Chronicles Of Aronshae (3 Book Omnibus)

by J. K. Barber

  “What?” the Empress and her captain said together. Salamasca looked out the room’s window. The sky had a number of clouds in it; however, there was no indication of anything that would account for a thick fog in the town below.

  “Sorcery,” the Ice Queen said, ripping her staff out of the floor. She tilted her head back closing her eyes slightly. Ra’thet was reminded of the times he had seen an orc sniffing the air for a familiar scent. Salamasca’s eyes flew open and her gaze fixed on the open window. She strode across the room, her long skirt making a swishing noise as it trailed behind her. Once she had reached the window, she threw it open and peered down into Snowhaven.

  Framed as she was by the arching window and lit by the rays of the newly risen sun, Ra’thet couldn’t help but be struck by her alien beauty. Her skin was flawless, like fine porcelain. Her white hair, lightly tussled by a breeze, formed a snowy aura around her long graceful neck. High noble cheekbones framed slightly almond shaped eyes that were made no less beautiful by their black obsidian-like color. Ra’thet’s eye was drawn to her long black and white dress and the way the tight fitting bodice hugged her unmistakably feminine curves.

  And yet there was still something disturbing about her. The skin of her face was drawn, almost too tightly, across her angular cheeks, and as she turned to face him, the yellowish-red rays of dawn colored the left side of her countenance strangely. The colorless complexion of the right side of her face, highlighted by the natural light from outside, reminded Ra’thet of the bleached bone of a skeleton.

  Slowly, an icy grin spread across the Empress’ face, revealing startlingly white teeth. “One of my sorcerers is handling the invaders,” she said, her voice disturbingly calm, given her earlier outbursts. “Morgan was a fool to try such a desperate ploy.” The Ice Queen looked out the window once more. She pointed into the distance. “I can see the idiot’s banner as he rushes to his death. If only I could see his face as he finally realizes that his kingdom will fall beneath my feet.” Salamasca thought for a moment and her grin grew even wider. A disturbing laugh escaped her lips, an odd combination of an old woman’s cackle and the titter of a young girl.

  She turned fully away from the window, instantly commandeering Ra’thet’s messenger for her own purposes. “Go to the courtyard,” she ordered. “Tell them to ready my mount at once. My pets and I will deliver King Morgan’s death to him personally.”

  The messenger hesitated for a moment, looking to his captain. Ra’thet quickly indicated the man should obey the Empress’ commands. “Yes, Your Majesty, at once,” he said, swiftly leaving the room and beginning his descent of the tower.

  “Now,” the Ice Queen said, turning her attention to Ra’thet. “Get down there and make sure those gates hold.” She grabbed her general by the collar of his plate armor and pulled his face to hers. He could feel the icy chill of her breath when next she spoke. “Because if those gates fall, so will you.” Salamasca put a final gentle kiss on Ra’thet’s lips and then marched out of the room, her skirts swishing around her feet.

  Ra’thet felt the temperature in the room rise slightly as she left.

  Branden stood up in his stirrups, trying to see the gates of his former home. From this distance it was impossible to see what was happening beyond the fact that there seemed to be some sort of commotion taking place atop the town’s walls. What was easy to discern, however, was that the King’s Army had come to a halt. Beyond that, Branden would have to wait for the scouts’ reports, the same as the rest of them. Captain Veldrun sat stock-still atop his destrier, although his mount stepped nervously, perhaps portraying the mood his rider did not show.

  Though Branden had never been involved in a full scale battle of this size, he couldn’t help but be impressed by his old friend Cewin Frey. The man was successfully overseeing a dozen aspects of the ongoing fight while still managing to keep in place plans for at least three other contingencies that Branden could tell. As Talas had jokingly reminded him when the smith had remarked on the man’s abilities, “You don’t get to be the General of the King’s Army by having a pretty face.” Although he and Cewin had served together in the Palace Guard, and Branden had been impressed by the man’s command ability even then, the smith from Snowhaven had had no idea of the extent of his old friend’s battle-savvy. General Frey barked orders to his lieutenants, which were then relayed to his men, telling them to be ready to push forward into Snowhaven once the gate fell.

  If it fell, Branden thought to himself. The former smith looked to his king. Morgan was resplendent in his polished plate, the colors of Illyander worn boldly on his chest. Behind the King was a young man, carrying the banner of the King himself. Branden looked at the youth, easily seeing the resemblance between him and his older brother Geoffrey. The young man’s name was Garrison and he had been given the honor of carrying the King’s Banner in recognition of his brother’s sacrifice in saving the King from the Shadow Walker’s attack. Garrison was a soldier in the King’s Army and had traveled north with the other infantry. Had he not been chosen for the task, Garrison would have been with the rest of his comrades-in-arms, preparing to rush forward once the signal was given. While the young man did not appear to be one to shirk his duty to his other companions in the infantry, the pride on his face at being chosen to carry the King’s colors was obvious.

  Beside Branden rode Talas. The old veteran was the Temple’s official representative here, being the liaison between the contingent from the Order of Arms that had journeyed north and the King’s Army. Talas had been put in the position because King Morgan had personally requested his appointment, not because of any seniority he enjoyed over his fellow members of the order. Having only recently returned to the ranks of the Temple, Talas’ position was officially barely above that of novice.

  There were a handful of members of the Temple’s Order of Alchemy with the army as well; however, they had remained back in camp, ready to tend to the wounded. The Temple of the Great Mother was technically an independent organization within Illyander, although they enjoyed the protection of the King. Talas had entreated Mother Maya to send more members of the Order of Arms with him, but the venerable woman had declined, saying the Temple could spare no more of its soldiers without leaving its own people woefully unprotected. The veteran had tried to convince Mother Maya that the Ice Queen represented a direct threat to Aronshae and the Temple itself and as such, the Temple should send every soldier it could spare. While the elder woman had been sympathetic, she was unmoved by Talas’ pleas. Mother Maya had agreed to send a number of healers north, in recompense for King Morgan’s continued protection and good will, but had not ordered any of her disciples to go. Only volunteers accompanied the King’s Army. Though the King had been disappointed, he was not truly surprised. Such had been the policy of the Temple of the Great Mother for many years and it was not likely to change.

  Talas, on the other hand, had been visibly upset. Still bound by his word to Branden and Mala to keep the secret about the merging of the twins, the newly re-minted priest’s argument had been lacking the vital piece of evidence needed to convince Mother Maya of the threat the Empress of Ice represented to all of Aronshae, including the Temple. The smith and the swordmistress had implored the priest to stay quiet about what had happened to Katya and Sasha in the catacombs shortly after they had regained consciousness until more could be discovered as to exactly what had happened. The veteran had reluctantly agreed, despite his elation at such a sign from the Great Mother. Branden appreciated Talas’ continuing silence concerning the matter, but he could feel the man’s frustration whenever the topic was discussed. Branden reached out and clasped Talas’ shoulder in a brotherly way, hearing the dull clang of his own mailed hand hitting the armored shoulder of his companion. Where the King’s armor was well polished and gleaming, Talas’ own chainmail was a dull gray, well maintained but simple, covered by the rich green tabard of his position within the Temple.

  Branden looked at the brown leaf patt
ern border of Talas’ surcoat and couldn’t help but be reminded of the ivy design he had worked into Sasha’s breastplate years ago. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since the smith had spent those days adding the intricate detail to his daughter’s armor, even then wondering why he had chosen that exact pattern. He had wanted Sasha’s breastplate and bracers to be unique, but now he was beginning to wonder if perhaps the Mother had been guiding his hand even then. Branden’s mind went back to the story Jared had told him of Akor’shi-kai’s own armor and the living vines that had covered it as she strode across the ancient chamber’s floor and wondered.

  A cry from ahead awoke Branden from his contemplation. As he looked up, his eyes traveled above Snowhaven’s wall in the distance and saw a familiar winged shape clear the top of the southern gate. The dragon opened its huge mouth, letting forth a great roar. A jaggedly-forked bolt of lightning erupted from the creature’s fanged maw, striking the men at the front of the vanguard. Branden heard the roll of thunder and beneath it the screams of dying men. Now seeing a dragon for the first time in the daylight, he was struck by its paleness. The dragons that graced the king’s banner were crimson and royal blue, but the creature that winged its way towards them was white like bleached bone. Branden eyed the banner of Illyander, remembering what Talas had said in the catacombs beneath Aeirsga. The crest of the kingdom was purported to be based on an ancient symbol used by those who had lived in Aeirsga before the first king of Illyander. The fairytale that dragons had actually flown the skies over Aronshae in the distant past was looking less and less like a campfire story with each wing-beat that brought the alabaster creature closer.

  Veldrun moved for the first time in several minutes, looking behind him to the shrouded figures that rode behind the King’s retinue. The Captain of the King’s Guard signaled and they dismounted, handing the reins of their horses to some of the King’s retainers. The mounts were led a short distance away, but kept ready should they be needed.

  As the great white beast flew closer the figures drew back their hoods, flinging open their cloaks revealing blue robes beneath. They presented rune-carved staves, planting them in the freshly churned ground before them and began to chant lowly. Branden could see the familiar glowing motes of energy begin to coalesce around the sorcerers, slowly being drawn into the lengths of wood. The smith also recognized four of the faces of the men and women who stood among the score of silver-mantled sorcerers preparing to perform their craft. Three of the men and one of the women were refugees from Snowhaven, driven out when the Ice Queen and her orcs had invaded their home. Their shoulders were bare, wearing only the blue robes of novices, bereft of the silver mantles that the other sorcerers wore that marked them as graduates of the Sorcerer School. Even though the men and woman from Snowhaven wore no mantles, Branden had seen the respect they had been afforded by the other dozen and a half sorcerers from Aeirsga. No one, short of the King himself, could have compelled the novices to be there, unmantled as they were, and Morgan had even given them the option of staying behind. Yet, every single one of the fledgling sorcerers had, without hesitation, asked to join their blue-robed brothers and sisters in the reclaiming of Snowhaven. Branden couldn’t have been prouder of his adopted home.

  Branden felt a familiar hum in the air as the dragon rose high and then tucked his wings back, preparing to swoop down for another attack. This close a rider could be seen on the creature’s massive back. Reports had been that the dragons that had attacked the camp had been mounted by figures robed all in black, though Branden had never seen riders himself. There was something different about the person on the dragon’s back this time, however. Branden strained his eyes then spoke to Talas over his shoulder. “Look at the dragon’s back.”

  Talas shielded his eyes from the rising sun to the east, squinting. “Great Mother,” he gasped. “It can’t be!”

  The veteran’s exclamation strengthened Branden’s suspicions. He turned to Veldrun. “Captain,” he called. “It’s her,” he said, pointing at the dragon as it hurtled towards them out of the sky. “It’s the Empress! She rides the dragon!”

  As he spoke the words, Branden heard a hiccup in the hum of power that had been gathering around the sorcerers. He turned and saw the effect the revelation had had on them. They had all heard the stories and legends surrounding the Ice Queen. They had heard the tales of the Empress of Ice’s magical prowess and how it had extended her life beyond the natural span of her years. They had heard the whispers of how she was supposed to be immortal, fueled by the eldritch energies that coursed through her veins. The concentration of the gathered sorcerers had begun to falter.

  Except for the four novices, whose anger caused them to focus all the more. Their brows furrowed even deeper, the tiny specks of magical power around these four glowed brighter, moving faster as they were drawn into their staves. One of the novices called out, a tall lanky woman, her long blonde hair tied back into a braid. “Hold!” she yelled, her voice sounding out clear and strong above the shuffling of horses and the clanking of mail. “Stand your ground!” she called, apparently forgetting the deference she should have been showing for her superiors within the group of sorcerers.

  The King drew his sword, addressing the sorcerers and the soldiers around them. “People of Illyander! This is the time and the place!” he bellowed, his voice rich and full of confidence. “Now is when we show the Empress what it means to stand against the Kingdom of Illyander and the full might of its people! This is the place when we say ‘no more!’ When we say ‘no further!’ When we tell that abomination,” the king pointed his sword at the Ice Queen, “that we will not allow her to take one more step into our land!”

  The tenor of the gathering magic changed once more. The tremor of fear was gone, replaced by the steady thrum of power wielded by the resolute wills of the sorcerers of Illyander. The blonde-haired sorcerer, whose name Branden now remembered to be Fiona, bellowed once more. “For Snowhaven!” she cried, releasing her stored power as a huge ball of blue white-energy, its surface crackling with arcs of electricity as it flew through the air. A myriad of other similar orbs followed Fiona’s, soaring through the air, hurtling towards the onrushing dragon and its pale white rider.

  The dragon casually flicked out one of its wings, easily dodging Fiona’s attack. However, the massive beast had to work harder to evade the other orbs of lightning that flew at him. As he swooped low, one of the sorcerer’s attacks clipped his wing and Branden heard a sound he had never heard from one of the dragons before: a roar of pain. The Ice Queen raised her arm, pointing her obsidian staff that was glowing frosty white at King Morgan.

  “Look out!” Branden cried, pulling on his reins, trying to direct his horse into the side of the King’s mount. He hoped to shove his liege’s horse aside and in the process move Morgan out of the line of fire. Even as he did so, he knew he would be too late; there was simply not enough time. Still, Branden hauled on his reins with his powerful arms, almost causing his horse to rear with the force. As he looked up he saw a lance of blinding white energy rip from the Ice Queen’s outstretched hand. “No!” Branded yelled, trying desperately to reach out with his right hand and shove the King out of the path of the oncoming blast. Branden was barely able to reach Morgan, his fingertips grazing the King’s armor as he feebly tried to save his liege. Branden’s arm went numb as the area around him went suddenly, frigidly cold. Crystals of ice formed along his outstretched arm as Branden, closing his eyes against the bright white of the Empress’ attack, heard a scream of pain. A scream that was brutally cut short as the throat that sounded it froze solid.

  “Again!” a commanding voice called and Branden did not want to believe his ears at the source. He opened his eyes to see the King, sword pointing at the dwindling shape of the white dragon as it flew past. Morgan lives, he thought, disbelieving. Branden turned in the direction that the King pointed, but instead of looking up, he looked to where he saw several men lying, unmoving in the snowy mud. The Queen�
��s lance of eldritch cold had gone awry, thrown off by the bucking of her mount as he was struck by one of the sorcerer’s attacks. Instead of killing the King, the Empress of Ice had felled a handful of men. Their bodies had frozen clear through; several of the men’s arms had broken off as they fell to the ground. Branden saw a pair of boots, the owner’s feet still in them, frozen to the ground. For several paces in all directions around the dead men soldiers were working to pull their feet out of the mud, which had been frozen solid in an instant by the Ice Queen’s attack.

  As Branden looked up at the Empress, a dozen blue orbs of electricity chased after the invading monarch. A cheer went up from the army as one of the orbs impacted the dragon’s rear legs, eliciting another roar of pain. The massive creature beat its leathery wings, quickly recovering from the hit with a grace that belied its size. As the dragon passed over the rest of the army the archers loosed a wave of arrows, however none of them were able to pierce the creature’s hide and were deflected harmlessly away.

  “Here come the others!” Veldrun cried, pointing towards the creatures as more of them appeared above the wall of Snowhaven. The dragons, of varying sizes but all of the same bleached bone hue, flew through the air with frightening speed. Atop each of the creatures rode a Shadow Walker, his black clothing a billowing stain next to the dragon’s alabaster scales. Branden saw the straps of harnesses crisscrossing the creatures’ broad chests. Instead of rising high in the air and diving at King Morgan as their larger cohort had, these five dragons flew low over the heads of the Illyanders, belching lightning as they went. Screams, fire and death followed in their wake as gout after gout of blue-white energy arced from the creatures’ mouths. As they passed, Branden saw the Shadow Walkers sat in high backed saddles, their hoods blown back by the velocity of their mounts. Several of the black-robed figures made over-hand gestures, and Branden saw the familiar shape of black daggers as they were launched from the Shadow Walker’s grasps. A female soldier, half a dozen paces from where Branden’s horse stood, cried in pain and fell from her mount. She lay flat on her back, the black skull pommel of one of the Shadow Walker’s blades sticking from her chest. The unnatural strength of the undead assassins, coupled with the speed of the dragons’ flight, had given the dagger enough force to penetrate the woman’s steel breast plate and nearly fling her from the saddle. With each pass, more and more men and women fell prey to the deadly precision of the Shadow Walkers’ projectiles.