Frostborn: The High Lords

by Jonathan Moeller

  And if Arandar did not do this, he would inflict a worse fate upon Accolon and Nyvane. His children could grow up in whatever remnant of Andomhaim the Frostborn permitted Tarrabus to rule, twisted by the dark teachings of the Enlightened, or they would grow up as slaves in the Dominion of the High Lords.

  He did not want to do this, not now, not ever.

  But for the sake of his children, he stepped forward.

  “I know,” said Arandar, “what you would ask of me.” He looked at the nobles in turn. Calliande offered him a tentative smile, and Ridmark nodded. Jager winked at him, the cheeky scoundrel. “But if I am to do this, then I wish it known that I do not want this, that I have never wanted this.”

  “No one doubts that, Sir Arandar,” said Leogrance.

  Master Marhand, who stood with Master Kurastus near the Prince of Cintarra, nodded. “Your actions as a knight and a Swordbearer have been well-known.”

  “Regretted losing you as a sworn knight, lad,” said old Kors, “when you went off to become a Swordbearer.”

  “But it must be you,” said Gareth. “There is no one else. A Pendragon has always sat upon the throne of Andomhaim. Even a bastard Pendragon, when the trueborn heirs had been slain by battle or illness. Will you accept this burden, Sir Arandar? Will you be the High King of Andomhaim?”

  “This has been thrust upon me,” said Arandar, “and there is no choice but to accept. If God wills it, then it shall be done. But I cannot be the High King yet.”

  “Not without Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown,” said Leogrance. “By both law and ancient tradition, the heir is not the High King until he has been crowned with the Pendragon Crown while holding Excalibur in the cathedral of Tarlion.”

  “We have neither,” said Prince Cadwall. “Imaria Shadowbearer took both crown and sword with her when she fled the field. Without them, by law we cannot choose a High King.”

  “With respect, my noble lords,” said Jager, his resonant voice cutting into the discussion, “I fear you are overlooking the obvious.”

  They all looked at him. Arandar could tell that some of the lords were still offended that a halfling would speak to them so brazenly, but since the halfling’s wife and her army had just saved their lives, so they kept quiet.

  “You are obviously going to make Sir Arandar the new High King,” said Jager. “Sir Arandar is just as obviously going to accept the throne, but you can’t crown him without the…well, the actual crown. You know he’s going to be the High King, just not yet. Since you need a leader and it needs to be him, why not call him…oh, the Prince Regent?”

  Arandar snorted. “I will be my own regent, then?”

  Jager shrugged. “Why not? You are merely caretaking the throne for Sir Arandar until he can claim it with the crown and the sword and the cathedral and all the laws and traditions and such. The fact that the Prince Regent and Sir Arandar are the same man is, of course, of no importance whatsoever.”

  Dux Kors snorted. “That is a clever bit of legal maneuvering there, Prince Consort.”

  Jager offered Kors a broad smile. “All men have their talents, my lord.”

  “It will work,” said Calliande, stepping forward. The ragged, haunted look that she had worn since the Weaver’s attack on the hillside had left her, and she again looked like the cool, collected Keeper of Andomhaim. “We must have a leader, a man to assume the mantle of the High King, and God has brought one to us. Let us look forward to the day of his coronation, which shall be the day of our victory when Tarrabus is defeated and the Frostborn driven back once more.”

  She sounded so confident. Arandar wondered if she really felt that way.

  “So be it,” said Leogrance. “My lords, together we shall defeat Tarrabus, restore a Pendragon to the throne of the realm, and drive the Frostborn back to their gate.”

  “Though,” said Prince Cadwall, “we may have some details to discuss.”

  “Agreed,” said Gareth. “First, we…”

  “First,” said Arandar, “if I am to be the Prince Regent and then the High King of Andomhaim, you will start by renewing your oaths of allegiance to the Pendragon throne.”

  They all stared at him in surprise, even Calliande. Only Jager smiled. Arandar suspected he understood. The Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest, surrounded by Anathgrimm warriors who could crush him in a heartbeat, understood the need to assert himself.

  “If I am to be the High King,” said Arandar, “then I shall be the High King of Andomhaim. If the responsibility is to be mine, then the duty shall be as well. I will not be a puppet or a figurehead. I will listen to counsel, and I will consult with all my lords before making a decision, as Malahan Pendragon himself did in the days of old. Indeed, I shall be glad of counsel, for a great task lies before us. But I shall be the High King, and no one else.”

  For a moment silence answered him, and then Dux Kors started to laugh, a rumbling, rasping sound.

  “Well, my lords,” said Kors. “If we make a man the High King, we cannot object if he starts acting like the High King. Aye, I’ll swear to you.”

  He did first, and one by one the others followed suit.

  ###

  The council of war lasted well into the afternoon.

  Ridmark watched as Arandar took charge, directing the discussion. He did better than Ridmark would have thought. Gareth, Leogrance, and Kors were all older and more experienced, but Arandar had led men in battle for years, and he was not a fool.

  “Then it is decided,” said Arandar. “We shall march upon Castra Carhaine itself.”

  The plan was simple. Arandar and the loyalists needed to defeat the Frostborn, but they needed more men to face the invaders. The best way to obtain those men was to defeat Tarrabus as soon as possible and place Arandar upon the throne, reunifying the realm under the true High King. With the realm reunited, they could march against the Frostborn, but to reunite the realm, they had to defeat Tarrabus and depose the traitorous Duxi. So Arandar and the men of Cintarra, Durandis, Caertigris, and the orcish kingdoms would attack Castra Carhaine to draw Tarrabus out from his siege, while the men of the Northerland would try to hold the Frostborn back and buy time.

  “Can you stand alone against the Frostborn?” said Calliande.

  “We will have half of the Swordbearers,” said Gareth, “and the remaining Magistri. The men of the Northerland are well-experienced in battle, and Castra Marcaine is a strong fortress. We can hold out long enough for Tarrabus to be defeated.”

  “Nor,” said Mara, “will you fight alone. The Anathgrimm will aid you.”

  Gareth frowned. “Can the Anathgrimm sustain such a war?”

  Qhazulak grunted. “We fought you for centuries, did we not?”

  “What the Lord Captain means to say,” said Zhorlacht in his smooth voice, “is that the Anathgrimm are skilled in raiding and harassing a foe. We have practiced such methods of war for many years. While the Frostborn besiege your strongholds, we shall cross the Moradel, hit them from behind, and retreat back into the forests.”

  “And their impenetrable wards?” said Kors.

  “You see truly, my lord,” said Zhorlacht. “And with the magister militum to lead us, I am confident we shall have victory. Did not the Gray Knight already slay the Lord Commander of the Frostborn?”

  “With help,” said Ridmark. “But there are many more to be killed.”

  He felt Calliande staring at him, but could not make himself meet her gaze.

  “So be it, then,” said Arandar. “We shall march on the morrow.”

  The lords dispersed to their men, and Ridmark prepared to join Mara and Jager as they returned to the Anathgrimm, but Arandar pulled him aside.

  “A moment,” said Arandar.

  “Of course, my lord High King,” said Ridmark.

  Arandar grimaced. “I know that you must call me that in public, but if you do so in private, I swear that I shall punch you.” He shook his head. “We have seen too much madness together…and you helped save my son.
That counts for much.”

  “You have my word, then, Sir Arandar,” said Ridmark.

  “I want you to know,” said Arandar, “that as soon as we can find a competent scribe, my first decree will be to rescind your banishment and declare any charges Tarrabus leveled against you null and void.” He hesitated. “I would have you reinstated in the Order of the Soulblade, but...I know you cannot bond another soulblade.”

  Ridmark nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I suppose my authority doesn’t carry over much of the realm,” said Arandar, “but I will do what I can.”

  “It means a great deal,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

  “And,” said Arandar, taking a deep breath, “I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Of course,” said Ridmark.

  “I do not wish to ask you this,” said Arandar, “but I have no choice.”

  “Your children,” said Ridmark, understanding at last.

  “Take them with you to Nightmane Forest,” said Arandar. “Tarrabus…once he learns that we survived the battle, he will try to kill them both.”

  “He will try to kill you, too,” said Ridmark.

  “Let him try,” said Arandar. “I am still a Knight of the Soulblade, and if the Enlightened come for me they shall regret it. But my children…if I die, Accolon is the heir. Tarrabus already tried to kill him once. He might send the Red Family after them, as he did with you, or the Enlightened, or God knows what kind of devils. They will be safer, far safer, with you in Nightmane Forest.”

  “I suspect,” said Ridmark, “that Nightmane Forest is not a good place for children.”

  “Neither is a battlefield,” said Arandar.

  Ridmark considered for a moment. “I suppose Accolon would make a good squire. As for Nyvane, now that Mara is a Queen, I suppose she needs a lady in waiting or two.”

  “It would be a good education for them,” said Arandar. “God and the saints. If we are successful, Accolon will be High King one day. He will have to learn to speak with all kinds of people. And Nyvane will be a princess. God!” He rubbed his jaw for a moment. “I shall have to find her a husband.”

  “You would have had to do that anyway,” said Ridmark.

  “It is easier to find a husband for the daughter of a knight then the daughter of a High King,” said Arandar.

  “True,” said Ridmark.

  “Thank you, Ridmark,” said Arandar. “For everything.”

  “May God go with you,” said Ridmark.

  “And you,” said Arandar, “and may we meet again as we watch Calliande close the gate of the Frostborn.”

  “I hope so,” said Ridmark.

  He did not think it likely, but he would do what he could to bring it to pass.

  Chapter 24: Rifts of War

  The next morning, Calliande hurried towards the Anathgrimm camp, her green cloak billowing behind her. She did not have much time. Arandar’s host would soon begin its march south to Castra Carhaine. Calliande’s place was with them. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and the Keeper’s place was at the High King’s side.

  She had her duty, and she would not deviate from it.

  As much as she wanted to go with Ridmark.

  She found Ridmark standing outside the Anathgrimm camp, staff in hand, gray cloak hanging from his shoulders. He must have gone out scouting before dawn, examining the route the Anathgrimm host would take back to the Nightmane Forest.

  “Tireless as ever,” she murmured. She raised her voice. “Ridmark!”

  He stopped and looked at her as she approached.

  “Calliande,” he said. He didn’t smile. She had not seen him smile once since Morigna had died, but his face did soften. “Is anything amiss?”

  “No,” she said. “Well…many things are. But there is no immediate crisis.”

  His mouth twitched a little at that. “We haven’t often been able to say that.”

  “No,” said Calliande. She pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “Before you go. I…we might never see each other again.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark. “War is unpredictable.”

  “I know that well,” said Calliande. “You do, too. Before you go…I just wanted…”

  What could she tell him? That she loved him, and did not want to see him go? It was such a selfish thing to contemplate. He had been in mourning for Aelia when she had met him, and was in mourning for Morigna now. She did not have the right to lay the burden of her heart upon him.

  But if he died in battle…

  “I just wanted to thank you,” said Calliande. “For everything.”

  He shook his head. “I have done nothing that requires thanks.”

  “Do not be absurd,” said Calliande. “You saved my life, again and again and again. I would not be standing here if not for you.”

  “You saved me, too,” said Ridmark. “With your healing spells, again and again. And…at Dun Licinia, at the keep. I was not thinking clearly.”

  “Grief,” said Calliande, “is its own kind of madness.”

  He let out a long breath. “I suppose I know that well. You do, too.”

  She nodded. “I want…to ask a promise of you.”

  “If I can.”

  “Come back alive,” said Calliande.

  “I don’t know if…”

  “Please,” said Calliande. “I know…I know you have to kill Imaria and the Weaver. But don’t get yourself killed doing it.”

  “I cannot promise…”

  “Please,” said Calliande again. “I know that is it important to you. But…it is important to me that you survive.”

  It was, perhaps, the closest she could come to telling him how she felt.

  Ridmark stepped closer, and for a shocked instant Calliande’s mind flashed back to the day the wyvern had almost killed Kharlacht, the day that Ridmark had kissed her.

  If the wyvern hadn’t interrupted them, many things might have been different.

  Ridmark leaned forward, and Calliande’s heart sped up, her mind freezing for a moment with panic and anticipation and wild hope.

  Gently, very gently, he kissed her on the cheek.

  “God go with you, Calliande,” said Ridmark, his voice hoarse.

  “And you, Ridmark,” said Calliande, blinking.

  He turned and strode back to the Anathgrimm camp, the magister militum of the Queen of Nightmane Forest, and Calliande wondered if she would ever see him again.

  She walked back towards Dux Gareth’s camp. Calliande let herself cry a little as she walked, her chest hitching from time to time with a sob. It was the only time she could permit herself such an indulgence. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had her duty.

  An idea came to her.

  Perhaps she could do a little more than her duty.

  Calliande wiped her tears dry and hurried into Gareth’s camp.

  She found Camorak soon enough. The disheveled Magistrius looked hungover, but Calliande supposed that might have been simple exhaustion. He blinked bloodshot eyes as she approached.

  “Ah, Keeper,” said Camorak. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to ask a favor,” said Calliande.

  “Certainly,” said Camorak.

  “Go with the Anathgrimm,” said Calliande. “Find Ridmark, and tell him I asked you to serve as his Magistrius advisor. God knows he will have enough work for you.”

  Camorak frowned, scratching at his stubble-coated chin.

  “Why?” he said at last.

  “Please,” said Calliande. “Look after him.”

  Camorak stared at her for a while.

  “All right,” he said at last.

  A short time later Calliande found Antenora and Gavin waiting at the edge of the camp.

  “Another war,” said Antenora, her raspy voice distant. “I wonder if we shall win this one.”

  “We shall,” said Gavin with all the confidence of youth.

  Calliande wasn’t so sure.

  “You are correct,”
she said, with all the certainty she could muster. “Come. Let’s find Prince Arandar. We have a realm to win.”

  ###

  Ridmark walked towards the Queen’s Guard, Accolon and Camorak trailing after him. The boy took his duties as squire seriously. He took them so seriously, in fact, that he had found some gray cloth, covered a shield with it, and carried Ridmark’s “colors” after him.

  The Gray Knight, the magister militum of Nightmane Forest.

  “Never been to Nightmane Forest,” said Camorak. “Never thought I would visit, either.”

  “Neither did I,” said Ridmark, glancing back at Camorak.

  He hoped Calliande would be safe. He had promised that he would see her to the end of this, but right now the best way of fighting their enemies was to stay with the Anathgrimm. He wished he could have gone with her.

  He wished that Morigna was here.

  Ridmark shook his head and found Mara and Jager. They waited with Qhazulak and Zhorlacht, Caius and Kharlacht standing nearby.

  “Coming with us?” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht shrugged. “War is everywhere now, and my blade is needed. It seemed good to me to follow the Anathgrimm into battle.”

  “Queen Mara invited me to accompany her to Nightmane Forest,” said Caius. “Many of the Anathgrimm are eager to hear the word of the Dominus Christus, now that the Traveler is slain.”

  “This all started,” said Ridmark, “because you went to carry the word of the Dominus Christus to the pagan orcs of the Wilderland. It seems you shall have the chance after all.”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” said Caius.

  Ridmark hoped so.

  “Lord Magister,” said Mara. She looked resplendent in her armor and blue cloak. “Are the Anathgrimm ready?”

  “They are,” said Ridmark.

  “Then let us return to Nightmane Forest,” said Mara, “and then make war upon the Frostborn.”

  Ridmark nodded, and a wave of melancholy went through him.

  Morigna was dead, and Calliande was gone, Antenora and Gavin and Arandar going with her. He remembered the day they had fought Rhogrimnalazur, when they had worked in harmony to defeat an urdmordar of great power. His friends had seemed invincible that day.