She did not like what she saw.
The Iron Tower was the strongest fortress she had ever seen. The monastery of St. Cassian had been well-fortified, and Smiling Otto’s stockade at Vulmhosk had been surprisingly formidable, but the Iron Tower was stronger than both. Her ravens saw no weakness anywhere in the walls. And even if a force besieged the castra from land, the Tower could be resupplied by sea.
She opened her eyes and looked through the trees at the Iron Tower, at the huge iron monolith rising from the heart of the fortress.
The tower of iron was an ugly, rough thing, like a piece of iron that had not been finished. The apprentice smiths in the town of Moraime had produced better work than that. Morigna wondered who had made the tower. She had seen a dozen dark elven ruins, all of them more graceful by far, and even the blocky, grim work of the dwarves had better aesthetics.
The ravens refused to go anywhere near the thing. Morigna wondered if the tower bore a magical aura, though she could not sense it from this distance. She wondered why the Swordbearers and the Magistri had allowed the construction of the Iron Tower around the strange iron menhir.
Well. The Old Man had said the Magistri were fools. Perhaps he had not lied about that.
She closed her eyes again, concentrated, and looked through the eyes of her bound ravens, noting the position of the men upon the walls. She scanned through the eyes of her ravens until her head started to ache, and then she opened her own eyes.
Ridmark stood nearby.
Morigna flinched in surprise, raising her staff before she recovered herself.
“You surprised me,” she said, half-annoyed, half-amused.
A hint of chagrin went over his grim face. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Do not rebuke yourself,” said Morigna. “Few people have ever managed to sneak up on me. Really, you ought to take it as a compliment.”
He almost smiled. “I’ll do that.”
For a moment she looked at him in silence, admiring how quietly he could walk. His movements reminded her of a wolf stalking its prey through the trees. His blue eyes were like disks of ice, and he…
She pushed such thoughts from her mind. This was not the time for them.
“I assume,” said Morigna, “you want to know what I have seen?”
“Aye,” said Ridmark.
“I think,” said Morigna, “that someone has escaped from the Iron Tower.”
Ridmark frowned. “Why is that?”
“One of my ravens watched Sir Paul for a while,” said Morigna.
“You know him on sight, then?” said Ridmark.
“Alas, I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the illustrious Paul Tallmane,” said Morigna, “but it was obvious that he was in command. Tall blond man with a mustache?” Ridmark nodded. “He was already angry when he rode through the gate, likely from last night’s little adventure. Then he spoke with some men in the castra and grew even angrier. Right after that the first mounted patrol came out of the Iron Tower.”
Ridmark nodded. “Could you hear what they were saying?”
“No,” said Morigna. “Ravens have excellent hearing, but I could not force them close enough to that many men to listen. Even my magic can only override their instincts so far.”
Ridmark nodded, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. He often did while deep in thought.
“Were you able to follow the patrols at all?” said Ridmark.
“Some,” said Morigna. “They went east and southeast, along the shore of the lake and the road to Coldinium.”
“None of them went north or west?” said Ridmark.
“I do not believe so,” said Morigna. “One would assume that any prisoner escaping from the Tower would make for Coldinium. Easier to vanish into the vast crowds there.”
Ridmark snorted. “Coldinium is not vast.”
“It is the largest city I have ever seen,” said Morigna. She realized that how provincial that made her sound, and decided to change the subject. “More to the point, it is the logical destination for a fugitive. Shelter and supplies can be found there. In every other direction is the Wilderland, and only a fool would flee there.”
“Why not?” said Ridmark. “I wandered the Wilderland for five years, and you lived there for half your life.”
“That is because we are stronger than most,” said Morigna. “I have magic, and you have your skill at tracking and at arms. Some half-starved prisoner would likely not last long.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “I suppose not. Are the others in any danger?”
“Not yet,” said Morigna. They had left their camp three miles north of the Tower, hidden in a ravine. “None of Paul’s patrols have gone in that direction. So unless an urvaalg comes across Kharlacht and Jager and the others, they should be safe.”
Ridmark made a dismissive gesture. “If an urvaalg finds them, Calliande’s magic can kill it.”
He rubbed his jaw again, his eyes distant.
Morigna frowned. She did not want to hear about Calliande.
“The Iron Tower is rather an obvious name, is it not?” said Morigna.
Ridmark nodded, still thinking.
“Who built it?” said Morigna. “It seems rather ineffective as a fortification.”
“The dark elves, I think,” said Ridmark. “There was a dark elven ruin here, destroyed before Malahan Pendragon came to Tarlion a thousand years past. After the Frostborn were defeated and Andomhaim recovered from the war, the High King built a castra over the ruins as the northwestern boundary of the realm, and gave it to the Dux of Caerdracon as a benefice. Ever since, the Duxi of Caerdracon have appointed the Constables of the Iron Tower.”
“Were your High Kings mad fools?” said Morigna. “To build over a dark elven ruin? Do they not know the creatures that lurk in such places?”
Ridmark shrugged. “Perhaps. In the south the dark elven ruins were made safe long ago. The Swordbearers and the Magistri destroyed the creatures that dwelled within. The ruins still have an evil reputation, but sometimes freeholders will use them to store crops and tools and even cattle.” He shook his head, eyes growing distant with memory. “Gothalinzur. The first urdmordar I killed, the one that first warned me the Frostborn were returning. She was preying upon the village of Victrix, and I thought she had laired within the dark elven ruin near the village. Instead the villagers used it to store seed.”
“Where was the urdmordar, then?” said Morigna. She had never seen one of the creatures, but Ridmark had faced and killed two of them.
“Disguised as an elderly woman among the villagers,” said Ridmark. “But we face no urdmordar here, thankfully. As to your question, I suspect the High King chose the ruin because it commands a strong view of the Lake of Battles. Doubtless the Magistri and the Swordbearers declared the ruin safe, and so the Iron Tower was built over it.”
She stepped closer to him. “The same Magistri who have the Enlightened of Incariel among their number?”
He frowned. “I had not considered that. If the Enlightened had already infiltrated the Magistri at that time, perhaps they had another use for the fortress. Or the Eternalists, for that matter.”
“Maybe that explains why Shadowbearer had Tarrabus send the soulstone here,” said Morigna. “Some property of the Iron Tower.”
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “Or it was simply a convenient location.” He looked at her. “That tower of iron. Is it magical?”
“I cannot tell from here,” said Morigna. “But I will say this. None of my ravens will go anywhere near the thing, and they reacted much the same to the standing stones of the dark elves.”
“I can hardly blame them,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want to go near the thing.”
“Yet here we are,” said Morigna.
Ridmark nodded, his eyes turning back toward the Iron Tower.
“Why?” said Morigna.
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“Why are you doing this?” said Morigna.
&n
bsp; “I should think that obvious,” said Ridmark.
“No,” said Morigna. “You owe me a straight answer.”
“Why?”
She smiled. “Because you have seen me naked.”
To her delight, that seemed to discomfort him. Even embarrass him. Perhaps he had liked what he had seen.
“In fairness,” said Ridmark, “you were covered with so much paint at the time that I barely saw anything.”
“So you were trying to see past the paint, then?” said Morigna.
For a moment he met her eyes without blinking, and Morigna felt something electric shoot down her spine.
She had to look away first.
“As amusing as this discussion is,” said Ridmark, “we have more important matters at hand.”
“No, we do not,” said Morigna. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“All of this,” said Morigna. “Trying to stop the return of the Frostborn. Trying to rescue an assassin of the Red Family from the Iron Tower. Trying to get back the soulstone and help Calliande find her memory and this Dragonfall of hers. Why do all of it?”
He was silent.
“You do not have to,” said Morigna. “Why are you fighting to save the realm from the Frostborn? The realm turned on you and cast you out.”
“Because I deserved the banishment and more,” said Ridmark, “because I deserved death for what happened to…”
“You did not, you idiot,” said Morigna. “Mhalek killed your wife. Aye, and do not dare accuse me of not understanding. I saw Nathan Vorinus die, but the urvaalg killed him, not me. Mhalek killed your wife, you fool. He would have killed her regardless of what you did.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t…”
“I have gotten the entire story out of the others,” said Morigna. “If you had not been a Swordbearer, Mhalek would have outpaced you to Castra Marcaine and killed her, and you could have arrived to find her corpse.” A muscle twitched in Ridmark’s jaw. Part of Morigna’s mind noted that pushing him like this was probably a bad idea, but she was too angry to care. Ridmark Arban was the boldest warrior, the strongest man, that she had ever met, and the fact that he hated himself due to the calumnies of his inferiors infuriated her. “Do you think Mhalek wanted to escape? Or to bargain for his life? No, he knew he was finished. So he determined to make you suffer as much as possible. That was why he linked his blood to Aelia’s. Not to escape. To make you pay.”
“And how,” said Ridmark, his voice a soft rasp, “could you know that?”
Morigna shrugged. “Because if I was defeated, I would try to make my foes suffer as much as possible before I perished.” She poked him in the chest. She expected him to grab her arm and push her away, but he remained motionless. “So do not throw your life away for naught. Calliande might sing you sweet words about continuing to live, and one is sure Brother Caius could give you a sermon about the evils of suicide. But I will give you a harder truth, Ridmark Arban. Mhalek killed thousands of people and murdered your wife. Throw away your life to atone for imaginary mistakes, and you shall give Mhalek his final victory.”
“Then what,” he said, “would you have me do, hmm? Turn my back on Jager and Mara and Calliande? Let Shadowbearer do what he wills with the soulstone? The Old Man was Shadowbearer’s servant. What he tried to do to you is what Shadowbearer will do on a larger scale to the whole world if he brings back the Frostborn.”
“I would have you take what is yours,” said Morigna. “You led the armies of Andomhaim. You defeated Mhalek and saved the realm, slew an urdmordar at eighteen, went to Urd Morlemoch and returned alive. You ought to be a lord of renown of Andomhaim. Laws are just words, meaningless, empty words. Only strength and power can make justice. Do you not see? If you but took the power that is yours by right, you could bring an army against the walls of the Iron Tower, free the prisoners, and reclaim the soulstone. You could cleanse the realm of the Enlightened of Incariel. You could bring Tarrabus to account for his crimes.”
He stood in silence for a long time.
“I failed my wife,” said Ridmark, and Morigna started to protest, but he cut her off. “Nothing you or Calliande can do or say will change that. But this is bigger than me. If Shadowbearer takes the soulstone, he will use it to bring back the Frostborn. The Frostborn almost destroyed the realm and froze the world the first time. There are thousands of men who love their wives as I loved Aelia, thousands of women who love their men as you loved Nathan. If we fail, if Shadowbearer restores the Frostborn…then they will all die, and tens of thousands more. You are right. Words and laws and oaths are only empty words. I am doing this because Shadowbearer must be stopped.”
Morigna sighed. “Ridmark Arban. If only you could see yourself as I see you.”
He grunted. “Unshaven and in need of a bath?”
She barked a laugh despite herself. “You can stand downwind, then.”
He looked at her in silence for a moment.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “I do not agree with you, but your words cheer me.”
“I did not say it to cheer you,” said Morigna. “I said it because it is true.”
“I wonder if Mara was the escaped prisoner,” said Ridmark.
The sudden change of topic threw Morigna. “Why?”
“Because she would have the skills to do it,” said Ridmark, turning toward the Iron Tower. “The brothers and sisters of the Red Family are formidable.”
“You defeated them three times before,” said Morigna.
“Barely,” said Ridmark. “If Paul had not been rash, I would have died in Aranaeus. If I had not found that swamp gas near Moraime, we would all have died. And if Caius and Calliande had not brought aid to Tarrabus’s domus, Rotherius would have killed me there. If anyone could escape from the Iron Tower, it would be an assassin of the Red Family.”
“She would have been there three weeks or more,” said Morigna, “assuming Jager has not lied to us. Why wait until today?”
“She may not have had a choice in the matter,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps it took that long to prepare an escape. Or maybe an opportunity fell into her lap and she took her chance. You saw how lax Sir Paul’s men are, and he likely took the best of them with him to Coldinium. I doubt those he left behind to garrison the Tower were any more vigilant.” He rolled the staff in his left hand. “Which reminds me. Tzoragar’s dvargir. Have you seen them?”
“Aye.” Morigna frowned. “Twenty short, cloaked figures with veils accompanied Sir Paul when he arrived.”
“The dvargir are not fond of sunlight,” said Ridmark. “Did the ravens see where they went?”
“Into one of the drum towers within the curtain wall,” said Morigna. “They have not come forth since.”
“Likely they guard the soulstone,” said Ridmark. “Tzoragar doesn’t care about Sir Paul or the prisoners. He will watch the soulstone until Shadowbearer arrives.”
“And given Sir Paul’s winning charm,” said Morigna, “he is likely more than happy to let Paul take the blame for any escaped prisoners.”
“Likely,” said Ridmark. “Between that, Sir Paul’s ineptitude, and the chaos of the escape, there are weaknesses we can exploit. Let us return to the camp and confer with the others. We must decide upon a course of action.”
“Then you still mean to get the soulstone back?” said Morigna.
“I thought we already had this conversation,” said Ridmark. He beckoned with the staff. “Come. Sir Paul’s patrols might be inept, but there’s no reason to linger.”
“A moment,” said Morigna, closing her eyes and reaching along the link to her ravens. “Let me dismiss the birds and send a few of them to our camp. I might need them later.”
Her will flitted from raven to raven, breaking the link that bound them. As she did, she glimpsed the world through their eyes, the gray stone of the Iron Tower’s outer wall, the green of the forest, the rippling expanse of the Lake of Battles…
; She frowned in surprise.
“What is it?” said Ridmark, his voice distorted as she concentrated. She focused upon the raven, commanding the bird to perch upon a branch and look down.
The bird saw the horsemen gallop bellow, the dogs racing before them.
Hunting hounds.
###
“Dogs,” said Morigna.
“Where?” said Ridmark, raising his staff. There were packs of wild dogs that wondered the Wilderland. They usually left humans alone, but if they were hungry or rabid…
“Not here,” said Morigna in the clipped tones she used while working magic. “Nearby. In the wood. Hunting hounds, a noble’s hounds. And horsemen in blue tabards.”
“Damn,” said Ridmark. If the hounds picked up their scent, they would have a devil of a time getting away. “We had best…”
“No,” said Morigna. “Not us. Heading in the wrong direction. Give me a moment to concentrate.” That arrogant smile flashed over her thin lips again. “I only make this look easy, Gray Knight.”
He nodded, realized that she could not see him, and waited.
His eyes rested upon the lines of her face, on her eyes as they darted back and forth behind closed lids. She was abrasive, arrogant, reckless, argumentative, and utterly certain of her own infallibility. She loved power entirely too much, and practiced a form of magic that had been forbidden within the High King’s realm. But she was also brave to the point of madness, and had stood with him against Rotherius and Mournacht. She had even been ready to sacrifice herself to stop the mzrokar in Thainkul Dural so that the others could escape.
He gazed on her face, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she concentrated.
And, he had to admit, he found her lovely to look upon.
But that was madness, whether viewing either Morigna or Calliande in that light. He had been drawn to Calliande, true, but she did not know herself. She had slept for centuries in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance, her memories lost, and it was possible that her husband and children waited in another hidden vault. Nonetheless, he had kissed her in a moment of weakness. That had been inexcusable. He had vowed to help Calliande find her lost staff and memory, had come to care for her a great deal, but to seduce her before she recovered her memory, her true self, would be wrong.
Frostborn: The Iron Tower Page 6
