Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

“A wise choice,” said Marhand, raising Torchbrand. “Men of the Order! For God and Andomhaim!”

  “For God and Andomhaim!” the Swordbearers roared back, and they charged towards the struggling Anathgrimm.

  ###

  Ridmark realized that he was about to die.

  Rjalmandrakur was as fast and as quick as the rest of the Frostborn, but he was better with his huge greatsword, far better. Ridmark could barely keep ahead of his blows, let alone strike back, and soon all his attention turned to keeping himself alive. Caius and Kharlacht tried to attack the Lord Commander, but Rjalmandrakur beat aside their attacks with contemptuous ease, his full attention upon Ridmark. Again Rjalmandrakur came at him, the blue-burning sword a blur. Ridmark ducked under the blow and saw an opening, swinging his axe for Rjalmandrakur’s right arm. He clipped the Frostborn’s arm, but the dwarven axe rebounded from the heavy armor sheathing Rjalmandrakur. The Lord Commander recovered his balance at once, and before Ridmark could regain his footing, he swung again.

  The edge of Rjalmandrakur’s greatsword hit Ridmark across the chest.

  That hurt. His dark elven armor turned aside the blow, but the power of the impact lifted him from his feet and sent him tumbling. He landed hard upon his back a few yards away, the breath exploding from his lungs, pain throbbing through him. His chest felt like it was on fire Ridmark scrambled backwards as Rjalmandrakur’s sword came thundering down. It split the frozen earth with a loud crack, and Ridmark rolled to his feet, intending to attack before the Lord Commander could pull his weapon free. Rjalmandrakur twisted, releasing one hand from the hilt of his greatsword, and punched with an armored gauntlet. Ridmark dodged, but the blow clipped the side of his head and spun him around. He lost his balance again and fell as Rjalmandrakur ripped his sword free from the frozen ground, snapping the blade around to deflect one of Kharlacht’s swings.

  Ridmark got back to his feet, his head ringing from the blow. If Rjalmandrakur’s fist had struck him full-on, his head would have exploded like a melon thrown from a tower. The Lord Commander blocked another of Kharlacht’s swings and shoved, sending the orcish warrior sprawling.

  Then he turned, stalking after Ridmark.

  Ridmark set himself, gripping the axe’s handle in both hands. The Frostborn Lord Commander lunged, and Ridmark jumped to the side, avoiding the thrust of the huge greatsword. The movement sent pain stabbing through his chest and bruised jaw. Rjalmandrakur strode after him, moving with remarkable grace for such a large creature. Ridmark set himself, wondering if he could deal a mortal wound to Rjalmandrakur before he was cut down. The neck, he decided. It had to be the neck, or perhaps the crown of the Lord Commander’s helmet. Everything else was too well-armored…

  White fire flashed from the corner of his eye, and another wave of pain went through Ridmark’s head.

  But this was a familiar pain, a remnant of his broken bond with Heartwarden.

  Ridmark glanced to the side just in time to see a dozen Swordbearers charge into the melee, white fire flashing up and down their soulblades. The Anathgrimm had battled the Frostborn to a bloody stalemate, but now the tide turned, the Swordbearers attacking the Frostborn with vigor.

  “For Andomhaim!” A young Swordbearer in splendid armor sprinted at Rjalmandrakur, soulblade drawn back to thrust. “For God and Andomhaim!”

  “No!” said Ridmark. “Don’t…”

  Rjalmandrakur sidestepped, his greatsword whipping around. It passed through the young Swordbearer’s neck without noticeable resistance. His body wavered for a moment, a frozen icicle of crimson blood jutting from the stump of his neck, and then toppled. Rjalmandrakur turned without hesitation, pursing Ridmark with implacable calm. Ridmark retreated, axe ready in his hands, the end of his staff tapping the ground from time to time as it bounced upon its strap. If he wasn’t careful, it was going to trip him.

  The staff…

  He had seen Rjalmandrakur’s sword tear through flesh and bone and armor without stopping.

  Would it do the same for the black staff of Ardrhythain? He had killed men and orcs and dvargir with it, and it had never acquired so much as a scratch.

  Could it withstand Rjalmandrakur’s sword?

  Ridmark shifted his axe to his right hand, drawing his staff with his left.

  Rjalmandrakur swung at him again, and Ridmark retreated. The towering Frostborn continued after him, raising his sword for a final strike.

  Ridmark gripped the staff with both hands, the axe pressed against it, and charged towards Rjalmandrakur.

  The Frostborn responded, bringing his sword down in a massive diagonal slash. Ridmark raised the staff over his head, still gripping the axe haft against it.

  The sword slammed into the staff.

  The impact drove Ridmark to his knees, his arms and shoulders screaming with strain. Yet the staff held, though it trembled like a released bowstring. Rjalmandrakur stumbled, overbalanced. He had aimed his blow for Ridmark’s head, and the staff’s block had cost his balance.

  And, for just a moment, Ridmark was inside the Lord Commander’s guard.

  He released the staff at the same moment as he threw himself forward, and Rjalmandrakur stumbled. Ridmark leaped, aiming a hasty blow with his right hand and with every bit of strength he could muster.

  The axe blade sank into Rjalmandrakur’s neck, cold blue fire bursting from the wound.

  Rjalmandrakur roared in pain and rage, and his arms came around with terrific force, pinning Ridmark against his cuirass. Fresh pain erupted in Ridmark’s chest and back, and he lost his grip upon the axe. For an instant he thought Rjalmandrakur was trying to stab him, and then he realized that the Frostborn was simply trying to crush him to death.

  Then Rjalmandrakur went rigid, his grip tightening further, and the blue fire flickered and went out in his eyes. The Frostborn toppled forward, pinning Ridmark beneath his armored bulk. A deathly cold spread through Ridmark as the chill of the Frostborn settled into his flesh. He tried to break free, tried to heave off Rjalmandrakur’s corpse or wriggle loose, but the dead Frostborn was too heavy and he was cold, so cold, and it just seemed easier to lie motionless as the battle faded around him…

  Then, suddenly, the pressure was gone.

  Ridmark blinked as Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin heaved Rjalmandrakur’s corpse off of him, Gavin dropped to one knee next to Ridmark and put his hand on Ridmark’s shoulder, and a different kind of chill swept through Ridmark as Gavin brought his soulblade’s healing magic to bear.

  Some of the searing pain in Ridmark’s chest started to fade.

  “He’s alive,” said Gavin. “Hurt, though.”

  “I’m fine,” croaked Ridmark, which wasn’t entirely a lie. He got to his feet, grabbing his staff and axe, and looked for more foes.

  But he couldn’t find any.

  Dead Frostborn and Anathgrimm and medvarth and locusari and khaldjari and humans lay scattered in all directions, their blood seeping into the earth. To the north he saw the dark mass of the medvarth and the locusari warriors, and to the west he saw the men of Durandis and the Northerland, their formation long and ragged as they gave a weary pursuit to their beaten foes.

  It had worked. Ridmark’s gamble had worked. The Frostborn had retreated.

  For now.

  “I think,” said Gavin, looking around the battlefield and blinking, “I think we won.”

  Ridmark shared a look with Kharlacht and Caius. They had both seen wars before, and they knew what was coming next.

  “Today,” said Ridmark at last. “We can promise nothing about tomorrow.”

  Chapter 23: Aftermath

  If this was victory, Calliande thought, then defeat would have been too terrible to contemplate.

  After Ridmark had slain Lord Commander Rjalmandrakur, the surviving Frostborn had retreated, their forces withdrawing back up the Moradel road to the north. The Frostborn had withdrawn in more or less good order, the medvarth and the khaldjari screening the Frostborn themselves, the locusari patr
olling around them. Still, their formations had been ragged and hasty, and a determined commander with a fresh force of horsemen could have harried them, perhaps even broken them.

  Unfortunately, there was no such force left.

  The Anathgrimm would have pursued, had Mara ordered it, but they were weary and many were wounded. The men and baptized orcs caught in the encirclement had survived, but at terrible cost. Nearly a quarter had been slain before the Anathgrimm had arrived, and many more had been wounded. The armies of the Duxi and the orcish kings were in no shape to launch a pursuit, and if they had attempted it, the Frostborn might have destroyed them utterly.

  No. Better to fall back, lick their wounds, and survive to fight another day.

  The Battle of Dun Calpurnia, Calliande feared, would be the first battle of a long and bloody war.

  A war she had sacrificed everything to prevent.

  Again despair threatened to fill her at the thought. She refused to give into it. Instead, she set herself to useful work, laboring with Camorak and the other Magistri to heal those among the wounded who could be saved. There were not as many Magistri as she would have liked. Most of the Swordbearers had remained loyal, but fully half of the Magistri had switched their allegiance to Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened of Incariel. Calliande helped the loyal Magistri through the rest of the day and all the night. They saved many wounded men who would have otherwise died of their wounds.

  Many more perished before they could be helped.

  That morning Dux Gareth called for a council of war. Calliande herself did not know how to proceed. Their only hope of winning this war was to seize the world gate and close it, but with the army of Andomhaim broken, that was next to impossible. The High King and all his trueborn sons were dead, and according to the surviving witnesses, they had been murdered by Imaria Shadowbearer and the Weaver. There was no way the loyalist nobles would ever follow Tarrabus, or even contemplate peace with him. Yet Calliande did not know what the nobles would do. Each Dux might strike out on his own, determined to defend his own lands. Prince Cadwall might declare himself King in Cintarra, or the orcish kings would return to their own domains, refusing to follow anyone but the High King himself. If the Duxi and the other nobles each went their own way, Tarrabus and the Frostborn could conquer them one by one at their leisure.

  They had to stay unified…and Calliande knew of only one way to do that.

  She arrived at the great hall of Dun Calpurnia’s castra. Dux Gareth and Dux Leogrance stood together near the dais, speaking in low voices, and Prince Cadwall, Dux Kors, and the Dux of Caertigris, a nervous young man named Sebastian Aurelius, joined them. The three orcish kings entered, led by King Ulakhamar, who was the senior among them. Mara and Jager entered last, followed by Qhazulak and a troop of the Queen’s Guard. Ridmark was with them, and so was Arandar.

  Calliande went to join them, Antenora and Gavin following her.

  “Ridmark,” she said, offering a brief smile.

  He did not smile, but instead nodded. “I hope you got some rest.”

  “Later,” said Calliande. “There will be time for rest later. Once the work is done.” She let out a long breath, her voice soft. “Once I have made amends for my mistakes.”

  His frown deepened. “This is not your fault.”

  Calliande started to answer, but Dux Gareth’s voice cut through the hall.

  “My lords and knights,” said Gareth, stepping forward. He looked just as tired as Calliande felt, but his voice did not waver. “Thank you all for coming. We must decide how to proceed after yesterday’s battle.”

  “Our course is clear,” said King Ulakhamar, his voice heavy with wrath. “We must pursue the traitor Tarrabus Carhaine and avenge the death of the High King.”

  “We must first defeat the Frostborn,” said Prince Cadwall. “My lords, you have all seen their power. Without them, Tarrabus is nothing. If we drive them back, we can turn our full attention upon Tarrabus.”

  A dozen voices rose in argument.

  “Before we decide on a course of action,” said Leogrance, “we must first know the situation.” Ridmark gazed at his father without expression. “We have sent scouts to gauge the disposition of our foes. Sir Tormark?”

  Ridmark’s oldest brother stepped forward. “I took some men and rode north to see what had become of the Frostborn. They’ve stopped about fifteen miles north, and have built a fortified camp for themselves. Somehow they’ve raised walls made of ice.”

  “The khaldjari of the Order of the Tower,” said Calliande. “Just as the dwarves have stonescribes and the dvargir have shadowscribes, so do the khaldjari have similar powers over ice and stone, and can raise fortifications in great haste when necessary.”

  “I would not advise an assault upon these fortifications,” said Tormark. “They are yet incomplete, but we would lose a great many men in such an attack. Furthermore, if the Frostborn sallied from the fortifications, they might well drive us back.”

  “What of Tarrabus?” said Dux Kors. He had taken a wound in the neck during the fighting, and while Camorak had healed it, his voice was nevertheless rougher than it had been. “The treacherous swine left us to die upon the battlefield. He might come back to finish the job.”

  “Sir Constantine,” said Leogrance.

  Constantine stepped forward, one hand resting upon Brightherald’s hilt. Calliande suspected he was drawing on the soulblade for the power to keep standing. He had fought alongside his father in the encirclement, and then led several of the sorties that had pushed the medvarth north.

  “I led a scouting party to the south,” said Constantine. “It seems Tarrabus is marching south along the Moradel road with all speed. I suspect he will stop at Castra Carhaine to obtain supplies, and then proceed to Tarlion as soon as possible.”

  Kors grunted. “He’s bound to learn that we survived. Either Imaria Shadowbearer will tell him of her crime, or one of the flying pets of the Frostborn will bring him the news. He might turn and come for us then.”

  “He won’t,” said Ridmark. All the lords looked at him. Since all his warnings had been proven right, Calliande noted with a touch of bitterness, they were more willing to listen to him. If they had been willing to listen yesterday, a lot of men slain in the battle would still live.

  If only Calliande had made Uthanaric Pendragon listen.

  “Tarrabus wants to be the High King,” said Ridmark. “He’s stolen Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown, but the High King sits in Tarlion, and he cannot credibly claim the title until he seizes control of Tarlion. So he will go there at once, and deal with us once he has secured Tarlion.”

  “Uthanaric left Corbanic Lamorus as the Constable of Tarlion,” said Prince Cadwall. “He will not open the city to Tarrabus, not for any reason.”

  “Then Tarrabus will try to take it,” said Ridmark.

  “The High King left Tarlion well-provisioned for a siege,” said Sebastian, looking nervously at the older men. “Even a force as large as Tarrabus’s will find it a challenge.”

  “And Corbanic may activate the old defenses,” said Calliande.

  “Old defenses?” said Ridmark.

  “A secret known only to the High Kings, their trusted officers, and the Keepers,” said Calliande, “but I expect they will become public knowledge when Tarrabus assails the city. In ancient times, the Keepers of old worked powerful wards into the walls of Tarlion. When active, the wards prevent any creature of dark magic from entering the city. Those wards alone kept Tarlion from falling to the urdmordar in the final year before Ardrhythain founded the Two Orders.”

  “Ha!” said King Ulakhamar. “So the traitor will come to take his prize, and since he has sold his soul to the shadow, he shall not be able to enter.”

  Calliande nodded. “His soldiers will, though. But Tarlion shall be able to hold for a long time, and I suspect Tarrabus will lay siege to it.”

  “He will expect the Frostborn to deal with us,” said Ridmark.

 
“So, my lords, you see the situation before us,” said Gareth. “We face the Frostborn to the north and Tarrabus and his so-called Enlightened to the south. If we are to overcome this challenge, we must remained unified. I know some of you are considering a return to your own lands. After all, the Frostborn have not yet left the Northerland, and Tarlion will hold the attention of Tarrabus for some time. We must decide upon a strategy.”

  “How?” said King Ulakhamar. “The Duxi of Andomhaim are equals, and my brother kings and I only bowed our head to the High King of Andomhaim. The High King is now foully slain, and a usurper claims his throne. Who then shall we follow?”

  Gareth nodded. “The High King and his trueborn sons were murdered…but the House of Pendragon is not yet extinct.”

  Silence fell over the hall for a moment.

  “Sir Arandar of Tarlion,” said Leogrance at last.

  ###

  Arandar closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and then stepped forward.

  He felt the trap closing about him at last.

  He did not want this. He had never wanted it. Some bastards dreamed of becoming trueborn sons, of gaining their father’s acceptance and pride. Arandar had not been one of them. He had wanted a life of his own, a name and honor gained through his own efforts.

  Now he would be forever remembered as Uthanaric Pendragon’s son…but that was not the worst of it.

  The realm would be in his hands. The realm of Andomhaim, torn by civil war, threatened by the Frostborn, would be his charge. As much as Arandar had disliked his father, he understood how Uthanaric had become so grim and cynical. The constant burden of ruling had worn him down, hardening his heart until he had believed that the threat of the Enlightened was simply yet another court intrigue.

  God and the saints. This meant that Accolon would become the Crown Prince, that Nyvane would become the most eligible maiden in the realm. How could he inflict such a burden upon his children? He did not have the right.

  But if he did not do this…there was no one else. No one else who had the right to claim the High King’s throne.