Frostborn: The Iron Tower

by Jonathan Moeller

  Crowlacht grinned, his red-gleaming eyes and tusks making it a terrifying sight. “Ha! A good fight. These men of Caerdracon, they run like whipped dogs!”

  Ridmark looked around, and Morigna and Jager joined him. Morigna took a deep breath, looked at him, and licked her lips.

  “That was,” she said, “even by your usual standards, quite mad.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, looking at the carnage in his wake. At least sixteen men-at-arms lay dead or wounded upon the floor. But it had been necessary. Shadowbearer could not take the soulstone.

  And the men had been trying to kill him.

  “The men-at-arms and knights are falling back to the keeps,” said Crowlacht.

  “We had best move, then,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want to give them time to fortify themselves.” Paul’s most logical course of action was to barricade himself in the keeps and wait for Shadowbearer to arrive. “Some of these men are only stunned. Have your warriors bind them, and then secure the war engines upon the curtain wall. If need be, we can turn them upon the keeps.”

  “Your counsel is sound,” said Crowlacht. “It shall be done.”

  “Come,” said Ridmark, and Jager and Morigna followed him from the lever room. They had to move quickly. The longer they waited, the more time Sir Paul would have to fortify himself in the keeps. If he dug in too deeply, they might never get him out.

  To say nothing of what the dvargir might do.

  ###

  “Do you not see?” said the Artificer’s hissing voice. “Did I not warn you?”

  As Paul Tallmane stood upon his balcony and looked at the chaos in the courtyard, he conceded that the Artificer had a point.

  Somehow orcish warriors in chain mail and leather, accompanied by humans with the look of mercenaries, had gotten through the gate and into the castra. Paul saw his men falling back and retreating into the keeps. His sword hand tightened into a fist. How the devil had those orcish warriors gotten into the Iron Tower? Treachery, it had to be treachery. Perhaps that wretch Sir Marcast had even admitted them.

  And somehow, he knew, this had to be the work of Ridmark Arban.

  “You need my power,” said the Artificer. “Allow me into your mind, and I shall give you the power you need to prevail.”

  Paul threw back his head and started to laugh.

  He did not need the Artificer’s power. He had his own strength. He felt the freezing shadows of the Initiated filling him, giving him strength. With that strength, he feared nothing. With that strength, he would butcher the intruders. With that strength, he would kill Ridmark at last.

  Paul drew his sword, shadows swirling around the blade.

  His balcony stood a hundred feet over the courtyard below, but he gripped the railing, vaulted over it, and jumped.

  The freezing power of Incariel wrapped tight around him.

  Chapter 18 - Shadows’ Fury

  The fighting in the courtyard died away, and a tense hush fell over the Iron Tower.

  Mara looked around. The men-at-arms and knights had fled into the keeps, leaving the orcish warriors and mercenaries with control of the gatehouse and the walls. Crowlacht’s warriors swept along the ramparts, making sure that no men-at-arms remained to turn the ballistae against them. Mara found herself eyeing the top of the keeps, the dark bulk of the tower of iron blotting out the stars overhead. The engines atop the keeps could easily fling bolts and burning barrels into the gathered warriors and mercenaries.

  Crowlacht saw the danger, too, as he returned from the gate towers.

  “Have the men disperse,” he told one of his lieutenants. “Loose formation. If any of those ballistae move, scatter and prepare for an attack. If the Constable wants to make trouble for us, he’ll open up with the engines and then charge at us from the great hall.”

  “That would be a foolish move,” said Kharlacht. The towering warrior remained impassive, though his black eyes glimmered with orcish battle rage. “Wiser to remain in his stronghold and wait for aid, force us to come to him.”

  Calliande shook her head. “The Constable is not a wise man. But he is afraid of Ridmark, and will not face him unless he must. We will have to take the keeps by storm.”

  “My thought as well,” said Crowlacht. “We’ll bombard the doors to the great hall with the captured engines and then charge. If we…”

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande.

  Mara turned her head, relief flooding through her. Ridmark, Morigna, and Jager walked toward them, stained with sweat and blood. Jager had blood on him, but he did not look hurt, thank God. Mara hurried toward him and caught him in a hug.

  “You’re not wounded,” she said.

  “Well, they did scratch me a few times,” said Jager, “but it did more damage to my pride than to my flesh. I fear the Gray Knight did most of the work.”

  “You are not injured?” said Calliande, touching Ridmark’s arm, and he shook his head.

  Mara noted the relief that flashed over Calliande’s face, the brief glare Morigna shot the Magistria’s way when she touched Ridmark’s arm.

  “I am well,” said Ridmark, “but it was a close thing.” He turned toward Crowlacht as Calliande released his arm. “The engines are secured, and the curtain wall is ours.”

  Crowlacht nodded, his massive hammer in one hand. “The best course is to bombard the doors to the great hall and storm it.”

  “I concur,” said Ridmark, “though if the engines upon the keeps…”

  “Headman!” shouted one of the warriors. “The doors to the great hall open. The enemy comes forth!”

  Crowlacht snarled a curse as a man in steel plate emerged from one of the keeps, flanked by a dozen men-at-arms.

  “Wait!” said Calliande. “He has a parley banner.”

  The knight did indeed hold a white parley banner flying from an upraised spear. He was a handsome man in his early twenties, with curly black hair and a closed-cropped black beard. He stopped halfway between the great hall and the gathered mercenaries and began to shout.

  “I am Sir Marcast Tetricus!” said the knight, his voice ringing over the courtyard. “I am a knight in service to the Constable of the Iron Tower. In the name of the High King of the realm of Andomhaim, I demand that the commander of the enemy force step forward and present his terms.”

  “Where’s Paul?” murmured Calliande.

  “I don’t know,” said Ridmark with a frown. “My lord headman, I suggest we have a guard upon the gate. I suspect Paul will try to escape with the soulstone.”

  “Very well,” said Crowlacht. “You should talk to him, Gray Knight. This whole thing is your idea.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps I can convince him to see reason.”

  “You’ll need this,” said Calliande, handing him a bundle, “if you are to be the Gray Knight.”

  It was his gray elven cloak. During their travels, Mara had noticed that the thing never seemed to become dirty, never slowed or hindered him, and seemed to blend with his surroundings whenever he needed stealth. Quite a useful garment. Mara wondered where he had obtained it.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark, swirling the cloak around his shoulders. One of Crowlacht’s warriors produced a worn white peace banner. Ridmark tied it around the end of his staff, raised it over his head, and headed towards Sir Marcast.

  ###

  Ridmark stopped a dozen paces from Sir Marcast, the peace banner hanging over his head.

  “Sir Marcast,” said Ridmark.

  “Gray Knight,” said Marcast. “It has been a long time.”

  “Aye, I remember,” said Ridmark. “When my father visited your father at his hold of Castra Tetricus. We played at swords in the courtyard while our fathers discussed matters of the realm.”

  “Many things have happened since then,” said Marcast, his eyes lingering on Ridmark’s face and the brand of the broken sword there.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Most of them ill.”

  “I agree,” said Marcast. “Such as t
he youngest son of Dux Leogrance raising an army of brigands and mercenaries and assaulting a castra of the High King.” He shook his head. “Your father would be grieved to see how low you have fallen, Gray Knight.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Ridmark. “He would be equally grieved to see a nest of evil in one of the High King’s strongholds.”

  “Evil?” said Marcast with a frown. “What evil? To serve at the Iron Tower is a noble endeavor. We shield the realm from the evils of the Wilderland, and stand guard over the High King’s subjects.”

  “You may not know of the evil,” said Ridmark, “but it is here nonetheless. Do you have complete confidence in the Constable?”

  Marcast hesitated for just a moment. “The Constable was appointed by the Dux of Caerdracon, to whom the High King has entrusted this fortress.”

  “Paul Tallmane is one of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark, “and he has stolen an empty soulstone in service of Shadowbearer.”

  A ripple went through the men-at-arms. At least some of them had heard the names. Ridmark wondered how many of them were members of the Enlightened. But Marcast seemed only confused.

  “Incariel? Shadowbearer?” said Marcast. “Those are names of legend…”

  “But you’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?” said Ridmark, remembering the things Crowlacht and Otto had told him. “Of a society that moves in the shadows and kills any in its path? The Enlightened worship Incariel, their name for the great void of the dark elves. Both Sir Paul and Dux Tarrabus are among their number. Tarrabus stole the stone at the command of Shadowbearer, and sent Paul to secure it here. If Shadowbearer takes the stone, he will use it to unleash the Frostborn upon the realm once more.”

  “That is a fanciful tale,” said Marcast, but Ridmark heard the doubt in his voice.

  “You know there is something wrong here, do you not?” said Ridmark, taking a guess. “The Constable keeps more secrets than he should. Strange people come and go. So many prisoners held in the dungeons. You know there is something wrong in the Iron Tower.”

  Marcast said nothing, his face grim.

  “No one else need die tonight,” said Ridmark. “Surrender the Iron Tower to us, and we will allow you to depart in peace.”

  “Would you have us abandon a charge of honor based upon your word alone?” said Marcast.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Question my companions. The Magistria who saw Shadowbearer with the soulstone. The thief the Dux hired to steal the stone. The woman he held hostage to ensure the thief’s obedience. All will tell you the same tale.”

  Marcast hesitated, and for a moment, Ridmark thought him convinced.

  Then a scream of fury rang out from one of the keeps, and every eye in the courtyard looked up.

  Sir Paul Tallmane stood upon the balcony, clad in his steel plate armor and blue Caerdracon surcoat, a sword in his hand.

  And then in one smooth motion, Paul gripped the stone railing, vaulted over it, and plummeted to the courtyard.

  Ridmark stared in astonishment. It was a hundred feet from the balcony to the ground. The impact would kill him instantly. Had Paul succumbed to despair and decided to kill himself?

  The shadows seemed to wrap around Paul, billowing around him like a cloak of darkness.

  “Oh, no,” said Calliande. “No, no, no.”

  Paul landed in the courtyard, his legs flexing beneath him to absorb the impact. Cracks spread across the flagstones beneath his boots, the echo of his impact booming against the curtain walls. Paul straightened up, grinning at Ridmark.

  He looked…different. Stronger, somehow, a wild, manic gleam in his black eyes.

  And even in the gloomy courtyard, his shadow billowed long and black behind him.

  Pointing in the wrong direction.

  “What the hell?” said Jager. “His shadow, it’s…”

  “He’s changed,” said Calliande. “He’s one of the Initiated of the Enlightened now.”

  Ridmark mouthed a silent curse. Jonas Vorinus, an Initiated of the Second Circle, had almost killed them all at the Old Man’s circle of standing stones.

  And Jonas had never performed a physical feat like surviving a hundred-foot fall.

  The men-at-arms gazed at Paul in terror, and Marcast’s hand twitched towards his sheathed sword.

  “My lord Constable?” said Marcast. “How…how…”

  “Ridmark Arban,” said Paul, his voice full of glee. “Oh, but I have been looking forward to this.”

  “As I recall,” said Ridmark, “when we last met, I defeated you and promised to kill you if we ever met again.”

  “And Jager and his little whore,” said Paul, his black eyes shifting to Mara and Jager. “I was disappointed that the Dux did not let me kill you. But I suppose all things come to those who wait.”

  Jager offered the knight a defiant sneer. “I burned down your father’s domus. Maybe I’ll get to burn down the Iron Tower now.”

  “No,” said Paul, his black eyes turning back to Ridmark. They seemed harder and colder now. “Instead, I’m going to kill you all. You first, Ridmark Arban. Then I will break that pet Magistria of yours.” He laughed and pointed his sword. “And then I think I’ll kill your whore in front of you, little thief. I’ll make you watch. And only then will I let you die.”

  “Lord Constable,” said Marcast. “What is this? How did you survive that jump?”

  “You talk too much,” said Paul. “Do you want the truth, fool? I am an Initiated of the Third Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel.”

  “What?” said Marcast, and some of the men-at-arms drew their weapons. “Then…you have forsaken the truth of the church, the…”

  “The truth?” said Paul. “The truth is that the strong rule and the weak suffer. The new order will arise when I present the soulstone to Shadowbearer. Dux Tarrabus shall become the new High King, and the Enlightened shall rule this world as living gods forever.”

  “You speak treason and blasphemy,” said Marcast.

  Ridmark looked back and forth between Marcast and Paul. Paul might have become one of the Initiated, might have gained the same sort of shadow-powers that Jonas Vorinus had wielded at Moraime, but he still could not believe that Paul would recklessly confront so many foes at once.

  Unless…

  Ridmark kept his expression calm.

  Tzoragar and his dvargir warriors would be able to move unseen, especially at night.

  “Morigna! Calliande!” he shouted. “Thainkul Dural.”

  Morigna frowned, and then her eyes widened in understanding. Both Morigna and Calliande began casting spells. They had fought dvargir in Thainkul Dural, and Morigna had been able to detect the presence of the dvargir while Calliande had been able to dispel their shadow-granted invisibility.

  “I speak the truth,” said Paul with a confident sneer. “I reject your church and your High King, Marcast Tetricus. The future belongs to the Enlightened of Incariel.”

  “God and the saints,” said Marcast. “You were telling the truth, Gray Knight.” He threw aside the peace banner, drew his sword, and pointed it at Paul Tallmane. “In the name of the High King, I charge you with treason and command you to lay down your weapons and surrender yourself to my custody.”

  Paul laughed. “Are you so sure the men will obey you? Many of them have sworn to Incariel.”

  Some of the men-at-arms moved to Paul’s side, while others stayed with Marcast.

  Morigna cast a spell, purple fire flickering around her fingers. She pointed in several places, and Calliande summoned her own magic. Ridmark pulled the peace banner from his staff and readied the weapon, taking deep breaths.

  “I will give you one chance,” said Paul, pointing his sword at Marcast. “Surrender and swear yourselves to the Enlightened of Incariel. Or I’ll kill you all where you stand.”

  “You will try, traitor,” said Marcast.

  “Oh,” said Paul, “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  Calliande clapped her hands, and
a pulse of white light erupted from her and washed across the courtyard. Columns of shadow swirled behind the men-at-arms, and a score of black-armored dvargir warriors appeared, their swords and axes ready. Tzoragar stood at their head, his sword drawn back to strike.

  “You collude with the enemies of the realm?” said Marcast. “Is there no end to your treachery?”

  “Kill them!” said Paul. “Kill them all!”

  “Take them!” said Crowlacht, his voice booming like a thunderclap.

  The courtyard dissolved into screaming chaos. Tzoragar and the dvargir charged at Marcast and his men, who lifted their shields to defend themselves. Crowlacht and the orcish warriors rushed at both Paul and the dvargir, while the men-at-arms loyal to the Enlightened hurried to attack Marcast and his followers. Morigna and Calliande both began new spells, and Kharlacht and Caius ran into the fray, while Gavin moved to shield Calliande and Jager stood before Mara, sword and dagger in hand.

  Ridmark sprinted at Sir Paul, his staff coming around to strike.

  But Paul moved first.

  He moved inhumanly fast, as fast as a Swordbearer drawing upon the power of a soulblade. Shadows wreathed his sword like a cloak of freezing smoke, and Paul leapt at him, sword coming down for Ridmark’s head. At the last instant Ridmark managed to get his staff up to block, and Paul’s sword struck like a thunderbolt.

  The force of the impact knocked Ridmark from his feet and threw him to the ground, the breath exploding from his lungs, the shock of the landing throwing pain through his bones.

  Paul raced after him, sword drawing back for the kill as his shadow billowed around him.

  ###

  The dvargir, the men-at-arms, the orcish warriors, and the mercenaries came together in a confused melee, sword and axes and maces rising and falling, men and orcs and dvargir shouting and screaming and dying.

  The dvargir were by far the most dangerous, so Morigna focused upon them.

  She drew on her magic and cast a spell, focusing her will upon the ground. The earth rippled and wavered, and the shock wave knocked a half-dozen dvargir from their feet. Kharlacht, familiar with her tactics, charged into the opening, and killed two dvargir before they could regain their balance. The rest surged to their feet, and Kharlacht retreated, Caius swinging around to cover him. Morigna looked around, trying to find a target for her next attack. Their allies and their foes were tangled together, and her spells were not precise enough. If she unleashed her magic, she risked killing her allies alongside their enemies.