound. That is what he needs, I think. Time.”
“And assistance,” said Calliande. “Neither one of us could have come this far without the other.”
Caius snorted. “None of us could have come this far without the Gray Knight. The Mhalekites would have slain us both on the day of the omen.”
“Truly,” said Calliande. She stood up. “Thank you. I will think on what you have said.”
“Good night, Keeper,” said Caius.
Calliande headed through the camp to her tent. She did feel better than she had in some time. Caius was a wise man, though if Calliande had been awake for all of her two and a half centuries, maybe she would be wise as well. But Caius was right. She ought to stop brooding upon what was done and focus on what could yet still be.
She turned a corner around a tent and almost walked into Ridmark.
His eyes widened with surprise, and Calliande skidded to a stop and tripped over one of the ropes holding the nearby tent. She stumbled, losing her balance, and Ridmark caught her by the elbows.
God, but he was strong. And quick.
“Thank you,” said Calliande, regaining her balance. “You seem to keep saving me.”
For a moment he seemed frozen, his hands still upon her arms, and then he stepped back. “I don’t think I saved you from anything more serious than a fall.”
She smiled. “You did protect the dignity of the Keeper of Andomhaim. It wouldn’t do to trip like that in front of the manetaurs and the tygrai.”
He didn’t smile. “No. Can you call upon the Sight?”
Her own smile vanished. “Is something wrong?”
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “Come with me. I thought I saw something.”
She nodded and followed him to the edge of the camp, reaching for the Sight. Some magical auras shimmered before her senses. The Sight saw the harsh power in the dwarven dagger and axe at Ridmark’s belt, the steady vibration of earth magic around old Tazemazar, the aura of Gavin’s soulblade.
Nothing stirred in the gloom outside the camp.
Ridmark stopped at the edge of the road, frowning at the dust. There were footprints there, footprints that…
“Those don’t look human,” said Calliande. “Or manetaur or tygrai.”
“No,” said Ridmark, voice hard. “Those are dvargir tracks.”
Tazemazar sent his warriors to sweep the surrounding countryside, but they found nothing.
###
Four days after leaving Oppidum Aurelius, Tazemazar bade them stop atop a low hill.
“Behold,” he said, sweeping his staff to the east, “the city of Bastoth, seat of the Red King and the capital of the Range of the manetaurs.”
Ridmark had to admit that it was an impressive sight.
Ahead of them a broad river, nearly as wide and as deep as the Moradel, flowed eastward on its way to the distant sea on the far side of the continent. The great city of Bastoth filled the river’s southern bank, dozens of ships docked at the city’s piers. According to Tazemazar, tens of thousands of tygrai and thousands of manetaurs resided in Bastoth, and Ridmark could believe it. A massive wall of the Range’s unique blood-colored granite surrounded the city, studded with bastions and fortifications. Within the walls rose towering pyramids built of the same red stone, their sides stepped and their terraces covered in statues and reliefs and designs. These were the palaces of the Princes of the Range, the sons of the Red King.
The Red King’s palace itself was huge, nearly a city within the city, a massive complex of walls and courtyards surrounding the single largest pyramid within Bastoth.
“I am pleased to return, honored arbiter,” said Ector.
“You know the laws of the Hunters,” said Tazemazar, “but your companions might not, so I shall speak for their benefit. The walls divide the city into nine quarters. The western gate opens into the Outland Quarter, and that is the only place within the walls where humans are permitted to walk freely. If you venture anywhere else within the city without an escort of Hunters or tygrai, you may be attacked and eaten, and this is permitted by the
laws of the Hunters.”
“Rough place,” said Kharlacht in a low voice.
“Imryr Zothal,” said Tazemazar. “Take Sir Ector and his men to the Inn of the River. Arrange rooms for them under my authority. My lady Keeper and my lord magister, I ask that you and your companions accompany me. There is someone we must approach before you can speak with the Red King.”
“Very well,” said Calliande.
“Let us hasten,” said Tazemazar. “The shadows grow long while the prey escapes our claws.” Ridmark wondered if that was a proverb among the manetaurs, but Tazemazar did have a turn for the poetic.
They rode for the western gate of Bastoth, heading towards the towering stone arch of the gate itself. Eight manetaurs in elaborate chain mail and plate stood guard, massive spears in hand and shields upon their arms, their eyes watching as Ridmark and the others rode past. Ridmark suspected they would have questioned Sir Ector’s men, but with Tazemazar’s presence, they passed without challenge.
The gate opened into a vast market square, flanked on three sides by shops and taverns. Some of the buildings had the solemn, blocky look of manetaur architecture, while others looked human and orcish. An array of humans and Mhorluuskan orcs operated stalls in the market, while humans and orcs and dwarves and halflings perused the goods on display. The halflings were more gaunt and pale than those from Andomhaim, clad in leather and amulets of bones, their hair sculpted in wild designs. Ridmark knew that tribes of nomadic halflings lived in the eastern portions of the Reach, and regarded their more settled kin in Andomhaim with vicious contempt.
“There, Sir Ector,” said Tazemazar, pointing a three-story building of brick with a roof of red tiles. “The Inn of the River is there. Imryr Zothal, see that the knight and his men-at-arms receive lodgings.” Zothal offered a bow to the arbiter. “Keeper, lord magister, this way, please.”
Calliande nodded and dropped from her saddle, handing the reins to one of Ector’s men.
“Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin, Antenora, Camorak, and Third,” said Ridmark. “Come with us, please.” He suspected that Antenora and Gavin would have followed Calliande no matter what anyone said, and Third would have followed him anyway.
The others dismounted from their horses, handing them over to Ector’s men. Ridmark, Calliande, Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin, Antenora, Camorak, and Third followed Tazemazar as the old arbiter limped away from the market and to a narrow street lined by red houses of manetaur construction. Tygrai filled the streets, and they bowed to Tazemazar as he passed.
At last, the arbiter paused before a house. Unlike the other houses, two tygrai spearmen stood guard, their cuirasses gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“Honored arbiter,” said one of the tygrai.
“Warriors,” said Tazemazar. “Is she here?”
Ridmark glanced at Calliande, but she shrugged.
“She is,” said the tygrai. “She awaits you within.” The tygrai opened the door, bowed, and stepped to the side.
“Come,” said Tazemazar, beckoning with his staff.
He climbed the stairs with a grunt and strode the door, his claws clicking against the marble floor, and Ridmark and the others followed him. They passed through the anteroom and into a large, grassy courtyard, the afternoon sun blazing overhead. A large flat rock rested in the center of the courtyard.
Atop the flat boulder sat a female manetaur, sunning herself in the heat.
Ridmark had not yet seen a manetaur woman. She had no mane, and the human-like portion of her torso had breasts, though they were concealed beneath a band of purple silk. The manetaur woman wore jewelry – bracelets and torques upon her arms, anklets above her paws, and a slender diadem of red gold upon her head. Three tygrai women stood near the boulder, likely the manetaur woman’s attendants.
The manetaur woman shifted as Tazemazar approached, her motions stiff. It was hard to tell the age of a manetaur, but to judge from the stiff motions and the grayish-white streaks in her fur, Ridmark suspected she was old.
“The arbiter Tazemazar,” said the manetaur female in Latin. Her voice was higher than a male manetaur’s, but still a low, growling purr. “You have returned.”
“I have,” said Tazemazar, pausing for a bow. “This is the First Queen Raszema, consort of the High King Turcontar and mother of the Prince of the Range Curzonar. First Queen, I wish to present Calliande, Keeper of Andomhaim, and Ridmark of the Arbanii, Magister Militum of Nightmane Forest. Both have come as ambassadors to the court of the Red King in the name of Queen Mara of Nightmane Forest.”
“Indeed?” said Raszema. “Then the arbiters’ foretelling proved true, and the Keeper of Andomhaim has returned to the waking world?”
“It is so, First Queen,” said Tazemazar.
Raszema’s golden eyes shifted to Ridmark and Calliande. “Come closer and let me smell you. Oh, there’s no need to fear. I am too old and feeble to present a threat.”
Looking at the muscle still on Raszema’s aging frame, Ridmark doubted that.
Yet he did not think she would threaten them. Suddenly he was put in mind of an elderly noblewoman sitting in her domus, attended by her servants, old enough to indulge in eccentricity without social censure…but nonetheless at the center of a formidable web of influential relationships. Ridmark knew that the manetaur females often negotiated while their males fought, and he suspected the First Queen of the Red King possessed far more influence than apparent on the surface.
Calliande realized it, too. Her face had settled into the serene expression of the Keeper of Andomhaim.
“Ah,” said Raszema, still looking at Ridmark. “Do you see it, honored arbiter? He realizes the truth. Always thinking, this human male, just as my son Curzonar said. Though I hope he does not think too much. Males are for killing, fighting, and fathering children, and thinking too much hampers all three. Or so it is among the Hunters. Whether it is so among the humans, I cannot say.”
“I have done two of those three, First Queen,” said Ridmark. “So I cannot attest to its truth among humans.”
Raszema let out the growling manetaur laugh. “Let me smell you. At my age, it is so rare to encounter something I have not smelled before.”
Ridmark walked forward and stopped before the stone, Calliande next to him. Raszema rose upon her legs, towering over them, and stooped over Ridmark’s extended hand. She sniffed it once and then moved to Calliande. Evidently her smell was more intriguing because she sniffed it four times before straightening up.
“It is as you and the other arbiters have said, Tazemazar,” said Raszema, settling back upon the sun-warmed boulder. Ridmark noted the faint quiver that went through her hind legs as she settled back down. “We have lived long enough to reach strange times. A world gate opened, the Traveler thrown down…and the Frostborn returned.” Her golden eyes moved to Third. “Come here please, if you would. I can smell you from over here.”
Third looked at Ridmark, and he nodded. She stepped forward, disappeared in a swirl of blue flame, and reappeared an instant later next to Ridmark. The tygrai women let out mewling hisses and stepped back, but Raszema only laughed.
“Indeed!” she said. “Something else I have never seen nor smelled before! Two wonders in one day. You are Queen Mara’s sister, yes?”
“This is so,” said Third.
“The urdhracos who is no longer an urdhracos,” said Raszema.
“In all the history recorded by the arbiters,” said Tazemazar, “such a thing has never been encountered.”
“The Warden of Urd Morlemoch did not understand Queen Mara,” said Calliande, “and neither did the Traveler. Thus we were able to escape Urd Morlemoch and Mara was able to slay the Traveler.”
“Strange times,” said Raszema, settling herself upon the stone. “I have not spoken to a human older than myself in a long time. But you have not come all this way to amuse an old Huntress. No, the Keeper of old was ever filled with dire purpose…and since you are that Keeper, I assume you still have that purpose.�
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“I have,” said Calliande. “Lord Ridmark and I have come as ambassadors of Queen Mara. Her warriors fight against the Frostborn in the Northerland, and she seeks alliance from the Red King against the Frostborn.”
“Queen Mara?” said Raszema. “Why does the High King himself not call for aid? Of old the Red King fought alongside him against the Frostborn.”
“Arandar Pendragon is the lawful High King of Andomhaim,” said Calliande. “Unfortunately, Tarrabus Carhaine and his followers are attempting to usurp the throne. Until they are defeated and Arandar is crowned in Tarlion, I imagine the Red King would not wish to involve the manetaurs in Andomhaim’s civil war.”
“You imagine correctly,” said Raszema, a dry note entering her voice. “Yet why should the Hunters march to war against the Frostborn? The Frostborn have assailed Andomhaim and Nightmane Forest. Let the High King and Queen Mara overcome them.”
“Because we will lose,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn are a mighty foe. Last time it took the combined strength of Andomhaim and the Red King and the Three Kingdoms of the dwarves and the Dragon Knight to defeat them. Now the true heir to the High King’s throne fights usurpers and wicked cultists, and the Anathgrimm fight alone against the Frostborn. Sooner or later they will be overwhelmed, and once the Frostborn have conquered Nightmane Forest and Andomhaim, they will come for the Range. They will not stop until the entire world has been conquered, and our only hope is to stop them now and close their world gate. First Queen, I fear if you do not join us, inevitably the manetaurs shall be destroyed or enslaved by the Frostborn.”
It was a good speech. Ridmark wondered if she had practiced it during their journey here.
“Her words are true, First Queen,” said Tazemazar.
Frostborn: The False King Page 18