Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  A frost drake rose into sight, breathing its plume of white mist on someone out of sight beyond the walls.

  Tarrabus watched, his boredom forgotten for the first time in weeks. The frost drakes soared back and forth outside the northern wall, flanked by the blue specks of locusari scouts. Fire erupted across one of the frost drakes. That would be Antenora, the Keeper’s troublesome apprentice. But what was she doing here? The host of Andomhaim had marched away to the north to wage war against the Frostborn.

  Could they have failed so badly so quickly?

  Tarrabus smiled at the thought.

  He watched as the frost drakes were driven off. A few moments later horsemen rode into the Forum of the North, and Tarrabus spotted the High King’s banner, the red dragon of the Pendragons across a field of blue.

  The bastard king Arandar himself had returned to Tarlion.

  Tarrabus’s smile widened further. If Arandar was here, that meant he had retreated across Andomhaim back to Tarlion. The Frostborn themselves would soon be in pursuit.

  They would lay siege to the city and take it.

  And then, when they took the Citadel and shattered the wards, Tarrabus would be free. The shadow of Incariel would be his to use again. He would find Arandar and Calliande and Ridmark and take his revenge, give them deaths of agony in exchange for the undoing of his great and glorious purpose.

  And then…

  A flicker of despair went through Tarrabus.

  And then what? He would have made mankind into gods, but humanity had not been worthy. If he escaped the wreckage of the Citadel and took vengeance upon his foes, what then? He could not defeat the Frostborn by himself. With the Enlightened under his command and a unified Andomhaim behind him he could have defeated the Frostborn, but with the realm conquered and broken, he could do nothing.

  Should he submit to the Frostborn? Live as their slave?

  The despair darkened a little.

  Perhaps it all had been for nothing. His entire life, and the patient work of the generations of Enlightened before him, had it all been for nothing? A mad dream and nothing more?

  The despair hardened into rage.

  His enemies had done this. Ridmark Arban had done this. Tarrabus would have used the shadow to transform humanity into a race of immortal gods, but his enemies had shattered that glorious dream.

  Whatever happened, Tarrabus would make sure they paid for it.

  He kept pacing, but his eyes strayed to the narrow window again and again, eagerly awaiting the arrival the Frostborn.

  Chapter 10: The Order of the Inquisition

  Calliande strode through Ridmark’s gate, the staff of the Keeper tight in her left hand.

  She felt a moment of spinning disorientation, the Sight rising within her in response to the power of the gate. Calliande still did not understand how the gate worked, no more than she fully understood how Third’s power to travel worked. Somehow Third and Mara attempted to enter the threshold, the world’s shadow in the spirit world, and were physically repelled, much like a child bouncing a ball off a stone wall. Both Third and Mara could control the effect with precision, allowing them to travel hundreds of yards in the blink of an eye.

  The gates the sword of the Dragon Knight created were different. The sword seemed to fold the material world and the threshold together, letting them traverse vast distances in a single step. Somehow it also let Ridmark stop the flow of time when he needed it. Or, rather, the sword let its wielder remove himself from the flow of time. It was as if the sword granted Ridmark incredible speed, allowing him to perform an hour’s worth of activity in the blink of an eye.

  Her face warmed as she remembered some of the activities they had done in that stolen time.

  Then Caius and Third emerged from the gate, and Calliande forced her mind to the matter at hand.

  For a moment, she didn’t recognize where the sword had taken them.

  They stood on a broad, sandy beach, a wide body of water spreading to the north and a forest to the south. Further to the west, Calliande saw a small village at the edge of the lake, piers jutting into the water, fishing boats docked alongside them. A hasty-looking palisade had been thrown up around the village, and she glimpsed watchmen standing atop the walls.

  At first, she thought that the gate had gone wrong and that it had deposited them somewhere along the coast of the sea. But there was no salt in the air, and she was sure the lake was freshwater. At last, recognition came to her. They had arrived at the southern shore of the Lake of Mourning in Caerdracon, the lands once ruled by Tarrabus Carhaine.

  “I think,” said Caius, looking around, “that we’re in Caerdracon, aren’t we?”

  “We are,” said Ridmark. “Central Caerdracon, the southern shore of the Lake of Mourning. We’re not all that far from Westhold.”

  “I suppose Jager would have grown up here,” said Caius. “His village of Caudea would not be far from Westhold.”

  “The manetaurs are here?” said Third.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “I think they’re about five miles southeast of here.” She drew on the Sight, sweeping it around her. Blurred images danced before her Sight, images of the many battles that had been fought here over the millennia. The Lake of Mourning had gained its name long before humans had ever come to this world. But in the distance, the Sight showed her the wavering images of the manetaurs and the tygrai as they marched to the northwest. It also showed her the auras of magical power around the arbiters, who served the manetaur kindred as a sort of combination of priest, scholar, and judge. “They’re heading this way.”

  Odd. She had thought the manetaurs would be much further to the east. Perhaps they had marched west faster than she had expected.

  “We ought to meet them,” said Ridmark. “We’ll need to speak to Red King Turcontar and Red Prince Curzonar. Though I suppose Curzonar’s proper title now is the adad-khalath of the Great Hunt against the Frostborn.”

  “Best to address him by his proper title,” said Third. Her voice was cool as ever, but she was frowning at the ground. “The Hunters set great store in proper manners.”

  “A necessity,” said Caius, “given their preferred violent methods of resolving disputes.”

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark. Now he was frowning at the ground, too.

  “Is something wrong?” said Calliande.

  “Possibly,” said Third.

  “A great many medvarth have passed this way recently,” said Ridmark. “Some locusari, too.”

  Now that he had pointed it out, Calliande could see it. The ground towards the southern end of the beach was grassy, and much the grass had been trampled flat. The medvarth wore boots, and their feet had such a distinct shape that it was easy to spot their footprints in the sand. There were smaller tracks that looked like a ring of small holes around a larger central hole. Those tracks would have been left by the locusari.

  “Locusari and medvarth?” said Third.

  “It would seem so,” said Ridmark.

  “If the High King is falling back towards Tarlion,” said Caius, “the Frostborn likely feel free to send patrols through Caerdracon and Khaluusk. They know that the manetaurs and my kindred are coming, and they would be fools to ignore such powerful forces on their flanks.”

  “Then the sooner we warn Red King Turcontar, the better,” said Calliande.

  “Third,” said Ridmark, pointing with the red sword. “What do you make of that?”

  Calliande looked at an odd track in the sand, a long, shallow depression. It looked like something had been dragged there. No, that wasn’t quite right. It looked like someone had swept the edge of a cloak through the sand. Like one of the medvarth had been wearing a long cloak, or…

  “A cogitaer’s robe,” said Ridmark, pointing at the depressions. “It was floating along with the soldiers, and it left that track in the sand.”

  “Are all those tracks headed to the southeast?” said Calliande. Ridmark nodded. “Then we really do need to hurry. T
hey might try to assassinate the Red King.”

  Ridmark frowned. “A few hundred medvarth and locusari wouldn’t last long against the gathered Red Princes.”

  “No,” said Caius, “but the Frostborn tried several times to assassinate the High King on the march to Dun Calpurnia. It would not surprise me if they tried again…and they will know that killing Turcontar might touch off a civil war among the manetaurs until Curzonar could assert his control as the new Red King.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” said Ridmark. “We had best hurry, then.”

  He started jogging to the southeast, following the tracks as they headed into the grass and towards the forest. Calliande looked at the trees, seeking for any signs of the enemy, and then realized that Third and Ridmark would do a far better job than she would. She hadn’t spent years wandering the Wilderland alone, after all, and neither had she spent centuries killing at the command of the Traveler.

  Instead, she drew on the Sight, sending it sweeping through the trees in search of their enemies.

  And the Sight reacted at once, sensing the spells among the trees.

  “Ridmark!” said Calliande. “Ridmark, stop!”

  He came to a halt at once, the sword raised in guard.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “A spell,” said Calliande in a low voice. “A spell of concealment. Something from the magic of elemental air, I think. Enemies are lying in wait for us in the trees.”

  “Can you dispel it?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. She hesitated. “Be ready to take cover. If they have bows they might try shooting at us.”

  Ridmark nodded and stepped in front of her, raising the sword of the Dragon Knight. Third and Caius spread out on either side of him. Calliande gestured with the staff of the Keeper, the staff burning with white fire as she drew on the magic of the Well and fused it with the irresistible power of the Keeper’s mantle. The white fire brightened, and Calliande slammed the end of her staff against the ground with a shout. A ring of white fire rolled out from the end of the staff, passing Ridmark and Caius and Third without harm, and it spread into the trees.

  And as it did, the air in the forest rippled and twisted, and dozens of shapes appeared.

  Calliande saw scores of medvarth warriors in plate armor, broadswords and battle axes in their clawed right hands, shields heavy upon their left arms. A score of locusari warriors waited with them, their blue carapaces stark against the green of the forest. She saw four cogitaers floating behind the warriors, blinking in annoyance as the magic of the Well collapsed their concealment spell.

  Three Frostborn stood like pillars of armored ice, their eyes burning white beneath their spike-crowned helms. Two of the Frostborn looked little different than the others Calliande had seen and fought and killed, gray armor covering their crystalline skin, frost-wreathed greatswords in their right hands.

  But the third Frostborn was a woman.

  Her helm was off, revealing a hairless head with features of alien beauty, and she was shorter and slimmer than the Frostborn men, though she still stood nine feet tall. Calliande’s Sight showed the powerful magic blazing within the Frostborn woman, magic strong enough to freeze and kill a dozen men where they stood. She didn’t recognize the Frostborn woman, but Ridmark did.

  “Arlmagnava,” said Ridmark.

  ###

  Ridmark watched the Frostborn and their soldiers, preparing himself for the attack.

  They were badly outnumbered, but they had advantages. Calliande’s magic was potent and would blunt the spells of the Frostborn and the cogitaers. Third could travel in an instant, and Caius was a capable warrior.

  And Ridmark had Caledhmaer.

  Yet he knew better than to become overconfident, even as the sword of the Dragon Knight screamed in his mind for him to strike.

  “The Gray Knight,” said Arlmagnava, Seeker of the Order of the Inquisition, her voice a beautiful music. “But the Dragon Knight now. Clearly, we should have made greater efforts to kill you earlier.”

  “Clearly,” said Ridmark.

  “Lord Commander Kajaldrakthor offered a bounty of the governance of five cities to whoever killed you and brought your head before the High Lords,” said Arlmagnava. “Yet we did not deem you the primary threat. Greater efforts were made to kill the Keeper Calliande and the High King Arandar Pendragon. In hindsight, we ought to have killed you first.”

  “The bounty has been raised, I trust?” said Ridmark.

  Arlmagnava inclined her head. “Considerably. The High Lord that kills you will receive complete governorship over one of the lesser kindreds that populate this world once the conquest is complete. Should one of our subject kindreds succeed in killing you, the reward will be one appropriate for their stature, but no less valuable.”

  “You’re not here for the manetaurs, are you?” said Ridmark. “You are here for us.”

  “Your logic is correct,” said Arlmagnava. “The scouts and spies of the Order of the Inquisition have been monitoring your movements for some time. We know you have raised the khaldari and the manetaurs against us in hopes of driving us back to the world gate. Once you assumed the mantle of the Dragon Knight, we suspected you would exhibit similar abilities as your predecessor, including the power to travel rapidly from place to place. Parties were sent to monitor both the khaldari host and the manetaurs to watch for your arrival. As chance should have it, you came to us first, and the bounty for your death and the death of the Keeper shall be mine. You will elevate my stature among the Assembly of the High Lords considerably.”

  “Before we begin,” said Ridmark, calling on Caledhmaer’s power. An idea came to him. “A question.”

  “As you wish,” said Arlmagnava.

  “The Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark. “If Tarrabus had won and claimed the throne of Andomhaim, what would you have done with him?”

  “We would have accepted him as a vassal of the Dominion of the Assembly of the High Lords, and levied taxes and requirements for service upon him,” said Arlmagnava. “However, his arrogance rendered him incapable of accepting his place. Inevitably, he would have betrayed us, and we would have destroyed him and reduced humanity to slavery rather than vassal status.”

  “You were willing to use Tarrabus to defeat Andomhaim and kill the Keeper and High King Arandar,” said Ridmark. “But once the tool had served its purpose, you would have discarded it.”

  “Had the tool remained loyal, there would have been no need to discard it,” said Arlmagnava. “But, in essence, you are correct.”

  “What if I told you that someone is using you as a tool the way you used Tarrabus?” said Ridmark. “What if I told you that person was planning to discard the Frostborn once you were no longer useful?”

  “Explain,” said Arlmagnava, the white-burning eyes fixed on Ridmark.

  “Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark.

  “A useful local ally,” said Arlmagnava. “But, like Tarrabus, once Tarlion has fallen she will have outlived her usefulness. Her sanity has deteriorated of late.”

  “It has,” said Ridmark, “but in her madness, she has found clarity of purpose, and she is using you.”

  “Explain,” said Arlmagnava again.

  “You know the source of her power?” said Ridmark.

  “A demon is imprisoned on this world,” said Arlmagnava. “It is of no concern. Demons are imprisoned on many worlds, and so long as they are left undisturbed, they are harmless. The mission of the High Lords is to perfect the cosmos, not to introduce additional defects into it.”

  “Imaria is disturbing the demon,” said Ridmark.

  “She poses no threat,” said Arlmagnava. “She lacks the power to free her patron demon.”

  “Why do you think she is having you attack Tarlion?” said Ridmark. “Why do you think she wants to claim the Citadel and the Well?”

  “The Well is a source of power, a wellspring of magic,” said Arlmagnava. “It empowers the spells
of your Magistri, and they have given effective support for your armies in this war. With the power of the Well in hand, we can neutralize the Magistri and tap the power of the Well to fuel our conquest. We can then empower spells and engines of war that will shatter the remaining resistance on this world.”

  “You have it backward,” said Ridmark. “You aren’t using Imaria to destroy your enemies. She’s using you to get to the Well.”

  “Unlikely,” said Arlmagnava, but Ridmark kept talking.

  “Why do you think Tymandain Shadowbearer opened your world gate on top of the Black Mountain?” said Ridmark. “That’s where Incariel is imprisoned. Tymandain only wanted you here to get him to the Well, and Imaria has inherited his plan. That’s why she’s convinced you to take the Well. If she can draw on the Well, she will feed its power into your world gate and expand it until it slices open the mountain. Then Incariel will be free, and something will be loose that even you can’t fight.”

  Arlmagnava said nothing, and Ridmark waited. Perhaps he could drive a seed of doubt between the Frostborn and Imaria Shadowbearer. Or maybe he could even convince the Frostborn to kill Imaria. If she was dead, even if the Frostborn conquered the world Incariel would remain in its prison. A world ruled by the Frostborn would be hellish misery, but it would still be better than the madness and chaos of Incariel.

  “Your perspective is limited by your lack of knowledge,” said Arlmagnava.

  “Then enlighten me,” said Ridmark.

  “We are aware that Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer is dangerous and unstable and would betray us if she thought she could,” said Arlmagnava. “But she is no threat to us. She cannot challenge the power of the High Lords. If she serves our purposes, we will permit her to live. When she betrays us, we will kill her. She is no threat to us.”

  Ridmark remembered Imaria’s boast that her weakness would prove more powerful than Tymandain Shadowbearer’s strength. Perhaps Tymandain’s raw power would have led the Frostborn to turn on him sooner rather than later. But Imaria lacked his magical strength, which meant the Frostborn would not see her as a serious threat until it was too late to stop her.