Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)
Page 34
“Dragon Knight,” said Curzonar. “Will you hunt with us? My father is slain at the hands of the Frostborn, and I would avenge him by fulfilling the Great Hunt and killing them all.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “We need to get to the gate of Tarlion and start our own hunt for Imaria Shadowbearer. I would go with the taalkrazdors, but we are less likely to be trampled underfoot with you.”
“Good,” said Curzonar, showing his teeth. “Let us teach the Frostborn the folly of making war upon the Hunters of the Range.”
Ridmark nodded. “Third?”
“Lord magister?” she said, shaking the last of the medvarth blood from her short swords.
“Are you close enough to Tarlion that you can make your way inside?” said Ridmark.
She looked at the walls. “Yes, I think so. It will take a few jumps, but I can manage it.”
“Then find Arandar,” said Ridmark, “or whoever is in command if he was slain. Tell them that Imaria is heading for Tarlion and they need to stop her. Tarlion is full of Swordbearers and Magistri, and Imaria won’t risk a confrontation with them. The more of them that are looking for her, the better.”
“It shall be done,” said Third, and she vanished in blue fire.
“Are you ready?” said Curzonar, lifting his bloodstained axes, battle madness in his golden eyes.
Ridmark looked at Calliande, and she nodded.
“Let us hunt,” said Ridmark.
The manetaurs charged into the struggling masses of medvarth, and Ridmark and Calliande followed them.
Chapter 23: Armor
The largest battle that Gavin had ever seen raged outside the walls of Tarlion, dwarves and medvarth and tygrai and manetaurs and locusari locked in mortal combat, but he could spare it no thought.
The medvarth upon the ramparts kept him busy.
Three siege towers had reached the walls close to each other, flanked by four frozen poles on either side, and both medvarth warriors and locusari had claimed a foothold on the walls. With the foothold, they had brought up more reserves, and the defenders were in danger of losing control of the western half of the northern wall. If that happened, the enemy would seize the catapults and the ballistae and use them to rain bolts and stones on the men fighting in the Forum of the North.
Gavin had to stop that from happening.
Fortunately, he had some help.
“Spears in front, archers behind!” said Kharlacht. All the knights and decurions commanding this section of the wall had been killed, so Kharlacht and Camorak between them had taken charge of the survivors. Kharlacht had once commanded his cousin Qazarl’s warriors in battle, and Camorak had been an optio in service to old Dux Kors of Durandis. Between the two of them, they knew how to take charge of a group of soldiers.
For Camorak, the process seemed to involve a great deal of swearing. He bellowed a few more curses, slapping a few militiamen into line when they failed to move fast enough to please him.
“Antenora?” said Kharlacht.
“I am ready,” said Antenora. While Kharlacht and Camorak had been reforming the men-at-arms and militiamen, she had been busy channeling her power into a spell. A ball of fire a yard across now rotated above her staff, getting a little bigger and a little hotter with every revolution.
And it was spinning quite fast.
Twenty yards further down the wall more medvarth and locusari clambered over the battlements. The medvarth had formed a hasty shield wall to close off their section of the ramparts, and the walls of Tarlion were wide enough that the medvarth were able to stand four abreast, despite their bulk.
“Antenora,” said Kharlacht. “Now!”
Antenora leveled her staff and released her ball of flame. It soared over the ramparts, passing the slain men and medvarths and locusari, and landed within the medvarth. The explosion shook the wall, and burning medvarth warriors and locusari tumbled over the battlements or lost their footing to fall to the street below.
“Crossbows!” said Camorak.
Gavin dropped to one knee, and behind him, the crossbowmen leveled their weapons and pulled the triggers. A volley of bolts slammed into the reeling medvarth, killing and wounding a score of the enemy.
“At them!” roared Kharlacht, pointing his greatsword.
Gavin sprinted forward with a yell, and behind them the men-at-arms and the remaining Swordbearers charged, weapons raised. They crashed into the stunned medvarth warriors, and Gavin killed two before the creatures recovered and started fighting back. Kharlacht waded into the fray next to him, taking off a medvarth’s head with a sweep of his greatsword, and step by step they drove back the enemy. This time the momentum was with them, and Antenora sent a quick blast of flame over the battlements, destroying the frozen poles fused to the stonework.
Another medvarth came at Gavin, howling, and chopped an axe at his head. He caught the blow on his dwarven shield. Kharlacht took off the medvarth’s arm at the elbow, and the creature roared in fury and pain. Gavin killed it, and two more took its place.
Their charge slowed as they reached the three siege towers. A steady stream of medvarth warriors rushed up the towers and down the metal ramps. Even with Truthseeker strengthening him, it was all that Gavin could do to stay ahead of them. He killed several more medvarth warriors, their corpses tumbling to the street, but more always took their place.
A sudden vibration went through the ramparts.
“What the hell?” said Camorak.
Gavin looked to the right and saw the hand grasping the battlements.
The hand was made of bronze-colored metal, and it was about the size of Kharlacht’s torso. A second later another metal hand grasped the battlements. A few of the medvarth soldiers saw the hands and gave them puzzled looks.
The instant after that, the dwarven taalkrazdor heaved itself over the battlements and leaped into the midst of the medvarth.
The thing stood twelve feet tall, and it looked like a colossal suit of plate armor fashioned from dwarven steel. Hundreds of dwarven glyphs covered the cuirass and the helmet and the arms and legs, all of them shining with a hot white light, like metal that had been heated until it glowed. The faceplate of the helmet was wrought in a stylized likeness of a bearded dwarven face, stern and aloof and stoic. The taalkrazdor crushed three medvarth warriors beneath its armored boots as it landed.
And then it started killing in earnest.
The medvarth attacked with ferocity, but they had no weapons that could hurt the dwarven warrior within the hulking suit of magical armor. Their swords and axes broke against the legs of dwarven steel, and the taalkrazdor’s fists landed with the force of catapult stones. It less than a minute, the taalkrazdor had broken the medvarth and sent the survivors fleeing further down the ramparts.
There were not many survivors.
An idea came to Gavin.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Hey! Taalkrazdor! Can you hear me?”
The bronze-colored mask turned in his direction, and the huge metal head inclined in a nod.
Gavin pointed his soulblade over the ramparts. “Could please you smash those towers for us?”
Again the mask inclined, and the taalkrazdor seized the battlements and leaped over the edge. Gavin looked down and saw the taalkrazdor punching the base of the first tower. The heavy metal fists hammered through the thick wood and steel as if they were nothing more than kindling, and the taalkrazdor swatted aside the medvarth warriors that tried to stop it.
One by one the towers groaned and collapsed to the scarred battlefield.
The taalkrazdor lumbered off in search of new foes.
Gavin knew it would not have to look for very long.
“God and the saints,” said Camorak. “I’m glad those damned things are on our side.”
“As am I,” said Kharlacht.
Further down the wall, Gavin saw two more taalkrazdors heave themselves over the battlements, chasing down groups of medvarth and locusari that had made it onto the ramparts.
“Well, let’s not waste the opportunity, then,” said Kharlacht. “Keep moving!”
They charged forward, pushing back the medvarth and locusari survivors.
###
The fighting in the Forum of the North grew ever more furious.
Arandar had hoped that the medvarth warriors and the Frostborn might fall back from their assault on the city and turn to face their new foes. An army attacked from behind while assaulting a fortification was in a tremendously dangerous position. In fact, the entire strategy of the men of Andomhaim had been based upon that fact, and now the Frostborn faced not one but three dangerous armies behind their lines. Had Arandar been in their place, he would have abandoned the attack on Tarlion, turned, and rushed to overcome the new arrivals.
But the Frostborn had not done that. Perhaps they believed themselves strong enough to crush all their foes at once.
Perhaps they were strong enough to overcome all their foes at once.
Another band of medvarth broke through the line of the shield wall, and Arandar charged into the fray with the other Swordbearers. He met the first medvarth, smashing through its shield with Excalibur. The thick wood and steel did nothing to slow the sword’s edge, and the medvarth staggered as its shield fell in pieces. That let Constantine step forward and plunge his soulblade home.
Arandar repeated his tactics, using Excalibur to smash through the shields of the medvarth and allowing the other Swordbearers to strike home. Several times he caught the flashes of blue fire as Mara appeared behind their foes, cutting their throats and disappearing again. Arandar supposed that was not a knightly way to make war, but Mara was not a knight, and their position was desperate.
At last the medvarth band had been defeated, and more men and orcs and Anathgrimm rushed to close the gaps in the line. Arandar looked at the ruins of the northern gate, many of the broken stones now covered with the slain and splashed with drying blood, both human and medvarth. Was the flow of enemies into the city slackening? He thought so, but he could not tell.
With the massive shape of Cathair Solas flying overhead, who could be sure of what was real?
“The battle,” said Mara, breathing hard, medvarth blood dripping from her sword and dagger.
Arandar looked at her, wondering if she had taken a blow to the head, but she was unhurt.
“The magical battle, I mean,” said Mara. “Outside the walls. I can see it with the Sight, the high elves and the Frostborn battling. I’ve never seen anything like it. God and the saints! It must have looked like that when St. Michael threw the devil and his followers out of paradise.”
“Can you tell who is winning?” said Arandar.
“I fear not,” said Mara. “Maybe Calliande could. She knows more about the Sight. But it’s like watching the world rip itself apart. I…”
“Frostborn!” shouted one of the nearby Swordbearers.
Arandar looked at the wrecked gate and saw a dozen Frostborn striding forward, more medvarth warriors following them. Cogitaers floated behind them, protected by the warriors, and Arandar saw them gesturing as they started to cast spells.
“Magistri!” called Master Vesilius, his voice cracking with strain and exhaustion. Sweat poured down the old Magistrius’s face, and the other Magistri aiding him in his efforts did not look any better. They had done well holding back the attacks of the cogitaers, but Arandar wondered if they had the strength left to ward against a dozen Frostborn unleashing their spells at once. “Recast the warding spell! Recast…”
The Frostborn began casting a spell, and then something huge and bronze was in their midst.
Arandar had never seen anything like it. It looked like a twelve-foot tall statue of an armored dwarven warrior carved from bronze and covered in glowing white glyphs, but the thing was moving, and it was moving fast. An armored fist shot out and impacted with the side of a Frostborn warrior’s head with enough force to turn the Frostborn’s skull to icy dust.
Three more of the bronze forms crashed into the Frostborn, some of them punching, others wielding huge weapons. One of the armored shapes went down, the cuirass ripped open by the greatswords of the Frostborn, but the others continued fighting, killing Frostborn warriors and driving the survivors back step by step.
“What are those things?” said Dux Tormark, wiping some blood from his face. He had taken a glancing hit on the jaw.
“Taalkrazdors, I think,” said Arandar. “Magical armor used by elite dwarven warriors. The Keeper told me about them. Little wonder the dark elves never managed to conquer Khald Tormen.”
For the first time since the gate had been destroyed, the medvarth began to retreat. The signal drums boomed from outside the walls, but Arandar also heard the deeper drums of the dwarves and the howl of manetaur hunting horns. Arandar spared a glance at the ramparts, and saw that the footholds that the medvarth had gained there had almost entirely been eliminated.
There was still a vast enemy army outside the walls…but now that army faced threats from multiple directions.
“Dux Kors!” said Arandar.
“High King,” rasped Kors, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Get the men ready to attack,” said Arandar. “We are marching out the gate to aid our allies.”
###
“Something must be happening outside the walls, consort of the Queen,” said Khorzuuk. The Anathgrimm warrior had no imagination, but it didn’t take imagination to realize what was happening. “We have not seen any frost drakes for the last ten minutes.”
“We have not,” agreed Jager, thinking hard. After the flying city had appeared in the sky, the frost drakes that had been amusing themselves by terrorizing the people of Tarlion had flown north in a hurry. The reason had become apparent a few minutes later when Jager had glimpsed strange eagle-headed beasts flying around the white towers of the floating city, ridden by figures in golden armor. The last time Jager had seen armor like that had been on the bladeweaver Rhyannis at Urd Morlemoch, which meant that the flying city belonged to the high elves and the archmage Ardrhythain.
But why had the high elves shown up in a flying city? Was it too much effort to walk here? Maybe the high elves planned to drop their city on the heads of the Frostborn if the battle went bad.
Absurd thought, that.
“What should we do, lord Prince?” said Martin.
“Well,” said Jager. They were still in the Forum of the Crown below the Citadel. Five dead frost drakes lay scattered around the Forum. Well, mostly in the Forum, since one of them had crashed into a fairly luxurious inn off the Forum and destroyed the building in the process. That was sad since the inn had set an excellent table, but at least no one had been inside it at the time.
Jager shook his head. God, but he could use a cup of wine. Or a barrel. Yes, definitely a barrel.
“I’d say the Dragon Knight has come through for us,” said Jager. “He and the Keeper went to bring the dwarves and the manetaurs to our aid, and he must have found some high elves along the way and invited them to the battle.”
“High elves?” said Khorzuuk, his doubt plain.
Jager gestured at the city. What had the last city of the high elves been called? Mara would know. Cathair Solas, that was it. “Do you know anyone else who can make a city fly?”
“I don’t know anyone who can make a city fly,” said Khorzuuk.
“But if the battle is moving outside the walls of Tarlion,” said Jager, “then the armies will be heading out there. That will be our chance to get the wounded into the churches so they can rest.” Hopefully enough Magistri would survive the battle that they could heal those with severe wounds.
“What if we find any wounded medvarth or khaldjari?” said Martin.
“Kill them,” said Jager.
Khorzuuk nodded in
approval.
“We’ll need to see how the battle is going in the Forum of the North first,” said Jager. “And then…”
Something dark flickered in the corner of his eye.
“What the hell is that?” said Martin, yanking his sword from his scabbard. Khorzuuk and the Anathgrimm snarled and raised their weapons.
A slim woman in black armor stood a dozen yards away, gazing at the Citadel upon its crag. At first, Jager did not recognize her. Her skin was like that of a corpse, gray and lifeless, and her eyes were like quicksilver mirrors. Black veins pulsed beneath her skin as if her blood had been replaced with shadow. She wore strange, close-fitting armor of overlapping black steel plates that looked like something the dvargir would wear, but the plates were sliding around each other as if the armor was somehow alive. Wings of black shadow rippled and billowed out behind her, waving like a banner in the wind.
Then recognition flooded through Jager, and he realized that he was about to die.
“Oh,” he said. “Damn.”
She was Imaria Licinius, and when Jager had first met her in Coldinium, she had been Tarrabus Carhaine’s petulant, insecure mistress, filled with hatred for Ridmark Arban and a hopeless love for Tarrabus.
That proud, cruel young woman had become something worse.
Much, much worse.
The mirrored eyes turned to Jager, and recognition flickered over the black-veined face.
“The halfling,” said Imaria. The last time Jager had heard someone with a voice like that had been in Khald Azalar, when Tymandain Shadowbearer had dueled Calliande for the empty soulstone. One half of her voice sounded like Imaria Licinius, noblewoman of Andomhaim. The other half of her voice was an inhuman, malevolent snarl, a sound that no human throat could make.
The voice of the bearer of Incariel’s shadow.
“The one who stole Tarrabus’s signet ring,” said Imaria.
“That’s me,” said Jager, eyes flicking back and forth as he looked for any Swordbearers or Magistri. Alas, none were present.