“He’s a defiant sort of fellow, our Gray Knight,” said Jager.
Qhazulak grunted. “You are the Queen’s husband, I assume?”
“I am indeed, worthy champion,” said Jager. He waved a hand at Caius. “We were married by that friar over there, if you do not believe me. I think I would prefer the title…Prince Consort. It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“He is a worthy husband for the Queen?” said Qhazulak.
“He went into the Iron Tower to save me,” said Mara. “He is the only man worthy to be my husband. The Gray Knight is the only man worthy to be the magister militum of the Nightmane Forest. When I despaired of my life, when I asked him to slay me, he refused and convinced me to fight on. If he had not, the Traveler would not be slain, and he would still rule over you as your god.”
“Indeed,” said Zhorlacht. He grinned a wolfish, fierce smile behind his tusks. “We faced the Gray Knight and his companions in Khald Azalar. We fought his cunning, the power of the Swordbearers, the fire of the dark sorceress and the poison of the witch, the fury of the Vhaluuskan and the power of the Queen. It will be good to turn that power against our foes.”
“Ridmark,” said Mara, looking up at him. “Do you accept his?”
“I shall,” said Ridmark, and he bowed to her. “My Queen.”
Morigna watched him, an odd expression on her face. Calliande knew she had wanted to go to Andomhaim at Ridmark’s side, to root out the Enlightened of Incariel. On the other hand, it might be easier to root out the Enlightened with an army of fanatical warrior orcs.
A lot easier, come to think of it.
“Then welcome to the kingdom of Nightmane Forest, Lord Ridmark,” said Jager, clapping Ridmark on the shoulder. He had to strain to do it. “We offer ample opportunity for both for fortune and glory.”
“Thank you, Ridmark,” said Mara. Then she looked at Jager and grinned. “And thank you, my Prince.”
Jager offered a florid bow to his wife.
“Queen Mara,” said Calliande, and Mara turned toward her. “As Keeper of Andomhaim, I ask your aid. Dun Licinia will fall to the Mhorites and the dvargir without assistance. Will you fight alongside us? If the town falls, there will be no force to stop Shadowbearer from opening a gate to summon the Frostborn back to our world, and all kindreds will perish.” She looked at Zhorlacht and Qhazulak. “Even the Anathgrimm.”
“We shall aid the High King’s realm,” said Mara. “Lord magister, what do you suggest?”
“Tell your men to advance, Qhazulak,” said Ridmark. “Mournacht defeated the Anathgrimm in the Vale of Stone Death, but that was because the Traveler was a madman and knew not how to lead his men to battle. It is time to teach the Mhorites what the Anathgrimm can do when their monarch is not insane.”
Qhazulak let out a rumbling growl. At first Calliande thought the orcish champion was angry, but then she understood.
Qhazulak was laughing with approval.
“Yes, lord magister,” said Qhazulak. “Let us give them a sharp lesson.”
“Good,” said Ridmark. “This is what I intend…”
Chapter 18: The Third Battle of Dun Licinia
The Anathgrimm marched forward, the ground shivering slightly with the rhythm of their armored boots. Ridmark walked at their head alongside Zhorlacht, his staff in hand. Qhazulak had insisted on providing bodyguards for Mara, and Jager had promptly dubbed them the Queen’s Guard. The oldest and most experienced Anathgrimm warriors had been recruited for the new Guard, and Ridmark had sent Calliande, Morigna, and Antenora with the Guard as well. Their magical powers made them prime target for the enemy, and Ridmark wanted them kept safe.
Which would make it all the easier for their magical powers to be used against the enemy.
Kharlacht, Caius, Gavin, and Arandar walked with Ridmark and Zhorlacht and Qhazulak. If Ridmark was to lead the Anathgrimm into battle, then he would share the risk of battle with them.
To the south he saw the army of the Northerland moving forward from the walls, flying the banner of the House of the Licinii, the white stag upon a field of green. The Mhorites and the dvargir turned, trying to keep both armies in sight at once. With the Anathgrimm approaching from the northeast and the men of the Northerland coming from the south, the Mhorites and the dvargir might find themselves trapped against the River Marcaine. This far north, the river was not terribly deep, but it would still be difficult for a retreating army to cross.
Ridmark’s mind raced as he tried to guess what the enemy would do next. They could attack Dux Gareth’s men and try to break into Dun Licinia and fortify themselves there. Yet the men of the Northerland would not yield easily, and the Mhorites and the dvargir would have to fight to take every house. Easy for the Anathgrimm to smash the Mhorites then!
Perhaps they would fall back to the north, blocking the approach to the Black Mountain. In Mournacht’s place, that was what Ridmark would have done. The battle wasn’t about Dun Licinia. The town and its people were a diversion. Shadowbearer needed to keep his foes away from Black Mountain long enough to open the gate. If Shadowbearer was controlling Mournacht, he would realize that, and the orcish warlord would withdraw his army towards Black Mountain.
Except that Mournacht did not seem to be in command of the army. Ridmark had not seen a trace of him since the initial challenge. Mournacht had always preferred to lead from the front in previous battles, killing with that huge axe of his. Had Mournacht departed? Or did Shadowbearer have some other task for him?
A darker thought came to Ridmark. The Mhorites could not withdraw to Black Mountain without risking a flanking attack from the Anathgrimm. If they had turned and fled at once, they could have escaped, but the moment had passed. If they wanted to withdraw to the Black Mountain, they would have to fight.
Which meant they would have to break through the Anathgrimm.
“Ah,” grunted Qhazulak, and Ridmark saw that the same realization had come to the old warrior. “They are going to charge us, are they not?”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Probably any minute.”
“Good,” said Qhazulak, hefting his enormous axe. Unlike Mournacht’s weapon, the axe had not been augmented with blood spells. Nevertheless, weapon looked no less dangerous. “I have been too long without battle.”
“Zhorlacht,” said Ridmark. “Have your signalers ready. When the moment comes, we shall need the aid of the men of the Northerland.”
Qhazulak scowled. “We can overcome the Mhorites without their aid.”
“Which would you rather have?” said Ridmark. “A victory without the help of the men of the Northerland…or a victory with as many dead Mhorites as you can kill?”
“An excellent argument,” said Zhorlacht. “We…”
“The enemy comes,” snarled Qhazulak, raising his axe.
The army of dvargir and Mhorites turned, marching at speed towards the Anathgrimm, the kobolds screening out around them. It was like watching a wave roll towards a shore. The Mhorites marched in ragged lines in the center, while the dvargir took the left and right wings like armored shadows. The enemy army outnumbered the Anathgrimm nearly two to one. If they acted fast, they could smash through the Anathgrimm and withdraw to the Black Mountain before Dux Gareth could arrive to offer help.
“Sound a halt,” said Ridmark, the ground trembling a little with the tramp of the Mhorites’ boots. “Form a shield wall. We will meet them here.” Qhazulak turned and roared a command, and the moaning wail of the Anathgrimm war horns rose from the host. The Anathgrimm stopped their march and unfolded like a steel flower, forming rank upon rank. The first line raised their shields, gripping spears, while the second line stood behind them, ready to rush forward. Behind them the third line produced crossbows and began loading the weapons, the click of a thousand gears coming to Ridmark’s ears.
“Calliande!” called Ridmark. “Be ready.”
Unless he missed his guess, the Mhorite shamans would unleash their power, trying to break t
he Anathgrimm line before their warriors arrived. The Anathgrimm had wizards of their own…but now the Anathgrimm had the protection of the Keeper of Andomhaim.
The Mhorite shamans would not be able to stand against that.
The Mhorites charged forward, the dvargir marching next to them, and Ridmark waited to meet the enemy.
###
Calliande drew on her Sight, watching the approaching army.
“Be ready,” she murmured to Antenora, who nodded and tapped the end of her staff against the ground, elemental flame beginning to surge around her as she gathered power. Once the armies came together and were locked in battle, Antenora could not bring her magic to bear. Until then, though, she could make use of it. The woman’s mastery of fire magic made her a living siege engine. The power of the Keeper lent itself more naturally to defense, so Calliande would defend.
Flares of blood-colored light pulsed before her Sight, rising from a dozen places within the Mhorite army. The Mhorite shamans were gathering their powers, preparing to fling spells of withering and death into the Anathgrimm. Before, upon the walls of Dun Licinia, Calliande had been forced to both defend herself and keep the Mhorites from unraveling Antenora’s wall of flames, and dividing her will between the two tasks had been too much.
Now, though, now she only need defend, and in battles of magic as in battles of men and steel, the defender had the advantage.
The shamans unleashed their spells, bolts of crimson fire and shadow shrieking across the closing gap between the two armies. Calliande raised her staff and shouted, the end of the staff shining with white fire as she poured all her strength and all the power of the Keeper’s mantle into the ward. A pale wall of white light spread before the Anathgrimm, and the Mhorites’ spells slammed into it. Sparks and flashes of harsh light flared across the surface of the ward, and Calliande felt the strain as the dark magic pressed against her spell. Her ward was not strong enough to block the attacking spells entirely. Yet the power of the Keeper unraveled the Mhorite spells, and their power dissipated harmlessly, draining to nothing by the time they reached the Anathgrimm.
“Antenora!” said Calliande. “Now!”
Antenora raised her staff, and a fireball the size of her head leapt from her hand and soared over the lines of the Anathgrimm. It landed in the midst of the charging Mhorites with a boom and a flash, and a dozen orcish warriors went tumbling through the air, their limbs wreathed in flame. More points of blood magic flared in Calliande’s Sight as the Mhorite shamans started another round of spells.
Behind her she heard a clicking noise as the Anathgrimm raised the crossbows and released. A storm of quarrels flew overhead in a smooth arc and plunged into the charging Mhorite warriors. Dozens of them fell, the steel-tipped quarrels punching through their armor to find the flesh beneath, and dozens more fell wounded only to be trampled by their charging comrades.
Calliande summoned power for another ward, and then the Mhorites slammed into the first line of the Anathgrimm.
###
The Mhorite’s sword rebounded from Gavin’s shield. He twisted, bringing Truthseeker around for a strike. The Mhorite warrior got his own shield up, eyes gleaming red with the mad battle fury of the orcish kindred, and Truthseeker rebounded from the thick wood. Gavin’s enhanced strength left a crack in the shield, so he swung again, putting all of his strength and all of Truthseeker’s power behind the blow. This time the soulblade shattered the Mhorite’s shield, and the warrior stumbled back, his scarred face almost comical with surprise. Gavin drove Truthseeker home, the blade sliding between the Mhorite’s ribs, and the warrior collapsed to the ground.
Gavin ripped the soulblade free, falling back to stand next to Arandar. He started to aid the older Swordbearer, but Arandar was already in motion. He bashed a Mhorite in the face with his shield, and the orc’s red-tattooed head snapped to the side. Before the Mhorite regained his footing, Heartwarden came around in a blazing arc, sinking halfway into the orcish warrior’s neck. The Mhorite fell dead, and Arandar raised his shield in guard as he looked for another foe.
Around them the battle raged in a storm of blood and steel. It was just like the Vale of Stone Death all over again, when the Traveler had led the Anathgrimm against Mournacht and his warriors, with Gavin and Arandar and the others caught in the middle between the opposing armies. Ridmark and Calliande had rescued them, riding to their aid with a band of manetaur warriors.
The Mhorite charge had broken the first line of the Anathgrimm, pushing the spiny orcs back, but the second line had marched with cold precision into the fray. Unlike the first line, the second maintained its cohesion, and step by step the Anathgrimm forced the Mhorites towards the River Marcaine. The first line was starting to reform, though a hundred individual duels and melees swirled before the advancing Anathgrimm. Flashes of white light and crimson fire snarled overhead as the Mhorite shamans contested against Calliande’s power. Screams and the clang of weapons filled the air, mingled with the roar of a thousand voices and the stench of blood and dying men.
Gavin fought and killed alongside Arandar and Kharlacht and Caius, Truthseeker’s white flame burning away the orcish blood that coated the blade.
###
Ridmark whirled his staff, deflecting a spear thrust aimed at his heart. He spun the weapon one more time, the butt end bouncing off the Mhorite’s jaw with a loud crack. The Mhorite stumbled, and before Ridmark could get his staff up for another strike, Qhazulak attacked. The huge axe split the Mhorite’s head in twain like a rotten fruit, and Qhazulak wrenched his glistening weapon with a roar, turning to seek another foe.
Ridmark was clad that the old orc was on his side.
For now, they were winning. The Mhorites were wild, vicious fighters, screaming to Mhor as they attacked, but the Anathgrimm were better trained and better disciplined. The shock of the Mhorite and kobold attack had broken the first line of Anathgrimm warriors, but the second line had advanced, and the first line was reforming. Step by step the Anathgrimm forced the Mhorites back. If pushed too far, they might break and flee, falling back to the River Marcaine.
That overlooked, of course, what the dvargir might do. Hundreds of Mhorites and scores of kobolds had been killed, but Ridmark had not yet seen the dvargir take action. Perhaps the dvargir had decided to abandon the battle, slipping away to leave their Mhorite allies to their fate.
Ridmark did not think he was that lucky.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, a shiver went through the second Anathgrimm line. Ridmark looked right and left, and saw that the dvargir wings had broken from the Mhorite center, leaving the orcs to fight while they circled to assail the flanks of the Anathgrimm lines. Yet the Anathgrimm knew their business, and responded before Ridmark could give them any orders. Parts of the second line broke off to face this new attack, while the third line abandoned their crossbows, drawing swords and rushing to aid the second line. Yet that might not be enough. The dvargir kept to their formations with grim tenacity, and advanced step by bloody step, pushing the Anathgrimm back. If the line buckled beneath the pressure, the Mhorites would swarm all over them…
Then a pair of dvargir warriors charged at Ridmark, and he had no more time to worry over the battle. He had made his plans. The die had been cast, as Julius Caesar had once said upon Old Earth. Now all that remained to see was how the die would fall.
And, of course, to stay alive long enough to find out.
Ridmark thrust his staff, deflecting the black sword that had been aimed at his chest. The dvargir wrought their armor and weapons from a strange black metal that both looked wet and somehow drank the light, a metal that was stronger and lighter than normal steel. It was like fighting a shifting shadow that seemed to absorb the light and reflect it at the same time. Ridmark hit the nearest dvargir once, twice, three times with the black staff, the weapon rebounding from the dvargir’s heavy armor. The dvargir warrior reeled back with every blow, but his armor protected him. At last Ridmark’s momentum played ou
t, the dvargir warrior raising his shield to deflect any other blows. The second warrior came at him, and Ridmark slapped aside the swing of an axe with a sweep of his staff. He released the staff, snatched the axe from his belt with a single smooth motion, and brought the weapon around. The blade crunched into the dvargir’s neck, and the warrior went into a weird, twitching dance, his void-filled eyes going wide.
The first warrior lunged at him, and Ridmark released the axe and ducked, rolling across the ground to seize his staff. The dvargir stabbed at him, and Ridmark jabbed his staff, catching the dvargir in the knee. The dvargir stumbled, his thrust going wide, and Zhorlacht seized the opening, plunging his sword into a gap in the dvargir’s armor. He ripped the sword free, and the dvargir fell. Ridmark seized his axe and got back to his feet.
“Is this not splendid, Gray Knight?” said Zhorlacht. The Anathgrimm seemed to be enjoying himself, his black eyes covered with a red gleam, his voice wild and delighted. “Let us shed more blood together!”
“Aye,” said Ridmark, turning to face more foes.
There was no shortage of blood to shed.
He only hoped his plan worked before they all died.
###
“You cannot go into the battle, Mara,” said Calliande in a low voice, the staff of the Keeper flickering with white fire in her fist.
“I agree entirely,” said Jager.
Morigna listened with half an ear, her attention focused upon the melee. She had lost sight of Ridmark beyond the lines of Anathgrimm, but she wanted to join him, to fling her spells into battle at his side. Unfortunately, she could not find her way through the packed lines of the Anathgrimm, and she doubted the spiny orcs would let her pass. Yet she saw bands of Mhorites and dvargir and kobolds charging towards where Ridmark and the Swordbearers and the others fought, and so she flung spells at them, bursts of earth magic that rippled the ground beneath them or conjured veils of sleeping mists in their paths. She didn’t know how much good it was doing. Yet she caused a continual disruption that the Anathgrimm exploited to good advantage, and every dead foe was a foe that could not hurt Ridmark.
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 25