Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  Arandar glanced at the wagon. It held the cooper’s wife, a terrified woman about ten years his junior, and their four children. He expected the cooper to quail, but the man surprised him.

  “No,” said the cooper. “We got here first. Your horses can just go around.”

  Tagrimn snarled, his face darkening. “You would defy your lawful lord?”

  “You’re not my lord,” said the cooper. “Sir Joram is the Comes of Dun Licinia. Of course, Dun Licinia is an ash heap now, so I suppose that doesn’t matter.”

  Tagrimn started to reach for his hammer. “You would dare take that tone with your…”

  Arandar stepped forward, intending to intervene, but a deep, sonorous voice interrupted him.

  “My lord knight! Master cooper! Surely we have enough foes outside the camp that there is no need to quarrel amongst ourselves.”

  A halfling man strolled towards Sir Tagrimn, smiling to himself. Many of the halfling servants that Arandar had known tended towards the portly, but this halfling was tough and thin, with large, amber-colored eyes beneath a mop of curly hair. He wore a black leather vest over a stark white shirt and blue armor of dark elven manufacture, his trousers crisp and spotless. A dark eleven short sword and a dwarven dagger hung at his belt. Somehow Jager of Coldinium managed to keep himself clean during their journeys. Arandar had traveled with Jager from Urd Morlemoch to Khald Azalar and back again, and he had never quite figured out how Jager managed to stay clean.

  “This is no concern of yours, halfling,” said Tagrimn. “Be off before you feel the back of my hand.”

  Jager raised his eyebrows with a bright smile. “I do hope you are not using that tone with the Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest, my lord knight. If you squish me with your hammer, the Anathgrimm would take it amiss.”

  “The Anathgrimm would not give a damn about you,” said Tagrimn. The cooper gaped at Jager as if he had grown a pair of horns and started dancing.

  “Likely not,” said Jager, brushing some dust from his sleeve. “My wife would miss me, though…and the Anathgrimm are very fond of her. And after the Anathgrimm helped fight the Mhorites and guarded the townsmen, it would be ungrateful to upset them.” He glanced at the cooper. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  The cooper just gaped at him.

  “The man needs to move his wagon,” said Tagrimn. “The Dux has commanded my men to patrol the perimeter of the camp, and my horses will wait here.”

  “I should mention,” said Jager, pointing towards the steely ribbon of the narrow River Marcaine, “that if you placed your horses there, they would have access to the water. Plus the grass is not quite so trampled, so your beasts shall be able to graze quite comfortably.”

  “You expect me to give way to a cooper?” said Tagrimn, though a speculative look came over his face as he looked towards the river. That would indeed be a better spot for his horses.

  Jager shrugged. “If the cooper wants to stop so far away from the camp, let him.” He smiled at the cooper. “If the medvarth or the revenants come upon us, you shall be our first line of warning. It is a noble duty to take upon yourself, sir, and I thank you for your courage.”

  The cooper swallowed. “Perhaps…perhaps I should have considered Sir Tagrimn’s counsel.”

  “Well,” said Jager. “That is no concern of mine.”

  After the cooper’s wagon and Sir Tagrimn’s riders moved to their new position, Arandar walked closer.

  “That was nicely done,” he said.

  “Ah! Sir Arandar,” said Jager. “May I say that I am pleased you are still alive?”

  “And you as well,” said Arandar.

  Jager snorted. “I can take no credit for it. I was with the Anathgrimm when the Frostborn attacked, and the Anathgrimm, as you undoubtedly recall, are quite challenging to kill.” Arandar nodded, remembering the hard fighting in the Vale of Stone Death and Khald Azalar. “Just as well we had camped so close to the town. It let the Anathgrimm escort the townsmen out. I suppose it would have been a slaughter otherwise.”

  “Or the Frostborn would have taken the townsmen as slaves,” said Arandar.

  “Then it would still be a slaughter, just one that takes longer,” said Jager. “Calliande said the Frostborn typically work their captives to death. Or feed them to the medvarth.”

  Arandar hoped he could keep his son and daughter from such a fate.

  “It is well we have the Keeper with us,” said Arandar aloud. “No one else has her knowledge of our foes.”

  “Anyone else who did died long ago,” said Jager. “Just as well the Gray Knight found her. Else I suppose the old Shadowbearer would have opened the gate and the Frostborn would have conquered Andomhaim by now. Wait!” He snapped his fingers. “The Dux is having a council of war with his chief nobles and the Keeper and Mara shortly. You ought to come.”

  “Why?” said Arandar.

  “Well, you are a Swordbearer,” said Jager. “That counts for something. Also, my wife likes you.” He let out a theatrical sigh. “Though for all her virtues, her taste is, alas, sometimes questionable.”

  Arandar laughed despite himself. “You are an offensive little man, my lord Prince.”

  “One tries,” said Jager. “Shall we?”

  He gestured, and Arandar fell in besides him. He ought to find Jager appalling, he knew, but they had been through too much danger together. Arandar had been waited on by halfling servants all his life, but it was hard to give orders to a man who had gone with you into places like Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar. Besides, Jager was the Prince Consort of the strange new kingdom that Mara ruled. Technically, Arandar supposed, that gave Jager rank on par with that of a Dux.

  Now that was a peculiar thought.

  “Have you talked to the Gray Knight since we stopped?” said Jager.

  “No,” said Arandar. “I think he went scouting.”

  Jager grunted. “How is he taking Morigna’s death?”

  “You’ve known him longer than I have,” said Arandar. “How do you think?”

  Jager sighed. “That badly?” He shook his head. “You know why he ran off into the Wilderland in the first place?”

  “His wife,” said Arandar. “He blamed himself for her death.”

  “Aye, and he spent the next five years wandering the Wilderland trying to get himself killed,” said Jager. “I understand that. Truly, I do. When Tarrabus Carhaine kidnapped Mara, I would have done just about anything to get her back.” His scowled. “The scoundrel knew it, too.”

  “Given that he compelled me to go to Urd Morlemoch,” said Arandar in a dry voice, “I quite understand.”

  A flicker of fear went through him. He had been living with that fear for months, and still had not grown used to it. Tarrabus had promised to lift the false charge of murder against Accolon if Arandar retrieved Truthseeker from Urd Morlemoch. He had done so, and now Gavin wielded the soulblade in battle against their foes. Yet Arandar had made that deal before he had fully understood what kind of man Tarrabus had become, before he realized that Tarrabus Carhaine was the leader of the Enlightened of Incariel, a servant of Shadowbearer.

  He was not the kind of man to keep the deal he had made with Arandar.

  “The problem, though,” said Jager, “is that I’m not the same kind of man as Ridmark.”

  “Really,” said Arandar, voice dry.

  “No, no, hear me out,” said Jager. “After the Iron Tower, we had rescued Mara. We had no reason to keep following Ridmark. Neither of us did. Yet we went with him to Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar and Dun Licinia.”

  “Given all the evil that would have befallen us if you and Mara had not followed the Gray Knight,” said Arandar, “I hope that you do not regret too much.”

  Jager grinned. “Well, I still would rather be home in bed.”

  “Once again, I quite understand.”

  “Yet we followed him anyway,” said Jager. “You did, too. When we escaped from Urd Morlemoch, you could have taken Gavin and Truthseeker
and headed for Tarlion at once.”

  Arandar shrugged. “I thought it would bolster my position to return to Tarlion with the Keeper of Andomhaim. And it shall, once the time comes to confront Tarrabus Carhaine for his crimes. Besides, Gavin carried Truthseeker, and he would not have come with me to Tarlion until Ridmark’s and Calliande’s task was done.”

  It was Jager’s turn to shrug. “Nevertheless.”

  Arandar sighed. “I can see your meaning, master thief.”

  “That’s Prince Thief to you,” said Jager, but the words lacked bite. “We followed Ridmark because…well, that’s what he does. People follow him and they think it was their own idea. I wonder what he’ll do now when he…”

  “Wants to die?” said Arandar. “No, that’s not right. He wants…”

  “Revenge,” said Jager, “and he will have it.” He hesitated. “No matter how much it costs him.”

  “I fear you see truly,” said Arandar.

  They walked in silence for a moment, making their way through the controlled chaos in the camp. The Dux’s banner of a white hart upon green flew over a pavilion in the center of the camp, and Arandar supposed the council of war would be held there.

  “It is one difficulty among many,” said Jager. “We have so many problems what is one more?”

  “Your sister,” said Arandar. “Did her family get out?”

  “Aye, they did,” said Jager. “So did all the rest of the servants. Dagma took charge, and she’s very good at telling people what to do…”

  “It must be a family trait,” said Arandar.

  Jager flashed him a grin. “She and Dieter and the children are looking after Sir Joram’s goods. Not that there are many goods.” He shrugged. “But it gives them something to do. My sister could never tolerate idleness.”

  “Whereas you enjoy it,” said Arandar.

  “Well, I acquired the taste later in life,” said Jager. “Speaking of family, have you given any thought to what you shall do about your son?”

  Arandar frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re marching to meet the High King’s host,” said Jager. “Tarrabus Carhaine and his vassals shall likely be with the High King, and Tarrabus Carhaine is as slippery as an eel. Believe me, I know that better than I would like. So what do you think he’ll do when Gavin presents him with Truthseeker and proof that you carried it out of Urd Morlemoch?”

  “I don’t know,” said Arandar. “The Dux said that Corbanic Lamorus had brought charges against Tarrabus, and that Tarrabus had accused Ridmark of turning bandit and raiding the Iron Tower. Likely Calliande will denounce Tarrabus as the head of the Enlightened of Incariel. In the face of such a confrontation, I suspect Tarrabus will forget about me.”

  “See,” said Jager, “that’s exactly what concerns me. We’re all focused on the Frostborn and the Dux’s madwoman of a daughter. No one’s given any thought to Tarrabus.”

  “And you have?” said Arandar

  “A great deal,” said Jager. “Given that he wants me dead, I have good reason. I fear we are running from the Frostborn and right towards another enemy.”

  “He’ll be with the High King,” said Arandar. “And Dux Leogrance and the Prince of Cintarra and every other chief noble of Andomhaim. Tarrabus will not be able to try anything openly.”

  “The man wants to be High King,” said Jager. “That’s the whole reason you are here. Remember? He sent you to Urd Morlemoch to die, to get you out of the way so there would be no one left of Pendragon blood to claim the throne. Bastards can only inherit if there are no legitimate children left, which means the only reason Tarrabus had to kill you was if he was sure there would be no legitimate Pendragon princes remaining.”

  “Then what would you have us do?” said Arandar.

  “I wish I knew,” said Jager. “Be ready. Tarrabus will try something. He was helping Shadowbearer, right? He must have known the day of the Frostborn was coming. Well, the day has come, so I’m sure he has something up his sleeve. I don’t know what it is, though.”

  “We shall have to prepare as best as we can,” said Arandar.

  Jager grunted. “It’s the things we don’t know that will doom us. None of us knew that the title of Shadowbearer could be passed to someone else, and look how that turned out.”

  Arandar had no response for that, so he followed Jager into the Dux’s pavilion.

  The inside of the tent was as austere as Arandar had come to expect from Gareth Licinius. A folding table filled most of the interior, with maps of the Northerland and Nightmane Forest laid out upon its surface. The Dux stood at the head of the table, showing no weariness despite the long march and heavy fighting of the last two days. Sir Joram stood at his left and Sir Constantine at his right, the other chief lords of the Northerland clustered around them. Mara stood halfway down the table, and Jager smiled and strolled to his wife, who smiled back and gave him a quick kiss.

  Two towering Anathgrimm orcs stood behind their Queen, stark in their steel armor and living masks of black bone. Because of the masks, Arandar often had a hard time telling the individual Anathgrimm apart from one another. The Traveler had made the bones of the Anathgrimm orcs tougher and harder than those of other orcs, and their augmented skeletons burst from their flesh in sculpted designs, sheathing their upper faces in masks of black bone, their tusks wrought from the same altered bone. Spikes of black bone rose from their shoulders and forearms. An Anathgrimm warrior could never be disarmed – should he lose his sword and shield, he could employ the spikes upon his right arm as a club and the spikes upon his left arm as a crude shield.

  Nevertheless, Arandar recognized the Anathgrimm on Mara’s right as Zhorlacht, and the former priest of the Traveler inclined his head to Arandar. The orc on Mara’s left looked grim and fierce even by the standards of the Anathgrimm, older than most of them, the bones of his mask and black tusks weathered. He held an enormous double-bladed axe, the blades grounded before him. He was Qhazulak, the Champion of Nightmane Forest, and Arandar had seen him use that axe to cut a Mhorite warrior in half. Qhazulak glared at everything, which would have been alarming, save that it was his usual expression. One of Jager’s improvisations during the battle against Mournacht had led to the Anathgrimm forming the Queen’s Guard for Mara, and by universal acclaim among the Anathgrimm warriors, old Qhazulak had been appointed the Guard’s Lord Captain.

  “Sir Arandar,” said the Dux. “Thank you for joining us. We must decide how to proceed on the morrow.”

  Calliande stood on the far side of the table from Mara, leaning a little on the staff of the Keeper as she gazed down at the map. Ridmark stood next to her, his expression as cold as if it had been carved from bloodless stone. Antenora and Gavin waited behind them, no doubt in their self-appointed role as Calliande’s bodyguards.

  “Thank you, my lord Dux,” said Arandar.

  He found himself watching Calliande, her blue eyes intent as she considered the map, her long blond hair bound up in the bronze diadem she often wore. She was a beautiful woman, and he wondered what it would feel like to kiss her. The thought surprised him. Since Isolde had died, he had not given much thought to such matters. At first the grief had consumed him, and then concern for his children and his duties as a Swordbearer occupied the entirety of his thoughts. If he married again, his new wife would have to look after his children by Isolde as well as any they might have together, and the thought of that potential jealousy had stopped him. The wicked stepfather and stepmother might be a staple of children’s tales, but Arandar had seen enough examples with his own eyes to know those tales grew around kernels of truth.

  Yet now he found that he wanted a woman badly. Perhaps the rigors of the last few months had hardened him. Arandar was hardly a novice to war, but in Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar he had seen terrors from legend. When he had been in service to Dux Kors Durius of Durandis, he had known men who had gone to the camp followers or the brothel the moment they returned from battle. Perhaps his brushes wit
h death had awakened a similar appetite within him.

  He looked at Calliande again, wondered how she would react if he approached her, and dismissed the thought as absurd. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim and he was a bastard knight. Such a woman as the Keeper could not take a husband or even a casual lover. It was almost a pity that she had recovered her memory, because it had come with her stern duty. Had she never found her memory, had she never gone on the quest to Dragonfall, likely Calliande and Ridmark would have settled down together somewhere and Morigna would still be alive, living alone in the forests of the Wilderland. But if she had not, then Tymandain Shadowbearer would have summoned the Frostborn back months ago.

  Besides, she was clearly in love with Ridmark, and that seemed like torment enough for the poor woman.

  Dux Gareth was speaking, and Arandar rebuked himself, forcing his attention to the matter at hand. The realm was in deadly peril, and he was daydreaming about women. Yet he felt a flicker of amusement at that nonetheless.

  Maybe it meant he wasn’t quite as old as he felt.

  “I had hoped,” said the Dux, “to fall back to Castra Marcaine, to take the folk of Dun Licinia to safety and await the arrival of the High King from a position of strength. However, the scouts tell me that shall be impossible.” He tapped the map of the Northerland. “Several thousand medvarth have placed themselves on the road to Castra Marcaine, building earthwork fortifications across it. Troops of revenants wait in the forests nearby, and if we try and force our way through, we shall be quickly encircled and defeated.”

  “The Anathgrimm do not fear battle,” rumbled Qhazulak.

  “Nor do the men of the Northerland,” said Gareth. “Yet if we are to lay down our lives, I would prefer to do so in the cause of victory, rather than in a useless defeat.”

  Qhazulak inclined his head at the point.

  “It seems we indeed have little choice but to follow the River Marcaine until it joins the River Moradel,” said Calliande, “and then take the Moradel road south.”

  Gareth nodded. “The High King’s host will advance along that road. Likely we shall meet it halfway.”