Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12)

by Jonathan Moeller

  She understood. She knew the truth as Tymandain Shadowbearer had, understood the truth in the way that fools like Tarrabus Carhaine and his moronic vassals never could. Tarrabus thought to build an empire and live forever.

  The shadow of Incariel wanted far more…and the Weaver was in full cooperation.

  Freedom from time, freedom from matter, freedom from the rotting prison of this world.

  Of course, there were many obstacles, chief among them Ridmark Arban and Calliande of Tarlion.

  But the first stage of the Weaver’s plan was finished, and now he need only exercise patience.

  He thought of the black soulstone that Imaria had given him. Long ago, he knew, long before humans had even come to this world, Tymandain Shadowbearer had carried that black soulstone. He had attempted to use it to open a world gate, but the attempt had failed, damaging the stone and filling it with the shadow of Incariel.

  It had transformed the damaged soulstone into a reservoir of dark power.

  Tymandain Shadowbearer had never needed it. His magical skills had been so potent, his connection to the shadow of Incariel so profound, that such a reservoir had been redundant to him.

  The Weaver was not as strong as the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, and he could put that black soulstone to excellent use indeed.

  Soon, now. Very soon now.

  He needed only to wait, and he could bring about the deaths of both Ridmark Arban and Calliande.

  Chapter 3: Losses

  After the fight with the deep orc scouts and the battle at the camp, the crossing of the Moradel was almost ridiculously easy.

  No attacks came as they reached the riverbank, the walls of the ruined monastery rising overhead. Both Brother Caius and Sir Ector insisted upon pulling down the bones of the crucified monks and interring them with the men-at-arms who had been killed in the fight against the dvargir. Ridmark wished to leave at once, but he knew better than to argue, and the burial only took an hour.

  Then it was time to cross the Moradel.

  Ridmark watched as Calliande summoned her power, weaving her elemental magic together with the strength of the Keeper’s mantle. As before, she froze a section of the river, creating an uncertain, icy bridge to the western bank. The horses were not happy about the uncertain footing, but Sir Ector’s men-at-arms eased them across. Ridmark kept a close watch on both sides of the river, but no foes showed themselves.

  After a half hour, the last of the horses and the supply carts were across the Moradel, and Calliande let her frozen bridge disintegrate, the current washing the chunks of ice away.

  “Well done,” said Ridmark. “I’ve crossed the Moradel dozens of times, and your frozen bridge is the fastest way.”

  She offered a tired smile. “I’m glad. It is exhausting.” She considered. “Though likely not as exhausting as wading the river or swimming across.”

  “I can attest firsthand that it is not,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande laughed, some of her exhaustion seeming to fall away. “I am glad I am of some use.”

  “I am sorry,” said Ridmark.

  “For what?” said Calliande, baffled.

  Around them Ector arranged the men back into their usual column, with scouts screening their sides, the supply wagons bringing up the back. Gavin, Kharlacht, Caius, and Camorak stood talking, and Ridmark heard Camorak extolling the virtues of the brandy of Durandis. Hopefully, Calliande kept him away from the brandy, or else Camorak would be so drunk they would have to carry him the rest of the way to Khald Tormen.

  “For running off into the woods after the Weaver,” said Ridmark. “That was foolish. It could have easily been a trap.”

  “You were angry,” said Calliande in a quiet voice. “I understand. I’m angry with him, too.”

  “You didn’t run into the woods by yourself to kill him,” said Ridmark.

  She smiled a little and touched his arm for a moment. “I’m not the Gray Knight.” The smile faded. “I…know how much the Weaver took from you. I’m not angry with you. Just…be careful, please. I can’t do this without you.”

  “I will try not get myself killed,” said Ridmark.

  She touched his arm again. “Thank you.”

  Her hand lingered, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the warmth of her fingers against his arm, the vivid blue of her eyes, how close she stood to him.

  Calliande looked away first, blinking, a tinge of color coming into her cheeks. “Yes. Well. We should probably continue on.”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. He was grateful that they were not alone. Had they been alone, the temptation to kiss her might have been overwhelming. A little voice in his head pointed out that she was obviously in love with him, that she bore heavy burdens and needed someone to help her. That voice also pointed out that she was beautiful, that he had kissed her before and that he wanted to kiss her again…

  No. He had loved Aelia, and he had loved Morigna, and they both had died. Aelia’s death had nearly driven him to destroy himself. Morigna’s death had filled him with vengeful fury, and that fury might have killed him today.

  It might kill him yet. If Imaria and the Weaver appeared before him at this moment, and he had the chance to kill them both even at the cost of his own life, he might not be able to stop himself.

  And if Calliande was killed, if he opened her heart to her as he had to Aelia and Morigna and she was killed…no, Ridmark could not endure that, not again.

  “What are you thinking?” said Calliande in a quiet voice.

  “I think,” said Ridmark, “that I have a job to do, and I had better get on with it.”

  “Isn’t that always the truth?” said Calliande, and she turned to speak with Antenora.

  With some reluctance, Ridmark tore his mind from thoughts of Calliande and focused on the task at hand.

  The road along the western bank of the Moradel was in worse shape than the road on the eastern bank. Few travelers came here, preferring to stay away from the Shaluuskan Forest, the home of the ghost orcs. To the south, Ridmark saw the worn mountains of northern Taliand, and he realized that beyond those mountains stood his childhood home of Castra Arban, the ancestral seat of the House of the Arbanii.

  He shook off the melancholy thought and gazed at the vast expanse of the Shaluuskan Forest to the east and the north.

  “Are the ghost orcs dangerous?” Gavin’s voice cut into his thoughts as young knight stepped to his side. “We fought the bone orcs on our way to the Range, but I had never heard of the ghost orcs before.”

  “Not many have,” said Ridmark. “They’re very secretive. They worship a goddess called Shalask, the orcish blood goddess of…shadows and secrets, I think. No one really knows. They do not venture out from the Forest often, and they kill any intruders. The High King has warred against them several times, but so long as they are left alone, they mostly return the favor.”

  “Why are they called ghost orcs?” said Gavin. “Do they paint themselves white as the bone orcs do?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “They can turn invisible.”

  Gavin blinked and looked around as if searching the ground for footprints left by unseen foes.

  “Calliande and Antenora should be able to detect them with the Sight,” said Ridmark. “Long ago they were the slaves of some dark elven lord or another, and he mutated them to give them the power of invisibility.”

  “Will they attack?” said Gavin.

  “Maybe,” said Ridmark. “They consider this road part of their domain, which is why so few people take it, though it is the fastest way to Durandis from here. But so long as we travel swiftly and do not enter the Forest, they will likely leave us alone.”

  “I hope you are right,” said Gavin.

  “Gray Knight!” called Ector. “We are ready.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “Let’s try to get another five miles before dark.”

  As it happened, they made seven miles and then camped on a sandy stretch of land between the road and the river.
As they raised their tents, Ridmark gave strict instructions not enter the Forest for any reason.

  Once he had seen that everything was in order, he lay down next to one of the campfires, too tired to bother with a tent or even food. The day had been long and tiring, and he had no doubt there would be many long and tiring days ahead.

  He drifted off to sleep at once, but before he did his thoughts drifted to the kiss he had shared with Calliande on the day the wyvern had nearly killed Kharlacht.

  It was a more pleasant thing to think about than the other memories that haunted his mind.

  ###

  Calliande sat at of the campfires, gazing into the flames.

  The others had bedded down for the night, going into their tents or rolling up in their cloaks near the campfires. The prospect of a confrontation with the ghost orcs filled the men with nervousness, but most of them fell asleep, exhausted from the day’s fighting. Camorak had fallen asleep at once, and even from a distance, Calliande heard the man’s snores through the wall of his tent. Perhaps he drank so much to sleep through his own thunderous snoring.

  She rebuked herself for flippancy. Camorak drank because he was in a lot of pain from the death of his wife and child, and while that was not the best way to deal with pain, she understood. Sometimes the thought of drinking herself senseless was an appealing one, though she had seen enough hungover lords and knights in her life to blunt the temptation.

  Antenora stood at the edge of the camp. She made for the best sentry since she had no need to sleep, inhuman patience, and the power of the Sight. Calliande had dealt with the ghost orcs before she had gone into the long sleep, and she knew the Sight could pierce their power of invisibility. They did not have to worry about an ambush from the ghost orcs.

  Calliande had many other things to worry about instead.

  She thought about the war with the Frostborn and wished she had news from Mara or Turcontar. She wondered how Arandar fared, and how the realm of Andomhaim could be healed from the blight of the Enlightened. She thought about the dwarves, how she might convince them to aid in the war against the Frostborn.

  Again and again, her mind kept turning to Ridmark, to the rage she had seen on his face when he had charged after the Weaver, to the quiet regret in his voice when he talked about the past, to the way the muscles of his arm had felt when she had touched him.

  She rubbed her face, wishing she could take a bath. Maybe she could bathe in the river, and Ridmark could happen upon her as she did…

  “For God’s sake,” muttered Calliande.

  She was glad to have Ridmark with her again, glad that they had overcome the distance between them, but she had not realized how strong her feelings for him would become. Some of it, she admitted, was lust. Quite a bit more of it was the fact that she had fallen in love with him.

  The fate of the world hung in the balance, and she had fallen in love.

  Well, at least it gave her something to think about at night other than her failures, other than the thousands who had died since the Frostborn had returned.

  Something crunched, and the tall, dark form of Third came into sight. She sat next to the fire and held out her hands towards the flames, sighing a little with pleasure. It seemed odd to hear the sound from her, but Third was still human, too.

  Or at least partly human.

  “You cannot sleep?” said Calliande.

  “I do not require much rest,” said Third. “I will sleep later. You, however, need rest, and should obtain it at once.”

  “I do,” said Calliande. “I should. I have too much on my mind to sleep, I fear.”

  “The war,” said Third.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “It is my responsibility. I should have done more.”

  Third’s thin mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile. That was also surprising. Perhaps spending time around humans instead of the Anathgrimm was wearing off on her. “The lord magister says much the same thing.”

  “Ridmark…has that tendency,” said Calliande.

  “Did he learn it from you, or did you learn it from him?”

  Calliande frowned. “You have developed something of a sharp tongue since we left Nightmane Forest.”

  “That is true,” said Third. “I suspect I always possessed one and forgot about it. Perhaps you and the lord magister acquired the same tendency towards self-flagellation when you fell in love.”

  Calliande sighed. “Or you acquired the sharp tongue and your skill for observation from Prince Consort Jager.”

  “Possibly,” said Third. “Skill for observation is necessary for survival as an assassin, which is what I am. Though now I find myself in the position of keeping you and the lord magister alive.”

  “I thought Queen Mara commanded you to keep Ridmark alive,” said Calliande.

  “She did,” said Third. “And you and I agreed to work to keep him alive.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “We did today, I think.”

  “Agreed,” said Third. “But I suspect that to keep him alive, I must also keep you alive.”

  “Why?” said Calliande. “Not that I am ungrateful, but why?”

  “Because you love him,” said Third, “and it affects your judgment. And his love for you affects his judgment.”

  A little jolt went through Calliande at the words.

  “I know you’ve said that before,” said Calliande, “but…but do you really think it’s true?”

  “Obviously,” said Third. “He apologized to you for risking his life. Why else would he do that?” She shrugged. “It would be best to give him time. My sister says the losses he has endured have given him grave wounds.”

  “I wish,” said Calliande, “I wish I knew…how to help him. I wish I knew what to do. I’ve never…had to do this sort of thing before.”

  Third looked puzzled. “Do what kind of thing? You were the Keeper in centuries past, and led the allied nations of Andomhaim, the dwarves, the baptized orcs, and the manetaurs to victory against the Frostborn.”

  “I am always uncertain of myself in battle,” said Calliande.

  “One should be. Overconfidence leads to defeat.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Calliande. “I know how to be Keeper, even if I have failed at it again and again. I just meant…I don’t really know…”

  Third waited with calm patience.

  “I don’t really know how to talk to a man about how I feel about him,” said Calliande.

  Third frowned. “You mean…you have never taken a lover?”

  Calliande felt her cheeks warm. “No.”

  “I see,” said Third.

  “For God’s sake. Why is that surprising?” said Calliande with some asperity. “I’m not married. I’ve never been married. Why would I have had a lover? When would I have had time?”

  “I see,” said Third again. “Forgive me. I may have underestimated your character. Usually, it is common for a man or a woman with power to do as they wish, which often includes taking lovers, and you are the most powerful woman in Andomhaim.”

  “I don’t want to be the most powerful woman in Andomhaim,” said Calliande. “But I am the Keeper, and I will do my duty.”

  “I know,” said Third. She considered this for a moment. “Then you have indeed never taken a lover?”

  “No,” said Calliande. “I did kiss Ridmark once. Before he and Morigna…started. It would have been easier if she was still alive.”

  “Because then he would be unattainable,” said Third, “and therefore less of a temptation.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “If you will forgive me this, you know a great deal about such matters for a former urdhracos.”

  Third shrugged again. “I was not always an urdhracos.” Something flickered in her dark eyes. “And it was always necessary to remain observant. Have you realized that your apprentice is in love with the Swordbearer?”

  “She is,” said Calliande. “I am unsure of what to do about it. I didn’t think she w
as capable of the emotion. And it will not end well. If we are victorious, the curse of dark magic upon her will be broken, and she will likely die. She knows that…and yet…”

  “Just as you know it is unwise to have fallen in love with the Gray Knight,” said Third, “but have anyway.”

  “Exactly,” said Calliande, and then she laughed.

  “What is funny?” said Third.

  “We are,” said Calliande. “I am the Keeper of Andomhaim. You are the sister of the Queen of Nightmane Forest, and we are both sitting here like a pair of peasant girls gossiping about men.”

  “Powerful women gossip as well,” said Third. She considered for a moment. “Though I may be proving my own argument.”

  “Thank you, Third,” said Calliande. “It helps to talk to someone.”

  “I am glad to serve,” said Third. “I was made to serve, but I am grateful that the cause is finally a worthy one.”

  ###

  “Burn with me.”

  Ridmark stood in a long hall of white stone, its walls and floor unadorned, the vaulted ceiling rising high overhead.

  He had the overwhelming feeling that he had been here before.

  At the far end of the hall rested a dais supporting a stone throne, and upon the throne sat an old knight in battered steel armor, a sheathed sword resting across his knees. His hair and beard were the color of iron, and his hard face was marked with deep lines of age and weariness. Yet the old warrior still looked fit and hale.

  He also looked grim. Like a knight anticipating a battle.

  “Burn with me.”

  The woman stood before the dais as she always did.

  She should have been naked, but instead, she was clothed in fire, in a gown of flames that clung to her body. Her features were…fluid. Sometimes Ridmark looked at her and saw Aelia. Then he looked again and Morigna stood before him, or Calliande. He felt the overwhelming desire to go to her, as if she was calling to him.

  “Burn with me,” murmured the woman, extending a hand towards him.

  “She’s calling to you, boy,” said the old warrior. “The time’s coming. If you live through what is to come, she will find you, and you’ll have to be strong. Otherwise, she will burn you out from the inside. Won’t be from malice. It’s her nature. Men like us were never meant to wield power like this.”