In a way, it was almost like one of the games Jager had played with his sister Dagma as a child, the one where they had thrown balls at each other and tried to knock them out of the air with wooden swords. Jager slashed his sword, catching a descending locusari scout in its head. Yellow slime spurted from the wound, and though the shock of the impact went up his arm, the creature flipped over backward and landed on the ground, its legs twitching.
Mara cut down two of the locusari in rapid succession, and then the Anathgrimm closed around her and Jager. Qhazulak bellowed in fury, whipping that huge axe back and forth around him as easily as if it was a light branch, and his blows sent locusari parts tumbling across the ground. Zhorlacht cast a spell, purple light flaring around his hands, and roots reached up from the ground to yank two of the locusari into the earth, and another Anathgrimm slew both creatures with quick thrusts from his sword.
“Frost drake!” snapped Zhorlacht.
Jager looked up from a dead locusari, his sword dripping with yellow slime, and saw the frost drake hurtling towards them. The mouth yawned wide, white mist whirling behind the dagger-like fangs. Jager cursed – there wasn’t time to get out of the way. At least it would be quick.
Mara, though, Mara could get away.
“Mara!” said Jager. “Get…”
Zhorlacht grunted and cast a spell, raising his arms as if he was trying to lift a log over his head.
The ground in front of them heaved and rippled. Jager had seen Morigna use that spell many times, God rest her sharp-tongued and belligerent soul, and didn’t know what it would do against a flying creature. Yet the ground kept folding, and then heaved up in a wall about ten feet high and ten wide just as the drake unleashed its breath.
The plume of white mist struck the wall and hardened into an uneven cone of ice, but none of the ice reached Jager and Mara and the Anathgrimm. Jager saw the frost drake shoot past them.
“Well done, Father Zhorlacht,” said Qhazulak.
“Thank you, Lord Captain,” said Zhorlacht, breathing hard. “I suggest we get away from the ice before it collapses and kills us.”
“Sound counsel, Father,” said Mara, and they retreated. “Let’s focus on the locusari. I think Antenora and the High King’s siege engines will have to deal with the frost drakes.”
“At least they’ll come to us,” said Jager, eyeing the sky as more locusari scouts swooped towards them.
###
Gavin raised his shield and leaped forward.
He did it just in time. The locusari scout who had been plummeting towards him, scythe-like forelimbs drawn back to take off his head, instead slammed into his shield with a loud clang. Truthseeker’s power kept the impact from knocking Gavin back, and the locusari bounced off the shield and fell to the ground. Gavin started to raise his sword to strike, but there was no need. The crash had crushed the locusari’s head, and the creature stopped twitching even as he looked at it.
That was the one advantage they had against locusari scouts. The creatures were fast and deadly, but they were not terribly durable. Unfortunately, one blow from those scythed forelimbs could kill a man.
Gavin turned, seeking another foe, and a gout of flame shot past his head, immolating a pair of locusari scouts. The creatures fell from the sky as their wings burned. Antenora began casting another spell, calling a rotating sphere of fire into existence above her staff. Gavin saw Arandar some distance away, fighting alongside the others. The gates of Tarlion had opened, and bands of men-at-arms rushed forth, pulling those two-wheeled carts that held Arandar’s portable ballistae. Another few moments and they could force the frost drakes to withdraw.
One of the frost drakes dove towards Gavin and Antenora, preparing to unleash its freezing breath.
“Antenora,” said Gavin.
“Shield us, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora, her yellow eyes on the descending drake. “If you keep the ice from killing us, I will deal with the Frostborn!”
Gavin stepped in front of her and called on Truthseeker’s power to shield them from the fury of the frost drake’s killing breath. The soulblade flared with white fire, and the frost drake breathed a plume of mist just as Antenora hurled a sphere of fire into the sky. The mist hardened around them with a loud crackling noise, transforming into a cocoon of glittering ice, but the power of Truthseeker kept it from touching them. Antenora thrust her staff against the ice, and the cocoon of ice exploded outward. Gavin looked up to see the frost drake flying to the north, bellowing in rage as Antenora’s fire crackled across its back.
He also saw a dead Frostborn warrior lying in the dirt, Antenora’s flames burning over its body.
“You’re getting good at that,” said Gavin.
“The enemy gives me no shortage of opportunities for practice,” said Antenora. “Let us find another!”
###
“Release!” said Arandar, pointing Excalibur at the sky.
Eight men-at-arms from the city’s garrison had joined him, each team of two pulling a small cart with a portable ballista. Their skill with the weapons had improved a great deal since the last Frostborn raid on Tarlion. The men-at-arms fired all four ballistae in unison, and the bolts slammed into the underside of the approaching frost drake. The creature screamed in rage and pain, blasting a plume of freezing mist into the air, and the Frostborn on its back fought to get the drake under control. At last, the drake flew to the north, and the other two surviving drakes joined it.
Arandar looked for the locusari scouts, but most of them had been killed, and the survivors were flying north with the frost drakes.
This skirmish, it seemed, was over.
Chapter 9: Besieged
“The fault is mine,” said Corbanic Lamorus, Constable of Tarlion.
He had aged in the last year, with his remaining hair gone entirely to gray, the lines in his face cutting deeper. The last year and a half of war had been hard on all of them. Yet it had not stolen the old knight’s vigor, and he sat with ease in his saddle as he scowled at the dead locusari scouts scattered across the ground.
“There was no fault,” said Arandar. “There was no reason to patrol the ruined walls so closely, and I never thought the Frostborn would attempt to conceal a frost drake on the ground. I cannot blame you for failing to see something I did not realize.”
“Generous of you, your Majesty,” said Corbanic. “Though we will patrol those ruined walls from now on. And once the rest of the army arrives, we’ll have more hands to knock down those walls and have a better view of the field outside the city.”
“The credit belongs to Queen Mara,” said Arandar, looking to where she sat atop her horse near Jager and the Anathgrimm. “Had she not realized that something was amiss, we would have walked right into the trap.”
“The Queen is wise,” said Qhazulak.
“Though it is damned strange,” said Corbanic, “to see the High King of Andomhaim riding with a band of Anathgrimm warriors. I fought against the Anathgrimm several times even before High King Uthanaric appointed me the Comes of Coldinium.”
Jager shrugged. “And think of how strange it must be for them, Lord Constable. We have the misfortune to live in interesting times, do we not?”
Corbanic laughed. “I remember you, Master Jager. Half the nobles and merchants of Coldinium were scandalized when you bought that domus and moved in.”
“They ought to be grateful,” said Jager. “It gave them something different to complain about to you.”
“That is God’s own truth,” said Corbanic. “When I left Coldinium to bring news of Tarrabus's crimes to High King Uthanaric, I was certain I was done with governing…but, here we are.” He straightened up and turned to face Arandar. “Your city awaits you, High King.”
“Lead the way, Constable of Tarlion,” said Arandar.
They formed up and rode through the open gate and into the Forum of the North. Shops and houses ringed the large market square, and statues of long-dead knights and lords dotted the Forum.
Arandar looked around and remembered walking through this market as a child. Back then, it had seemed like a bustling, exotic place, as merchants from across the realm and the three kingdoms of the orcs and even the dwarves came to sell their goods. Now there was very little for sale, and many of the shops were half-empty or closed.
The war had taken its toll, and there would be worse yet to come.
“Then it is certain that the city will fall under siege?” said Corbanic.
“Yes,” said Arandar. “The Frostborn are freezing the Moradel and using it as a highway to advance south. Imaria Shadowbearer has them convinced that the Well is the key to their victory, but she intends to use it to free Incariel from its prison.”
Corbanic shook his head. “It is hard to believe that for all their power the Frostborn are foolish enough to believe her.”
“The Frostborn are arrogant,” said Arandar, “and confident in their power. No matter how powerful a man, he can convince himself of something that’s not true if he wants it to be true. Look at Tarrabus and the Enlightened.”
Arandar glanced towards the towers of the Citadel, wondering how Tarrabus fared in his captivity. So long as he was alive to be put on trial for his crimes once the war was over, Arandar did not care.
“Aye,” said Corbanic. “Then let us hope and pray the downfall and defeat of the Frostborn is as swift and as sudden as the downfall and defeat of Tarrabus the false king. High King…the Anathgrimm. What should we do with them? The presence will frighten the people of the city. Many of the men-at-arms sworn to your service fought against the Anathgrimm raiders in High King Uthanaric’s day.”
“For now, we’ll have the Anathgrimm construct fortified camps outside the city walls,” said Arandar. “They would prefer to do that anyway. Like the Romans of old, the Anathgrimm claim they cannot sleep soundly outside of a fortified camp. They can help tear down the siege walls to build their encampments. Once the Frostborn arrive, the Anathgrimm will withdraw into the walls with us and help defend the city.”
“As you say, your Majesty,” said Corbanic, though his doubt was obvious.
“Fear not, Lord Constable,” said Mara in a quiet voice. “The Anathgrimm will not harm a single man, woman, or child within the walls of Tarlion unless I command it.” She offered a sad smile. “In truth, we are giving them what their hearts desire. A glorious battle against overwhelming odds, with a high chance of death.”
“The death of a true warrior,” said Qhazulak, and the other Anathgrimm of the Queen’s Guard nodded their agreement.
“As you say,” said Corbanic.
“The Queen is right,” said Master Marhand, thumping the pommel of his soulblade. “When she came to Dun Calpurnia, and old Uthanaric recognized her as a Queen…well, I couldn’t believe the Anathgrimm would heed a slip of a girl. But when Tarrabus stabbed us in the back at Dun Calpurnia, it was the Anathgrimm and Queen Mara who pulled our fat out of the fire.”
“It will be hard to get used to fighting alongside the Anathgrimm,” said Corbanic, “but against such a foe as the Frostborn, we cannot turn away any allies.” He drew himself up. “High King, we have been making many preparations for a siege. Perhaps you wish to see them?”
“An excellent suggestion, Lord Constable,” said Arandar. He turned to the others. “Queen Mara, the Anathgrimm will likely arrive before the rest of the army. I suggest you have them start constructing their encampments.” Mara inclined her head in agreement. “Master Marhand, send some men to greet the lords and knights and orcish kings as they arrive. Direct them to quarters within the city.”
“We’ll need to have them camp within the Forums,” said Corbanic. “And the courtyard of the Citadel itself. It’s the only way we’ll fit everyone into the city.”
“Do what you must,” said Arandar. “But we must hold Tarlion at all costs. Lord Constable, please lead the way.”
Corbanic nodded and put spurs to his horse. Marhand set some Swordbearers to carry messages to the approaching elements of the army, and Qhazulak dispatched two of his Anathgrimm to carry the Queen’s wishes to her warriors. Arandar followed the Constable, as did Mara and Gavin and Antenora and the rest of Arandar’s bodyguards.
The Constable pointed out the defensive preparations as they made a circle of Tarlion’s walls, and Arandar was impressed. Corbanic Lamorus and his son Sir Cortin knew their business. Siege engines crowned every tower, some of them trebuchets as powerful as the ones the Frostborn had used at Dun Calpurnia, and ballistae dotted the battlements at regular intervals. The Constable had drawn in stockpiles of food from the relief column that Dux Timon had attempted to send to Tarrabus during the siege, and already some of the supply barges from the north had docked and were unloading. There were also the magical defenses woven into the walls, ancient spells layered by generations of Keepers and Magistri, spells that would keep any creature of dark magic from entering the city. Master Vesilius also thought the wards would stop or at least blunt the elemental magic of the Frostborn.
Arandar hoped they would.
Tarlion’s walls were strong, and Arandar thought they had every chance of withstanding the fury of the Frostborn.
He had also thought they could hold the Frostborn at Dun Calpurnia, and he had been wrong, so wrong that the battle had nearly ended in catastrophic defeat.
Was he going to be wrong again?
He didn’t know. But Arandar didn’t see how he had any other choice. Yet he had thought the same when he had marched the army to Dun Calpurnia. Arandar had hoped to contain the Frostborn in the Northerland, or to invade their lands with the aid of the allies Calliande had summoned.
Now he was preparing to defend the seat of the realm from the invaders.
For a moment, he wondered where he had gone wrong, where he could have made better decisions. But in many ways, the cards had been dealt when Tarrabus and the Weaver and Imaria had murdered Uthanaric Pendragon, and Arandar had been playing the bad hand he had received ever since.
He pushed aside the doubts and the self-recrimination. What was done was done. Queen Mara was right. He needed to trust in the Keeper and the Dragon Knight, and play his part as best he could.
Tarlion would hold, or he would die defending it.
###
High in the towers of the Citadel overlooking the city of Tarlion, Tarrabus Carhaine paced back and forth, back and forth, muttering to himself.
There was nothing else to be done.
Sometimes he did exercises to pass the time or at least the exercises he would do with one hand. He had used to do push-ups in idle moments, keeping his strength ready for his sword, but Ridmark Arban had taken his sword hand, so both push-ups and swordplay were impossible now.
But his defeat had been impossible. How had Ridmark wielded Excalibur? How? The sword should have rejected him. It made no sense. No sense at all.
No, it did make sense. Tarrabus had been betrayed. Or his idiotic and useless servants had failed him.
“It was Imaria’s fault,” he said, the fingers of his left hand rubbing the hard scar tissue on the stump of his right. “It was her fault. Useless, useless, useless. It was Tymandain’s fault as well. He was stronger than Imaria, and he got himself killed by Ridmark. It was Malvaxon’s fault. The faithless rat fled the field. It was Timon’s fault. He should have brought more reinforcements…”
Though, really, the author of all his woes was Ridmark Arban.
Ridmark should have died in the Wilderland, driven mad by his grief over the death of Aelia. Instead, he had stolen that empty soulstone. He had kept Tymandain from killing Calliande and opening the world gate on the day of the great omen. The damnable Gray Knight had helped the Keeper recover her powers, slain Tymandain Shadowbearer, brought the Anathgrimm to the aid of the defeated loyalists at Dun Calpurnia, and inflicted a dozen other setbacks on Tarrabus. None of them alone would have been fatal, but they had added up and up until they had culminated in their final duel below the walls of Tarlion.
And Tarrabus’s servants had failed him profoundly. They had missed so many chances to kill Ridmark. Paul Tallmane had failed in the Wilderland and at the Iron Tower. Tarrabus had paid a small fortune to the Red Family to kill Ridmark, and the idiots had bungled it. The Weaver had failed, Tymandain Shadowbearer had failed, and Imaria herself had all failed.
Idiots, all of them. Had any High King of Andomhaim ever been attended by such fools?
Tarrabus paced to the window and stared at the city. His window was narrow, little more than an arrow slit, but from this height, it did let him see most of the northern half of Tarlion, from the Forum of the Crown to the Forum of the North below the gate.
It was his city. It should have been his city, his realm, his world, but his servants had been too incompetent and too craven to grasp the full glory of his vision. Tarrabus would have made mankind into gods, as powerful as the urdmordar and as immortal as the dark elves, and an elevated mankind would have ruled all the other kindreds of this world for eternity.
Out of habit, Tarrabus reached for the shadow of Incariel. He could feel it, just out of reach, waiting beyond the borders of his mind like an infinite black void. Unfortunately, while he could feel it, he could not draw it forth. The Magistri had woven his cell tight with powerful wards, blocking his access to the shadow of Incariel.
Unless he missed his guess, the wards extended two or three feet beyond the boundaries of the cell. Maybe the point of the narrow window was to torment him. Had he been able to climb out the window, he could have called upon the shadow of Incariel and escaped from the Citadel. But even if he starved himself to a skeleton, which he really didn’t want to do, he still could not have crawled through the window.
Not that it mattered. Tarlion was doomed. The realm was doomed. Tarrabus could have given them godhood. Instead, they had chosen to cling to their superstitions and obsolete morals and…
Tarrabus blinked in surprise.
There was a battle going on outside the northern gate.
Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15) Page 12
