Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ridmark raised his bow and released.

  Morigna had always been the better shot, but Ridmark had hunted alone in the Wilderland for years, and the necessity of avoiding starvation had improved his skills. The arrow hissed from his bow and caught the nearest khaldjari in the throat. The blue-skinned creature staggered back, white-glowing blood leaking from the wound. Frost formed on his skin where the blood touched it, the glowing fluid smoking with cold, and the khaldjari collapsed

  The other three khaldjari threw down their log and charged at him in silence. Ridmark expected them to draw the axes they carried at their belts. Instead the khaldjari raised their right hands, white mist swirling around their fingers, and long blades of glittering ice appeared in their fists.

  That was a useful trick.

  Ridmark dropped his bow and snatched up his staff, and the khaldjari attacked, spreading around him. He snapped his staff up to block a blow, expecting the blade of ice to shatter against his staff. Instead the icy sword felt as hard as steel, and the shock of the impact knocked him back a step. The khaldjari might have been short, but they did not lack for strength. Worse, they knew how to fight together in a group, and kept out of each other’s way, their attacks coming with unpredictable speed.

  Yet Ridmark’s greater height and the greater reach of his weapon gave him an advantage, and he used it. He sidestepped, feinted left, and then whipped the staff around with all his strength. The weapon slapped against the back of a khaldjari’s knees, and the strength of the blow knocked his opponent to the ground. Before the khaldjari could recover, Ridmark drove the end of his staff down, crushing the khaldjari’s throat. The khaldjari died in silence, thrashing as he clawed for breath.

  One of the remaining khaldjari attacked in a wild fury, the ice blade slashing, and Ridmark retreated, parrying and ducking. Every time the icy blade touched his staff, he felt the weapon grow colder in his fingers, saw a layer of frost forming upon it. Soon the staff would become too cold to grip.

  Ridmark stepped into the next attack, making no effort to block it and hoping his dark elven armor would be enough to stop the ice sword. The cold blade rebounded from his armor, and though a shocking chill shot through his chest, his armor turned the razor edge. The khaldjari stumbled as Ridmark’s armor deflected the blow, and Ridmark hit the top of the khaldjari’s head. The khaldjari stumbled, and Ridmark killed him with a quick blow to the throat.

  The final khaldjari sprinted away, heading north towards Dun Licinia. Ridmark snatched the axe from his belt and flung it. The weapon hadn’t been balanced for throwing, but the khaldjari was still close enough that it did not matter. The blade crunched into the back of the khaldjari’s right leg, and he fell with a cry. Ridmark strode forward, and the khaldjari rolled onto his side, his ice blade dissipating, his hands raised as he rasped out something in an alien language.

  He was surrendering.

  Ridmark saw again Morigna’s lifeless eyes.

  He killed the last khaldjari quickly and without much pain, and then wrenched his dwarven war axe free. The white blood of the khaldjari glittered and steamed upon the axe’s bronze-colored blade, and Ridmark wiped it clean on the grass, the blood encasing the leaves in frost.

  He hooked the weapon back to his belt, retrieved his bow, and slung his staff over his shoulder.

  Then he headed south as fast as he could manage. The khaldjari had not escaped, but in short order either more khaldjari or the locusari scouts would locate the corpses, and then Ridmark would find the medvarth or worse things upon his trail.

  ###

  Ridmark did not sleep much for the next two days.

  He headed south as fast as he could, dodging from tree to tree and boulder to boulder. Several times he saw locusari scouts flying overhead, and once a frost drake, but he avoided them all. After the first day he grew confident that he had outpaced any pursuit, though he did not lower his guard.

  He lost himself in the effort of running, of keeping his senses focused upon his surroundings.

  The camp had moved since his departure, but it had left a trail as wide as the road, and following the host of the Northerland, the Anathgrimm, and the survivors of Dun Licinia was not a challenge. Towards evening on the second day, Ridmark spotted the smoke from their campfires upon the bank of the River Moradel and wiped some sweat from his brow.

  “They weren’t hard to find,” he said aloud, a little giddy from exhaustion and effort. “See, Morigna?” He turned back to address her. “They…”

  He fell silent, the giddiness vanishing.

  For a moment he stood motionless, staring at the trees around him, his pulse thundering in his ears. The initial shock of Morigna’s death was bad enough, but that was only the beginning. Every day after that was just as bad. The constant realization that she was dead, followed by the grinding sorrow as the surprise wore off, as the grief sank its way into his bones like salt sowed into a field.

  The rage burned through him, and Ridmark spun and swung his staff with all his fury. It bounced off the truck of a nearby tree, and he swung against and again. The tree did no damage to the staff of Ardrhythain, though the staff did knock chips of bark from the tree.

  Somehow that made him even angrier, and he threw aside his staff and attacked the tree with his axe, hammering at it, splinters of wood flying. He heard himself snarling, his arms aching from the effort, and he did not care…

  A loud crack filled his ears, and the tree toppled towards him. Ridmark blinked sweat from his eyes and realized that the tree was going to fall on top of him. He barked a curse and leapt backwards, and the tree landed with a heavy thump a few inches from his boots.

  Silence hung over the forested hills after that.

  Ridmark stared at the jagged stump of the tree, breathing hard, sweat dripping into his eyes.

  He felt like a monstrous fool. What had been the point of that?

  The chagrin drained away, and he only felt sad and tired.

  He retrieved his axe and his staff and headed towards the Moradel road, following it until he reached the camp. Practice, perhaps, had permitted the townsmen and the lords to make a more orderly camp, and they had picked a defensible position. As he drew nearer, Ridmark saw rafts going back and forth across the broad expanse of the River Moradel to the massive green wall of Nightmane Forest upon the far bank. That was good – the old and the weak and the sick would be able to shelter behind the wards of Nightmane Forest. Likely they would be safer than anyone else in the Northerland for the foreseeable future.

  That brought a grim flicker of amusement to Ridmark’s mind. The Traveler had worked good that he had not intended. The dark elven tyrant would have been horrified to learn of it.

  A single figure in black stood at the edge of the camp, face shadowed in a hood, a black staff gripped in gloved hands. Antenora looked up as Ridmark approached, her yellow eyes glinting in the depths of her hood.

  “Gray Knight,” said Antenora in her rasping voice. “You’ve returned.”

  “Calliande set you to watch for me?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Antenora. “I require neither rest nor sustenance, and therefore was the best choice. Once you entered the veil of the wards of the Frostborn, you vanished from all Sight. So the Keeper bade me to keep watch.” She shrugged. “And if any foes appear, I will set them to burn.”

  Ridmark wondered if she had seen his little fit of rage with the unfortunate tree. Her expression was unreadable. Perhaps she had seen it and did not care. Given that she had lived upon Old Earth for fifteen centuries, where men had constructed terrible engines of war, she had seen far worse things.

  Suddenly he felt sad and very tired. He had avoided sleep since Morigna’s death, save in short, necessary bursts, but now he wanted only to lie down and rest.

  And, perhaps, not rise again.

  “I have news for the Dux and Calliande,” said Ridmark. “Take me to them.”

  “As you wish,” said Antenora. “After that, you should att
end to the assassin and the master thief.”

  It took Ridmark a moment to unravel her meaning. “You mean Mara and Jager?”

  “She made you her magister militum,” said Antenora. “Your counsel is needed to deal with the Anathgrimm. The master thief has a silvered tongue, but he is no commander of battles.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I will speak with her. Tomorrow, though. Once I’ve had some sleep.”

  Antenora stared at him.

  Ridmark sighed. “Fine. Lead on.”

  Antenora nodded, and led him to the Dux’s pavilion.

  Inside Gareth, Joram, Mara, Jager, and Calliande stood looking at the maps upon the table. They looked up as he approached, and a flash of deep relief went over Calliande’s face, while Mara smiled at him. Another burst of guilt went through Ridmark as he remembered his foolish attack on Imaria in Dun Licinia’s burning ruins. He had almost gotten himself killed for nothing, and worse, had almost gotten Calliande killed in the process. He would have to take the lesson to heart. The rage and the grief would not leave him, but he could not permit them to rule his thinking, not when so many people depended on him.

  No. When the time came to kill Imaria and the Weaver, he would find a way to do it logically, coldly, and without any trace of mercy.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “You’re back.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark.

  “Quicker than I thought,” said Joram. The red stubble growing on his chin and jaw made his face look as if it had acquired a coat of rust. “All the way to Dun Licinia and back?”

  “I could not stay long,” said Ridmark. “I ran into a group of khaldjari and had to flee. But you are right, Calliande. The Frostborn are building a citadel of ice within the ruins of Dun Licinia, and if they have the resources for that…”

  “Then they are also building a citadel around their gate,” said Gareth.

  “The medvarth are raising earthworks across all the roads,” said Ridmark, “and there are constant locusari scouts overflying the hills. The Frostborn are digging in and waiting for reinforcements. We should not lower our guard, but I do not think the Frostborn will make an effort to destroy us. Not unless we march upon them.”

  Joram sighed. “Which we cannot. Not until we join our strength to the High King’s.”

  “But you were right, Joram,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn should have destroyed us when they had the chance. They could have crushed the army of the Northerland at little risk to themselves.” She shook her head. “The commanders of the Order of the Vanguard that Andomhaim faced during the last war would not have made such an error.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mara, “it is not an error. Perhaps the Frostborn believe they can destroy us at a later time.”

  “What do you mean, Queen Mara?” said Gareth.

  “My husband believes Tarrabus Carhaine shall attempt something when we join the High King’s army,” said Mara.

  “Dux Tarrabus can field six or seven thousand men,” said Joram. “A significant force, true, but only a tenth part of the realm’s strength.”

  “Six thousand men in the right place and at the right time,” said Ridmark, “can do a great deal of harm.”

  Gareth gave a tired shake of his head. “We can do nothing until we see how matters stand with the High King. I suppose it will depend on whether or not the High King sides with Tarrabus Carhaine or with your father, Corbanic Lamorus, and I.”

  Depending on what happened when Gareth joined the High King, Ridmark supposed, there was a real possibility Andomhaim might rip itself apart in a civil war. With the Frostborn marching from the north, that could be disastrous.

  Right now, though, he felt no concern about it. Perhaps he was too tired. Perhaps too many emotions had burned through his mind in too short a time. Right now he simply wanted to lie down and close his eyes.

  “If you will excuse me,” said Ridmark. “I shall leave you discuss strategy. Mara. I will talk to you and Jager about the Anathgrimm in the morning.” Mara nodded, her relief plain.

  “Go,” said Gareth. “You have surely earned some rest, Ridmark.”

  He nodded, pushed aside the pavilion’s flap, and walked into the camp.

  “Ridmark.”

  He stopped as Calliande stepped out of the pavilion.

  “Yes?” he said.

  She hesitated, looking as if she was trying to find the right words. “Thank you for doing this.”

  “No, thank you,” he said, taking a deep breath. “For saving my life at Dun Licinia. You were right. It was foolish thing to do.”

  “You were…overwrought,” said Calliande.

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “I would have gotten killed for nothing…and I cannot be killed until I’ve killed Imaria and the Weaver.”

  Sadness flickered over her expression. “Is that all, then? The only thing that keeps you going?”

  “It’s enough,” said Ridmark, and he walked into the camp, Calliande staring after him.

  Chapter 7: Burn With Me

  For all that he had avoided sleep after Morigna’s death, Ridmark did not dream all that often.

  After Aelia’s death, he had suffered nightmares, but not on a regular basis and not enough to disrupt his sleep. Ridmark supposed he spent most of his days on his feet, and so exhausted himself enough that sleep came easily. When his mother had died, his weapon masters and tutors had claimed that the best cure for sorrow was work, and they had then proved their point by working him to exhaustion every day.

  Still, they had been correct. Ridmark had slept well.

  So when he wrapped himself in his gray cloak and lay down to sleep, he expected to rest after a nightmare or two.

  Instead, he fell asleep at once, and the dream exploded in his mind like a thunderclap.

  It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  “Burn with me,” whispered a woman’s voice, alien and melodious.

  Ridmark’s life blurred back and forth before his eyes. He saw his childhood in Taliand, learning the sword and studying the history of the realm and all the other lessons expected of a noble of Andomhaim. He accompanied his father on trips to Tarlion and the High King’s court and the other courts of the realm. Ridmark watched as he took service as a squire in the court of Dux Gareth of the Northerland, as he met Tarrabus Carhaine and Joram Agramore and Constantine Licinius and a score of others, as he became first a knight and then a Swordbearer.

  He saw the first time he met Aelia Licinius, the first time they danced in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, their first night together after the wedding, how excited and anxious and eager he had been as he carried her to their bed. For a moment it was like he was there again, her lips against his, her arms wrapped around his back.

  The dream accelerated, his life going faster and faster. He saw Gothalinzur’s death in Victrix, the battle that set him on the path to finding the Frostborn. His service as a Swordbearer at Castra Marcaine flashed before his eyes, and then Mhalek’s invasion, Aelia dying against upon the tiles of white and black.

  The five long years searching for evidence of the return of the Frostborn.

  The day of the omen of blue fire.

  Agrimnalazur’s warning in the ruins of Urd Arowyn, promising that the Frostborn would return.

  His kiss with Calliande the day the wyvern had poisoned Kharlacht.

  Facing the Artificer’s malevolent spirit in the ruins of the Iron Tower.

  Lying with Morigna for the first time.

  The harrowing escape from Urd Morlemoch, the fury of Ardrhythain’s and the Warden’s spells smashing hills to dust and turning the valleys to molten stone.

  Calliande rising in her power as the Keeper of Andomhaim, battling with Shadowbearer in Khald Azalar.

  Shadowbearer’s final scream as Ridmark drove Heartwarden into his chest, the sword blazing with white fire as it contested against the shadow of Incariel…

  Again and again his life blurred through his mind, faster and faster, and then t
he images spiraled out of order. Battles and friends, defeats and victories, lovers and enemies flickered through his thoughts faster than he could recall. Ridmark had the sensation of something digging through his mind, sorting through his memories like a merchant’s clerk sifting through bills of sale…

  “Stop!” he said.

  “Burn with me,” said the woman’s voice, alien and beautiful beyond comprehension. “You may be worthy. Burn with me, Ridmark of the Arbanii.”

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark, turning.

  And as he turned, he realized he stood in a place he had never seen before.

  It was a hall built of white stone, the ceiling rising to a high arch far overhead. For a moment he thought he stood in a dark elven ruin, but that didn’t seem right. Dark elven ruins had a peculiar beauty to them, but it was a harsh, disturbing beauty, one unsettling to human eyes and minds. This long hall of white stone was beautiful in a simple, unadorned way. Ridmark looked around for the source of light, and then realized that the white stone itself gave off a gentle, ambient glow. Whoever lived here would never need a lamp.

  With that thought, he sought for any inhabitants of this strange place.

  A dais rose on the far end of the hall. Upon the dais rested a throne of white stone, and on the throne sat an old man in battle-scarred plate armor. Despite his age, the man still looked strong and vigorous, his hair the color of weathered iron. His head was tipped forward, his eyes closed, and his hair hung in curtains on either side of his craggy face. Across his knees rested a sheathed sword in an old scabbard, its hilt rapped with leather.

  Ridmark took a step towards the old warrior, his staff in hand. As he did, he realized that the symbols upon the length of the staff were glowing, that their light matched the pale glow coming from the white stone around him.

  He took another step, and the old warrior lifted his face and opened his eyes.

  “Thought you might be the one,” he said, his voice rusty from disuse. He spoke Latin with the same sort of stately, archaic accent as Morigna, as Calliande when she used formal rhetoric. “I hoped this day would never come, but we don’t always get what we want, do we, boy?” He stared at Ridmark for a moment and then nodded. “Looks like you’ve learned that the hard way a few times.”