“You’re a brave woman,” said Ridmark, “considering what happened to Aelia and Morigna.”
Calliande nodded and closed her eyes. “I know. And…and I know how hard this must have been for you.”
“I lost them,” said Ridmark, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “I couldn’t save them. If I do this and I lose you…”
“You might lose me anyway,” said Calliande. “I might lose you. All men die, Ridmark. But if we are to die, I would rather that I die having done this first.”
She kissed him again before he could answer, slow and lingering.
“Calliande,” said Ridmark.
She hesitated. “If…you tell me to go, I will. We’ll never speak of this again. Maybe I was too forward. I…”
“No!” said Ridmark. “No, I don’t want you to go. I want…”
He closed his eyes, a muscle working in his jaw.
“It’s too soon,” said Ridmark. “I thought there would never be anyone after Aelia. Then I met Morigna, and…”
“I understand,” said Calliande. “I can wait.”
“That’s not fair to you,” said Ridmark.
She rested her head against his shoulder. “When has life ever been fair? And I’m glad you’re here.”
“I told you I would see you to the end of this,” said Ridmark, “and if we make it to the end of this…I’ll still be there. To whatever end.”
“I’m glad,” said Calliande. “I can’t tell you how glad I am.”
She rose to her feet, grasping his hands.
“Calliande,” said Ridmark, looking up at her. “I…will try not to make you wait too long.”
She grinned. “A woman needs something to hope for, does she not? Good night, Ridmark.”
“Good night, Calliande,” he said.
She slipped back into the corridor and closed the door behind her. Antenora awaited her.
“You are smiling,” said Antenora.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “I suppose I am.”
She closed the door to her room and lay down, staring at the ceiling. The Frostborn were still loose in the world. The realm was riven between Arandar and Tarrabus. She still had to convince the dwarves to join the war against the Frostborn, and it seemed the Sculptor was hunting her for some reason.
But Calliande felt better than she had in years.
###
The Weaver smiled in the darkness.
He had hoped the opportunity would come. If the Gray Knight and the Keeper had succumbed to their base urges, it would have been so easy to kill them both. They would have been distracted, and the Weaver could have stabbed them both through the heart with a single motion.
Easy and simple.
No matter. The Keeper’s growing infatuation with the Gray Knight would distract her, and the opportunity would come.
He strolled through the courtyard and back into the great hall of Castra Durius, rejoining the feast.
One did have to keep up appearances.
Chapter 7: Khald Tormen
Three days later, Ridmark and the others arrived at the Great Gate of Khald Tormen.
The journey from Castra Durius had been steep but uneventful. The road from the castra climbed west into the foothills of Kothluusk. At the very boundary of Durandis, the road switched from the work of the humans of Andomhaim to the engineering of the dwarves. Along the road stood milestones marked with blocky dwarven glyphs, counting down the miles (or the strizahds, if Ridmark remembered the dwarven measurement of length correctly) to the Stone Heart in Khald Tormen. Here and there dwarven watch towers stood guard along the road, guarding against any foes. Mhorite raiders sometimes used the road to launch attacks into Durandis or attacked caravans of dwarven merchants making their way to Andomhaim.
Ridmark remained vigilant, sending some of Sir Ector’s men to scout, and Third traveled over the pine-cloaked foothills. Yet for all that, they only saw a single Mhorite, and the orc fled at their approach. Mournacht’s defeat had demoralized the Kothluuskan orcs, to say nothing of the deaths of thousands of their warriors at the battle of Dun Licinia.
The journey remained quiet.
Which, perhaps regrettably, gave Ridmark plenty of time to think.
He didn’t know what to do about Calliande.
He should not have kissed her. He had wanted to kiss her, and wanted to do more than kiss her, but he shouldn’t have. Part of his mind rebuked him as a damned fool. She had all but given herself to him, and he had hesitated. Another part of his mind argued for staying away from her. Another part wanted to march up to her now, right now, lift her from the saddle of her horse, and kiss her again, propriety be damned.
It seemed monstrously cruel that after all she had suffered that she should fall in love with someone like him.
Did he love her? Of course he did. He always had, maybe even since the day they had met.
He was also gripped but the certain fear that if he did kiss her again, that if he lowered his guard, she would die.
He knew it was completely irrational. He pointed it out to himself again and again. Ridmark had loved both Aelia and Morigna, and they had both died. They had died for different reasons, but they had both been killed. It was irrational to expect the same thing to happen with Calliande, but he could not shake the fear that if he lowered his guard with her, she was going to die. He had lost Aelia, and he had lost Morigna. How many losses could a man endure and keep going?
Tarrabus Carhaine was a fool to seek physical immortality, Ridmark thought. Why would a man want to live forever? Losses piled upon losses, griefs upon griefs, defeats upon defeats. No wonder the Traveler had been insane.
Yet when Ridmark looked back down the line of horses and saw Calliande speaking with Antenora and Caius, some the shadows lifted from his mind, and his heart felt lighter.
He remembered a conversation with Jager, just before he had left Nightmane Forest to rescue Calliande from Caradog Lordac. Ridmark, Jager had claimed, was not the sort of man meant to be alone.
The halfling might have had a point.
“Damn it, Jager,” muttered Ridmark.
“Lord magister?” said Third from his side. Ridmark rebuked himself. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t realized she was there.
“Thinking out loud,” said Ridmark.
“This is a dangerous habit to cultivate,” said Third.
“I know,” said Ridmark.
“It is best to be focused within oneself and sure of one’s purpose,” said Third.
He looked at her, but her expression gave nothing away.
Given how his mind was chasing itself, it was almost a relief when the Great Gate of Khald Tormen came into sight at last.
“Hell of a thing, isn’t it?” said Camorak in his rusty voice. “I’ve been here a few times when I was still a man-at-arms for Dux Kors, and it’s still amazing.”
“God and the saints, Caius,” said Kharlacht. The orcish warrior rarely showed any emotion, but he sounded stunned. Given the sight that rose before them, Ridmark understood. “You often boast of the engineering prowess of your kindred, but this is astonishing.”
“It is,” said Caius. His voice sounded wistful, perhaps sad. “Behold Khald Tormen. The oldest of the Three Kingdoms that were once nine, and the heart of khaldari civilization upon this world.”
The road had climbed into a valley at the foot of the Kothluuskan mountains, a valley that ended in a cliff face perhaps two thousand feet high and a mile wide.
The Great Gate of Khald Tormen dominated the cliff face.
It stood nearly a thousand feet tall, carved from the living stone of the mountain itself. Two massive statues of armored dwarven warriors stood on either side of the archway of the gate itself, each standing five hundred feet tall, their stone axes large enough to cut through the walls of castles. Elaborate reliefs and massive glyphs marked the cliff between the statues, and Ridmark had no doubt those reliefs concealed hidden nests for archers and sieg
e engines, and that the glyphs themselves had been charged with potent magic by the dwarven stonescribes. The archway of the gate itself stood between the two statues. Compared to the rest of the carvings, the gateway looked almost tiny, but it stood nearly a hundred feet tall, sealed by twin doors of dwarven steel.
One of the bronze-colored doors had opened, and Ridmark glimpsed a party of dwarves emerging into the valley.
“Little wonder such a fortress has never been taken,” said Sir Ector, reluctant awe in his voice. Ridmark understood. Khald Tormen had already been ancient when Malahan Pendragon had first set foot upon the soil of Andomhaim.
“It hasn’t,” said Caius. “Not for the entire history of my kindred upon this world. Countless foes have tried. The urdmordar and the dark elves and the orcs and the dvargir and others. The ancestors of the Mhorites were the survivors of a horde that attempted to besiege Khald Tormen and failed. Thousands of years ago, a confederation of seven dark elven kings made a pact to take Khald Tormen, and they brought nearly a million orcish warriors to assail us. They failed, and five of the seven kings were slain and their armies slaughtered in uncounted numbers. Not even the Warden, before he was bound within Urd Morlemoch, could breach our defenses.”
“A long history,” said Kharlacht.
“Aye,” said Calliande, stepping to their side, “and a history that might come to an end, if we do not act.”
Sometimes Ridmark thought Calliande was two people. There was her inner self, the lonely young woman who had kissed him on his bed. Then there was the Keeper of Andomhaim, calm and remote and confident of victory, the woman who had rallied the nations to victory against the Frostborn two centuries ago. Today she was entirely the Keeper of Andomhaim. They had stopped for longer than usual this morning so she could bathe, and Calliande wore a green dress with gold scrollwork on the sleeves and bodice, a light green cloak thrown back from her shoulders. At her belt rested the dagger Ridmark had given her before Qazarl had besieged Dun Licinia. Antenora had helped her wash and braid her hair, and a bronze diadem sat upon her head. She carried the staff of the Keeper in her right hand, and she looked every inch the Keeper of Andomhaim.
She also looked beautiful. Her blue eyes flicked to him, and for just an instant she smiled, and then her solemn mien returned.
“The Frostborn took Khald Azalar,” said Calliande, “and if they are not stopped, they might take Khald Tormen. Let us convince the dwarves to work with us before it is too late.”
“It seems they are aware of us,” said Gavin, pointing at the distant gate of dwarven steel.
“The watch towers we passed on the road, Sir Gavin,” said Third. “There were sentinels in those towers.”
“Aye,” said Caius. “My kindred have built hidden tunnels leading from those towers to the Citadel of the Great Gate. Messages can be passed swiftly. Likely King Axazamar already knows you are here, Keeper, and awaits your coming.”
“Then let us not keep the King of Khald Tormen waiting,” said Calliande. She met Ridmark’s gaze. “Lord magister?”
“This way,” said Ridmark, and he led the way towards the Great Gate, walking on Calliande’s left, while Caius walked on her right. Behind her Antenora, Third, and Gavin followed like a pair of watchful shadows, and Kharlacht and Camorak walked with Caius. Then came Sir Ector and his men-at-arms, the horses’ hooves ringing like hammers against the hard stone of the dwarven road. Step by step they drew close to the mighty Great Gate, and Ridmark supposed that the upper parapets of the Gate were tall enough that the dwarven sentries could likely see all the way to Castra Durius and the plains of Durandis from up there.
He had seen enough sieges to know that he would not want to assail Khald Tormen, not with the unified army of Andomhaim and the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs. Perhaps if they failed, Khald Tormen might well be the last stronghold in the world to hold out against the Frostborn.
A group of about thirty dwarves waited before the opened Gate. Like Caius, they all had skin the color of gray granite, though they had differing colors of hair and beard and eyes. Most of the dwarves wore bronze-colored armor of dwarven steel and bore swords and shields and axes forged from the same metal. A few of the older dwarves wore ornamented robes. Ridmark recognized one of the dwarven warriors at once, a younger man with eyes like polished malachite and a jet-black hair and beard. His name was Azakhun, and he was a Taalmak of the dwarves, the rank equivalent to a knight among the men of Andomhaim. Unlike most of the other dwarves, he wore a small golden cross hanging from a slender chain around his neck, as did the four warriors under his command. Caius had baptized Azakhun and his warriors into the faith of the Dominus Christus during the fight in the Vale of Stone Death.
Ridmark wasn’t sure, but he thought the other dwarves were standing a little away from Azakhun and his retainers.
One of the robed dwarven men stepped forward. His robe was red with black trim, and he wore a belt of golden links, a golden amulet hanging from his neck and golden torques upon his arms. He was the oldest of the dwarves, his beard entirely white, and only a fringe of hair remained at the back of his head. Deep lines marked his face, and his features reminded Ridmark of the statues of the ancient Romans that his ancestors had brought with them from Old Earth – solemn, grim, sober, hard with duty. Despite his age, the dwarf had a chest like a barrel, and he looked strong enough to put up a ferocious fight. He had eyes like blue marble, eyes the exact shade and shape of Caius’s eyes, and there was something of Caius in the shape of his nose and the set of his jaw.
A relative, perhaps?
Both Caius and the robed dwarf stared at each other.
Ridmark stepped forward and bowed. “I am Ridmark Arban, magister militum of Nightmane Forest in service to Queen Mara. I have the honor to escort Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim. Queen Mara has appointed the Keeper as her ambassador, and she seeks an audience with the noble King Axazamar of Khald Tormen.”
“I greet you, Lord Ridmark,” said the robed dwarf in perfect Latin. His voice was deep and calm, and sounded a great deal like Caius. “I am Taalkhan Narzaxar, the younger brother of our noble King, and have the honor to serve as his Taalakdaz – his chancellor, I believe humans would call it.” He bowed to Calliande, who bowed in turn. “I understand the title of Taalkhan may be alien to you, so for convenience, you may address me as Prince. That title is roughly equivalent to that of Taalkhan.”
“Prince Narzaxar,” said Calliande. “You do me honor.”
“It is strange, Keeper,” said Narzaxar, “to see a human remain unchanged after the span of two centuries.”
Calliande lifted her eyebrows. “We have met before? I fear I do not recall the occasion.”
“There is no offense,” said Narzaxar. “At the time I still served in the armies of Khald Tormen and had not yet taken an office in the royal court. My brother had not yet taken the throne, for that matter. But I was there when you addressed the court of Khald Tormen before the Stone Heart, and you persuaded my father to join the alliance against the Frostborn.”
“We were victorious in that war,” said Calliande. “And I hope that we can be again. I feared the Frostborn would return, so I put myself into a magical sleep until they did. Now they have returned, and all kindreds must unite and bring the battle to the Frostborn. Else they shall conquer and enslave us all one by one.”
“Our friends in Durandis have brought us stories of the civil war within Andomhaim,” said Narzaxar. “We will not take sides in the civil wars of humans, Keeper. You humans are so short-lived, and your wars are like wildfires that blaze through a forest and burn themselves out in a moment.”
“That attitude is only proper,” said Calliande. “Nor would I ask you to side with one claimant to Andomhaim’s throne against another. Instead, as Lord Ridmark said, I come as an ambassador of Queen Mara of Nightmane Forest. Already Queen Mara and her warriors fight against the Frostborn, and the Red King Turcontar of the Range has declared a Great Hunt against the Frostbor
n and their servants.”
Narzaxar’s eyebrows lifted. It was the first expression the stoic dwarf had displayed. “Truly?”
“She speaks truly, Lord Prince,” said Ridmark. “I was there, as was everyone with me.”
“Pardon, Lord Prince,” said another robed dwarf. “I have a question.”
The dwarf looked younger than Narzaxar, only middle-aged, which would put him at a few centuries old. He wore a robe the gray of normal steel, and a belt of steel links encircled his waist, and a steel amulet hung from his neck. (Ridmark noted with amusement that dwarven steel was so superior to normal steel that the dwarves seemed to use plain steel for decoration and nothing more.) In his right arm rested a steel baton about two feet along, its sides covered in dwarven glyphs that glowed the color of fire. The dwarven man was like a stonescribe. Like the shadowscribes of the dvargir, the stonescribes of the dwarves served as scholars, historians, and wizards. A stonescribe had crafted the glyphs on Ridmark’s dwarven axe that gave the weapon its ability to wound creatures of dark magic.
“Yes, stonescribe Calazon?” said Narzaxar.
“Forgive my question,” said Calazon. He had a quiet voice with a rasp, eyes like amethysts, and pale blond hair. “The histories of the stonescribes record that the Traveler has ruled Nightmane Forest since the time of the domination of the urdmordar. Who is this Queen Mara?”
“A fair question,” said Calliande. “The Traveler was slain by Mara, one of his daughters, who broke free from his domination.”
“Impossible,” said Calazon. “Our histories record that the hybrid daughters of a dark elven noble invariably become urdhracosi. A tragic fate, to be sure, but inevitable.”
“We speak the truth,” said Calliande. “Mara is something new in this world. Not even the Warden of Urd Morlemoch knew what to make of her, and his mistake allowed us to escape his clutches.” She gestured to the side, and Third stepped forward, her expression impassive. “If you do not believe me, this is Third, the half-sister of Queen Mara. Like Mara, she broke free of the power of the Traveler’s blood.”
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 10
