Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  A third locusari attacked, and Arandar took off its head with a smooth blow of Heartwarden. Both head and body bounced away, dripping yellow slime. Caius struck with his mace, crushing the left rear leg of another locusari. The creature staggered, and Tagrimn bellowed and brought his war hammer down with both hands.

  The locusari might have been the size of a hunting hound, but Tagrimn’s hammer collapsed the creature as easily as a smaller insect. The hammer crushed its midsection, and the creature’s limbs twitched several times, its antennae waving, and then went motionless.

  “God and the apostles,” snarled Tagrimn. “Insects? I’ve fought Anathgrimm and dvargir and kobolds and God knows what else, but now I have to fight giant damned insects?”

  “Worse is coming,” said Ridmark. “Those creatures were but the scouts of the Frostborn host. Hold the gate, Sir Tagrimn. I think we may have to flee through the southern gate before much longer.”

  Tagrimn’s scowl deepened. “The situation is that dire?”

  “Not yet, Sir Tagrimn,” said Caius. “The Keeper means to convince the Dux to strike for Black Mountain at once, to seize the world gate before the Frostborn can come forth in force.”

  “I fear the Keeper is optimistic,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps she is right, but I suspect instead that the war with the Frostborn is about to begin anew. If we fail, we will need to flee the town and join the forces of the High King and the other nobles.”

  Tagrimn nodded. “And we will need to hold the southern gate for our retreat.”

  “And to hold it,” said Arandar, “against any attempts to seize it by the Frostborn. If the Frostborn strike through the southern gate as they assail the northern wall, then we shall both lose the town and any chance of escape.”

  “Aye,” said Tagrimn, and he spat upon the half-crushed carcass of the locusari. “Well, let the winged devils try to take my gate, and I’ll crush them like the vermin they are.”

  “Do you need our assistance?” said Ridmark.

  “Likely not,” said Tagrimn. “So long as the Dux keeps a reserve in the central forum. I can summon aid if we need it. You’d best make for the northern wall, Gray Knight. If the fighting is hottest there, you’ll be needed. And your witch woman as well, if you can rouse her.”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. He wished there were more locusari nearby to kill. “Her skills would have been useful.”

  A blast of trumpets rang out, echoing through the forum. It was the Dux’s trumpeters, calling his men to arms. Likely Dux Gareth and Sir Joram were at the northern forum with Calliande, preparing to launch their assault upon Black Mountain.

  Or preparing to meet the advance of the Frostborn.

  They needed his help, and even in his rage and grief Ridmark would not abandon them.

  Besides, he suspecting that keeping near Calliande would bring him to the Weaver and Imaria sooner rather than later.

  “God go with you, Gray Knight,” said Tagrimn.

  Ridmark wasn’t sure about that. Perhaps God had abandoned them. The moment before a battle was not the place to voice such thoughts, however.

  “And you, Sir Tagrimn,” said Ridmark, and he hurried from the southern forum, Arandar and Caius following.

  ###

  Again the blast of the trumpets rang out, and Arandar kept running. He saw militia companies moving towards the wall with haste, archers and spearmen both, and wondered if the Frostborn had launched an attack upon the wall. Perhaps the Frostborn would use a horde of locusari scouts to swarm the battlements, but Arandar doubted it. He had never encountered the Frostborn before, but he had read the histories and the chronicles of the realm, and he knew that the Frostborn commanded far deadlier slaves than their locusari scouts.

  They would see those servants soon enough…and according to the histories, the Frostborn themselves had been fell and deadly, at least as potent as an urdmordar. Arandar had helped Ridmark and Calliande fight the urdmordar Rhogrimnalazur at Urd Cystaanl, and it had been a brutal fight that he had no wish to repeat.

  To face an army of creatures with the power or Rhogrimnalazur was not a pleasant thought.

  Ridmark skidded to a stop, looking up at the sky.

  Arandar knew what that meant, and he ducked, raising his shield over his head and drawing back Heartwarden to strike.

  An instant later a band of locusari scouts fell from the sky, and Arandar’s arm jolted as one of the creatures raked its scythe-like forelimbs across his shield. He staggered back from the impact, but the creature wobbled in midair, its transparent wings blurring as it fought to recover its balance, and Arandar slashed. Heartwarden’s white-flashing blade split the creature in two. Caius swung his mace like a club, knocking the locusari out of the air, and for an absurd moment Arandar remembered his son playing a ball game with the other pages in the courtyard of the High King’s Citadel in Tarlion.

  Ridmark wheeled in the midst of the locusari, three of the creatures circling and buzzing around him. For an instant Arandar was sure that the younger man was overmatched, but Ridmark was too fast. He stepped into the attack of a locusari, catching the scythe-like forelegs upon his chest, and the dark elven armor he wore proved stronger than the chitin of a locusari scout. A blow from his staff sent the locusari crashing to the street, and a second sweep of the black staff crushed its head. The remaining two locusari closed on him, but Ridmark was already ahead of them, a jab from his staff sending the first creature crashing into the second. The locusari tangled into each other and fell, and Ridmark killed them both in the space of a heartbeat.

  Arandar had never seen Ridmark fight while holding Heartwarden, but as a Swordbearer he must have been a terror upon the battlefield.

  But Arandar had seen Ridmark fight with Heartwarden, hadn’t he? Ridmark had slain Shadowbearer with Heartwarden, even as the soulblade had rejected him.

  Yet it seemed that Shadowbearer’s defeat had been in vain.

  A half-dozen more locusari dropped from the sky, wings fluttering, and Arandar ducked, drawing upon his bond with Heartwarden to lend him speed. He twisted and came back up, driving the soulblade down, and took off the nearest creature’s head. Ridmark charged on his left and Caius on his right, and together they attacked the locusari. The creatures retreated, their wings buzzing as they prepared to take to the air once more.

  Blue fire swirled behind them, and hardened into the shape of a woman.

  She was a small woman, barely five feet tall, and could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds. She had huge green eyes in a delicate face, her pale blond hair combed to cover the pointed tips of her ears. Mara of Coldinium looked like one of the least dangerous people that Arandar had ever met, and any enemy who made that assumption about her had likely made the last miscalculation of his life.

  She lifted a short sword of blue dark elven steel, looted from the Warden’s armory in Urd Morlemoch, and stabbed. The blade plunged down, shearing into the abdomen of the nearest locusari, and the creature screeched, its legs lashing at the cobblestones. The other locusari turned to face the new threat, and Mara wrenched her sword free and vanished in a swirl of blue fire.

  The locusari scouts had clearly never faced a foe like Mara before. They hesitated a moment too long, and Ridmark and Caius and Arandar crashed into them. They crushed the remaining locusari, and only one of the creatures managed to escape, flying away to the north with a buzz of its wings.

  “For scouts,” said Caius, wiping sweat from the broad gray dome of his forehead, “they seem too eager to engage the enemy.”

  Ridmark shook his head, staring at the sky, but no more locusari appeared. “Antenora said the creatures were not gifted thinkers. Likely their masters ordered them to scout and engage any likely targets.”

  Blue fire swirled next to him, and Mara reappeared.

  “Ridmark,” she said. “The gate has opened. Zhorlacht and the other wizards are sure of it, and I can see it with my Sight. I don’t know how, but…”

  “Neither do we,”
said Ridmark. “Someone broke into the keep, stole the empty soulstone, and used it to open the gate.”

  “Then those are the scout creatures that Antenora told us about,” said Mara, eyeing the dead husks upon the street. “The locusari.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Those are just the scouts. I expect worse to follow.” He gestured to the north. “The Dux and Sir Joram gather their men at the northern wall. Calliande wants to attack at once, to reach the gate and close it.”

  Mara studied him for a moment, a deep frown coming over her features. “You don’t think we can.”

  The two of them, Arandar had noticed, had a peculiar sort of bond, almost like a protective older brother and a wise younger sister. Mara always seemed able to guess what Ridmark was thinking, and Ridmark trusted her judgment more than anyone else’s except Calliande. Arandar did not know the details, but apparently Ridmark had saved Mara’s life somehow before Arandar had met either of them.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I hope we can, but I fear we cannot. The Frostborn have done this before, Mara. From what Antenora told us the Frostborn have been waiting in the threshold for Shadowbearer to open the gate. They will attack with everything they have, and I fear the men of the Northerland and the Anathgrimm will not be enough to hold them back.”

  “Very well,” said Mara. “Old Qhazulak complained he didn’t see enough fighting in the battle, so I suppose we shall rectify that. What should the Anathgrimm do? You are the magister militum of Nightmane Forest. The Anathgrimm are yours to command.”

  “Bid them to circle the town to the south,” said Ridmark, “and come up along the eastern wall. If Calliande is right, if we can indeed make for the mountain, the Anathgrimm can support the Dux’s march. And if she is wrong, if the Frostborn attack the wall, the Anathgrimm can hit the Frostborn as needed.”

  “Very well,” said Mara. “Jager’s with them now. I will give the commands to Qhazulak and the Queen’s Guard.”

  Despite the dire peril of the situation, Arandar felt a brief flicker of amusement. “You left Jager in command of the Anathgrimm?”

  “Well, he is my Prince Consort, Sir Arandar,” said Mara. “And the Anathgrimm…I fear the Traveler did not train them well to think for themselves.”

  “And Jager is very good at thinking for other people?” said Caius.

  “Something like that,” said Mara. She gazed at Ridmark for a moment longer, her frown sharpening further. “Ridmark.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where is Morigna?” said Mara.

  “She is dead,” said Ridmark in a flat voice, and Mara’s eyes went wide, her free hand flying to her mouth. “I think Imaria and the Weaver killed her when they stole the soulstone.”

  Mara blinked several times. She had gotten along well with Morigna, Arandar knew, though Mara got along well with everyone.

  “Ridmark,” whispered Mara. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was not your doing,” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Mara, looking up at him. “Don’t get yourself killed. We need you.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” said Ridmark.

  To Arandar’s astonishment, Mara stepped forward and hugged Ridmark hard enough that her head bounced a little off his chest. For an instant Ridmark looked as astonished as Arandar felt, and then for the first time a spasm of some emotion other than rage went over his face.

  It made him look decades older.

  “Do not get yourself killed,” said Mara, stepping back. “Your Queen commands it of you.”

  Ridmark closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and inclined his head. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the Queen of Nightmane Forest.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” said Mara. “The Anathgrimm will come, and they will be ready. And, please, Ridmark. Be careful. Morigna would not want you to die trying to avenge her.”

  “We may all die today in any event,” said Ridmark.

  “But unless it is the day God has ordained for all our deaths….please, do not die for nothing,” said Mara. “Remember what you told me outside the Iron Tower? We cannot see the future beyond all doubt.”

  Ridmark flinched as if slapped. Of everything that Calliande and Caius and Arandar and Mara had said to him, that seemed to have reached him the most.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark, his voice a harsh rasp.

  “I must rejoin the Anathgrimm,” said Mara. “They will be ready for you.”

  She vanished in a swirl of blue flame. Arandar wondered how far away the Anathgrimm had camped, but realized it didn’t matter. Mara would likely travel there with short hops of her strange ability. Each jump seemed to drain her, but it was certainly less exhausting and quicker than simply sprinting to the Anathgrimm camp.

  For a moment Ridmark stared at where Mara had stood, his face carved from stone.

  “Come,” he said at last. “The battle awaits.”

  Chapter 3: The Dominion of the High Lords

  Calliande hurried into Dun Licinia’s northern forum, Antenora, Gavin, and Kharlacht following her. Around her militia companies hastened to the ramparts, while men-at-arms and knights directed them, gleaming in their armor and surcoats. The gate had been closed and barricaded, though the signs of damage from the battle against the Mhorites and the dvargir were obvious. From the rampart between the two watch towers flew the banner of Dux Gareth of the Northerland, a white hart upon a field of green. The Dux and Sir Joram and Sir Constantine and the other chief nobles of the Northerland would be there, preparing the defense of Dun Licinia.

  Perhaps they did not yet realize it, but they were preparing the defense of the Northerland and the entire realm as well. The currents of power snarling and writhing outside the wall guaranteed that.

  The pillar of blue fire still stabbed across the night sky like an azure needle. Calliande saw the immense arcane power wrapped around the thing, the currents of colossal magical force. She recognized the Warden’s stolen dark magic amplified to a titanic degree, drawing on the dark energies within the standing circle of dark elven stones. Even with her eyes closed, she could have used the Sight to detect the gate.

  Other magic stirred outside the wall. It was elemental magic. Morigna had wielded the elemental magic of the earth, strong and unyielding and implacable. Antenora commanded the elemental magic of fire, wild and ferocious and unpredictable. This elemental magic was different. It was cold and grim and dauntless, slow and implacable. It was the power of a glacier grinding a mountain to dust, a blizzard choking the life from a forest, the cold of the void as the stars went out one by one. It was the elemental magic of the Frostborn, the spells of cold and ice and death.

  And it was immensely powerful.

  For a moment Calliande stared at the swirling currents of magic, stricken with fear.

  It was so powerful. The realm of Andomhaim had barely overcome the wrath of the Frostborn two hundred years past. Barely, and at staggering cost. How could they hope to do so again?

  Calliande saw some of the men-at-arms staring at her, and she drew herself up, forcing her expression to calm. Failure or not, terror or not, she was still the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had a duty. She might have failed to keep the Frostborn from returning, but it was not too late. If the men of the Northerland struck at once, they could drive the Frostborn back and destroy their world gate.

  Yet looking at the storm of magic outside the walls, a small voice in Calliande’s head whispered that they might have to flee the town.

  “The power is very great, Keeper,” said Antenora in her worn, raspy voice.

  “We’ve faced great power before,” said Calliande, surprised at how calm her own voice sounded. “The Iron Tower. Urd Morlemoch. Khald Azalar. Shadowbearer himself. Come! Let us see what we can do.”

  She hurried forward, and the militiamen and men-at-arms made way for the Keeper and her companions. Calliande climbed the stairs to the battlements and strode onto the rampart between the walls. Dux Gareth Licinius stood there, stern and impo
sing in his armor, his hair the color of old iron, the olive-colored skin of his face scored with wrinkles. Sir Joram Agramore, the Comes of Dun Licinia, stood next to his overlord, shorter and less-forbidding in appearance, but no less formidable.

  “Lord Dux,” said Calliande.

  “My lady Keeper,” said Gareth. There was something of Ridmark in his movements, in his bearing. Or, more accurately, there was something of Gareth Licinius’s mannerisms in Ridmark, things that Ridmark had learned from the old Dux. “It seems the world gate opens anew.”

  “It has already opened, I fear,” said Calliande. “I know not how, but someone stole the empty soulstone from the keep and used it to open the gate. The Frostborn have already arrived. Those insect-creatures your men have faced are called locusari, and serve as the scouts of the Frostborn.”

  “Who could have done this?” said Joram. “Shadowbearer was killed upon the foothills of the Black Mountain.”

  “I do not know,” said Calliande. “It would take a wizard of Shadowbearer’s skill to open a world gate. Perhaps one of the Enlightened of Incariel could have done it.”

  “My traitorous daughter, perhaps?” said Gareth, his voice calm but as hard as his armor.

  “Perhaps,” said Calliande. “It…seems she broke into the keep with the Weaver, and murdered my apprentice Morigna.”

  “I see,” said the Dux, the lines in his face growing deeper. “A grievous loss. She was a valiant woman.” He stared over the battlements for a moment. “How did Ridmark take it?”

  Calliande hesitated. She doubted Ridmark had ever told Gareth about his relationship with Morigna, yet it had been obvious to anyone with eyes how Ridmark and Morigna had felt about each other, and the old Dux was not a fool.