Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “May God preserve us,” said Caius.

  “That was Tarrabus’s plan,” said Ridmark. “Wipe out every living Pendragon, whether trueborn or bastard, and leave those loyal on the field to die at the hands of the Frostborn.”

  “I fear his plan has succeeded,” said Mara. “What shall we do?”

  “We shall fight,” said Qhazulak.

  “The Lord Captain has the right of it,” said Ridmark. “If we act at once, we can save the men Tarrabus left to die. The medvarth and the locusari have moved forward to envelop the remaining men…”

  “If we attack, they have the numbers to encircle us as well,” said Zhorlacht.

  “Not if we strike at the Frostborn themselves,” said Ridmark. “They’ve left a large gap in their lines. If we join with the Swordbearers and strike directly at the Frostborn, we will force the medvarth and the locusari to divide their attention. That will let the survivors counter-attack, and if the Frostborn themselves are forced to retreat, their entire army will have no choice but to fall back.”

  Mara said nothing, and for a moment Calliande feared that she would say no, that she would refuse to spill the blood of the Anathgrimm in defense of Andomhaim.

  Zhorlacht seemed to sense Calliande’s doubt. “The Anathgrimm fear no foe.”

  “Can we do this?” said Mara. She looked at Ridmark as she spoke. “Can we win this fight?”

  “I do not know,” said Ridmark. “I think we can, yes, but you know as well as I do that no man can see the outcome of a battle. You can withdraw to Nightmane Forest, if you wish. But if you do, the loyalists will be slaughtered and Andomhaim will be divided between the Frostborn and Tarrabus. They will come for Nightmane Forest in time. If we save Dux Gareth and the others, we shall at least have allies to stand with us against the Frostborn.”

  Mara stared at Ridmark for another moment, and then a faint smile went over her pale lips.

  “We’ve gambled with you many times before, my friend,” said Mara. “What is one more?” She turned back to the Anathgrimm. “Zhorlacht, Qhazulak.”

  “My Queen?” said Zhorlacht.

  “As I told you outside of Dun Licinia, so I tell you now,” said Mara. “Do whatever Ridmark tells you.”

  “Then,” said Zhorlacht, “what are your commands?”

  “March at once,” said Ridmark. “To the northwest. We will make our way past the main area of the battle, and strike right at the Frostborn. That should force the medvarth and the locusari to divide their attention, and if we can force the Frostborn to flee, we shall drive them from the field.”

  “So be it,” said Qhazulak.

  Zhorlacht turned and snarled a command in the orcish tongue, and the signal drums of the Anathgrimm boomed out.

  ###

  Arandar jogged forward, Gavin at his side.

  Behind them the Anathgrimm force marched at the Frostborn, drawing nearer to the dust cloud rising from the furious fighting between the locusari and the medvarth and the loyalists. Arandar and Gavin had a different errand. Ridmark had sent them to find Marhand and the Swordbearers.

  Arandar hoped Marhand would listen. The Master of the Swordbearers had accepted Arandar into the Order, but he had never failed to make known his disdain for bastards. On the other hand, the proof of Arandar’s and Ridmark’s claims was now obvious. Even Uthanaric Pendragon could no longer deny the evidence of his eyes.

  Arandar wondered if his father was even still alive. Uthanaric would be the middle of the host, surrounded by his knights and men-at-arms, but if the Weaver and Imaria had indeed gone to kill him…

  He put that thought out of his mind. There were more immediate problems.

  Such as the fight he saw raging before him.

  A band of horsemen in the colors of the House of the Arbanii had broken free from the encirclement, riding hard to the south. A group of locusari warriors had run them down, and the horsemen were entangled in battle, succumbing to the larger numbers of their foes.

  “Ready?” said Arandar.

  Gavin lifted Truthseeker. “After the Weaver, almost anything else seems easy.”

  Arandar nodded in response, adjusted his grip on his shield, drew upon his bond with Heartwarden for speed and strength, and charged. He shot forward and attacked the nearest locusari, Heartwarden hammering down in a blaze of white fire. The soulblade crunched through the blue carapace and into the locusari warrior’s head. The insect-like creature went into a weird, jerking dance, and Arandar ripped the soulblade free. He killed two more locusari warriors before the others reacted. By then Gavin attacked, and he didn’t even bother to use Truthseeker. He bashed the nearest locusari with his shield, flipping the creature onto its back and exposing its belly. The locusari warriors, for all their speed and strength, were not that heavy, and a strong man could knock them over. One of the nearby horsemen stabbed down with a spear, and the overturned locusari screeched as the spearhead plunged into its abdomen.

  Another locusari blurred at Arandar, forelimbs slashing. Arandar ducked back, getting his shield up, and the serrated blades rebounded from the thick wood with terrific force. He thrust with Heartwarden, opening a ragged wound in the warrior’s carapace, and before the creature could recover he thrust again, striking it down. Arandar turned, seeking a new foe, and the Arban horsemen rallied against the locusari, reforming and riding them down.

  A moment later the surviving locusari fled back towards the battle proper.

  “Sir Arandar!” One of the riders pulled off his helmet, revealing the red, sweating face of Tormark Arban. “You have a knack for arriving at the right time.”

  “Sir Tormark,” said Arandar. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  Tormark scowled. His armor was nicked and battered, his surcoat spattered with blood, but he seemed to have come through the battle unscathed. “It is all chaos. Father sent me to find out why the devil the Duxi of Arduran, Calvus, and Tarras have withdrawn from the field. We need their aid now. It…”

  “They are Enlightened, all three of them,” said Arandar. “They’ve abandoned you to die, along with the High King.”

  Tormark gave a grim shake of his head. “The High King is already dead. Along with his sons.”

  “What?” said Arandar.

  “I spoke with some of the survivors,” said Tormark. “Imaria Licinius killed them with a spell of dark magic, along with some creature that could take different shapes. She took Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown and fled.”

  Arandar stared at him. Uthanaric Pendragon, his father, was dead. That in itself was less of a blow than it should have been. He had been Arandar’s father, but they had never been close, and as a knight of Andomhaim Arandar regretted the death of the High King more than he regretted the death of his father.

  The death of his father…and all his trueborn sons.

  Which meant Arandar was now the oldest living descendant of Malahan Pendragon.

  Which meant, by the law of the realm…he could claim the throne of the High King.

  He shoved aside the dread that thought inspired in him. The crown of Andomhaim would be meaningless if the Frostborn and Tarrabus destroyed the realm in the next hour.

  “Horses,” said Arandar. “You have some empty saddles.”

  “Aye.” Tormark scowled. “We lost some men to the locusari.”

  “Come with us,” said Arandar. “The High King may be dead, but all is not yet lost. The Frostborn have left their lines open, and Ridmark intends to lead the Anathgrimm against them. If we can drive the Frostborn themselves from the field, their slaves may well follow, and…”

  “And we can save the men trapped by the medvarth and the locusari,” said Tormark. He seemed excited by the plan. Of course, his father and his brothers were among those caught in the encirclement. Perhaps he no more wanted to be Dux of Taliand than Arandar wanted to be High King of Andomhaim.

  “If we can summon the aid of the Swordbearers, all the better,” said Arandar.

  “Good,” said
Tormark, decisive once more. “Pick a horse. We ride at once.”

  Arandar swung into the empty saddle of a stamping war horse. Gavin claimed another, though somewhat clumsily. If they lived through this, Arandar would have to teach the boy to ride properly. Tormark shouted a command, and they galloped south, making their way to the gates of Dun Calpurnia, the dust of the battle rising behind them.

  The Order of the Soulblade waited before the town, nearly a thousand strong, all of them wearing armor and carrying soulblades, the drawn weapons shimmering with white fire. Arandar wondered what Tarrabus had planned to do about the Swordbearers. Perhaps he had hoped the Frostborn would deal with them. Or maybe he planned to wear them down by attrition once he had seized Tarlion and the Citadel. Arandar spotted Marhand striding from the ranks of the Swordbearers, carrying the soulblade Torchbrand in his right fist. The old knight looked grimmer than usual. Perhaps he had grasped the full scale of the catastrophe already.

  “Sir Tormark,” said Marhand. “Sir Arandar, Sir Gavin. What news?”

  “The Keeper and the Gray Knight were right,” said Arandar without preamble. “Tarrabus Carhaine is indeed a worshipper of the shadow of Incariel, and he has quit the field. Worse, the Duxi of Arduran, Tarras, and Calvus are also followers of his cult, and they have abandoned the loyalists to be slain by our enemies.” Arandar took a deep breath. “The High King and his sons are dead. Imaria Licinius slew them.”

  Many of the nearby Swordbearers bowed their heads, and some started to pray in quiet voices.

  “I see,” said Marhand after a moment. He, like Arandar, grasped the gravity of the news. “Then what do you suggest we do?”

  “Ridmark Arban has a plan,” said Arandar. “The medvarth and the locusari have advanced to encircle Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance and the others. That means they have left a direct path to the Frostborn themselves…”

  Marhand shook his head. “It will be obvious. If we make a move, the Frostborn will respond.”

  “Not for us,” said Arandar. “For the Anathgrimm.”

  Marhand blinked. “The Traveler’s minions?”

  “The Traveler is slain,” said Arandar, “and the High King accepted Queen Mara’s offer of alliance.”

  “I thought that was one of his more questionable decisions,” said Marhand. “An army of pagan orcs led by a dark elven half-breed? I was sure it was a ruse. Yet in this desperate hour, I see that we have no choice. If we are to save anyone, if we are to have any army left to fight the Frostborn and make Tarrabus pay for his treachery, then we must act at once.” He drew himself up. “The Order of the Soulblade shall follow your lead, Sir Arandar.”

  Arandar heard the quiet challenge in the old man’s voice. Oh, yes, this was indeed a test on Marhand’s part, to see if Arandar was worthy to lead, was worthy to assume the mantle of the Pendragons. Arandar wanted nothing to do with it…but that duty had come to him, whether he liked it or not, and he had never shied away from his duty, not even when his duty had sent him into places of nightmare and dark legend like Urd Morlemoch or Khald Azalar.

  “Then let us go,” said Arandar, turning his horse back towards the battle.

  Chapter 22: Frost and Axe

  The Anathgrimm marched towards the battle, the drums booming like thunder. Far overhead Ridmark saw the distant blue specks of locusari scouts zipping back and forth, though from time to time Antenora amused herself by blasting one out of the sky. The Frostborn had to know that they were coming, though so far the medvarth and locusari warriors encircling the men of the loyalists had not yet responded to the approaching threat. Perhaps they could not. Perhaps the battle had collapsed into a general melee, and the Frostborn had been unable to reform their lines to meet the new threat.

  All the better, then.

  The Anathgrimm marched in their ranks, thousands of them, their armored boots thudding against the ground like the beat of their drums. During the Traveler’s long wars with the High Kingdom, the Anathgrimm had preferred to raid, striking from the shadows and retreating into the impenetrable wards of Nightmane Forest. In open battle, they preferred to fight as the legions of the Empire of the Romans had in ancient days, formed into ranks, each warrior raising his shield to protect the warrior on his left. They even carried javelins as the Roman legionaries of old had done, preferring to weaken the enemy with a shower of missiles before charging. The Anathgrimm had no cavalry, but with their inhuman strength and brutal discipline, they were the best possible infantry for facing a charge of horsemen.

  Ridmark hoped that would serve them well against the medvarth and the locusari.

  Mara walked with Jager, flanked by Qhazulak and the other veteran warriors of the Queen’s Guard. Calliande walked with Zhorlacht and the other Anathgrimm wizards, all of them were working spells. Ridmark was not entirely sure how, but the Anathgrimm wizards had abandoned dark magic in favor of earth magic similar to the kind Morigna had wielded. Ridmark was not sure if the Traveler had taught his servants different schools of magic, or if the Anathgrimm now employed the same spells but empowered them with earth magic. Ridmark didn’t know, but Calliande knew what she was doing.

  “It’s time,” said Ridmark. “I’m going to the front now.”

  Calliande cast him a concerned look, but had to return her full attention to the spell she and the Anathgrimm were preparing, white light flashing around her as purple fire crackled upon the fingers of the Anathgrimm wizards.

  “Go with victory,” said Qhazulak, “and may you return with your foes trampled underfoot.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jager. “The medvarth look a little large for trampling. Beheading might work better.”

  “I will use whatever works,” said Ridmark. “With the Queen’s permission?”

  Mara gave him a faint smile. “I would tell you to take care, but I know you will not.”

  “We will be ready,” said Calliande. Her voice was tight with strain as she worked the magic, but she met his gaze. “When you give the signal, we shall be ready.”

  Ridmark nodded and turned to go.

  “Ridmark.”

  He looked back at her.

  “Thank you,” said Calliande. “For…talking me back from the edge.”

  “I don’t think a woman has ever thanked me for telling her to shut up,” said Ridmark.

  She laughed a little at that. “She does if she deserves it.”

  “It is nothing you haven’t done for me,” said Ridmark. “Several times.”

  Calliande hesitated, seeming to argue with herself over what to say next.

  “Be careful,” she said at last. “Come back alive. Just…do not get yourself killed for nothing.”

  “You, too,” said Ridmark. If the chance came to kill the Weaver or Imaria, he would not make any promises. But other than that, he intended to return alive and victorious.

  Of course, the Frostborn would dispute that…and they might well win the argument.

  Kharlacht and Caius stepped to Ridmark’s side, Kharlacht carrying his greatsword, Caius the hammer of dark elven steel he had taken from the Warden’s armory in Urd Morlemoch.

  “Sure you want to come with me?” said Ridmark. “The Queen could always use another guard, and we need someone to pray for us.”

  “The time has come for battle,” said Kharlacht. “It shall be as when we faced Qazarl outside the walls of Dun Licinia.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. It had been barely six months ago, but it felt like half a lifetime.

  “We have said our prayers,” said Caius. “Now it is time to put our fates in the hands of God and to see how the dice fall.”

  “I would prefer to throw actual dice, thank you,” Jager added.

  “So be it,” said Ridmark.

  He jogged past the lines of the Anathgrimm, heading for the front rank. The Anathgrimm fought in orderly ranks, but Ridmark’s own style with staff and axe would complement that nicely. He could cause chaos in the attackers, which in turn would make it easier for the Anathgr
imm to cut them down. And if Imaria showed herself, the staff would protect Ridmark long enough for him to strike. Kharlacht and Caius and Qhazulak jogged after him. The old orcish warrior insisted that the best way to protect the Queen was by destroying her enemies, and Ridmark found it hard to fault that logic, especially since he had seen Qhazulak wield that huge axe in battle.

  They reached the front of the Anathgrimm formation. From here Ridmark had a good view of the battle. Tens of thousands of medvarth and locusari warriors had enveloped the loyalists, and the men of Andomhaim were running out of room to fight as the host of the Frostborn squeezed them like a giant fist. To the north of the fighting Ridmark saw khaldjari engineers moving their massive engines into place, preparing to launch a bombardment upon the trapped men.

  Yet the path was still open to the Frostborn themselves.

  They stood aloof from the battle on a low hill overlooking the Moradel road, watching their medvarth and locusari grind away at the trapped men. There were perhaps one hundred and fifty Frostborn, maybe two hundred, and even from this distance Ridmark glimpsed the glimmer of freezing blue fire beneath their crystalline skin. His fingers tightened against his staff. Other than his brief confrontation with Arlmagnava beneath the old town, he had never fought a Frostborn before. He did not know what to expect from them. Calliande had said that most of the Frostborn were not as individually powerful as an urdmordar or a dark elven noble like the Traveler, but that they were nonetheless dangerous warriors and powerful wizards, and were able to work together in a way that ever-suspicious dark elves and the solitary urdmordar could not.

  Ridmark supposed that he and the Anathgrimm were about to find out for themselves.

  A boom of drums rolled out from the khaldjari engineers nearest to the Frostborn. A ripple went through the furious melee, and bands of medvarth began to disengage, turning to form themselves into ranks to face the approaching Anathgrimm. The medvarth moved with speed and precision, assembling themselves into battle formations with disquieting haste.