Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  Tarrabus’s cold smile did not waver. “It is worth mentioning, my lord High King, that Ridmark sacked the Iron Tower to free a thief imprisoned there, along with his concubine, an assassin of the Red Family.” He gestured towards Mara and Jager and the Queen’s Guard. “Do you see the allies of Ridmark Arban, my lord? A thief, an assassin, and Anathgrimm orcs! The servants of the Traveler! Do we invite such foes into our midst now?”

  Another grumble went up from the men nearest Tarrabus. Calliande realized that Tarrabus’s supporters lined his side of the hall, while the supporters of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance stood along the opposite wall. The High King sat between them on his curule chair, his expression still irritated.

  Mara took a step forward, Jager at her side.

  “The Traveler is slain,” she said, her voice wavering only a little. “I am his daughter. Years ago, my mother sacrificed her life that I might escape from Nightmane Forest.” A murmur of surprise went up from both sides of the basilica. “When the Traveler marched from Nightmane Forest to claim the power of the Keeper for himself, I killed him with my own hand. The Anathgrimm have chosen to follow me, and I have come to offer their aid to the High King against the host of the Frostborn.”

  Uthanaric stared at her. For the first time, the High King looked surprised.

  “Lies,” said Tarrabus.

  Mara shook her head. “I speak the truth. I will swear it upon the name of God and the Dominus Christus and all the saints, if you wish it.”

  “The Queen of Nightmane Forest speaks the truth,” said Arandar. The High King looked at his bastard son. “I was there, my lord High King, and saw it happen. Queen Mara slew the Traveler, and the Anathgrimm have sworn to her.”

  “I, too, have witnessed these events,” said Gareth, “and have all the men sworn to me. I would never have believed such a tale unless I had seen it with my own eyes. Without the aid of the Anathgrimm, we would not have been able to defeat the Mhorites and the dvargir.”

  “Additionally,” said Calliande, “Ridmark of the Arbanii is a magistrate of Nightmane Forest. Queen Mara has appointed him the magister militum of her soldiers. Since Queen Mara has come to offer alliance and aid to Andomhaim, my lord High King, I suggest that it would be unwise to execute him.”

  Tarrabus laughed. “This is ridiculous. Ridmark Arban is a criminal and an exile. The Anathgrimm are the sworn enemies of the High King. My lord High King, we…”

  “For a Dux of Andomhaim,” said Jager, his resonant voice filling the hall. Calliande was always amazed at how such a short man could produce such a tremendous volume of sound. “You are remarkably ill-informed, my lord of Caerdracon.”

  The men of the High King’s court stared at Jager in astonishment. Halflings were servants. They did not address their lords in the High King’s court. Prince Cadwall took one look at Jager and raised his eyebrow in amusement.

  “You presume to address me, thief?” said Tarrabus.

  “Well, yes, I did steal your signet ring,” said Jager, smiling. “But considering that you sold your soul to the shadow of Incariel, I was really doing the realm a favor by attacking one of its mortal enemies.”

  “A vile calumny,” said Tarrabus. “I am a loyal vassal of Andomhaim and baptized son of the church.”

  “But not all that bright, apparently,” said Jager. “You’ve overlooked several important points.”

  “Oh?” said Tarrabus. His smile seemed sharp as a knife’s edge. Had Tarrabus been able to get away with it, Calliande knew, he would have killed Jager then and there. “And what is that?”

  “One, we are still in the Northerland,” said Jager, counting on his fingers. “Dux Gareth has said that Ridmark is welcome here, and as I recall, you are the Dux of Caerdracon. That means you have no authority here. Unless you’ve become confused about geography, of course.”

  “The High King’s law supersedes that of the Duxi,” said Tarrabus.

  “True, true,” said Jager. “Very true. But the High King hasn’t said a word about Ridmark, has he? See, the High King is smarter than you. When Ridmark was banished, his oath of obedience to the High King was undone by the High King himself. Ridmark couldn’t return to the realm…so my wife the Queen, recognizing talent when she saw it, made him the magister militum of her kingdom.”

  “Your concubine’s kingdom?” said Tarrabus with scorn.

  “Well, yes,” said Jager, flicking some dust from his sleeve. “Nightmane Forest. Also, she’s my wife now, thank you. I thought that would make me a King, but the Anathgrimm threatened to cut off my head, so I settled for Prince Consort instead. That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? The Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest.”

  Prince Cadwall burst out laughing, and several of the other lords on Gareth’s side of the hall followed suit.

  “Does this fascinating attempt at rhetoric have a point, master thief?” said Tarrabus.

  “Of course it does,” said Jager, feigning affront. “We’ve established that Ridmark is no longer a subject of the High King, and that he is a magistrate of my wife the Queen of Nightmane Forest.” He grinned. “Which means that you, Tarrabus Carhaine, just tried to murder the ambassador of another kingdom before the seat of the High King himself.”

  Silence fell over the hall.

  Calliande kept the smile of admiration for Jager’s cleverness from her face. The murder of an ambassador was among the most heinous of crimes among nearly all kindreds, and it had started wars in the past when a pagan orcish king had murdered one of the High King’s emissaries. In the wars that followed, the High Kings had never failed to destroy their opponents in vengeance for their slain ambassador.

  Tarrabus’s smile melted away, his face a hard mask.

  “And an ambassador of a kingdom that came to offer alliance to the High King,” said Jager, “whose soldiers fought in defense of Andomhaim. Really, Tarrabus. That’s very insulting.”

  “The halfling prince speaks truly, Tarrabus.” Leogrance Arban’s voice sounded so much like Ridmark’s that for a moment Calliande thought that Ridmark himself had spoken. “The Frostborn have returned, and Andomhaim needs every ally. Would you be so foolish as to murder the magistrate of a potential ally before the High King? Even the Mhorites might hesitate before lowering themselves to such despicable crimes.”

  “An ally?” said Tarrabus, gesturing at Mara. “Have you taken leave of your senses? The Anathgrimm orcs have been the enemies of the realm for centuries! And we are to believe that this wretched girl commands them? Are you such fools as to accept the aid of a band of pagan orcs led by a whore of the Red Family and her halfling pet? I…”

  “You will not insult the Queen!” snarled Qhazulak, his harsh voice thundering through the hall.

  “Do not presume to speak to me, orcish dog,” said Tarrabus.

  King Ulakhamar’s eyes narrowed at the insult, and his warriors reached for their weapons. “The Dux of Caerdracon should guard his tongue.”

  “The King of Rhaluusk,” said Tarrabus, “should not leap to the defense of an up-jumped half-breed whore.”

  “You will not insult the Queen,” said Qhazulak, his voice softer and more deadly.

  Tarrabus smirked at him. “And just why not, Anathgrimm?”

  “For the Queen liberated us from the iron hand of the Lord Traveler,” said Qhazulak.

  “That slip of a girl?” said Tarrabus. “I ought to have ordered Paul to amuse himself with her.”

  “The Lord Traveler always said that humans were hairless apes,” said Qhazulak. “I know not if he spoke the truth, but if you threaten the Queen again, I shall make you squeal like a terrified piglet in the final moments of your wretched life.”

  Tarrabus said nothing, but around him the knights and men-at-arms started to draw their swords. The vassals of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance started to draw their weapons as well, and soon a forest of sword blades glinted in the great hall of the castra of Dun Calpurnia. The air seemed charged with imminent violence.

  Cal
liande looked back and forth, gathering her power for a spell, trying to think of a way to stop the battle that was about to begin.

  She could not.

  Chapter 11: The High King

  Ridmark gripped his staff and moved closer to Calliande. His own life, he knew, was of little importance in the greater scheme of things. His life or his death would not stop the Frostborn, though he wanted to live long enough to see Imaria and the Weaver brought to justice. Yet he knew that Tarrabus would try to kill Calliande, and Ridmark could not allow that. Calliande and her magic and her knowledge were the realm’s best chance of survival against the Frostborn.

  Denying Tarrabus the victory of her death would be well worth the cost of his life.

  He took another step, and a voice thundered through the hall.

  “I shall have silence! Silence!”

  The echoes died away, and a stunned hush came over the basilica.

  Uthanaric Pendragon had risen from the curule chair and stalked to the edge of the dais. His dark eyes blazed as he looked over the hall, and his scowl was formidable.

  “My lord High King…” started Tarrabus.

  “I said to be silent, Tarrabus,” said the High King. A vein twitched in his temple. “Have you gone deaf? Close your mouth and stop talking.” He pointed at the crowds of nobles and knights in the basilica. “And all of you, sheathe your swords. Now! If any man still has a drawn blade by the time I finish this sentence, by God I’ll have him hung.”

  The rasp of steel on leather filled the hall as men scrambled to put away their weapons. Ridmark’s staff was not a blade, so he kept it in hand. Qhazulak did not lower his axe, but reversed the weapon, resting the blades upon the flagstone floor.

  “Thank you for your consideration, my lords,” said Uthanaric, stalking back and forth along the dais. His right leg was stiff and rigid, and his boot heel and the cane in his left hand clicked against the stone floor with every rigid step. Ridmark had seen the High King many times before he had been banished, and he was struck by how much older Uthanaric looked. Uthanaric Pendragon had always possessed a peculiar sort of manic energy, and now it looked as if that energy was eating him out from the inside.

  Ridmark wondered if the High King was sick.

  A man in his late thirties emerged from behind the curule chair and took a discreet position with the Masters of the Two Orders. He looked a great deal like Arandar, if somewhat heavier. It was Kaldraine Pendragon, the crown prince, and he had a calmer disposition than his father. A few bolder men had whispered that they looked forward to the day when Kaldraine took the crown from his volatile father.

  But today, Uthanaric Pendragon was the High King, and every eye was upon him.

  “Dissension,” said the High King, still pacing back and forth. “This endless damned dissension. Tarrabus and Leogrance, you have been at each other’s throats since the news of the Iron Tower came to our ears. It has grown tiresome.” He stopped pacing and glared at both men. “Most tiresome!”

  He stopped for a moment, scowling at everything.

  “My lord High King,” said Tarrabus again.

  “Quiet,” snapped Uthanaric. “Ridmark Arban! Come here.”

  Ridmark blinked in surprise and started forward, the High King’s dark eyes glaring into him like daggers.

  “My lord High King?” said Ridmark.

  “It seems you have been the root of all our dissensions of late,” said Uthanaric. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “Dux Gareth and the Keeper speak truly,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus has abandoned the faith of the Dominus Christus for the shadow of Incariel. He sent assassins of the Red Family to kill me and the Keeper several times. Calliande is the Keeper of Andomhaim, and we face a deadly threat from the Frostborn,” he glanced at Tarrabus, “and from their allies within the realm.”

  Tarrabus snorted. “A likely tale.”

  “I did not give you leave to speak, Tarrabus,” said the High King without looking away from Ridmark.

  “This is the truth,” said Ridmark.

  Uthanaric snorted. “Of course it is.”

  “I warned against the return of the Frostborn,” said Ridmark, looking over the nearby lords and nobles. “You all thought I was mad or deranged by grief. Yet I was right about the return of the Frostborn.” He looked back at the High King. “What else am I right about, my lord?”

  To his surprise, Uthanaric laughed.

  “This is ridiculous,” said the High King. “Both of you. This has been going on for ten years. I know the root of the conflict between you and Tarrabus.”

  “What is that, my lord?” said Ridmark.

  “Aelia Licinius,” said Uthanaric.

  For a moment Ridmark was too surprised to speak.

  “What?” said Tarrabus, his voice flat.

  “You two fools,” said Uthanaric with a wave of his hand, “are just like Arthur Pendragon and Lancelot upon Old Earth, both of them lusting for the embrace of Guinevere.” He shook his head and started pacing again. “Aelia was your Guinevere, and still you compete for her, though the poor woman is five years in her grave. Nearly six years now, come to think of it. Gareth!” He looked at Gareth Licinius. “You should have married her to someone else, someone other than Ridmark Arban or Tarrabus Carhaine. Then we would not have all this damned dissension now.”

  “Ridmark was a worthy match for her, my lord High King,” said Gareth, “and my daughter had her heart set upon him.”

  Uthanaric gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “When has listening to a woman’s opinion brought anything but woe?” He glared at Ridmark once more, and then at Tarrabus. “I am tired of listening to this dispute, and I am tired of you dragging the rest of the realm into it. I will hear no more of the matter, and you shall not pursue it any further. The Frostborn have returned, and the realm requires unity to face them!”

  “But the sack of the Iron Tower…” said Tarrabus.

  “We shall discuss that,” snapped Uthanaric, “after the Frostborn have been defeated.”

  Ridmark blinked in surprise. He had half-expected the High King to favor Tarrabus’s charges.

  He had not expected the High King to do…nothing, really. Perhaps Uthanaric thought the threat of the Frostborn grave enough to make the Enlightened a secondary concern. If so, he was making a mistake. Tarrabus wanted the crown, and Ridmark had no doubt he would ally with the Frostborn if it gave him the throne of Andomhaim.

  Would Uthanaric realize that before it was too late?

  The High King paced back to the curule chair and sat down with a pained grunt, his right leg stiff before him. Kaldraine took a step towards his father’s side, but the High King waved him off.

  “Now,” said the High King. “To other matters.”

  ###

  Arandar watched his father.

  His estranged father, in truth. Uthanaric Pendragon had never acknowledged Arandar, had never given Arandar anything. Arandar had labored for his position, serving the Dux of Durandis as a man-at-arms for years, finally earning a knighthood in battle against the Mhorites of Kothluusk and becoming a Swordbearer after Mhalek’s defeat.

  In many ways, looking at his father was like looking at a stranger.

  Yet Arandar was struck by the changes in the man. Uthanaric looked older, and tired, and perhaps a little ill. He was well into his sixties by now, and the strain of ruling Andomhaim had taken its toll. The scriptures said that the length of a man’s days was seventy years, or eighty if he had the strength, but Uthanaric looked as if he might not have the strength left to reach seventy years.

  While it was sad that an old man would become sick and die, there was nothing unusual about it…but Arandar wondered if Tarrabus Carhaine had helped push the illness along. Once such a notion would have been unthinkable, but after what Arandar had seen and learned about the Enlightened of Incariel…

  “The realm is in dire peril,” said Uthanaric, scowling at his nobles. “The Frostborn have returned. Once the High Ki
ngdom defeated them, though at great cost. Yet we were unified then, free of this constant quarreling! My lords, you will set aside your differences and fight as one realm against one foe. Petty squabbling is a luxury indulged in summer. The winter has come, and we must fight or die.” He glared at Ridmark and Tarrabus in turn. “We can no longer afford a feud over a woman long dead.”

  Arandar blinked. Could the High King really believe that was the root of the conflict? Was he truly that blind?

  “Calliande of Tarlion,” said Uthanaric. “Approach me.”

  Calliande walked to the dais, her face calm. Her clothes were unusual for a woman of Andomhaim, trousers and boots and a leather jerkin and a long green cloak, but she moved with the regality of a queen. It helped that she had donned that delicate bronze diadem she had found in Dragonfall, and the staff of the Keeper clicked against the floor with every step.

  She bowed before the dais. “Lord High King.”

  “You say you are the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Uthanaric without preamble. “From what I understand, the Magistri have a test to determine the truth of your claim. Will you submit to it?”

  “I shall,” said Calliande.

  “Master Kurastus,” said the High King, and the old Magistrius in the black cloak of the Master of the Order stepped forward, gazing at Calliande. “Perform your test immediately.”

  If the old Master felt any discomfort at being ordered about like a servant, he kept it to himself. Likely he was used to Uthanaric’s brusque manner. Kurastus lifted his hand and cast a spell, white light blazing around his fingers. A rustle of unease went through the hall. Arandar had forgotten how the men of Andomhaim held magic in fear, how they regarded the Magistri with awe. He had seen so many colossal feats of magic in the last few months that he had become jaded. After watching the archmage Ardrhythain and the Warden of Urd Morlemoch unleash their titanic powers at each other, the Master’s spell seemed a simple thing.

  On the other hand, given how many times Arandar had almost been killed by magic, maybe fear was the appropriate response.