Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ridmark jerked his head to the side as Jager disappeared into the tent, and Arandar nodded. Together they moved further into the ramshackle little camp, ducking into an aisle between two smaller tents. Ridmark adjusted his grip upon his staff and waited, Arandar drumming his fingers on Heartwarden’s pommel. A moment later Jager emerged from the tent.

  “He tried to hit me,” said Jager, “and he didn’t even give me a tip. Appalling behavior.”

  “Is he coming?” said Ridmark.

  “Oh, yes,” said Jager. “He read the message, and looked properly afraid for a moment. Probably wonders if the Master of the Magistri realized that he was Enlightened.”

  “Get ready,” said Ridmark.

  A short time later Aventine emerged from the tent, red-faced and sweating and weaving a bit as he walked. He was thunderously drunk, which was all for the better. The knight strode forward, cursing under his breath, and Ridmark stepped forward and thrust his staff across Aventine’s shins. The knight lost his balance and fell, an expression of near-comical surprise on his face as he landed hard upon his belly.

  At once Jager sprang upon his back, stuffing a gag into Aventine’s mouth and pulling a rough bag over his head. Aventine shuddered, trying to recover his balance, and Arandar grabbed Aventine’s wrists and pulled them into the small of his back. Jager tied Aventine’s wrists together, and Ridmark knelt upon the back of Aventine’s legs and bound his ankles, tying the knots as tightly as he could over the knight’s heavy boots.

  Aventine screamed, but the gag and the bag did an excellent job of muffling his cries for help, and the noise from the pavilions drowned out the rest.

  “If he gets sick into his gag,” said Jager, getting to his feet, “I am not cleaning it up. I want you both to understand that.”

  “I’ve never kidnapped a man before,” said Arandar.

  Ridmark forced Aventine’s knees back until his heels rested against the back of his thighs. Jager stooped and knotted the ropes together, leaving Aventine hog-tied. “If you were willing to go to Urd Morlemoch to save your son, kidnapping a man seems easy enough by comparison.”

  “Faultless logic, really,” said Jager.

  Ridmark slung his staff over his shoulder and grabbed Aventine by the elbows. Arandar took his knees, and together they lifted the screaming man, the gag and the hood muffling his cries.

  “Now what?” said Arandar.

  “This way,” said Ridmark, and they hastened into the hills and the concealing shadows of their trees.

  No one noticed their departure.

  ###

  Ridmark yanked the bag from Aventine’s head.

  Their captive, thankfully, had not gotten sick into the gag.

  Arandar watched as Aventine got his bearings. They had carried Aventine four miles east, stopping in a deep, narrow ravine between two pine-cloaked hills. The High King had sent patrols into the hills, but most of them were focused upon the land north of Dun Calpurnia. Aventine could scream his head off, but no one would hear him. Nine of the thirteen moons were out tonight, filling the forest with pale silvery-blue light, so it was unlikely anyone could sneak up on them.

  Aventine’s eyes settled on Ridmark, and a flicker of fear went over his face, followed by contempt. Ridmark had tied Aventine to a tree trunk, his hands bound behind him, more ropes holding his feet in place. Aventine could not break free, but nonetheless Arandar kept his hand close to Heartwarden’s hilt.

  Ridmark reached over and pulled the gag out of Aventine’s mouth. The knight spat, rubbing his tongue over his lips, and glared at them.

  “Where is Accolon?” said Ridmark.

  “The mighty Gray Knight,” sneered Aventine. “Dux Tarrabus is right about you. You’re nothing more than a common brigand. Robbing a man while he’s in his cups? A low and unchivalrous attack. Little wonder you were expelled from the Order.”

  “Where,” said Ridmark again, “is Accolon?”

  Arandar’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to seize Aventine and beat the knowledge from him, but he had agreed to let Ridmark handle the questioning. Yet Ridmark’s icy calm was unnerving. It reminded Arandar of the way that Ridmark had looked when he had ridden into the burning keep of Dun Licinia.

  “Who the devil is Accolon?” said Aventine.

  “The son of Sir Arandar, the man standing next to me,” said Ridmark. “Do not lie, Aventine. You know perfectly well who Accolon is. You should answer my question.”

  “And why should I do that?” said Aventine.

  “Because if you don’t,” said Ridmark, “then you’ll have to answer Sir Arandar’s questions, and he won’t ask as nicely.”

  Aventine sneered. “I am a knight of the realm and you are an exile outlaw,” his eyes shifted to Arandar and Jager, “a jumped-up bastard, and a halfling rat. I don’t have to do anything, and when Tarrabus learns of this, all three of you will be executed. Your precious Keeper and Dux Gareth won’t be able to protect you.”

  “What makes you think,” said Ridmark without changing expression, “that you’ll live long enough to tell Tarrabus anything?”

  Aventine laughed. “You won’t murder me in cold blood. You don’t have the nerve for it.”

  “Well,” said Ridmark, stepping closer. “You’re right on the first part, but wrong on the second.”

  He moved around the tree, out of Aventine’s field of vision.

  “Pathetic,” said Aventine. “Dux Tarrabus was right about you, Gray Knight.” His bloodshot eyes shifted to Arandar. “What did he promise you, Sir Arandar? Money? Wealth? A title? All lies. You should ally yourself with Dux Tarrabus before it is too late.”

  “All the Gray Knight promised me,” said Arandar, “was to help rescue my son.”

  Aventine’s sneer intensified. “You ought to…”

  Arandar never found out how that sentence would have ended.

  There was a sharp crack, like someone breaking a stick, and Aventine’s eyes almost jumped out of his head. Ridmark gripped the index finger of Aventine’s right hand, and as Arandar watched, he pushed the finger so far back that the knuckles rested against the back of Aventine’s hand.

  There might have been another crack, but Aventine’s scream of pain swallowed it.

  “Where,” said Ridmark again, still icy calm, “is Accolon?”

  Aventine took a shuddering, shaking breath. “Go to hell. The Dux is going to kill you! The Dux is…”

  Ridmark nodded and broke Aventine’s middle finger.

  This time Aventine’s scream threatened to split Arandar’s ears.

  He watched in silence as Ridmark methodically broke the fingers of Aventine’s right hand. Aventine screamed threats, and then pleas for mercy, and finally just screamed. Arandar watched, his stomach turning. He had no taste for this kind of thing.

  Yet it was for Accolon. Arandar would have done much worse to save his son. Much worse.

  He only hoped God would shield him from such a terrible choice, because Arandar knew how he would choose if such a temptation came before him.

  Aventine’s right hand had swollen to the size of a ham by the time his resolve broke.

  “Stop!” he sobbed. “For God’s sake, just…just stop. I’ll…I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you…”

  Ridmark walked around the tree, gripped Aventine’s chin, and forced him to look up.

  “Where,” said Ridmark, “is Accolon?”

  “Not…not in the camp,” said Aventine, the words tumbling out of him, stark fear on his face. “Not there. Too many witnesses. Five miles east of Dun Calpurnia, in the ruins of the old keep.”

  “Where Dun Calpurnia used to stand?” said Ridmark.

  An old memory stirred in Arandar’s mind. Dun Calpurnia was one of the oldest towns in the Northerland, but it had been destroyed twice, first by the Anathgrimm, and then by the Frostborn. Consequently it had been rebuilt in a more defensible location, using stones hauled from the ruins of the old town.

  “Aye,” said Aventine, bobbing
his head. “There are still old vaults there, where the castra once stood. Tarrabus has made a secret camp there, where he can keep things he doesn’t want the High King to know about. Accolon is one of them.”

  It sounded promising. If Aventine was telling the truth, then Accolon was in the old ruin…and likely they would find all the evidence they needed to prove Tarrabus’s guilt. For that matter, if he possessed any artifacts or relics of the Enlightened, books or enspelled weapons, that would prove his guilt beyond all doubt. Even if Tarrabus managed to weasel his way out of charges against him, possession of relics of dark magic would destroy his standing with the other lords.

  “How many guards are there?” said Ridmark.

  “Not many,” said Aventine. Blood dripped from his lip where he had bitten it in his pain. “Only those the Dux trusts are permitted to guard the secret camp. Seven or eight men at the most.”

  “That sounds terribly convenient for us,” said Jager.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” said Ridmark, glancing at the halfling. His gaze turned back to Aventine, who flinched. “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Because you broke my sword hand, you goddamned bastard,” hissed Aventine.

  “You’re confused,” said Jager, pointing at Arandar. “He’s the bastard.”

  “So what?” said Ridmark. “I broke your sword hand. Painful, but you’ll recover. What does Tarrabus do to those who betray him? Much worse than a broken hand, I imagine.”

  “Much, much worse,” said Aventine. “As you well know.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Ridmark.

  Arandar saw the trap coming. Aventine didn’t.

  “Because you should have died long ago!” spat Aventine, blood and spittle flying from his lips. “You should have died in the Wilderland when the Dux sent you to rot there. You should have died when Paul Tallmane went into the Wilderland to kill you, but he made a botch of it. Rotherius and the Red Family should have killed you. The Dux paid a fortune to those Mhor-worshipping fools for your head and the soulstone, and still they failed! You should have died at the Iron Tower! The Weaver should have slain you! And you still persist in…”

  He trailed off, alarm going over his sweating face as he realized that he had said too much.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark, releasing Aventine’s chin. “I understand everything now.”

  “Why?” said Arandar, shaking his head.

  “Why what?” said Aventine sullenly.

  “Why become one of the Enlightened?” said Arandar. “Why betray the High King and the Dominus Christus?”

  “I don’t understand what…”

  “We know the truth,” said Arandar. “For once in your life, Aventine Rocarn, speak the truth.”

  Aventine glared at Arandar, malice welling up in his expression like a spring.

  “Because the Dux showed me the truth,” he hissed.

  “Of Incariel,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes!” spat Aventine. “Your Dominus Christus. Bah! Eternal life for all who believe – the weak, the feeble, the pathetic! The Dux knows the truth. The dark elves and the urdmordar are eternal, immortal, imperishable…”

  “My wife might disagree with that,” said Jager.

  Aventine ignored Jager. “The shadow of Incariel gives us strength. If we embrace it, the power of Incariel can make us like the dark elves. It can make us greater than the dark elves, for they failed. Mankind can become immortal and all-powerful, and rule over this world forever. The Dux has already begun the work. You cannot stop it.” He tried to spit on Ridmark’s boots and missed. “An exile, a bastard, and a halfling cannot stop the great work of Incariel.”

  “Maybe not,” said Jager, “but after this, I doubt Tarrabus will let you live long enough to see it.”

  Aventine let out an unsteady laugh. “Are you so sure, halfling rat? Perhaps the Dux will reward me.”

  “I don’t think you quite understand how rewards work,” said Jager.

  “He thinks the Dux will reward him,” said Ridmark, “because he thinks we’re not coming back alive from the ruins.”

  “The guards are all brothers of the Enlightened,” said Aventine. “One Swordbearer and a fool with a stick cannot defeat them.”

  “Just as one fool with a stick cannot escape Paul Tallmane and the Iron Tower?” said Jager.

  “Are you bold enough to kill me now?” hissed Aventine.

  Arandar looked at Ridmark. Once he would not have thought the Gray Knight capable of killing a man in cold blood. That had been before Dun Licinia and Morigna’s death, though.

  “Kill you?” said Ridmark. “Why would I do that? We’ll just leave you tied up here. If you’re right, the secret camp’s guards will kill us and Tarrabus will reward your brilliant stratagem. If you’re wrong, we’ll rescue Accolon, return with evidence proving that Tarrabus is the leader of the Enlightened, and you’ll be beheaded right next to him.”

  Aventine let out another unsteady laugh, his chin falling to his chest. “No. You shall perish in the secret camp. You do not know what awaits you there. You do not know the power there.”

  “And what power is that?” said Ridmark.

  “Incariel,” whispered Aventine.

  Heartwarden jolted at Arandar’s belt.

  “Incariel awaits us at the ruins?” said Jager. “I find that unlikely.”

  Aventine’s head snapped back up, and Arandar cursed, reaching for Heartwarden’s hilt.

  Aventine’s eyes had filled with darkness. His eyes looked like the eyes of the Warden, or the eyes of the Traveler. In a burst of intuition, Arandar realized that was the goal of Tarrabus and the Enlightened. Just as the dark elves had been created from the high elves by the power of Incariel’s shadow, so was Tarrabus trying to create a new kindred of men.

  “Incariel!” shouted Aventine. “Yes. Yes! I am your servant! Let your shadow fill me!”

  “That does it,” said Jager, reaching for his own sword. “You might not be willing to kill him, but…”

  Aventine screamed, and the shadows erupted from him.

  A twisting haze of shadows swirled around the tree, and the ropes rotted away at their touch. Aventine surged forward, still howling, and Arandar heard the crackle as the bones in his broken fingers healed. He threw out his hands, and the shadows surged towards Ridmark. Yet the staff of Ardrhythain glowed with white symbols, as it had against Shadowbearer in Khald Azalar, and the shadows flowed around Ridmark like water around a stone.

  Aventine had not expected that, and faltered for a moment in confusion. Ridmark seized that moment to attack, the staff a blur of white light in his hands. The blow should have shattered Aventine’s skull like an egg, yet somehow the knight dodged with impossible speed. The shadow of Incariel must have strengthened him, giving him speed and reflexes beyond human abilities.

  Fortunately, Arandar also had something that gave him speed and strength beyond human limitations.

  Heartwarden flashed from its scabbard, the soulblade blazing with white fire. His bond with the sword filled Arandar with strength and power, and he used that power, hurtling forward to strike at Aventine. The Enlightened dodged, avoiding Heartwarden’s burning blade with the grace of a serpent. That gave Ridmark an opening, and he struck again, his staff smashing into the side of Aventine’s knee with crushing force. Arandar heard the bone snap, and Aventine stumbled with a cry, the shadows in his eyes twisting.

  Arandar plunged Heartwarden home, sinking the soulblade into Aventine’s chest. The sword’s fire blazed hotter, and Arandar felt the power of the sword rage against the shadows mantling Aventine. Heartwarden filled him with a furious eagerness when facing creatures of dark magic, but the sword seemed to burn with fury against the shadow of Incariel.

  Aventine screamed, and the shadows around him withered and vanished. The darkness drained from his eyes, and for a moment he looked horrified and confused and very, very frightened.

  Then he slid from the blade and fell dead to the ground.

/>   Arandar let out a long breath, raising Heartwarden as the sword’s fire went dark.

  “God and the apostles and all the saints,” muttered Jager. “Just like Paul Tallmane, before the Artificer claimed him.”

  “The Enlightened can do that?” said Arandar, staring at the corpse.

  “That and other things,” said Ridmark. “They call their adepts the ‘Initiated’. The shadow of Incariel makes them stronger and faster, lets them heal quickly, and sometimes gives them other abilities. Like the Weaver’s power to change form, or Imaria’s ability to travel in the blink of an eye.”

  “He looked like the Warden,” said Arandar. “Or the Traveler.”

  “The same shadow made the dark elves,” said Ridmark. “This war has been going on long before any of us were born. The Old Man said something like that, before he trapped us.”

  “Old Man?” said Arandar.

  “Coriolus,” said Ridmark. “Morigna’s false teacher. He was an Eternalist, one of the predecessors of the Enlightened. Aventine could have been worse. Coriolus transformed into this…thing, this monster that looked like an urvuul, only less comely.”

  “There’s a cheerful thought,” said Jager.

  “We barely defeated him,” said Ridmark. “Morigna was…” He frowned and gave a sharp shake of his head, as if the memory pained him. “We had best go. I know the ruin Aventine spoke of. It’s not far from here.”

  “Perhaps we should go back and get help,” said Jager. “Aventine said all of the guards at the secret camp were Enlightened. One Enlightened is bad enough. Seven or eight of them at once? Those are not good odds.”

  “Likely not all of them are Initiated,” said Ridmark.

  “I didn’t think Aventine was Initiated,” said Jager, “and if you and Arandar had been a half-second slower, he would have killed all three of us.”

  “Aventine wasn’t one of the Initiated,” said Ridmark. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have let us tie him up, and he certainly wouldn’t have let me break all the fingers in his sword hand. No, I think he called upon Incariel in his desperation, and the shadow answered. Look.”