Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “No.” Morigna had been a better shot, but even she couldn’t have managed it at this angle.

  “What, then?” said Jager.

  “Go get Arandar,” said Ridmark. “Have him walk in plain sight up the hill.”

  “That’s a terrible plan,” said Jager.

  “It’s a risky plan,” said Ridmark, “but I think it will work.”

  “Fine,” said Jager with a sigh. “Just don’t get killed. I don’t want to have to explain how you got killed to Mara.”

  “Your concern is touching,” said Ridmark. “Go.”

  Jager nodded and disappeared down the slope.

  Ridmark moved forward, gliding from tree to tree. Thanks to the aid of his gray cloak, he avoided the gaze of the sentry, and reached the door at the base of the watch tower. The wood had rotted away centuries ago, but the stone stairs still spiraled up to the tower’s crest. Ridmark crept up the stairs, his staff ready in his hand, his boots making no sound against the stone steps. Moving in silence while carrying the long staff was a challenge, but it was a challenge he had mastered long ago.

  He reached the top of the stairs and crouched, looking over the turret. A knight in plate armor stood nearby, gazing over the battlements at the pine forest, a surcoat in the colors of the House of the Carhainii over his armor. That in itself meant something strange was going on. A knight would not normally perform mundane guard duty.

  Not unless he was guarding something his lord would prefer to keep secret.

  Ridmark rested his staff against the steps and drew his dwarven war axe. The glyphs carved into the blade gave off a sullen orange-yellow light, like the glow of a dying furnace. He wrapped both hands around the haft and waited, gauging the distance between his position and the knight.

  The Carhaine knight turned, striding to the battlements, and frowned at the hillside. He must have spotted Arandar. As he did, shadows seemed to boil from his skin, wrapping around him like armor. Ridmark wondered if some of the Initiated of the Enlightened had the ability to protect themselves with the shadow of Incariel, the way the power of a soulblade protected its wielder.

  Best not to find out.

  Ridmark took five running steps forward and swung the axe with all his strength. The blade encountered some resistance when it hit the shadows mantling the knight, but the dwarven steel punched through, and the axe sank halfway into the knight’s neck. The knight went into a weird, jerking dance, blood and shadows coming from his mouth, and Ridmark wrenched the weapon free and struck again.

  The second blow killed the knight, and Ridmark eased him to the floor, blood pooling against the weathered stones. A moment later he was at the foot of the tower, axe back in his belt and staff in hand. Arandar came into sight, Heartwarden raised, and Jager followed with his short sword of dark elven steel ready.

  “The sentry?” said Arandar.

  “Dead,” said Ridmark. “I don’t think anyone noticed yet.”

  Arandar grimaced. “I regret that we had to kill that man in cold blood.”

  “If it makes you feel better, he started calling on the shadow of Incariel before I killed him,” said Ridmark. “God knows he would have killed us. Aventine may not have been bluffing. All the guards here might be Enlightened, and we must not hesitate to kill them.”

  Arandar did not look pleased by the prospect, but he nodded. Once Ridmark would have felt the same way as Arandar, considering such an idea unworthy of a knight and a Swordbearer. But Ridmark was no longer a knight or a Swordbearer…and he doubted he could have maintained such an attitude after Morigna’s death.

  The Enlightened would find no mercy from him.

  “This way,” said Ridmark.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” said Jager.

  “Not really,” said Ridmark, turning towards the crumbled tower of the old keep, “but Aventine mentioned vaults. Any vaults will be below the castra.”

  “We have spent,” said Jager, looking towards the tower, “a lot of time creeping around old ruins.”

  “Time to do it once more,” said Ridmark, starting towards the keep.

  They moved in silence through the tumbled ruins and the pine trees. Most of the stones had been hauled away, but Ridmark still saw old foundations. Here and there a pit yawned into what had once been the cellar of a house or shop. Most of the flagstones of the old street were still in place, though tilted and uneven from generations of roots, and Ridmark and the others made their way forward in silence.

  The old keep rose before them, similar to Dun Licinia’s keep, five stories of blocky stone. The interior had rotted away long ago, and one of the walls had collapsed, filling what had once been the great hall with moss-spotted rubble. Yet part of the rubble had been cleared away, revealing a flight of stone stairs descending into the earth.

  Torchlight came from the bottom of the stairs, along with the faint sound of voices raised in argument.

  Ridmark lifted a finger to his lips for silence, and Arandar and Jager nodded. He started down the stairs, Jager following, and paused as soon as he could see into the room at the bottom. It was a stone vault, the ceiling supported by thick pillars, and Ridmark saw a round table near the stairs. Four men sat there, both men-at-arms and knights, playing cards, an untidy pile of coins in the center of the table. Light came from an old stone hearth against one wall. Ridmark squatted for a moment, sweeping his eyes through the cellar. He saw no other men, but he did see a stone corridor on the far side of the room, its walls lined with narrow doors.

  The perfect place to store prisoners.

  Ridmark made up his mind and headed back up the stairs with Jager.

  “Four of them,” he told Arandar. “We can probably take them.”

  “Even if they are Initiated?” said Arandar.

  “You have Heartwarden,” said Ridmark, “and I have my staff. If they rely on their shadow-powers to attack, their failure will give us a few seconds. That can make all the difference in a battle.”

  “What about me?” said Jager.

  “Stay behind us and don’t get killed,” said Ridmark.

  “I like that part of the plan,” said Jager.

  Ridmark shifted his staff to his left hand and produced his bow with his right. He moved back down the stairs in silence, stopping halfway, and raised a hand for the others to halt. Arandar and Jager came to a stop behind him. At this distance, they could see into the cellar, but he doubted the men within could see him so long as he did not make noise. The firelight would have ruined their night vision. The men ought to have posted a man to watch the stairs, but perhaps the guards had grown lax.

  Ridmark leaned his staff against the wall in silence, drew an arrow, and took aim.

  One deep breath to steady his hands, and he released his bowstring.

  He wasn’t as good of a shot as Morigna had been, but at this range it didn’t matter. The arrow slammed into the neck of the man nearest the door. He shot to his feet with a gurgling cry, fell back into his chair, and then his head landed upon the table with a thump, the coins jangling.

  Before the dying man even fell, Ridmark was sprinting down the stairs, bow discarded and staff reclaimed. The three remaining knights and men-at-arms gaped in surprised dismay at their slain comrade. It was a disadvantageous position from which to face an attack, and Ridmark exploited it. Before the guards could rise, he struck, the length of his staff slamming across the nearest knight’s temple with bone-cracking force. The remaining two men burst to their feet, and shadows erupted from both of them as Arandar dashed into the cellar, Heartwarden blazing with new fire.

  “Incariel!” screamed the nearest knight, flinging one hand in Ridmark’s direction. Shadows erupted from him in a snarling coil, but the staff of Ardrhythain glowed with white symbols, deflecting the shadows. He lunged at the knight, but the Enlightened jumped back with enhanced speed, drawing his sword. Arandar raced around the table to face the other Enlightened, soulblade clashing against the knight’s longsword.

 
; Ridmark retreated as the Initiated went on a furious assault, eyes filled with darkness, sword flickering back and forth. The Initiated knight was a capable swordsman, his strength augmented by Incariel’s shadow, but he was not as powerful as Jonas Vorinus or Paul Tallmane, and Ridmark had beaten them both. He kept retreating, letting the Initiated drive him towards the wall, and then launched a swing towards his opponent’s head. The knight’s sword flicked up with contemptuous ease, but like so many of Ridmark’s enemies, he didn’t know how to properly defend against a staff. Ridmark’s swing had been a feint, and he jabbed the end of his staff hard into the knight’s belly. Even the Initiated of the Enlightened of Incariel needed to breathe, and the knight staggered as the air exploded from his lungs. Before he recovered, Ridmark hit his right knee, and the knight’s leg folded.

  Ridmark’s staff came down upon the knight’s head three times in rapid succession, and the Initiated collapsed, blood leaking upon the flagstones.

  White fire flashed as Arandar dueled the remaining Initiated, driving him towards the narrow corridor. The face of the man-at-arms was wild, his eyes filled with shadow, a mace blurring in his hand as he attacked Arandar. Ridmark moved to help Arandar, and then he heard a metallic click. A crossbow quarrel sprouted from the man-at-arms’ belly, and the Initiated staggered with a grunt, flailing for balance.

  Arandar struck, ending the fight, and the Initiated toppled to join his slain comrades.

  “Where did you get a crossbow?” said Ridmark.

  Jager strolled from the base of the stairwell and tossed the crossbow upon the table. “It was on that barrel by the door.” He began scooping up the coins from the card game. “I think whoever was supposed to be on guard at the top of the stairs came down here place a wager. Probably a bad bet.”

  “Probably,” agreed Ridmark, watching the corridor. He could hear no signs of alarm, nor did he see anyone moving. Had Tarrabus left only five men to guard his secret camp? It made a certain amount of sense. There was only the remotest chance that Accolon would ever inherit the crown of Andomhaim, and Tarrabus could kill the boy when convenient. Perhaps Tarrabus had trusted in secrecy for his defense.

  Then Ridmark heard the faint voice.

  “Is anyone there?” At first he thought it a man’s voice, but it cracked and went up an octave on the last word. “What’s going on? Guards?”

  “Accolon,” said Arandar. “Accolon!” He sprinted into the corridor, Heartwarden’s white fire fading away, and stopped before one of the narrow doors. “Accolon, is that you?”

  “Father?” came the faint voice from behind the door. “How did you get here?”

  “Jager!” said Arandar, whirling to face the halfling. “Can you pick the lock?”

  “Of course.” Jager stooped over one of the dead men-at-arms and picked up a metal ring holding a pair of massive iron keys. “Or I could just use one of these.”

  ###

  The lock clicked and the massive door, at least four inches thick, swung open with a groan of heavy hinges.

  Accolon stood behind the door, blinking at the sudden light, and a wave of overpowering relief went through Arandar. His son was alive. Thank God and the Dominus Christus and all the apostles and all the saints, his son was alive.

  “Father?” said Accolon, blinking. He had Arandar’s dark eyes and hair and nose, though the rest of his features looked so much like Isolde that it hurt. “How…how did you get here? Did…”

  Arandar caught his son in a hug.

  “Dux Tarrabus didn’t take you captive, did he?” said Accolon. “I don’t…”

  “No,” said Arandar. “We are here to break you out. I returned from Urd Morlemoch with Truthseeker, but Tarrabus refused to keep his word. So here we are.”

  “Father,” said Accolon. “Dux Tarrabus he is…he is a wicked man. He…”

  “He has betrayed the High King and the Dominus Christus,” said Arandar. “I know. All too well, I fear.”

  “He prays to shadows,” said Accolon. “I’ve seen him do it, and his men.” The words tumbled out of him, faster and faster. “They will pray to a shadow, and kill a man upon an altar, and they receive powers of shadow in return. That must be how Sir Linus obtained his powers.” He shook his head. “The Dux offered to free me if I would pray to the shadow, but I refused him.”

  “Good,” said Arandar. “Good. I am proud of you. That must have been difficult.”

  “Father, Dux Tarrabus means the High King ill,” said Accolon. “He has many followers, and all of them can command shadows the way that Sir Linus did.”

  “That’s why my friends and I are here, my son,” said Arandar. “To rescue you, first. But once we rescued you…”

  Accolon nodded. “To find evidence of Tarrabus’s evil.” He blinked and looked at Ridmark and Jager. “Forgive me, sirs. In my excitement…I quite forgot you were there.”

  A surge of pride mixed with Arandar’s overwhelming relief. God, but his son would make a splendid knight someday! He had feared to find Accolon half-starved, out of his mind from pain and torture and deprivation. Yet he had borne up well through his ordeal. How proud Isolde would have been!

  “I quite understand,” said Jager. “Tarrabus Carhaine has locked me up a few times, too.”

  Accolon blinked. Likely a halfling had never spoken to him in that tone before. “I…see.” He offered a polite bow in Ridmark and Jager’s direction. “I am Accolon of Tarlion, sirs, and I thank you for helping my father.” His eyes flicked over the brand on Ridmark’s cheek and jaw, though he said nothing.

  “This is Jager, Prince Consort of the Queen of Nightmane Forest,” said Arandar, “and Ridmark Arban.”

  “Nightmane Forest?” said Accolon, surprised.

  “It is a long story,” said Jager, “and I shall be most delighted to relate it to you when we’re not in a secret stronghold of murderous cultists.”

  “Accolon,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice, and the boy’s dark eyes turned in his direction. “We need proof to convince the High King of Tarrabus’s crimes. I believe Tarrabus plans to murder everyone with a single drop of Pendragon blood. That was why he sent your father to Urd Morlemoch and tried to have Sir Linus Rillon kill you, and why he had you charged with murder when that failed.”

  Accolon nodded. “You are right, sir. Tarrabus has often spoken of it.” He swallowed. “That is how I knew he planned to kill me. He would not have been so open with his plans otherwise.”

  “Do you know what he intends?” said Ridmark.

  “He was not quite that open, alas,” said Accolon. “But he wrote many letters to his friends. Some of them may be that way…there is a large chamber that I think was once an armory, with a bolt hole to the surface.”

  “A back door?” said Jager. “You mean all this time there was a back door?”

  “Some of the old keeps of the Northerland were built with escape tunnels,” said Arandar.

  Jager sighed. “We could have avoided so much work!”

  “We would have had to fight the guards in any event,” said Ridmark. “Accolon, are you well enough to travel?”

  “I would run to Tarlion and back if it got me out of here, sir,” said Accolon.

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “We’ll search the armory and see if we can find anything that proves Tarrabus’s schemes, and then rejoin Calliande.” Arandar supposed it was almost dawn by now. She would be preparing her spell to ward the army against the freezing power of the revenants.

  “But we must be careful,” said Accolon. “The crystal woman might be in the armory again.”

  Ridmark paused, frowning.

  “The crystal woman?” he said at last. “Describe her to me.”

  “I have never seen her like,” said Accolon. “She stood nine feet tall, and her skin was…like crystal, like she was a statue, but it seemed as flexible as real skin.”

  “Did her eyes glow?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes, sir,” said Accolon. “They didn’t just glow. Her eyes…burned
. With blue fire. Well, I say it was fire, but it looked cold, horribly cold, and she had veins of the fire underneath her face and hands. I was eating soup when she walked past, and the top of the soup froze.”

  “Gray armor,” said Ridmark. “She was wearing gray armor?”

  “It looked like it had been made out of ice,” said Accolon. “She was talking with Tarrabus, something about a battle. They walked past my cell, and then I couldn’t hear any more.”

  “How long ago was this?” said Ridmark.

  “I’m not sure, sir,” said Accolon. “I’ve lost track of time down here. I…think it was three days. Maybe four? I am sorry I cannot be more specific.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. He looked at Arandar. “It seems clear that Tarrabus is plotting with the Frostborn.”

  “The Frostborn?” said Accolon, astonished. “Were not the Frostborn exterminated in ancient days?”

  “Driven back, not exterminated,” said Ridmark. “I believe that Tarrabus will betray the High King during the coming battle.”

  “But that is madness,” said Arandar, stunned. “The Frostborn would exterminate him along with everyone else.”

  “Would they?” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn asked us to submit before they took Dun Licinia. Tarrabus deals in treachery the way a smith deals in steel. Likely he has promised to submit to the Dominion of the High Lords as a vassal king. He’ll kill the High King and his sons, seize the throne, and turn Andomhaim into a province of the Dominion of the High Lords. Then he will have time to spread the doctrines of the Enlightened, to create his immortal humanity, and betray the Frostborn at his leisure.”

  “That is mad,” said Arandar, but he heard the lack of conviction in his voice. It made sense. It made cold, horrible sense. Everything he had seen about the Enlightened, about the Frostborn, now fit together. Why would Tarrabus try to kill the High King’s bastard son and grandchildren unless he planned to kill the High King and his trueborn children? Why would Tarrabus work with Tymandain Shadowbearer, who had planned to summon the Frostborn to Andomhaim, unless he planned to ally with the Frostborn? And why ally with the Frostborn, unless he planned to revolt against them once he had achieved his goals?”