His form reknit itself into something like a black-armored locusari warrior, sleek and fast and deadly, and the Weaver started killing. He took the two Magistri first, ending their misery. Then he killed the High King’s sons, one after another, finishing Crown Prince Kaldraine last. The High King screamed in fury and pain, struggling to draw Excalibur. Imaria was impressed. She thought the shadows would have killed the sick old man first, but he held on, fighting with stubborn fury.
Stubborn, but futile.
The Weaver beheaded Uthanaric Pendragon with a sweep of his blades. The High King’s head rolled through the dirt, the dark eyes staring in frozen rage and fear at the sky.
Imaria released her spell, the shadows spinning away.
Nearly two hundred men lay dead around her. Without the benefit of magical protection, Incariel’s shadow had torn through them. The House of Pendragon lay in a tangled heap before her, their royal blood seeping into the dirt. A ripple of chaos went through the surrounding men, their orderly lines wavering. Soon enough they would come howling for her blood, furious to avenge their precious High King, but for now they were too shocked to react.
Imaria lifted the bloody crown of red gold from Uthanaric’s head, and then yanked Excalibur from his corpse’s belt, taking care to keep the sword in its sheath and to only touch the scabbard. Tymandain Shadowbearer had fallen to a soulblade, and she had no intention of repeating his fate.
“Do not touch the weapon,” said the Weaver.
“Of course not,” said Imaria. She felt the ancient sword’s wrath beneath the leather of the scabbard. Excalibur was an old, old weapon, at least by the standards of humans. It had been forged upon Old Earth, and carried to Andomhaim, passed down from High King to High King over the centuries. After Ardrhythain had founded the Two Orders, Excalibur had been reforged into a soulblade, its bond passed from High King to High King.
Imaria wanted to throw the wretched thing to the ground, to get it far away from her, but Tarrabus needed it, since for a thousand years the High King of Andomhaim had carried Excalibur and worn the Pendragon Crown. Neither Imaria nor the shadow within her cared what happened to Tarrabus Carhaine and Andomhaim, but for now she needed Tarrabus to gain access to the High King’s Citadel in Tarlion, to disarm the mighty, ancient wards in the heart of the Citadel.
She needed Tarrabus to get her to the Well, the final key to her freedom.
Tarrabus couldn’t understand the truth of her vision. He wanted to make mankind immortal and powerful.
She would free mankind from the flesh itself.
“Come,” said Imaria.
The Weaver exploded, reshaping himself into the form of a twisted drake. Imaria spread her arms, the crown in one hand and the sword in the other, and the Weaver picked up her and soared into the sky, leathery wings beating.
They left the High King’s corpse behind, this guardians lying dead around him.
###
Tarrabus watched the battle.
The footmen in the center, the men of Cintarra and Durandis and Taliand and Caertigris, were marching to aid the orcs and the men of the Northerland. The footmen on the left and right wings had started to advance, but more tentatively. The High King’s trumpeters had ordered them forward, and the men in the center responded with enthusiasm, but the right and left wings lagged.
They were waiting for a different signal.
As Tarrabus watched, he saw the creature rise from the army, soaring overhead, a white-robed woman held in its claws.
At last.
“Sir Caradog,” said Tarrabus. The blond-bearded knight straightened in the saddle. “You shall have the honor. Signal our trumpeters.”
“My lord!” said Caradog with a vicious smile. “I shall indeed be honored.” He turned and signaled to the trumpeters, and they blew out a series of prearranged blasts. The sound faded away, and a moment later came the distant sound of answering trumpets from the left wing, from the men of the Duxi of Arduran and Calvus.
The center crashed into the medvarth and the locusari warriors, the battle starting to degenerate into a general melee. Now would have been the perfect moment for the right and the left wings to attack, for the cavalry to rush to the aid of the center.
Instead, the left wing turned, beginning the march to Tarlion. Around Tarrabus, the men of Caerdracon and Tarras heeded the command of their lords, turning and heading south. It was too late for the men and orcs in the center to withdraw. If they tried, the medvarth and the locusari would rip them apart. They had no choice but to stand and fight, and they would be enveloped. That would pack them together, allowing them be slaughtered, or the khaldjari to bring their siege engines to bear.
The High King was dead, and his loyalists would perish wish him.
Tarrabus only wished he could have seen dour old Gareth Licinius and pompous old Leogrance Arban die, slaughtered by the locusari or ripped to pieces by the medvarth. He wished he could watch Ridmark Arban die.
Well. Perhaps the Frostborn would send him Ridmark’s head.
“The Anathgrimm?” said Tarrabus.
“Still in their camp, my lord Dux,” said Caradog. “They have not stirred. The High King should have summoned them when he still had the chance.”
“He should have done a lot of things when he still had the chance,” said Tarrabus. There would be time enough to deal with “Queen” Mara and her army of orcish mutants later. Perhaps the Frostborn would crush her for him. “We have greater work before us…ah.”
The Weaver dropped from the sky, landing with smooth grace before them. The horses shied and whinnied away from the misshapen creature, and Imaria stepped away from him, carrying something in her arms. As she did, the Weaver’s form exploded into black threads, and rewove itself into his favored appearance of a kindly old man in a pristine white robe.
“My lady Shadowbearer,” said Tarrabus with a courtly bow from the saddle.
Imaria just stared at him. She had been a beautiful woman, but inheriting the mantle of Shadowbearer had done nothing for her appearance. She now looked corpselike, veins of black shadow threading through her graying skin, her eyes like bloodshot mirrors. It was just as well she did not appear to have any further interest in appetites of the flesh, because Tarrabus would not have wanted to share a bed with her.
The power had done no favors for her sanity, either, but that didn’t matter. Tarrabus would not hesitate to use her power, or that of the Weaver.
“Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Imaria in her eerie double voice.
“It is done?” said Tarrabus.
In answer she held up the Pendragon Crown and the sheathed Excalibur. Tarrabus took the sword, careful not to touch the exposed hilt, and laid it across the saddle.
“Sir Caradog,” said Tarrabus. “Send a message to the secret camp. The men there are to execute Accolon at once, and then join our march south.” He turned back to Imaria. “I trust that the Keeper is slain?”
“She lives yet,” said Imaria.
“What?” said Tarrabus, his hand coiling into a fist. For a moment fury threatened to overwhelm him, but he shoved it aside with ruthless discipline. Imaria was powerful enough that he could not force her to do anything. “Why is she still alive?”
“She was exhausted from the ward, as you predicted,” said Imaria. “Yet Ridmark Arban and Sir Arandar arrived to aid her, and we had no choice but to retreat.”
“You didn’t kill either one of them?” said Tarrabus. That was bad. “What were you thinking? Why did you not…”
He caught control of himself. It didn’t matter. The die had already been cast. Once the Keeper and Ridmark and Arandar saw what was happening, they would rush to the aid of the doomed men, and they would die with them. The Frostborn were potent adversaries, and they would not be overcome by the likes of an exhausted Keeper and her pet Gray Knight.
“No matter,” said Tarrabus at last. “We return to Tarlion at once.”
The Weaver smiled. “Do you not wish the crown…High
King of Andomhaim?”
Yes. He liked the sound of that.
“May I place the crown upon your head, my king?” said Caradog.
“No,” said Tarrabus, reaching down to take the Pendragon Crown from Imaria’s hands. In Tarlion, by long tradition the bishop of the city crowned the High King in the cathedral before processing in solemn pomp to the Citadel. But Tarrabus’s crown did not come from a priest’s hands. It had not been given to him by God. Not even his vassals had won him this crown.
He had taken it, by right of conquest, by right of strength.
In that moment, Tarrabus Carhaine crowned himself the High King of Andomhaim.
“Come,” Tarrabus said. “Let us leave our enemies to their destruction. Tarlion awaits us.”
Chapter 21: Bone Masks
Ridmark watched the army of Andomhaim break apart. The right and left wings retreated down the Moradel road, leaving the center and the vanguard to be destroyed by the Frostborn.
“We failed,” said Calliande, her voice hoarse. She looked as shaken as he had ever seen her. “God and the apostles, we failed.”
Ridmark said nothing. The men of the Northerland and Cintarra and Durandis and Taliand, along with the warriors of the three orcish kingdoms, were locked in battle against the lines of the medvarth. Already the medvarth line was circling around them, and through the haze of the battle Ridmark saw troops of locusari warriors cutting them off from retreat. Soon the loyalist men would be trapped, and they would make a superb target for the siege engines of the khaldjari.
The Frostborn would slaughter them all.
“This is my fault,” said Calliande, her voice twisted with remorse. “I should have made Uthanaric see. I should have made him listen!”
“Keeper,” said Antenora, but Calliande bowed her head, her forehead resting against the Keeper’s staff.
Still Ridmark said nothing, watching the battle. He had found the truth at last, but too late.
Far, far too late.
“It was all for nothing,” said Calliande in a rasp. “The first war against the Frostborn. The Order of the Vigilant. So many men and women died, and I failed them. They all died for nothing.”
The rage burned in Ridmark, but he felt…cold. Cold and distant and remote. He badly wanted to kill his enemies, but he knew giving into rage or despair would achieve nothing. To find a path to victory, he had to be cold and logical.
“Burn with me,” he whispered.
Odd. Why would he have said that?
No one seemed to have heard him, though, transfixed as they were by the catastrophic defeat unfolding before their eyes.
“Keeper,” said Jager. “We should rejoin Mara and the Anathgrimm. I…suppose we can circle to the south, cross the Moradel, and reach Nightmane Forest. We ought to be safe from the Frostborn there, and we can figure out what to do then.”
“The realm is lost,” said Calliande. “The Frostborn have won, and Andomhaim is overthrown. I have failed in my trust.”
Burn with me…
Suddenly, the pieces clicked together in Ridmark’s head. It was a risk, yes. Everything they could do was a risk. But it might work. It might well work.
The battle was not yet over.
“Go and do as you think best,” said Calliande with a ragged breath. “I think…”
“Stop talking,” said Ridmark.
She didn’t hear him. “Arandar, you might want to take Accolon somewhere out of reach. Somewhere Tarrabus cannot find him. He…”
“Shut up!” said Ridmark.
He had never used that tone with her. She flinched as if he had slapped her, her bloodshot blue eyes enormous as she stared at him.
“Listen to me,” said Ridmark. “All of you, listen! This isn’t over. We have seen certain death before. The Warden trapped us in Urd Morlemoch. The Anathgrimm almost slew us in the Vale of Stone Death. Shadowbearer and the Traveler both almost killed us in Khald Azalar. We survived.”
“But…” said Calliande in an uncertain voice.
“We survived the Warden and the Traveler and Tymandain Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark. “If we survived them, I refuse to surrender to someone as venal as Tarrabus Carhaine and as spiteful as Imaria Licinius. The battle isn’t over yet.” He pointed at Calliande. “Like she said, you can do as you wish. But I am not giving up.”
For a moment no one said anything, then Calliande wiped at her eyes and gave a hesitant nod. One by one the others voiced their agreement as well, even Accolon.
“Oh, God save us,” sighed Jager. “Here we go again.”
“But what can we do?” said Arandar. “The position of Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance and the others is hopeless. The Frostborn have them surrounded.”
“They haven’t surrounded the Anathgrimm, have they?” said Ridmark. “Qhazulak complained that he had not seen battle in too long. I promised him fighting, and by God he shall have his fill and then some by the end of this day."
“The Anathgrimm are not enough to turn the tide,” said Arandar. “They are fierce fighters, but there simply are not enough of them. If we aid Dux Gareth and the others, the Frostborn have the numbers to envelop us both.”
“Not,” said Ridmark, “if we go after the Frostborn themselves.”
Arandar blinked in confusion…and then Ridmark saw the realization start to spread across his face.
“What do you mean?” said Calliande.
“Look,” said Ridmark, pointing. “Just look at their lines.”
She frowned, and then her eyes widened as understanding came to her.
“The medvarth and the locusari and the khaldjari are not our enemies, not really,” said Ridmark. “They’re just the slaves of the Frostborn. The Frostborn are our enemies.”
Calliande nodded. She had seen what Ridmark had seen. The entirety of the enemy host had surged forward, intent on encircling and crushing their foes. In doing so, they had left the Frostborn themselves exposed behind the lines.
The Anathgrimm had a direct path to the Frostborn.
Perhaps the Frostborn knew that and did not care. They had fought the Anathgrimm before, during the first war two centuries ago, and perhaps with the Traveler dead they thought the Anathgrimm were no longer a threat.
It was time to show them otherwise.
“The Swordbearers, too,” said Calliande.
Ridmark nodded. The High King’s plan had kept the bulk of the Swordbearers back as a reserve, ready to engage the Frostborn. Master Marhand would be with them, and likely the old Swordbearer had no idea what was going on. If Ridmark and the Anathgrimm could link up with the Swordbearers and join forces to assail the Frostborn themselves…
“It could work,” said Arandar.
“If we move at once,” said Ridmark. “Are you up to running?”
Calliande nodded. “Ridmark, forgive me. I…”
“We can talk about that later,” said Ridmark. “Go!”
He started running down the hill, the others following.
###
Calliande forced herself to run. She still had not recovered from casting the great ward, and the battle atop the hill had drained her further. Yet she kept running. She could not use magic to augment her stamina and strength the way that a soulblade could empower its Swordbearer, but she made herself keep running.
She could not stop now.
Not when there was a chance to snatch something, anything, from the catastrophic defeat that threatened to engulf Andomhaim.
Again self-recrimination lashed through her thoughts, but she shoved it aside. Now was not the time for such useless musings, not when there was still a chance. A flicker of amusement went through her tired thoughts. Perhaps she had spent enough time around Ridmark to learn his habit of blaming himself.
How Morigna would have laughed at her.
The camp of the Anathgrimm came into sight, even as the distant roar of the battle grew louder in Calliande’s ears. The Anathgrimm had constructed themselves an earthwork fort atop a hill, b
ut Calliande saw that they had already departed it, marching out in orderly rows to place themselves in battle array. Calliande spotted Mara standing at the head of the Anathgrimm in her blue armor and diadem, Zhorlacht and Qhazulak flanking her, the Queen’s Guard standing behind her. Kharlacht and Caius stood with Mara, and all five of them seemed to be locked into an argument.
“We must do something,” said Mara as Calliande drew close enough to hear their conversation.
“We may not be able to do anything, my Queen,” growled Qhazulak.
“I agree with the Lord Captain,” said Zhorlacht. “I do not understand what is happening. Why did a third of Andomhaim’s army quit the field? It does not make any sense. If we charge into battle without understanding the situation, you may be slain, and that is an unacceptable risk.”
“We should send a runner to find the Keeper,” said Kharlacht. “She will have some idea of what is happening.”
Mara frowned, and then she saw Calliande and Ridmark and the others approaching.
“Or the answers,” said Mara, “may come to us.”
Caius smiled and stepped forward. “It seems that God did indeed bless our endeavors.”
Calliande fought back a laugh. Perhaps God had indeed blessed them, but at the moment it was hard to see how anything could have gone worse.
“In a way,” said Ridmark. “We rescued Accolon, and found proof of Tarrabus’s treachery.”
“Is that why he quit the field?” said Mara. She stepped past Caius and hugged Jager.
“No,” said Ridmark. “This was planned all along. The Duxi of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras are all Enlightened. That’s why Tarrabus made sure they were on the wings. He’s fled the field, and left the men of the Northerland, Cintarra, Taliand, Durandis, and Caertigris to be slaughtered with the orcish warriors of the baptized kingdoms.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “The High King and his sons are probably dead. We fought the Weaver and Imaria when they came to assassinate Calliande, and the Weaver said they had an appointment to keep. I suspect they went to slay the High King.”
Frostborn: The High Lords Page 28
