Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15)

by Jonathan Moeller

  The others were nearby. Jager rode with Mara and Third and Qhazulak and Zhorlacht, determined to see this to the end. Camorak and Kharlacht were not far behind, and Antenora rode next to him. He realized that they were likely to die together. Gavin was not sure why Cathair Solas was floating over the Citadel, but from what he had overhead, he knew that it was a dire threat, that if Ridmark and Calliande did not stop Imaria Shadowbearer, then high elves would stop her.

  The cost would be catastrophic.

  Gavin braced himself for the battle, preparing for whatever end might befall them.

  And as he did, both Antenora and Mara looked to the north at the same time.

  “What is it?” said Gavin.

  “I do not know,” said Antenora.

  “A storm of magic,” said Mara. “I have never seen anything like it. I think it is coming from the world gate.”

  “The world gate?” said Gavin, a cold sense of finality settling over him like a frozen cloak. Did that mean that Ridmark and Calliande had failed? That Imaria would try to summon Incariel, and they would all perish when the high elves sealed the Well?

  Then a ripple went through the lines of the medvarth, explosions of blue fire ripping through their ranks. It took Gavin a moment to realize what was happening.

  The Frostborn were disappearing.

  Hundreds and thousands of flashes of blue fire pulsed through the lines of the enemy host and the medvarth began to shift, backing away uneasily. More blue flashes came from the sky overhead, and the frost drakes turned, their Frostborn riders disappearing. Gavin wondered if the Frostborn had somehow traveled away or if they had decided to use their magic to transport themselves into Tarlion.

  Antenora’s voice rang out, louder than he had ever heard it before.

  “The world gate has been closed!” she shouted. “The Frostborn have been drawn back to their own worlds! The gate is closed!”

  ###

  All at once, it that single moment, the direction of the battle changed.

  Arandar reined up and watched as the horsemen of Andomhaim fell into the enemy like a thunderbolt. The medvarth were brutal fighters, the locusari fearless, the khaldjari efficient and relentless, and the cogitaers powerful. But it was fear of their Frostborn masters that drove them on, fear of their Frostborn masters that made them fight and kill without regard for their own safety.

  And with their Frostborn rulers gone, their morale shattered like glass beneath a hammer.

  The huge army that had conquered the Northerland, nearly defeated the host of Andomhaim, and come within a hair’s breadth of conquering Tarlion collapsed.

  It was like watching a miracle. The horsemen thundered into the medvarth, and they turned and fled, their coordination vanishing, some groups of medvarth even fighting each other as long-buried grudges erupted into violence. The dwarves and the manetaurs pressed their advantage, and the enemy army shattered into a thousand different groups, most fleeing, some standing, and a few even fighting each other.

  A shadow fell over the battlefield, and Arandar looked to the south.

  Cathair Solas was moving. The mass of stone with the revolving white city was floating north again, away from Tarlion.

  Antenora had been right. Ridmark and Calliande had done it. The world gate had been closed.

  Arandar closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks for their deliverance, and then turned his attention the task at hand.

  There was still a battle to be won.

  The men of Andomhaim and the Anathgrimm and the dwarves and the manetaurs pursued their beaten enemies until their stamina failed at last.

  ###

  Ridmark and Calliande stood atop the hill, watching the smoke billow from the inferno that marked the spot where the Frostborn citadel had once stood.

  He knew they ought to leave, that they ought to return to Tarlion as soon as possible. The world gate might have been closed, and Calliande suspected the Frostborn themselves had been yanked back through the world gate when it closed due to their magical nature, but their soldiers would remain outside the walls of Tarlion, and they might decide to fight to the bitter and bloody end.

  But Ridmark just needed a moment to rest first.

  “The Dragon Knights?” said Calliande in a quiet voice.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark.

  “How did you know to call them?” said Calliande.

  “I didn’t,” said Ridmark. “Morigna told me.” He sighed. “I suppose she has been watching over us for the last year and a half. Had she not suggested it, the idea would never have occurred to me. I had feared what would become of her, since she always spurned the church, but…”

  “A penance,” said Calliande.

  He blinked. “A penance?”

  “She took in that dark magic at Urd Morlemoch,” said Calliande. “It became part of her. I think…I think she must work it off before she can move from this world to the next. Like it’s an anchor weighing her down.”

  “She just saved our lives,” said Ridmark. “I hope that works off a great deal of it. Because if she hadn’t, Imaria would have won.”

  “I know,” said Calliande. “Brother Caius would say to trust to the mercy of God.” She touched his arm. “I…know that would have been difficult, to see her again.”

  To his surprise, he smiled. “It wasn’t, not this time. I…had a chance to say farewell properly, when I saw her spirit in the Tomb of the Dragon Knight. She told me to marry you.”

  Calliande laughed. “Morigna and I did tend to get our way when we agreed on something, didn’t we?”

  “God and the saints, but you did,” said Ridmark. “And I was not the only one to see someone from my past.”

  “Kalomarus,” said Calliande. “He and Marius were the last people I saw before I went into the long sleep. I said farewell to Marius at Dragonfall…but I suppose Kalomarus would have preferred to go out fighting.”

  “I imagine so,” said Ridmark. He rolled his shoulders. “I’m afraid we should return to Tarlion. I hope we are not too late, that Ardrhythain didn’t drop Cathair Solas onto the city.”

  “He didn’t,” murmured Calliande, looking south. “Else I would be able to see the destruction from here with the Sight. We were just in time, I think.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Ridmark. He drew in a deep breath, lifted the sword, and called on its power. The gate opened before them, and Calliande followed Ridmark. The disorientation rolled through him, and he caught his balance as the gate closed behind him.

  He lifted the sword, looking for enemies. The gate had taken them to the Forum of the North, and Ridmark expected to find himself in the middle of a battle.

  But the Forum of the North was deserted, save for the dead, of which there were many. Ridmark looked from the ruined gate and to the fields outside the city. He expected to see the medvarth and the locusari assaulting the walls. Instead, he saw more dead and the wreckage of the siege towers. Overhead Cathair Solas floated away to the north, and in the distance, he glimpsed horsemen and manetaurs and taalkrazdors running down fleeing medvarth warriors and khaldjari.

  The battle was over.

  “I think we won,” said Calliande.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark, looking at the slain. “At great cost, I fear.” He saw the corpses of many men, Anathgrimm, and baptized orcs among the medvarth soldiers and locusari warriors.

  “It is always that way in war,” said Calliande. She looked weary beyond measure, and she drew himself up, taking on the calm mien of the Keeper of Andomhaim once more. “There will be many, many wounded, and I must help the Magistri heal as many as can be saved. And even if the Frostborn have been banished and their army broken, the High King will still need to plan a campaign to retake the Northerland and subdue the remaining citadels the khaldjari built.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Arandar’s probably with the rest of the horsemen. Let’s see if we can find a pair of horses and get after him. It will likely be safer than jumping around
a battlefield with the sword.”

  “Agreed,” said Calliande. “We…”

  Her head snapped around, her blue eyes narrowing.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “I don’t…” Her eyes went wide. “Oh, no.”

  Ridmark looked around, wondering what was wrong.

  “Antenora,” she said. “I forgot the limitations of the curse on her. We have to hurry.”

  Chapter 30: Cost of the Curse

  Gavin sat on a beam that had once belonged to a khaldjari trebuchet and caught his breath, watching as his horse picked among the trampled grass in search of food. Antenora sat next to him, her staff between her knees, her yellow eyes distant as she gazed at the wreck and the ruin of the battlefield.

  After the Frostborn army had collapsed, the horsemen of Andomhaim had ridden forth in pursuit, killing and killing, while the taalkrazdors of the dwarves and the manetaurs accompanied them. At last Arandar had called the horsemen back, lest the medvarth or the locusari regroup to attempt an attack on Tarlion.

  Also, the men and the horses had been exhausted. Gavin appreciated the rest.

  He knew there was work to do, tremendous amounts of work. Swordbearers had limited healing abilities compared to the Magistri, but there were so many wounded men that it did not matter. The men of Andomhaim would need to drive the survivors of the Frostborn host out of Calvus and Caerdracon, lest they spread out in raiding parties across Andomhaim, and then the High King would need to launch a campaign to reconquer the Northerland.

  Just thinking about it made him tired. Or it would have, even if he wasn’t already exhausted. In a few moments, he knew, he would feel better. He just needed some rest.

  “What are you thinking, Gavin Swordbearer?” said Antenora, leaning her head against her staff. She rarely showed signs of weariness, but she did now. Perhaps the battle had been just as tiring for her. She had wielded a stupendous amount of magic during the fighting, and if she had not destroyed so many siege towers, the medvarth might have taken the northern wall.

  “I think,” said Gavin, and he trailed off.

  He stared at the battlefield for a moment.

  “I think I am surprised that we won,” he said at last.

  Antenora nodded, her staff bobbing a little with the motion. “As am I.”

  “I thought Dun Calpurnia was a big battle,” said Gavin. “Both times. But this…God and the apostles. I had never seen a battle that large.”

  “I have,” said Antenora, and Gavin smiled. “On Old Earth. But rarely. Battles of this size are rare, and when they arrive, they define the shape of the age to come.” She coughed a few times and straightened up, still leaning on her staff. “But they are rare.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have doubted,” said Gavin. “Ridmark and Calliande did it.”

  “If anyone could have done it, it was them,” said Antenora. “And they did. The Keeper and the Dragon Knight. Maybe that was what they were always meant to become. I think…”

  She frowned and coughed again. Gavin looked at her in surprise. She never coughed.

  “But I am grateful,” said Antenora, “so grateful, that you survived. I am grateful that I got to meet you. I…”

  Blue fire swirled, and Mara stepped out of nothingness a few paces away. She caught her balance, looked around, and walked over, her green eyes on Antenora.

  She looked alarmed.

  “Mara,” said Gavin. He blinked. “Queen Mara, I mean.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “Gavin. We’re on our way back to Tarlion.” She let out a long breath. “There are thousands of dead medvarth that need to be buried before they putrefy, and Jager and the Anathgrimm are going to organize it. Thank God he’s good at organizing that kind of thing.” She stepped closer to Antenora. “How…do you feel?”

  “Tired,” said Antenora. “At peace. I did what I needed to do. Not many people get a second chance, but I did.”

  Gavin frowned and looked at her, and then noticed something.

  A faint haze of blue light shimmered and crawled over her gray skin, seeming to rise from her veins.

  In a single, horrified instant, he understood.

  Her curse. The curse that Mordred Pendragon had put on her in ancient days when she betrayed the first Keeper and Mordred had, in turn, betrayed her to steal her power. That curse had kept her alive for fifteen centuries. When Antenora had found Calliande in the Vale of Stone Death, she had sworn to serve as Calliande’s apprentice, to fight alongside her until the Frostborn were defeated…

  The Frostborn had just been utterly defeated.

  And now the curse that had sustained her was ended, and what was left of her life was over.

  “Antenora,” said Gavin.

  She let her staff fall to the ground and pushed back her hood. The same blue glow played over her face, and her yellow eyes seemed starker and harsher.

  “Do not mourn for me,” said Antenora. “I got what I wanted. It was far more than I deserve.” She started coughing again and swayed on the beam. “I…”

  She toppled, and Gavin caught her, his arms wrapping around her. She felt light and very, very cold.

  “Mara,” said Gavin. “Can you go find Calliande? Or…or a Magistrius? Someone who can cast a healing spell?”

  “I don’t think it will make a difference,” said Mara.

  “Please,” said Gavin.

  Mara nodded and vanished in a flash of blue fire.

  Gavin drew on his bond with Truthseeker and sent its healing magic into Antenora. It did nothing. It was like trying to send the sword’s magic into a stone. It washed off her without effect.

  “Antenora,” said Gavin.

  He had known this was coming. In the fury of the battle, in the desperate struggle against the Frostborn, he had forgot about it. He had made himself forget about it. Part of it had been his fear that since they were going to be defeated, it didn’t matter. The rest had been the desperate hope that maybe she had been wrong, that the curse would leave her unharmed when it departed.

  That had been a foolish hope.

  “Gavin,” croaked Antenora, gazing up at him as he cradled her in his arms. She felt so terribly cold. “Do not mourn for me.”

  “I can’t help it,” said Gavin.

  “I am…grateful, so grateful,” said Antenora, “that I met you. I never thought I could love anyone again, but I love you, Gavin.”

  “I love you,” said Gavin.

  She managed to smile. Despite her gaunt, sallow face, despite the yellow eyes, despite the haze of blue light playing over her skin, it made her look beautiful. “It is more than I deserve. Forget me, Gavin.”

  “No,” said Gavin. “I can’t.”

  “Please,” said Antenora, her voice little more than a scratchy whisper. “Live long and be happy. Find a good woman and sire children on her, and forget me. I should have died a long, long time ago. That I could undo my curse at all was a mercy. That I lived long enough to find you was more than I ever deserved.” She lifted a shaking hand and touched his face, her fingers like ice. “I love you. I…I…”

  The breath left her, and she sagged motionless against him, her yellow eyes open and unblinking.

  Gavin closed his eyes, rested his forehead against hers, and tried not to weep.

  He wasn’t sure how long he remained like that. A lifetime, maybe, but it couldn’t have been more than a few moments.

  “Gavin, Gavin, Gavin.”

  The voice was female and acerbic and familiar.

  Gavin looked up, and for a moment sheer confusion overrode his grief.

  Morigna stood a few feet away, staff in hand, looking down at him. She looked just as she had on the day of her death, save for the fact that she was slightly translucent.

  “You’re dead?” said Gavin. It was all he could think of to say. Was her spirit haunting him? Was he hallucinating from a mixture of exhaustion and grief? Or had he just gone mad?

  “For some time now, yes,” said Morigna. “
One is pleased to see you have not lost your gift for stating the blindingly obvious.” It was her usual mocking tone, but there was a warmth in her voice that had never been there before, and she smiled at him.

  “I…I don’t understand,” said Gavin.

  “Fortunately, your feeble understanding is quite unimportant,” said Morigna, stepping forward. The sigils on her carved staff started to glow with white light. “You see, we never really got along. So, it amuses me to no end that I am the one who is going to change the rest of your life in the same moment that I help my friend.”

  She put her hand on the top of Antenora’s head.

  There was a brilliant flash of white light, and a wall of hot air slammed into Gavin and knocked him from the beam, Antenora falling away from him. His head bounced off the ground, and a wave of dizziness went through him.

  Gavin forced himself to sit up. Antenora lay sprawled next to the beam, a dark, limp shape in her long black coat, the cowl fallen over her head once more. Morigna stood over her, right hand holding her staff, the left extended over Antenora. A ribbon of harsh blue light rose from Antenora, wrapping around Morigna’s fingers.

  “What are you doing?” said Gavin.

  “Something that the living cannot,” said Morigna. She lifted her hand, watching the ribbon of blue light dance around her fingers. “Farewell, Gavin of Aranaeus. I know we never liked each other, but if it makes you feel better, I suspect you would have been utterly wasted in Aranaeus.”

  Then she was gone as if she had never been there.

  Maybe she had never been there.

  Maybe Gavin’s mind had snapped from sorrow and exhaustion, and he had imagined that conversation with Morigna. But why would he imagine Morigna of all people?

  Something else caught his attention.

  Antenora was moving again, a slow, steady movement beneath her coat. She was…

  Gavin blinked.

  Was she breathing?

  She didn’t need to breathe, save for speech, just as she didn’t need to eat or drink and was indifferent to pain. All those were aspects of living, and her curse had held her suspended halfway between life and death.