Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  A grisly sight greeted him.

  A score of men had been frozen solid, their bodies encased in translucent gray ice. Where Gavin, Arandar, and Constantine had been now stood three oval cocoons of gray ice, lit from within by a white glow. Ridmark stared at them for a heartbeat, and then realized that the soulblades had protected the Swordbearers from the killing cold, but the frost drake’s potent breath had nonetheless encased them in those cocoons of ice. The cold hadn’t killed them…but they were probably about to run out of air.

  Ridmark’s staff still lay against the battlements. He seized it, took the weapon in his numb hands, and started swinging. The first cocoon shattered on the fifth blow, and Gavin staggered out of it, coughing and wheezing.

  “The others!” said Ridmark. “Hurry!”

  Gavin coughed some more, but nodded and lifted Truthseeker, using the flat of the blade to hammer against another of the icy cocoons, while Ridmark attacked the final one. Soon they had shattered both, and Arandar and Constantine stepped free, both men gulping down air.

  “God and the apostles,” said Constantine looking at the frozen men.

  “At least it was quick,” said Ridmark, his teeth chattering. He had avoided the worst of the drake’s icy breath, but the terrible cold seemed to have seeped into his very bones. “We…”

  Two ladders thumped against the battlements, another wave of revenants streaming onto the ramparts, leaving trails of blue fire in their wake.

  Ridmark and the Swordbearers fought for their lives.

  ###

  Kharlacht roared a battle cry and brought his greatsword around, the blue blade glittering with a coat of frost. His strike sheared through the head of a Mhorite revenant, sending the lifeless corpse tumbling to the forum below. Kharlacht kept moving, snapping his greatsword up for another blow, the strike bisecting a second Mhorite revenant.

  The attack left him vulnerable to the dvargir revenant charging at him, blue fire dancing around its gray-skinned hands.

  Calliande gestured, and a burst of white fire shot from her palm, striking the revenant. The magic of the Well unraveled the dark power of the Frostborn, and the revenant became nothing more than dead flesh, falling inert to the ramparts.

  Kharlacht gave her a quick nod of thanks and wheeled to face the western rampart once more, greatsword ready in both hands. Calliande could destroy any individual revenant with ease.

  The problem was that for every revenant she destroyed, a hundred more rushed forward to take its place. She and Antenora burned ladder after later, and the defenders of Dun Licinia must have destroyed thousands of revenants in the initial assault. Yet still the cold undead kept coming, wearing away at their strength. She did not think Dun Licinia could hold.

  She did not think Dun Licinia could even hold until sunrise.

  “My lord,” said Joram, wiping blood from a cut above his eye.

  “I know,” said Gareth, his voice hard. “We’ve no other choice. We have to abandon the town.” He began issuing commands. “Sound the call for withdrawal. We will hold on the northern wall as long as possible. The townsfolk should have already gathered in the church and in the forum before the keep. They are to depart at once through the southern gate and take the road as fast as they can. Carry only food and clothing – everything else is to be left behind. We shall set fire to the houses as we withdraw. Hopefully that shall slow the Frostborn and their creatures long enough for us to make our escape. If there are any messengers left, send word to Queen Mara and the Anathgrimm.”

  “I will distract the attention of the Frostborn for as long as I can,” said Calliande, as Antenora began to spin another fireball over the end of her staff.

  “I will welcome anything you can do,” said Gareth. “Every moment of delay will mean another life we can save…and another man who will live to fight when the day comes to avenge this defeat.”

  Chapter 4: Shadowbearer

  Flames rose from the town as Arandar fought along the ramparts of Dun Licinia.

  The revenants continued their endless assault against the walls, charging in waves of dead flesh and ghostly blue fire. Again and again the undead carved footholds upon the walls, and again and again the dwindling defenders threw them back.

  Arandar had been in many battles, and he saw all the momentum in this fight going in one direction.

  Unfortunately, the Frostborn were going to take the town.

  Arandar dodged under the reaching hand of a dvargir revenant and brought Heartwarden down, the soulblade’s magic filling him with strength. Heartwarden crashed through the dvargir’s black helmet, splitting its skull, and the white fire of the soulblade quenched the ghostly blue flame of the Frostborn. The revenant shuddered, fell with a clang of armor, and tumbled into the street below. Some of the awful chill surrounding Arandar faded. He thought it strange that he should be so cold even as fires raged through the streets nearest to the wall. Even with the protection of Heartwarden he was still cold, and he did not want to know what it felt like to experience that chill without Heartwarden’s shielding influence.

  Ridmark Arban did not seem to let it slow him down.

  The man had been tireless, attacking again and again, driving back the revenants. He had not taken command of anything, but that didn’t matter. He was a pillar of defense, and the men rallied around him as he fought. Something similar usually happened around a Swordbearer, but more often than not Arandar and Gavin and Constantine found themselves following Ridmark as he charged. The Gray Knight fought like a demon, his expression unchanging, a wild gleam in his eye as he struck down revenant after revenant.

  A mad gleam, in truth.

  Arandar knew grief well, and wondered if madness had overtaken Ridmark Arban. Or perhaps he simply sought to destroy as many of their foes before he succumbed to exhaustion or wounds.

  Arandar hoped Ridmark would not die today…but a lot of people were going to die before the sun came up.

  But, thanks to Dux Gareth’s foresight and Sir Joram’s diligence, fewer than Arandar would have expected.

  He had been impressed by how well the town had been prepared for a siege when he had arrived with Ridmark and Calliande, and it seemed the Dux and Joram had been prepared to evacuate the town as well. Now those preparations proved their worth. The militia companies had withdrawn from the wall, leaving the knights and men-at-arms to hold the line. The militia roused the people of the town, most of whom hastened towards the southern gate in an orderly fashion, carrying bundles of food and clothing. Some would remain behind, too sick to travel, or determined to die defending their homes. But most would escape.

  Or so Arandar hoped.

  More white fire flashed from the gate, followed by another one of Antenora’s enormous, wobbling fireballs, this one the size of a small horse. It fell from the rampart and landed amidst the revenants with a roaring explosion. A hundred of the undead things went up in flame, and the heat from the blast eased the magical cold around the ramparts.

  As soon as the echoes from the explosion cleared, the sound of trumpets rang out from the gate

  “That is the signal!” shouted Arandar, waving Heartwarden over his head. “Withdraw! Withdraw! Every man to the southern gate. Hasten! To the southern gate!”

  The men-at-arms and the knights started to retreat in good order from the ramparts, hurrying down the stairs to the street. The flames, Arandar hoped, would slow down the revenants, who had an aversion to fire. The Frostborn would take Dun Licinia, but it would be a smoking ruin, and the people of the town, the army of the Northerland, and the host of the Anathgrimm, would return. They would return, Arandar vowed.

  They would avenge this defeat.

  Arandar waited until the last man-at-arms had hastened down the stairs, and then Gavin and Constantine joined him.

  “Ridmark!” said Constantine.

  Arandar saw Ridmark standing at the battlements, gazing at the host of revenants and medvarth standing outside the wall.

  “Gray Knight
!” said Arandar. “We must go!”

  “She is out there, somewhere,” said Ridmark.

  Constantine frowned. “Who?”

  Arandar realized that Ridmark was talking about Imaria Licinius. Did Ridmark think to charge out into the Frostborn host to look for her alone? In his current state of mind, he might well do it. If he did that, he would die, and Arandar had promised Calliande he would look after Ridmark.

  And Sir Arandar of Tarlion, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, did not give his word lightly.

  “Ridmark!” said Arandar. “There is nothing more we can do here!” Ridmark turned to look at him. “If you wish to die to avenge her, well and good, but dying here will avenge nothing!”

  For a frozen instant Ridmark stared at him, and then gave a single sharp nod.

  He followed Arandar and the other Swordbearers down the stairs and into the street. The heat from the burning houses was hellish, but after the terrible cold of the revenants, it was almost refreshing. A band of horsemen waited, the mounts flinching from the flames. Arandar was not surprised that Gareth and Joram would be the last out of the doomed town. Calliande and Antenora waited atop their own mounts, as did Kharlacht and Caius. Several more horses waited behind them, their saddles empty.

  “Father,” said Constantine. “The last of the men have withdrawn from the wall.”

  Gareth nodded. “Well done. The sooner we are gone from Dun Licinia, the sooner we can join the High King’s host and return.”

  Arandar sheathed Heartwarden, ran to a horse, and climbed into the saddle, Constantine and Gavin following suit. Antenora watched Gavin as he mounted, and a peculiar flicker of relief went over her gray, gaunt face. Ridmark was the last to mount, frowning at the sky as he did. Arandar followed his gaze, remembering the disaster with the frost drake’s breath upon the walls. He glimpsed a pair of locusari circling high overhead, but saw no sign of any drakes or their Frostborn riders.

  “Come,” said Gareth. “We ride.”

  Arandar put his boots into his horse’s side, urging the animal forward. By unspoken agreement, the three Swordbearers spread out around Calliande, intending to guard her if the Frostborn tried to attack upon their ancient enemy. They left the northern forum, heading through the street that led to the keep. Around them the houses of Dun Licinia burned, the heat growing more oppressive with every step. Gareth’s men had started controlled fires in the empty houses, but the fire had a will of its own. Soon Dun Licinia’s pyre would light up the countryside like a second sun.

  The Dux rode into the central forum, the tower of Dun Licinia’s keep rising before them, flames flickering in the windows. Fires consumed the keep’s chapel, leaping through the windows and the roof. Arandar supposed it would serve as Morigna’s funeral pyre.

  They rode around the keep and down the street leading to the southern gate. Arandar saw a mass of people and horsemen filling the southern forum, a mass that steadily drained through the gate and onto the road. So far there was no sign of panic.

  Arandar turned his head, half-fearing to see locusari scouts or frost drakes pursuing them, but the sky was empty.

  He did, however, see Ridmark kick his horse to a gallop.

  Back towards the burning keep.

  “Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, but the Gray Knight vanished around the corner, driving his horse hard.

  ###

  Fury exploded through Ridmark as his horse raced into the forum below the keep. Around him the shops and the inn burned, red-lit smoke rising into the sky. After the magical cold of the revenants, the heat was shocking, and he suspected that anyone still in Dun Licinia would roast alive.

  He did not care.

  For he had seen Imaria Licinius standing atop the keep, smiling down at him, her white robe stark against the night sky.

  Ridmark did not know how she had gotten there, nor did he care. Likely she had murdered Morigna and stolen the empty soulstone, passing the relic off to whatever wizard of the Enlightened had opened the world gate. Then she had hidden herself in the town, waiting to confront him.

  The rage filled his mind, hotter than the flames that burned through Dun Licinia, and he galloped into the courtyard, reining up before the steps to the keep.

  He was going to kill her. The Weaver was likely with her, and Ridmark would kill the ancient Enlightened as well.

  They would pay for what they had done.

  He strode into the keep, staff in hand.

  ###

  “Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, but no answer came.

  “Where is he going?” said Kharlacht.

  “I don’t know,” said Arandar as Calliande brought her horse to a stop. “He just rode off.”

  “We cannot leave without him,” said Calliande.

  “My lord, we must go,” said Joram. “We have only moments, and the host and the townsmen will need you to take command.” He shook his head, his face stained with soot and blood and sweat. “He must have some reason.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “He was always reckless, but never without a reason.”

  She stared to say that Ridmark would not act like that…but Ridmark was not even remotely in his right mind at the moment.

  “Keeper,” said Antenora. “I may have an answer. I thought…”

  “What?” said Calliande. “What did you see?”

  “The power of Incariel,” said Antenora. “The power the Weaver and Imaria wielded during our fight.”

  “Then the Weaver has come for him,” said Calliande.

  “Likely he has gone to avenge Morigna,” said Arandar.

  “But he can’t,” said Calliande. “He can’t face the Weaver without help. He doesn’t have any weapons that can do permanent harm to the Weaver.” She looked at Gareth. “My lord, we must go back and aid him.”

  “We do not have the time, my lord,” said Joram. “The Frostborn will overrun the town at any moment.”

  “We can’t leave him to face the Weaver alone,” said Calliande.

  Gareth hesitated, for just moment. Calliande glimpsed the indecision in his craggy face. Ridmark had been part of Gareth’s family. He had married the Dux’s daughter. He had carried back warning of Shadowbearer and the Frostborn, even when no one else in the realm had believed him.

  Yet Gareth was responsible for far more lives than Ridmark’s.

  A booming crash rang over the street, the distant sound of breaking timbers.

  “That was the northern gate,” said Joram.

  “I fear Ridmark has made his choice, my lady Keeper,” said Gareth. “We must now make ours.”

  Gareth was right, of course. He had a duty to the people of the Northerland and the High King. Calliande, too, had a duty. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and in all the realm, she was the only one who had living memory of the Frostborn. The war against the Frostborn could take years. It was her duty to depart and defend the realm.

  It was her duty to abandon Ridmark.

  Ridmark Arban, who had rescued her from the Mhalekites on the slopes of Black Mountain. Ridmark Arban, who had saved her from the Warden’s trap in Urd Morlemoch. Ridmark Arban, who had taken her to Khald Azalar and Dragonfall, allowing her to recover her memory and her power and become the Keeper of Andomhaim once more.

  Ridmark Arban, who was the only man she had ever kissed…

  God, but she was a fool.

  Calliande spun her horse and kicked the animal to a gallop, racing towards the keep as she ignored the shouts of the men behind her.

  ###

  Ridmark stepped into the great hall of the keep, his staff ready in his right hand.

  It was deserted. The air smelled of smoke, though nothing in the hall had yet caught flame. Harsh firelight poured through the windows as the town burned around him, throwing mad shadows across the hall. His eyes swept back and forth, but he saw no enemies, only the signs of the knights’ rapid withdrawal from the hall. He wondered what had happened to Jager’s sister Dagma and her husband Dieter and their children.
Had they gotten out? He hoped they had. Mara would take them in, surely. Ridmark should have checked, he should have…

  His eyes locked upon the half-dried pool of blood Morigna had left upon the stones and fury drowned out the regret.

  “You were my midwife, Ridmark Arban.”

  The familiar voice of Imaria Licinius echoed through the hall.

  Familiar, yet somehow…different.

  It was like two voices speaking at once. One was the voice of Imaria Licinius, arrogant and cold and severe. The other was an alien, inhuman rasp, a noise that no human throat could possibly make. Not even the Frostborn or the dark elves or the urdmordar sounded like that. For all their alien nature and tremendous magical power, they still had something akin to humans in them, were still living and thinking creatures.

  The second voice speaking with Imaria was incomprehensibly alien…and malevolent beyond Ridmark’s comprehension.

  A stirring of doubt went through him, and as he lifted his eyes from the bloodstain, he saw Imaria standing upon the dais.

  Her back was to him, her black hair hanging against her crisp white robe, her slender neck exposed. A dozen running steps across the hall and he could bring his staff down upon her skull, all of his strength and rage driving the blow. His heart screamed for him to do it, his blood burning with rage and grief and hatred.

  Yet her voice…

  He took a cautious step forward.

  “For I was a chrysalis,” said Imaria. “I was incomplete. I was liminal. You completed me, Ridmark Arban. You slew Tymandain Shadowbearer, and with the death you dealt, I was made complete at last. As I was destined to be from the beginning of this world.”

  “You killed Morigna,” said Ridmark, the words like jagged rocks in his throat.

  “I helped kill her,” said Imaria. “I held her in place as the Weaver cut her throat and stabbed her through the heart. The Weaver acted at my command. He killed her because it pleased me to cause you pain. For that is your destiny, Ridmark Arban. To be the instrument of my birth…and to suffer for taking Aelia from me.”