Frostborn: The World Gate

by Jonathan Moeller

  Calliande moved closed to the battlements, stepping over a dead dvargir, and summoned the Sight. The Sight did as it pleased, yet she directed her will over the battlefield, seeking for what had disturbed the enemy. Visions flashed before her Sight, scenes of death and blood and fire, and then her Sight turned north. There she saw slaves in steel armor and black bone, slaves freed by the death of their tyrannical master, slaves seeking for a new purpose in life…

  She realized where she had seen them before.

  “The Anathgrimm,” Calliande breathed.

  Antenora frowned. “The spiny orcs?”

  “The Anathgrimm have come,” said Calliande, trying to concentrate the Sight. The strange, wavering vision of the Sight solidified, becoming less abstract and more real. Suddenly she saw the Anathgrimm with sharp clarity. Nearly six thousand of the bone-armored orcs marched down from the north, advancing in good order.

  “I am surprised,” said Antenora. “I did not think the spiny orcs would keep their word. The Traveler bred them to be his slaves.”

  “The Traveler was their god,” said Calliande, “but he’s dead, and Mara is his heir.” The Sight faded from her, and she saw the battlefield with her normal eyes. Drums and war horns rang out, and the dvargir withdrew from the walls in disciplined precision, the kobolds and Mhorites more raggedly. To the north she saw the distant mass of the advancing Anathgrimm host. Mournacht must have seen the danger, and decided to turn his army lest he be trapped between the Anathgrimm and the walls of Dun Licinia.

  Or whatever lieutenant Mournacht had left in command. Calliande thought it odd that the Mhorite warlord had not yet made his presence felt in the battle. Perhaps Shadowbearer had called him away for some other purpose.

  She could worry about it later. The hour for action had come.

  “My lord Dux!” said Calliande, hurrying to Gareth’s side. “Look!” She pointed over the battlements. “The Anathgrimm have arrived.”

  “Perhaps they have come to aid the Mhorite dogs,” said Sir Tagrimn with a scowl. He had an ugly purple-yellow bruise on the left side of his jaw, but otherwise the dour old knight had come through the fighting unscathed. “Pagan orcs often ally with each other.”

  “They often fight against each other, too,” said Calliande. “The Kothluuskans worship Mhor. The Anathgrimm revered the Traveler as their god, but Mara killed him. Now they will follow her.”

  “You are sure of this?” said Gareth, frowning.

  “I believe they will follow her,” said Calliande. If the Anathgrimm had made the long march from Khald Azalar to Dun Licinia, that seemed proof that they were willing to obey Mara.

  “But you are not certain, my lady Keeper,” said Tagrimn.

  “Nothing is certain in war, sir knight,” said Calliande. “But I believe they will obey her.”

  “Very well,” said Gareth. “We cannot turn away allies, not now. My lords and knights, come. We must plan our strategy.”

  ###

  Ridmark wiped sweat from his forehead and looked around.

  The dead and dying littered the forum below the broken gate. Militiamen moved among the wounded, finishing off the wounded Mhorites and the kobolds. Others carried the wounded men-at-arms and militiamen to the church, where the Magistri would begin their labors to save those who could be saved.

  “I suppose Zhorlacht was a good as his word,” said Jager.

  “The Anathgrimm were always determined,” said Mara, her voice distant. “My father made sure of it. He would tolerate nothing less from his servants.”

  Dux Gareth and his knights descended from the ramparts, Calliande and Antenora in their midst. Constantine and Joram crossed to join them, both men spattered with blood from the fighting, their armor scratched and dented.

  “Father,” said Constantine. “What news? Why did the foe withdraw?”

  “Another foe arrived,” said Gareth. “One, perhaps, that they feared more than us.” He looked down at Mara, who gazed back up at him. She was not a tall woman, but she seemed all the shorter before the towering Dux in his scarred armor. “Mara of Coldinium.”

  “Lord Dux,” said Mara with a bow.

  “The Anathgrimm,” said Gareth without preamble. “You can command them?”

  “I told them to follow us to Dun Licinia,” said Mara, “and here they are.”

  “Will they not turn upon us?” said old Sir Tagrimn, giving Mara a dubious look.

  Mara hesitated, trying to find he words.

  “Fear not, noble Sir Tagrimn,” said Jager with a deep bow to the knight. “As much as you hate the Anathgrimm, rest assured that the hatred the Anathgrimm feel for the Mhorites burns ten times as hot. For they fought the Mhorites across the Vale of Stone Death and through the tunnels of Khald Azalar, shedding blood with every step, and their desire for vengeance has brought them across the vast Wilderland to the very walls of Dun Licinia.”

  “You had best be right, halfling,” said Tagrimn.

  Jager smiled. “I am willing to bet my life on it. Care to join me in a wager, sir knight?”

  Tagrimn barked out a rasping laugh at that.

  “If you give us horses, my lord,” said Ridmark, “I will take Mara to join the Anathgrimm.”

  “They have come all this way to visit my wife,” said Jager. “It seems rude to deny them.” Mara nodded in agreement.

  “Very well,” said Gareth. “Ridmark, take the Queen and your companions and ride forth to meet the Anathgrimm. If they will indeed aid us, well and good. I shall take command of the footmen with Sir Joram and march from the northern gate to offer battle to the Mhorites and dvargir.”

  Constantine frowned. “You shall be outnumbered.”

  “Agreed,” said the Dux, “which is why, I hope, the Anathgrimm will aid us. It is also why you will take the horsemen through the southern gate, Constantine. Circle around the town to the west, close to the River Marcaine. Stay back until you see the moment to strike.”

  Constantine bowed and hurried away to the south, and some of the squires brought horses forth. Ridmark slung his staff over his shoulder and pulled himself into the saddle, and Calliande and Morigna and the others followed suit. As before, Mara and Jager rode together.

  “Will you ride with the horsemen, Sir Arandar?” said Joram. “I have no doubt Sir Constantine would welcome another Swordbearer.”

  Arandar shook his head. “I spoke with the Anathgrimm outside of Khald Azalar, and fought with them in the Vale of Stone Death. If they have indeed come to aid us, I would see this through to the end.”

  “Sir Gavin?” said Joram.

  Gavin hesitated, giving his horse a dubious look. “If it means I can fight on my own feet, I would rather follow the Gray Knight.”

  “You’ll have all the fighting you want and then some,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go.”

  ###

  Calliande and the others followed Ridmark from the northern gate of Dun Licinia, riding as fast as they could over the unsteady ground.

  Corpses carpeted the earth just outside the walls, dvargir and Mhorites and kobolds and a few unlucky men-at-arms who had been pulled from the ramparts. The air stank of blood and burned flesh, and here and there wisps of smoke rose from the charred patches Antenora's fire had written into the earth. Calliande thought the dvargir might have abandoned their siege ladders in their flight, but the black-armored warriors had taken them along.

  Ridmark led them on, weaving around burned-out homesteads here and there. To the northwest Calliande saw the Mhorites and the dvargir drawing themselves up into battle order, the Mhorites occupying the center, the dvargir taking positions on the right and left wings. To the south the host of the Northerland issued from the gate of Dun Licinia, forming up to offer battle to the enemy. A small band of kobolds started to head towards their horses, but Antenora threw a fireball in their direction.

  After the smoke from the fireball faded away, the surviving kobolds decided to seek battle elsewhere.

  Then they headed north, to
wards the edge of the great forests of the Wilderland, and Calliande saw the army of the Anathgrimm.

  She had seen many battles and many soldiers, but still the sight of the Anathgrimm of Nightmane Forest impressed her.

  Thousands upon thousands of them marched from the forest, each warrior armored in chain mail and plate, heavy shields upon their left arms and swords waiting at their belts. The Traveler had mutated the Anathgrimm orcs, making their bones tougher and harder than those of other orcs, harder and tougher than even the bones of dwarves. Their augmented skeletons also burst from their flesh in sculpted designs, sheathing their upper faces in masks of black bone, their tusks wrought from the same altered bone. Spikes of black bone rose from their shoulders and forearms. An Anathgrimm warrior could never be disarmed – should he lose his sword and shield, he could employ the spikes upon his right arm as a club and the spikes upon his left arm as a crude shield.

  “More of them than I expected,” said Arandar in a low voice.

  “Dun Licinia is not that far from the Nightmane Forest,” said Mara, watching her father’s slaves without expression. “When my…when the Traveler died, his control over his creatures of dark magic would have broken, his urvaalgs and urshanes and urdhracosi. They would have fled into the Wilderland, away from the power in Nightmane Forest, and the Anathgrimm would have known the Traveler had perished. So Zhorlacht might have called for reinforcements.”

  “Oh,” said Gavin. “Good. I think.”

  Ridmark reined up, and Calliande brought her horse to a halt. She felt the black eyes of the Anathgrimm upon her, and a little flicker of unease went through her. Calliande had fought the Anathgrimm in Khald Azalar, but she had fought them centuries ago, when the Traveler had launched raids from Nightmane Forest to take advantage of the chaos the Frostborn brought with them.

  Such things were hard to unlearn.

  “Mara, Jager, Calliande,” said Ridmark. “Come with me. Let’s go greet our new friends.” He thought for a moment. “Best bring Antenora as well. They will remember her, and if they intend violence she might make them hesitate.”

  Calliande dropped from her saddle, the grass crunching beneath her boots. Mara, Jager, and Antenora followed suit, Antenora’s staff starting to glimmer with fiery light. Ridmark strode forward, and they fell in behind him, walking towards the motionless wall of Anathgrimm warriors.

  He stopped a few paces from the Anathgrimm, the warriors staring at him with their hard black eyes.

  “Warriors of the Nightmane Forest!” he called. “Your Queen has called, and she is here! Battle and blood lie before you. Will you fight at her call?”

  Mara stepped to his side, and a murmur went through the Anathgrimm.

  Two warriors stepped from the ranks of the bone-armored orcs. With their masks of black bone, Calliande had a hard time telling individual Anathgrimm apart. Yet she recognized the first of the warriors. His cuirass was more ornamented than the norm for the Anathgrimm, and he moved with an air of authority. His name was Zhorlacht, and he had been a priest of the Traveler and a wielder of dark magic. The second Anathgrimm looked older, the bones of his mask darker and more weathered, and carried an enormous double-bladed axe over one shoulder. It was a huge weapon, and the warrior carrying it looked as if he could use the axe to cut Calliande’s horse in half with a single blow.

  Zhorlacht and the orcish warrior stopped a few paces from Ridmark. Calliande held her magic ready, preparing to work defensive wards and augmentation spells if the Anathgrimm chose to attack. Yet she did not think that would be necessary.

  There was no trace of violence in the stance of Zhorlacht or the warrior. They were both staring at Mara with something like…wonder.

  “Zhorlacht,” said Ridmark.

  “Gray Knight,” said Zhorlacht in accented Latin. “I see you have brought our Queen to us.”

  Mara shivered a little, but did not look away from Zhorlacht.

  “I have,” said Ridmark. “Who is your companion?”

  “This is Qhazulak,” said Zhorlacht. “He was the chief champion of the Traveler, high among the warriors. Among the men of Andomhaim, I suppose you would have called him a magister militum, a master of soldiers. He remained behind to defend Nightmane Forest in our absence, and joined us with several thousand more warriors a few days past.”

  “You are her,” said Qhazulak. He sounded old, his voice worn and raspy and thick. “You are her who slew our god the Lord Traveler.”

  “I am,” said Mara, stepping closer. “Have you come to take vengeance for him?”

  “No,” said Qhazulak. “No, you do not understand the Anathgrimm. You do not understand our slavery. The Traveler was our lord and master, our king and our god.” His dark eyes turned to Caius. “You. You wear the sign of the Dominus Christus, the god of the humans. Do you love your god?”

  “With all my soul and all my heart,” said Caius.

  “That is a gift,” said Qhazulak. “For we hated and feared our god. He made us to obey him, and we obeyed him. He made us to be warriors, and we fought with savagery, for that is what he made us. We hated and feared him, yet he was our god, so we obeyed him.”

  “And then I killed him,” said Mara. “I killed my father, and I do not regret it. I would have done it sooner, if I could.”

  “You freed us,” said Zhorlacht, and Qhazulak nodded.

  “You slew our god, and now we may do whatever we wish,” said Qhazulak. “Yet we were made to serve. We must serve. Whom shall we serve? You are the daughter of our god.”

  “He wasn’t a god,” said Mara. “He was a murderer and a coward, and he spent millennia hiding in Nightmane Forest while the urdmordar devoured his kindred.”

  “All that you say is true,” said Qhazulak. “But he was our god. You are the daughter of our god, but Zhorlacht said you will not allow us to worship you as a goddess.”

  “No,” said Mara at once. “There is only one God. I am not God, and my father certainly was not God.”

  “The Anathgrimm were made to serve, and so we must serve,” said Qhazulak. “You said you shall be our Queen, Mara daughter of the Traveler. Will you honor this promise? Will you be our Queen? We shall be your slaves, if you but be our Queen.”

  “No,” said Mara. “I will be your Queen, but you will not be my slaves. You shall be my subjects, entitled to laws and protection and justice, just as the High King is obliged to provide justice and defense for his subjects.”

  Qhazulak said nothing, and for a moment Calliande wondered if Mara had offended him. Then she saw the faint tremor go through the massive shoulders, saw Qhazulak’s mouth twitch a little behind his tusks.

  The old orc was weeping.

  “Yes,” said Qhazulak. “I had never thought…we had never thought to hear such words.” He drew himself up. “We shall be your subjects, Queen Mara of the Nightmane Forest, if you will lead us.”

  “I wanted to undo the evil my father had worked over his life,” said Mara. “I wanted to free his slaves, to undo the harm he had wrought. Perhaps this is my chance.”

  “It is indeed strange to hear such words from the blood of the Lord Traveler,” said Qhazulak. “Do you truly mean them?”

  “Yes,” said Mara, more iron in her voice than Calliande had ever heard before. “He blighted your life, Qhazulak, made you and your kin his slaves. But he did the same to my life. He murdered my mother. He would have made me into a monster, into a slave for centuries after you lay in your grave. So I mean these words, Qhazulak. I mean them as much as anything I ever said.”

  “It is good we understand each other,” said Qhazulak. “I have been chosen to speak for the Anathgrimm. We shall follow you, Queen of the Anathgrimm.”

  “If you do this,” said Mara, “if you follow me…then there will be fighting. I told as much to Zhorlacht outside the Gate of the East at Khald Azalar.”

  “What manner of fighting?” said Zhorlacht.

  “Shadowbearer has come,” said Mara. “He summoned the Mhorites to
his side, and the dvargir and the kobolds have come at his call. They besiege Dun Licinia, hoping to prevent the Keeper of Andomhaim,” she gestured at Calliande, “from interfering with Shadowbearer. The pillar of blue fire rising from the Black Mountain? That is Shadowbearer’s work. He is opening a gate to the world of the Frostborn, to summon them to this world once more.”

  “So I see,” said Qhazulak. “Then if we follow you, you will lead us to battle?”

  “Yes,” said Mara. “I had hoped to bring you to peace, but it seems we live in a time of war.”

  “Good,” said Qhazulak, and both he and Zhorlacht grinned. It made them look formidable. “For we are warriors, my Queen. We were made to fight. It is our purpose.”

  “And we will repay the Mhorites,” said Zhorlacht, “for all the Anathgrimm blood they shed in Khald Azalar.”

  “Then we go to war,” said Qhazulak. “What are your commands, my Queen?”

  “One command,” said Mara. “I have one command for you, Qhazulak, and all the warriors of the Anathgrimm.”

  “We shall obey,” said Qhazulak.

  Mara pointed at Ridmark. “Do whatever that man tells you.”

  Both the Anathgrimm looked at Ridmark.

  “What I think my wife the Queen means to say,” said Jager, stepping forward, his voice calm, “is that she wishes to appoint Ridmark of the Arbanii, the man who became a Swordbearer at the age of eighteen, the man who twice entered Urd Morlemoch and lived, the man who rescued the Keeper from the Mhalekites and brought her to legendary Dragonfall, where she recovered her memory and power to defend Andomhaim in its darkest hour, as the magister militum of the kingdom of the Nightmane Forest to lead the Anathgrimm to glory against their foes.”

  Calliande was impressed that he had gotten that entire sentence out without tripping over it.

  “I see,” said Qhazulak.

  “It is a worthy choice, honored Qhazulak,” said Zhorlacht. “For this man fought us again and again, both in the Vale of Stone Death and in Khald Azalar. He defied both Shadowbearer and our lord the Traveler to their faces.”