Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Instead, she felt only rage.

  She had lost so much. Her parents and her past and everything she had ever known. She had sacrificed everything. And why should Ridmark have to die? He had lost everything he loved. Why should he have to lay down his life?

  The rational part of her mind, the part that was not exhausted and crazed by grief, pointed out that they were in the middle of a war, that anyone could die, even Ridmark Arban.

  But she was too angry to care.

  Anger alone would not help Ridmark. She needed something else. She could have found Camorak and tapped his power, but even that was not enough. Her Sight swept through the chamber of the Stone Heart, and found the most powerful magical object in the vast space.

  The Stone Heart itself.

  It sat untouched upon its pedestal in the molten pool, giving off a fiery glow, and it contained vast power.

  “No,” said Calliande.

  “I have failed in my task, Keeper,” said Third, her voice emptier than usual. “I could not keep him safe.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “I refuse.” She couldn’t tell if she was angry at the Weaver, or at herself, or at Tarrabus Carhaine, or at God for creating a world where things like this happened.

  “Keeper,” said Camorak in his rusty, tired voice. “Perhaps…”

  She could tell they thought she had gone mad from grief. Perhaps she had.

  Calliande flung out her will, her magical senses drilling into the Stone Heart…and its power flooded into her like a river of fire. She screamed as pain exploded through her, elemental fire burning around her fingers, and once more she stooped next to Ridmark, clamped her hands onto his bloody head, and cast the healing spell.

  A storm of power erupted from her hands, the magic of the Well mingling with the molten fury of the Heart. The Stone Heart’s power was immense, but the Keeper’s power was proof against it, and Calliande’s will drove the joined powers on, pouring them into Ridmark.

  She felt his pain, all of it. She felt the burns, the sword wound, the countless cuts, and one by one she pulled the pains into herself, golden-white fire burning around her hands and through the man she loved.

  Then she could push herself no further. The fire winked out, and Calliande sagged, gasping for breath.

  Ridmark lay motionless inside the damaged taalkrazdor, still covered in his own blood. But his chest rose and fell beneath his armor and tattered clothing, and the cuts and burns had vanished.

  She could have wept with relief, had crying not felt like an insurmountable effort.

  “God and the saints,” said Camorak, his bloodshot eyes wide. “That’s…that’s not possible. He should be dead. You shouldn’t have been able to do that. You…”

  Calliande gave him a weak smile. “I got angry.”

  She collapsed next to Ridmark and knew no more.

  Chapter 23: Three Kingdoms

  Ridmark drifted in nothingness for a long time.

  Bits and pieces of his life floated before his eyes. His time as a squire in Castra Marcaine, or Morigna lying dead in Dun Licinia. The day he had killed Gothalinzur with Heartwarden, and the day his bond to the soulblade had been broken.

  The night he had kissed Calliande in the tower of Castra Durius.

  He found himself standing in the hall of white stone, the old knight upon the throne watching him. Morigna stood at the foot of the dais next to the woman gowned in fire.

  “Burn with me,” said the woman.

  “I did,” said Ridmark. “I did it, and I died.”

  The old knight snorted. “Ha. You should be so lucky, boy.”

  “I fear you are entirely incorrect, my love,” said Morigna. “You need to burn with her, not with the Weaver.”

  “But you did well,” said the old knight. “You did very well, boy. The Sculptor was smarter than you are, and the Weaver was a better fighter, but you beat them both.” He scratched at his gray beard. “Not sure how you managed that, to be honest about it.”

  “He had the proper motivation,” said Morigna. “Listen to me, Ridmark. You beat the Weaver. You avenged me, but something more dangerous is coming for you.”

  “What?” said Ridmark.

  “She is,” said Morigna, nodding towards the woman gowned in fire.

  “Burn with me,” whispered the woman, and fire devoured the world.

  ###

  A long time later, Ridmark felt his eyes open.

  He felt terrible.

  Which was surprising, because he ought to feel much worse.

  After a while, his eyes came into focus, and he looked at a ceiling of worked stone adorned with dwarven glyphs. He thought he was in Khald Azalar. They had to move, had to get away before the Mhorites and the Anathgrimm caught up to them.

  No, that wasn’t right. They had escaped Khald Azalar nearly two years ago.

  Khald Tormen, then. Khald Tormen, where he had gone with Calliande and the others to seek out King Axazamar, and both the Sculptor and the Weaver had set traps…

  A jolt of alarm went through Ridmark, and he sat up. A wave of dizziness went through him, and he clamped his arms against the side of the bed to keep from falling over.

  He was in his room at the Nobles’ House in the Dormari Market of Khald Tormen. There was a stone chair near the door, and Third sat in it, arms crossed over her chest, her head bowed as she dozed. As Ridmark looked at her, she blinked and looked at him.

  “Ah, lord magister,” said Third. “You’re awake.” For an instant, a smile went over her face, and some of the centuries faded from her hard eyes. “How do you feel?”

  “I…” Ridmark stared at her, his mind trying to come back into focus. A dozen thoughts competed for his attention, and he chose the most important. “Calliande. Is…”

  “She’s alive,” said Third. “She wasn’t hurt, though she was utterly exhausted, and she slept for two days. When she awakened, she was well again. She has been attending to King Axazamar for the past two days, negotiating the alliance against the Frostborn.”

  Ridmark nodded, staring at her. Relief flooded through him, but another thought took his attention.

  “I’ve been unconscious for the last four days?” said Ridmark.

  “Four and a half,” said Third. “That is surprising. The Keeper thought you would be asleep for at least a week, if not longer. You were very badly wounded.”

  “How am I still alive?” said Ridmark. “Did the Weaver escape?”

  “How much do you remember?” said Third.

  “Only a little,” said Ridmark. “The Weaver stabbed me, and I took the taalkrazdor, and…all I remember after that is fire.”

  “That is logical,” said Third. “You drowned the Weaver in the pool of molten stone. The lava overwhelmed his defenses and destroyed his corrupted soulstone. The dwarves fished the damaged taalkrazdor out of the pool, and the Keeper healed you.”

  “I should be dead,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Third. “But to paraphrase one of Brother Caius’s favorite proverbs, it seems God has work for you yet.” She hesitated. “I am glad you survived. I would not wish to fail my task from the Queen.” She paused. “And I would have been upset if you were slain.”

  “And I am glad you survived,” said Ridmark. “I could not have made it this far without you.” He took a deep breath, his chest aching. Everything ached, but as far as he could tell, all his wounds had been healed. “Where is Calliande?”

  “The Hall of Relics, I believe,” said Third. “She has been speaking with the King there.”

  “I should talk with her,” said Ridmark.

  “Probably,” said Third. “There is much to discuss for the days ahead.”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. He pushed aside the blankets and tried to rise, and Third got to her feet and helped him to stand, draping his arm over her shoulders. Belatedly he realized that he was not wearing any clothes. “Thank you for this. And I apologize for my…undressed state.”

  Third shrugged. “After
I’ve seen your innards hanging out, nudity is unremarkable.”

  “You did?” said Ridmark. “When was that?”

  “After Ralakahr almost tore you to pieces in the Labyrinth,” said Third. “You didn’t remember most of that.” She hesitated. “You should try harder to avoid death.”

  Ridmark started to respond that he deserved to die, but he stopped himself. It was an old reflex, a legacy of the days he had blamed himself for Aelia’s death. He had wanted to take vengeance for Morigna’s death, and he had made the Weaver pay for his crimes.

  He had to stay alive to make sure Calliande was safe.

  “You’re right,” said Ridmark.

  ###

  Gavin stood with Antenora at the other end of the Hall of Relics, guarding Calliande and King Axazamar as they spoke.

  “It is surprising,” said Gavin.

  “What is?” said Antenora.

  “Calliande looks so calm,” said Gavin. “I know she’s not. She’s been to visit Ridmark every day since she woke up.”

  “The Keeper fears for the Gray Knight’s life,” said Antenora. “He was gravely wounded. From what I have seen of the Magistri, no other Magistrius could have even attempted to heal such deadly wounds. It was nothing short of miraculous. Even then, he may not awake.”

  Gavin frowned. “Calliande thought he would wake up in a week or so.”

  Antenora shrugged. “She was putting a brave face on the matter. I can see that she fears for him.”

  Gavin looked at where Calliande sat with King Axazamar. She looked calm and unafraid, pointing to a map of Andomhaim on the table, nothing at all like the exhausted woman who had battled the Sculptor and the Weaver in the chamber of the Stone Heart. Perhaps there was more sharpness to her gestures, a haunted look in her eyes, but Gavin would not have noticed unless Antenora had pointed it out.

  “You always were more observant than I am,” said Gavin.

  “I have had more time for practice,” said Antenora.

  “I suppose so,” said Gavin, looking at her. For a moment, he saw her as the urshane had shown her in Thainkul Morzan, as she had looked before the dark magic had consumed her.

  A pang of regret went through him. He would have liked to kiss her. But that could never happen. She should have died a long, long time ago, and was laboring to clear her conscience before the curse lifted and she died.

  Gavin would help her, but he wished he could have done more.

  “What are you thinking?” said Antenora.

  He realized that he had been staring.

  “I just wish things could have different,” he said. A wave of embarrassment went through him. “I mean…so many people have died…”

  “I understand,” she said in a quiet voice. “I am sorry.”

  Before Gavin answered footsteps clicked against the stone floor. He saw Calliande approaching and the King withdrawing with his guard of Taalmaks.

  “All is well?” said Gavin.

  “It is,” said Calliande, and he knew her well enough to see the satisfaction there. “The King has agreed to march against the Frostborn, and Khald Durast and Khald Valazur will follow his lead. The Three Kingdoms of the dwarves will march to war against the Frostborn. The King went to send messengers to the Anathgrimm and the other two kingdoms.”

  “At least Mara will know that help is coming,” said Gavin. “I wonder if the manetaurs have arrived in the Northerland by now.”

  “It’s possible,” said Calliande. “It’s more likely that they’re still marching past the Qazaluuskan Forest or through Mhorluusk. I have to send messengers to them as well, to let them know that aid is on the way.” She gazed into the distance, fingers tapping against her staff. “And now we must find additional aid to send them. Andomhaim must be reunited under one High King.”

  “Then you mean to deal with the false king next?” said Antenora.

  “Yes,” said Calliande, voice hardening. “As far as I know, Tarrabus is still besieging Tarlion. Arandar is marching to challenge him. He will need our help, especially to face whatever powers of Incariel that Tarrabus wields, or if Imaria Shadowbearer herself shows up at the battle.”

  “At least,” said Gavin, “Tarrabus can’t use the Weaver any longer.”

  “No,” said Calliande, gazing at the wall for a moment. “No, he can’t. Thanks to Ridmark.” She took a deep breath. “We will leave in a few days to join Arandar. Once everyone is ready to depart.”

  Gavin knew what that meant. They would leave once they knew whether Ridmark was going to wake up or not. This time he saw the strain that Antenora had mentioned, a flicker of deep fear going over Calliande’s face.

  “Yes,” said Gavin. “Maybe we…”

  Boots clicked against the stone floor once more, but from the opposite direction.

  Gavin turned as Ridmark and Third entered the Hall of Relics.

  ###

  Calliande stared at them.

  Third looked the same as ever, calm and unperturbable. But Ridmark was on his feet, walking under his own strength. He looked exhausted, and maybe even a little older, the lines in his face a bit deeper. Yet he was alive and unhurt. The wounds should have killed him and had been beyond even her power to heal.

  But not, it seemed, beyond the reach of the reserve of power in the Stone Heart.

  Before Calliande could stop herself, she hurried across the room and caught Ridmark in a tight hug, relief pouring through her. Ridmark went rigid with surprise, but just for a moment, and then hugged her back.

  She wanted to kiss him, but she wouldn’t, not in front of so many other people.

  “You’re awake,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “Thanks to you.”

  “We’re only still alive because of you,” said Calliande. Reluctantly she let go of him and stepped back.

  “I hope the dwarves were not offended that I used one of their taalkrazdors,” said Ridmark.

  Both Calliande and Gavin laughed.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “The dwarves were amazed. A human shouldn’t have been able to use a taalkrazdor. They’re attuned to the dwarven kindred. They’re infused with will and purpose in a similar manner as the soulblades, and their purpose is to defend the dwarven kindred from all enemies.”

  “Since the Weaver would have killed King Axazamar and hundreds of other dwarves,” said Ridmark, “I think the taalkrazdor and I had a common enemy.”

  “Anyway,” said Calliande, “the dwarves were impressed. The Three Kingdoms are marching to war alongside the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs. And while they won’t take sides in the civil war, King Axazamar has recognized Arandar as the rightful High King of Andomhaim and will refuse any ambassadors from Tarrabus.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “The manetaurs will be a great aid to the Anathgrimm, but so will the dwarves.”

  “Especially if they send a hundred of those taalkrazdors into battle at once against the Frostborn,” said Gavin. “I would like to see that.”

  “Perhaps we shall,” said Ridmark.

  “I am leaving to join Arandar,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath. “I…would like you to come with me, if you can.”

  His eyes met hers. “My place is with the Anathgrimm and Queen Mara.”

  “It is,” said Calliande. “I don’t deny that. But we’ve sent the dwarves and the manetaurs to aid the Anathgrimm. I couldn’t have done that without your help. None of us would still be alive without your help. Would you rather that the Anathgrimm fight against the Frostborn alone, or with the dwarves, the manetaurs, and the reunified host of Andomhaim alongside them? With the Magistri and the Swordbearers?”

  She expected him to argue. He always did. He knew his duty. But instead, he only nodded. He knew his duty…and the best way to lead the Anathgrimm in war was to bring them powerful allies against the Frostborn.

  “All right,” said Ridmark. “We’ll rejoin Arandar, and put him upon the throne of Tarlion.”

  Chapter 24: The High King />
  The next morning, Ridmark stepped through the Great Gate of Khald Tormen and into the open air.

  After spending so much time underground, the sky above him, gray and overcast as it was, seemed almost impossibly vast. Ridmark took a deep breath, savoring the wind on his face and the shafts of sunlight falling through the gaps in the clouds. Truly, humans were not meant to live as the dwarves did. Or perhaps he had spent so much time wandering the Wilderland that he had grown used to open spaces.

  Third stopped a few paces behind him. She had kept close to him, likely fearing that he would find a way to get himself killed.

  Given the number of times he had almost been killed since he had met her, it was a reasonable fear.

  And he had spent a long time trying to get himself killed, hadn’t he? First in grief over Aelia’s death, and then in rage over Morigna’s. He had vowed to kill the Weaver and Imaria even at the cost of his own life. The Weaver was dead, but Ridmark was still alive…and he did not find himself disappointed. He would still kill Imaria because of the harm she had done and the harm she would do if left unchecked, and he would kill her to avenge Morigna…but he was surprised to find he wanted more than vengeance.

  He had hope for the future again, and most of that hope centered around Calliande.

  There were dark days ahead, he knew, and his duty had not changed. He would serve as Mara’s magister militum.

  And as he had promised, he would see Calliande to the end of this, one way or another.

  He took a few steps forward and looked around.

  The valley outside the Great Gate teemed with dwarves, and those dwarves prepared for war.

  An endless line of carts rumbled from the Great Gate, pulled by grumbling murrags. Stacks of arms and armor had been piled along one wall of the valley, while dismantled siege engines stood against another. A force of dwarven warriors guarded the entrance to the valley, along with a pair of taalkrazdors, ready to drive off any opportunistic Mhorite raiders.

  “The dwarves will send a great host to war,” said Third.