Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  The sunrise threw shafts of hazy light through the pine trees. It was likely another mile or so to Dun Calpurnia. The Anathgrimm camp would be just slightly out of the way, but Ridmark considered going there to bring Mara and the Queen’s Guard. If Tarrabus decided to make a fight of it, the fury of the Anathgrimm and Mara’s talents would prove useful…

  Another sunrise appeared in the western sky.

  Ridmark skidded to a stunned hall, dirt and pine needles rasping beneath his boots. The others halted behind him, staring at the sky. A pillar of fire shot skyward less than a half-mile ahead. Ridmark’s brain caught up with his surprise, and he feared that Dun Calpurnia had just been consumed in a firestorm, that the Frostborn had unleashed some terrible new weapon of war like the machines of Old Earth that the Warden had shown them. Then the fire vanished, and a shimmering halo of yellow-orange light shot towards them.

  Ridmark tensed, but the light moved which such speed that he couldn’t possibly dodge it. The light slammed into him and the others, and for a moment a flickering corona of light surrounded them. Then it seemed to sink into their flesh and vanish, and the forest was undisturbed once more.

  “What was that?” said Accolon.

  “I think,” said Ridmark, “that it was Calliande’s ward against the revenants. She must have finished it.”

  “The pillar of fire came from that hill,” said Jager, pointing. “She must be up there. Should we tell her what we found?”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “We’ll bring her with us, and Gavin, too, if he’s with her and Antenora.” Likely he was. “If I present the letters, that’s one thing. If the Keeper of Andomhaim presents the letters in the company of two Swordbearers, that’s something else entirely.” He gestured at Accolon. “Especially since we have a witness, living proof that Tarrabus lied to the High King.”

  “Will…will the High King listen?” said Accolon. “He did not listen when I told him the truth about Sir Linus Rillon.”

  “Oh, he had better listen,” said Jager. “Else he’s going to wind up a corpse.”

  “We have proof, and an eyewitness,” said Ridmark. “More than one, if we count our conversation with Arlmagnava. Come!”

  He started off at a jog again. They emerged from the pine forest cloaking the hills, heading into the cleared lands around Dun Calpurnia proper. A distant boom of thunder came to Ridmark’s ears, and he looked for the clouds, but the sky was clear.

  No. Not thunder.

  Drums.

  The same drums that had accompanied the advance of the medvarth warriors at Dun Licinia.

  A heartbeat later the sound of trumpets rose from the camps sprawling around the foot of Dun Calpurnia’s hill.

  “Ridmark!” said Arandar. “That’s the call to take up arms.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark.

  “For the entire host?” said Jager.

  “The only reason the High King would call the entire host to arms,” said Ridmark, “is if the Frostborn had arrived in strength.”

  “So soon?” said Arandar. “How? It…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Ridmark. “We’re out of time. We have to warn the High King now. If…”

  A distant flicker of shadow caught his eye.

  It came from the crest of a nearby hill, the same hill from which the massive cylinder of fire had risen a few moments earlier. Likely Calliande and Antenora and the others were still up there.

  And that shadow…

  “Hurry!” said Ridmark, and he broke into a full sprint, heading up the slope of the hill as fast as he could. There was a flash of fire from the crest of the hill, a woman’s voice raised in challenge, and then a wave of shadow that rose up like a tower.

  Ardrhythain’s staff glowed with white symbols of light in Ridmark’s fist, and his dread hardened into rage like iron.

  He dashed to the top of the hill and saw the battle.

  Calliande stood in the center of the hill, exhaustion clear upon her face, a corona of white fire crackling and snarling around her. Imaria Shadowbearer stood a dozen yards away from the Keeper, shadows pouring from the twisted veins in her hands and forearms. Antenora lay between them, caught in the torrent of shadows. Calliande staggered beneath the shadows, her warding spell flickering and crackling as it began to collapse.

  White fire flashed as Gavin dueled a hulking, ursaar-like creature that could only have been the Weaver. For all the Weaver’s power, he was as vulnerable to a soulblade as any other creature of dark magic, and the massive creature moved with fluid, inhuman grace, dodging the white-burning blows of Truthseeker. Gavin attacked with vigor, but he wasn’t experienced enough to see that the Weaver was simply luring him, waiting until not even the soulblade could maintain his stamina.

  Then the Weaver would kill him, just as he had killed Morigna.

  Rage exploded through Ridmark at the sight of Morigna’s murderers. This time, though, the rage was cold, as if his heart had frozen. Ridmark could take his vengeance upon Morigna’s murderers, but he could not do so if he allowed his rage to overrule his thinking. It would get him killed, and worse, it would get Calliande and the others killed in the process.

  Cold. He had to be cold and logical.

  For a moment, none of the combatants had noticed him. Though given that he carried a black staff with glowing symbols, that wouldn’t last long.

  He sprinted at Calliande, dashing past her. Her eyes widened in astonishment, and then Ridmark leaped into the stream of shadows pouring from Imaria’s hands. Ardrhythain’s staff glowed brighter in his fist, and the torrent of shadows parted around him. Calliande recast her warding spell, and Ridmark ran towards Imaria.

  He saw his reflection in her quicksilver eyes, and her face twisted with anger and contempt. A moment later she disappeared, vanishing in a swirl of darkness. She reappeared on the other side of the hill, gathering power for another spell, but this time Calliande was ready. She flung a bolt of white fire, and Imaria had no choice but to disappear again.

  Antenora staggered back to her feet, and Arandar ran across the hilltop, Heartwarden burning in his fist as he rushed to aid Gavin against the Weaver. Accolon started after his father, but Jager grabbed his shoulder, holding him back. Just as well that he did. This was no fight for someone so young. Of course, Gavin was only a few years older than Accolon, but Gavin had a soulblade.

  As Ridmark turned to join the Swordbearers against the Weaver, darkness swirled behind Jager and Accolon. Imaria reappeared further down the hillside, darkness gathering in her hands as she began a spell. She was going to kill Accolon and Jager.

  “Down!” shouted Ridmark, running as fast as he could.

  He got in front of Jager and Accolon just Imaria worked her spell, unleashing another torrent of shadows. Jager and Accolon threw themselves to the ground, and Ridmark ran at Imaria as the shadows hurtled towards him. Again the symbols in the staff glowed brighter, and the shadows flowed around him. Imaria lowered her hands, the shadows fading away, her expression twisted with hatred.

  Yet she did not disappear.

  “Still alive, Ridmark Arban,” said Imaria in the twisted double voice of the Shadowbearer. “Still alive, when all those you love have died.”

  She hated him. He had always known that, but she hated him as much as he hated her. She had hated him even before Aelia had died, and that hatred had festered into something colossal, turning her from a willful young woman into the creature that stood before him now.

  Ridmark’s own rage had almost gotten him killed in Dun Licinia when his hatred had overridden his thinking. Did she hate him enough to make a similar mistake?

  Could he goad her into making a similar mistake?

  He dropped his left hand from his staff, drawing the dwarven war axe from his belt.

  To defeat her, he could not fight the shadow. He had to fight Imaria herself.

  “Still alive,” said Ridmark, “even though you keep trying to kill me?”

  Behind him the Weaver loosed a
furious metallic shriek of rage, Arandar and Gavin both shouting war cries.

  “Soon rectified,” said Imaria. “A new age of freedom shall come for mankind. You, however, shall not live to see it.”

  “You won’t kill me,” said Ridmark. “You’re too stupid and too clumsy. Aelia was right about you.”

  Imaria flinched as if he had slapped her. “What?”

  “She was better than you,” said Ridmark. “Smarter, stronger, more beautiful. No wonder she was your father’s favorite.”

  “You will be silent,” said Imaria. The human half of her voice was filled with rage.

  “You were always everyone’s second choice,” said Ridmark, taking another step towards her, his fingers tightening around the axe’s haft. “Aelia was your father’s favorite. Aelia was Tarrabus’s favorite. Tarrabus only took you into his bed as a poor, second-rate copy of Aelia.” He forced himself to feign a derisive laugh. “You were even the shadow’s second choice. The shadow of Incariel only passed to you after I killed Tymandain. You were its choice of last resort.”

  Imaria said nothing, but the veins of shadow beneath her skin throbbed. The sunrise threw a long, black shadow behind her, and the shadow split into three and started to rotate around her, faster and faster, like serpents preparing to strike.

  “You cannot even avenge Aelia properly,” said Ridmark. “You couldn’t kill me. You just killed Morigna. She never even met Aelia! You sold your soul, and you can’t even avenge your sister.” He took two more steps closer to Imaria, saw that she was trembling with utter rage. “Just as well that Aelia is dead. You would embarrass…”

  That did it.

  Imaria shrieked in fury, so loud that her double voice threatened to split Ridmark’s ears. She threw her hands towards him, and the shadows erupted from her like a wave, the grass and small trees near her withering to ash, a torrent of darkness thundering upon Ridmark. The symbols on the black staff kept the shadows from enveloping him, but they howled around him like a storm, the very ground beneath his boots crumbling into dust, and Ridmark struggled to keep his footing.

  “Then perish!” shrieked Imaria, striding towards him with her hands hooked into claws, the shadows pouring from her. “Perish a thousand times, worm! This world shall die and a new one shall rise in its place, and you shall scream for millennia beyond…”

  Ridmark threw his axe.

  The weapon wasn’t really balanced for throwing, and Imaria started to dodge, but Ridmark had more practice throwing the axe than he would have liked. The blade clipped her right arm, and Imaria stumbled with a scream, red blood soaking into the white sleeve of her robe. The shadows winked out, and Ridmark ran at her, drawing back his staff to strike. All his rage and hate seemed to focus within him, the entire world centering upon Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer as he prepared the blow that would crush the life from her.

  For an instant, he saw fear on her face, and a half-second before his staff would have hit her skull she vanished in a swirl of darkness. A moment of blinding rage and frustration went through him, and Ridmark spun, seeking for Imaria.

  But she had vanished, likely to heal the wound that the dwarven axe had dealt to her arm.

  Ridmark snatched up his axe and ran to aid Calliande and Arandar and Gavin against the Weaver.

  ###

  Arandar dodged another sweep of the Weaver’s claws, avoiding the creature’s blow only with the speed of Heartwarden. Gavin tried to land a strike with Truthseeker, but the Weaver dodged with serpentine, fluid grace, moving faster than something that size should have been able to move. A burst of white fire shot past Arandar, leaping from Calliande’s staff, and clipped the Weaver on his muscled shoulder. The creature staggered, and both Arandar and Gavin lunged. The Weaver leaped backwards, landing out of reach. Arandar went left and Gavin went right, hoping to give Antenora and Calliande a clear shot at the Weaver, but instead the bear-like creature charged right at Arandar. He considered standing and trying to land a hit, but realized the Weaver would likely crush him. At the last moment he flung himself to the side, hitting the ground and rolling. The Weaver skidded to a halt and pivoted, rising on his rear paws to bring his bulk crashing down upon Arandar. He scrambled backward, trying to get Heartwarden up in time to defend himself…

  Ridmark attacked, driving his dwarven war axe into the Weaver’s exposed belly. The bronze-colored weapon sank to the haft in the Weaver’s flesh, and the ancient Enlightened let out a furious scream of rage. A claw-tipped paw the size of a shield swiped at Ridmark’s face, but he danced to the side, ripping the axe free, and swung again. The Weaver jerked to avoid the blow, but Gavin attacked the creature from behind, plunging Truthseeker to the hilt in the Weaver’s flank.

  The Weaver threw back his misshapen head and howled, and Arandar heaved himself to his feet, stabbing with all his strength. Heartwarden ripped into the Weaver’s shadow-corrupted flesh with a blaze of white fire. The Weaver screamed again, and Ridmark went into a furious attack, chopping the dwarven axe into the Weaver’s thick neck again and again, black slime flying from the widening wound. The dwarven weapon wasn’t as effective as a soulblade, but with Ridmark’s enraged strength behind it, that hardly mattered. Perhaps they had the Weaver at last, could at last put an end this ancient, evil creature…

  The Weaver exploded into a maze of snarling black threads, and the tangle leapt backwards to land at the edge of the hill. The threads knitted themselves into the form of an old man in a white robe, his eyes narrowed, his breath coming hard and fast. Both Ridmark and Morigna had thought that the Weaver possessed the ability to heal his wounds between every transformation, and it seemed that they had been correct – there was no sign of the garish wounds the Weaver’s body should have borne.

  Shadow swirled next to him, and Imaria reappeared, her right sleeve darkened with blood, though she bore no other sign of injury.

  “A vigorous defense,” said the Weaver, still breathing hard.

  Ridmark stooped, retrieved his staff, and started towards them both, moving with slow, cautious steps.

  “But futile,” said Imaria in the hideous double voice of the Shadowbearer. Arandar wondered if the second voice was the voice of Incariel itself, speaking through its chosen vessel. “It is too late. You can do nothing to stop what is to come. It has already been decided. I shall have my freedom, and this world shall be remade.”

  “Come closer and say that,” said Ridmark.

  Her mirrored gaze shifted to Ridmark, and her lip peeled back from her teeth in a snarl.

  “And you, Ridmark Arban,” said Imaria. “You…”

  “Alas,” said the Weaver. “We have an appointment to keep, my dear.”

  “Yes,” said Imaria. “You will see, Ridmark. Perhaps that shall be your punishment. To live to see your failure.”

  Both Calliande and Antenora struck at once, Calliande unleashing a blazing shaft of white fire, and Antenora flinging a sphere of flame. Yet Imaria and the Weaver were already moving. Imaria vanished in a swirl of darkness, and the Weaver leapt into the air, exploding into a maze of shadowy threads once more. Calliande’s shaft of fire ripped through the empty air, and Antenora’s fireball exploded against the slope. The Weaver reformed into a winged creature that looked something like a twisted drake, wheeled over their heads, and hurtled away to the north. Calliande cast another bolt of white fire at the creature, but the Weaver dodged and flew away with terrific speed.

  Silence fell over the hilltop, save for the crackle of the burning grass…and the distant sounds of drums and trumpets.

  Ridmark let out a curse, flinging his staff to the ground in frustration.

  Chapter 19: Just A Little Too Late

  Calliande leaned upon the staff of the Keeper, her heart racing, trying to get her breathing back under control.

  “Are you wounded?”

  She looked up as Ridmark walked towards her. The real Ridmark this time, not the Weaver wrapped in a treacherous disguise.

  “No,” she said.
“Just exhausted. The Weaver and Imaria must have been waiting until I finished the ward to attack.”

  “Then you were successful?” said Ridmark. “You worked the ward?”

  Despite her exhaustion, Calliande grinned. “Aye. The spell worked. It took all night to summon the power for it, but the spell worked. The fighting men of Andomhaim and the allied orcish kingdoms are now warded from the freezing touch of the revenants. They will even have some protection from the Frostborn themselves.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark, his voice grim. “They shall need every advantage.”

  “And you?” said Calliande, blinking the sweat from her eyes. There was a boy standing near Jager, about thirteen years old, and the family resemblance to Arandar was plain. “Is that…”

  “This is Accolon, my firstborn,” said Arandar, returning Heartwarden to its scabbard. “Accolon, this is Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim, returned to aid the realm against the Frostborn.”

  Accolon’s eyes got wide, but despite his obvious weariness he managed a smooth bow. “My lady.”

  “I am pleased that you are free,” said Calliande. “Sir Arandar went to great lengths and dared great perils to win your release.”

  “I know, my lady,” said Accolon. “Father…is Nyvane safe? I know she was with Aunt Miriam, but…”

  “They are both safe,” said Arandar. “In truth, they are safer than we are. They are with the Anathgrimm.”

  “The Anathgrimm?” said Accolon, recoiling. “The warriors of the Traveler?”

  “The Traveler’s dead, lad,” said Jager. “My wife killed him.”