“Who are you?” said Ridmark.
“A man with a job to do,” said the old man.
“And what job is that?” said Ridmark.
“Suppose you could say that I am a custodian,” said the old warrior.
“The custodian of what?” said Ridmark.
The old warrior barked out a laugh. “I forgot how full of questions the young are. See, boy, I think she’s chosen you. She chose me a long time ago, but my time is up. I think she’s chosen you next.”
“Who are you talking about?” said Ridmark.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” said the old warrior. He sighed. “Probably to your sorrow, as well. See for yourself.”
Ridmark turned, and saw the woman standing behind him.
She wore a gown the color of fire, her arms bare, her hair the same color, and her eyes…burned. There was no other word for it. The eyes of the Frostborn burned with cold blue fire, but an inferno blazed in the eyes of the red-clad woman. The heat of it slapped Ridmark across the face, and he took a step back. As he did, the woman smiled, and her features seemed to change. One moment she looked like Morigna. The next she resembled Aelia, and the moment after that she looked like Calliande.
Yet as her face changed, the fire of her eyes never dimmed.
“Burn with me,” said the woman.
“Who are you?” said Ridmark.
“Burn with me,” said the woman again.
“Who is she?” said Ridmark, looking back at the old warrior.
The armored old man’s eyes burned with the same fire as the woman.
“Wrong question, boy,” said the old warrior. “You already know who she is. She’s the one who has chosen you. Think of a better question.”
“What do you want?” said Ridmark. Then the realization came to him. “What is your purpose?”
“Burn with me,” said the woman, and the fire exploded from her eyes, filling the hall.
In the flames, Ridmark saw visions.
His mind struggled to comprehend the images as they flashed before him. He saw Andomhaim spread out before him like a map, but not Andomhaim as it was today. The shining cities of the high elves rose in the plains and the mountains and the forests, works of power and splendor and beauty that dazzled Ridmark’s eyes. Yet in the midst of the great kingdoms of the high elves stood the Black Mountain, utterly unchanged.
And from the Black Mountain flowed a shadow.
It corrupted the high elves. Those who stayed faithful remained high elves, but those who had been corrupted turned into the dark elves, their eyes filled with Incariel’s shadow. The high elves and the dark elves warred against each other, wars that lasted for uncounted thousands of years, and the shadow showed the dark elves how to open doors to other worlds. Orcs and kobolds and dwarves and trolls and manetaurs and countless other kindreds came through the doors, enslaved by the dark elves, and they either revolted or served their dark masters.
Then the dark elves summoned the urdmordar, and were devoured in their turn.
A thousand years ago, a tiny drop in the ocean of years that the vision showed Ridmark, his own ancestors came through a door between worlds. The exiles of Arthur Pendragon’s realm founded Andomhaim and spread across their new world, and with the weapons granted by Ardrhythain of the high elves, the newcomers defeated both the urdmordar and the Frostborn.
But the shadow watched them.
The shadow noted their strength, and saw that they could be so easily corrupted.
So the shadow spread among them, the Enlightened of Incariel growing within Andomhaim like a cancer, eating away the realm’s strength while the shadow became stronger and stronger…
Suddenly Ridmark felt the gaze of the shadow, and fear stabbed through him.
Its face changed as it reached for him. One instant it looked like Tymandain Shadowbearer, the next like Imaria Licinius, the moment after that like Tarrabus Carhaine or one of the Weaver's forms. Yet behind them all was the same shadow, the same furious shadow, the bottomless freezing void that wanted to consume him and all things…
“Burn with me,” whispered the woman, and the world exploded in fire.
Ridmark fell through nothingness for a long time.
“Ridmark,” said Morigna.
She stood before him, just as he remembered, clad in leather and wool with her cloak of tattered strips of green and brown, but just out of his reach, forever out of his reach.
“I understand now,” said Morigna. “I understand things that I did not before. One would think that death is the final mystery, but it seems that it is not the last. She has chosen you, and I fear you have no choice but to accept her. She will try to devour her, not out of malice, but because it is her nature. You must conquer her. You must! Everything depends upon it.”
He tried to reach for her, tried to speak, but darkness swallowed him.
###
Sunlight filtered into Ridmark’s eyes.
He blinked them open, and immediately realized he had a thunderous headache.
Before he had married Aelia, from time to time he had stayed up late drinking with the other knights of the Dux’s court, suffering the usual consequences the next morning. But Ridmark had never had a headache like this. He winced and felt his temples and forehead, wondering if a horse had kicked him in the head. Yet he felt no wounds there, and as he did, the pain started to dim in intensity.
After a while he sighed and sat up, still rubbing his aching forehead.
It was just past dawn, the sun rising over the hills to the east. Around Ridmark the camp was awakening, men-at-arms donning their armor and the surviving townsmen rousing their oxen and horses to resume the march. His stomach cramped, and his mouth was dry as dust. Some food and water would revive him. Likely Mara and Jager needed his help with the Anathgrimm, and Calliande might need assistance. God knew this ragged army needed better scouts, and he could help with that. As much as Ridmark might have wanted to duck into a tent and drink himself senseless, it would not make him feel any better.
It would not bring him any closer to killing Imaria and the Weaver.
So he might as well do something useful as he thought of a way to kill them.
Ridmark got to his feet and found Gavin standing a few feet away, staring at him.
“Trouble?” said Ridmark.
“Um,” said Gavin. He had hardened a great deal since becoming a Swordbearer, but certain topics still flustered him, and this seemed to be one of them. “The Keeper wanted me to ask…were you all right?”
Ridmark started to say something glib, but stopped himself. The boy looked so grave.
“I am well,” said Ridmark, which he supposed was mostly true. “Why? Shouldn’t I be?”
“You were…shouting,” said Gavin.
“I was dreaming,” said Ridmark. He tried to recall, but he could not. A hall of white stone? Morigna’s face? It must have been a nightmare. “What was I shouting about?”
“Something about a fire,” said Gavin. “It…didn’t make a lot of sense. Calliande was worried, so she sent me to check on you.”
“Ah,” said Ridmark. He felt a burst of guilt for walking away from her last night, but he had been a grim mood. Not that it excused his behavior, of course. She had wanted to check on him, but had likely been too embarrassed to do so herself, so she had sent Gavin. Ever since Ridmark had met Calliande on the slopes of the Black Mountain, she had been gripped by the unshakeable conviction that she knew what was best for him.
He rubbed his jaw, the stubble rasping under his callused palm. Calliande and Morigna had often been at odds, but they had often agreed about what they thought Ridmark should do, and the two of them in agreement had been formidable when they put their minds to it.
A fresh wave of grief went through him, and Ridmark shook his head foggy head, trying to clear it.
Gavin was still staring at him. He did not look reassured. Likely for good reason.
“I’m fine,” said Ridmark. “A ba
d dream, that’s all. You can tell Calliande that I’m fine.”
Gavin hesitated. “Maybe you should do it. I’m not putting myself in the middle of…”
“What?” said Ridmark. “In the middle of what?”
Gavin opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head in exasperation. “I’m not…I’m not…oh, for God’s sake. Just go talk to her. She’s worried about you. You owe her that much. She cares about you a lot, and she’s healed your wounds a thousand times.”
“Very well,” said Ridmark. He shook his head, found his staff, and started into the camp. “When did you get so wise?”
“Jager has been giving me lessons,” said Gavin.
Ridmark gave him a look.
“That was a joke,” said Gavin.
Ridmark snorted, once, and set off for the Dux’s pavilion.
“I hope we reach the High King’s host soon,” said Gavin. “The Dux made excellent provision, but if we tarry too long we shall burn through our food.”
Ridmark blinked.
Burn with me…
For a moment the threads of the dream simmered at the edges of his consciousness.
“What is it?” said Gavin.
“Nothing,” said Ridmark, shaking his head. “Let’s find Calliande, and then do something useful.”
Chapter 8: The House of the Arbanii
Sixteen days after the fall of Dun Licinia to the Frostborn, Ridmark moved south through the pine forests cloaking the hills. Kharlacht followed him, silent in his blue armor, the hilt of his dark elven greatsword rising over his shoulder. Of everyone who had accompanied Ridmark to Khald Azalar, Kharlacht was the most capable of moving silently through the forest. Of course, he wasn’t nearly as quiet as Morigna had been, but Morigna had moved through the trees with the silence of a hunting urvaalg.
To be fair, Kharlacht was seven feet tall and likely weighed two and a half times more than Morigna, so it was remarkable that he was as quiet as he was.
The army of the Northerland, the Anathgrimm, and the survivors of Dun Licinia had made better time than Ridmark had expected, but had not covered as much ground as he would have liked. After the last of the sick and the elderly had been ferried into Nightmane Forest, they had increased their speed, but not by much. Between the army of the Northerland, the Anathgrimm and the survivors, they totaled nearly fourteen thousand people, and fourteen thousand people and their baggage and wagons and animals could only move so fast.
Nevertheless, they had covered a lot of distance, and had left the Nightmane Forest behind. At the southern end of the Northerland, the River Moradel curved a bit to the west. The fortified hill town of Dun Calpurnia, one of the most southern towns of the Northerland, was only a few days away, and Dun Calpurnia marked the Northerland's border with Caerdracon, the lands of Tarrabus Carhaine.
That could be a problem, depending on what Tarrabus planned to do, yet Ridmark expected to encounter the High King’s army soon. The High King had responded to Gareth’s call to battle against Mhorite threat, and though Mournacht was dead and his army broken, the host of the High Kingdom would have to face the Frostborn. Unless Ridmark missed his guess, they would encounter the army of Uthanaric Pendragon and the Duxi of the High Kingdom within the next three days. Tarrabus, for all his power and wealth, was only one of the Duxi, and even he could not defy the combined armies of the High Kingdom.
Ridmark came to a stop and held up his hand, and Kharlacht halted behind him.
Of course, Tarrabus might not have time to work mischief.
Over the last eight days, Ridmark had become increasingly certain that the Frostborn intended to march down the Moradel road. Locusari scouts had flown constantly over the camp, and the bowmen had shot down a half a hundred of the damned things. Yet the scouts kept coming, and locusari warriors had been spotted moving through the trees. It was clear that the Frostborn had kept a close eye upon the army…and as they moved south, the cloaking spell that blunted the Sight of Calliande and Antenora moved south as well.
The only logical explanation was that the Frostborn were moving forces south, using their magic to mask their approach from Calliande’s Sight.
Ridmark had thought the Frostborn had missed the opportunity to destroy the army of the Northerland. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps the Frostborn intended to follow the men of the Northerland to the High King’s host, and then to annihilate the entire army of Andomhaim in a single catastrophic battle.
They would find that a harder task than they thought. The High King would have Swordbearers and Magistri with him, and thousands of heavy horsemen, and orcish allies from the kingdoms of Rhaluusk and Khaluusk and Mhorluusk.
Yet Ridmark had been certain that Shadowbearer had been defeated…but then his power had passed to Imaria.
“Another one?” said Kharlacht.
“Beyond a doubt,” said Ridmark, scowling at the ground. “Nothing on this world leaves tracks like that.” The locusari, with their slender, clawed legs, left highly distinctive prints. Of course, the locusari scouts flew most of the time, so they only left tracks when they landed.
The locusari warriors were another matter entirely.
Kharlacht grunted. “I suppose the locusari are part of this world now.”
“Regrettably,” said Ridmark. The locusari warriors were too well-armored for a hunting arrow, so Ridmark put his bow away and raised his staff instead. Kharlacht drew his massive greatsword with a steely hiss. The huge weapon was ideal for cracking through a locusari warrior’s armored carapace. “This way.”
Kharlacht nodded, his black eyes starting to glimmer with the crimson light of orcish battle rage. Stealthy or not, Kharlacht was a good man to have in a fight, and Ridmark was sure another fight was about to start.
He led the way deeper into the trees.
The locusari were fast and strong, but their carapaces of vivid blue stood out in the green pine forest like blood upon a white cloth. Perhaps that color was common upon the home world of the locusari, but it was easy to spot in the Northerland, and Ridmark saw three locusari in a nearby clearing.
They were warriors, not scouts. Locusari warriors lacked wings, but made up for it with greater strength and speed. The warriors were about the size of grown men, and their greater bulk let them carry thicker armor. Their bladed forelimbs were longer, sharper, and thicker. They were hellishly fast, and from what Ridmark could tell the Frostborn used them in a similar role as light cavalry.
The three locusari moved around a prone horse and a fallen man-at-arms. The horse’s throat had been slashed, and the man-at-arms had been beheaded by a single sweep of bladed forelimbs. The locusari circled the dead horse and the dead man, their antennae waving, and Ridmark had the impression that they were deciding what to do next. From what Calliande had said, the locusari did not use speech to communicate among themselves, but relied upon gestures of their antennae.
Their whole attention was on the dead horseman, so it was easy for Ridmark and Kharlacht to creep up behind them and attack.
Ridmark struck before the locusari warriors reacted, swinging his staff with all his strength. The black wood struck the right rear leg of the nearest locusari, shattering the joint with a loud crack. The locusari warrior loosed a metallic scream, and before it could turn, Ridmark broke the joint on its middle right leg. The locusari warrior's damaged legs twitched, throwing off its balance, and Ridmark hit it three times. On the third impact the chitin of its head split open, the yellow slime within spilling forth, and the creature went into a weird, jerking dance as it died.
The second locusari lunged at Kharlacht, raising its bladed forelimbs to strike, but the orcish warrior was ready. He swung as the locusari attacked, and the greatsword sheared through both of the scythe-like forelimbs. The locusari fell back, crouching upon its remaining limbs, and before it could launch another attack Kharlacht struck again, his greatsword crunching through the locusari warrior’s head.
The final locusari turned to flee, but Ridma
rk was already reaching for his belt. The locusari, he had noticed, preferred to flee rather than fight to the death. Likely they would return to their masters to report the attack. Ridmark seized the handle of his dwarven war axe, sprinted forward, and jumped. The locusari was already running, but Ridmark brought the axe hammering down. The blade sank into its thorax, and the locusari warrior skidded, trying to keep its balance. Ridmark hit the ground hard, and the warrior turned to attack, but Kharlacht was already moving. His greatsword sank halfway into the warrior’s abdomen. The warrior raked at him, but his armor deflected the clawed fingers of its middle limbs, and as Kharlacht wrenched his blade free Ridmark sprang to his feet and retrieved his axe.
He buried the weapon in the locusari warrior’s head, and the creature went motionless.
“Fast things,” said Kharlacht, cleaning the yellow slime from his blade. “I would not want to face a hundred of them at once.”
“It would be as bad as facing a charge of horsemen,” said Ridmark, retrieving his axe and his staff. He walked to the dead horse, looking at the slain man-at-arms. The man wore a blue surcoat, and Ridmark flipped the headless man onto his back, hoping to see the sigil upon the surcoat.
“I do not recognize that badge,” said Kharlacht, frowning down at the sigil. The surcoat showed a red bow and arrow against a blue field.
“I do,” said Ridmark. He hadn’t seen that sigil for a long time. “It belongs to my father.”
“Your father?” said Kharlacht.
“Leogrance of the House of the Arbanii,” said Ridmark, “Dux of Taliand and vassal of the High King. According to the legend, our ancestors were archers in the armies of Arthur Pendragon in Britannia upon Old Earth.” He straightened up from the dead man. “Hence the sigil. This is one of my father’s men. And if the host of Taliand has come this far north…that means the High King’s army is not far.”
Frostborn: The High Lords Page 11
