“My son Accolon is heir after me,” said Arandar.
“He is also a boy, while you are a man of forty and a seasoned commander,” said Dux Leogrance. “That is why you took command so quickly after the High King’s murder. A boy of fourteen…”
“Fifteen,” said Arandar. Accolon had grown a year older since Arandar had seen him last.
“A boy of fifteen cannot command an army,” said Leogrance.
“The point is moot,” said Kors. “Prince Accolon is with Queen Mara in Nightmane Forest. By the time we sent someone to fetch him and bring him back, Tarrabus would have prevailed.”
“Well, my lords,” said Arandar, “I shall endeavor to remain among the living for some time yet.”
A rumble of laughter went around the map table.
“As challenging as our current path is, I fear it remains the best one,” said Arandar. “We are slowly strangling Tarrabus. Sooner or later the usurper will have no choice but to act, and when he does, we will be ready for him.”
He knew that would be easier said than done.
Tarrabus Carhaine had murdered the High King and almost wiped out the loyalists, and he had been preparing for years to seize the crown of Andomhaim when the Frostborn returned.
Arandar was certain Tarrabus might have another unpleasant surprise or two for them.
Chapter 5: Setbacks
Tarrabus Carhaine, the true High King of Andomhaim, watched with disgust as the twisted corpse of Rhison Mordane bled into the dust between the two walls.
It was a setback. Yet another damned setback.
He took a deep breath and regretted it at once.
The camp stank. The camp had stunk for weeks. The dvargir were capable engineers, and had dug clever trenches that sluiced their wastes into the River Moradel and the southern sea. Despite that, there were tens of thousands of men, dvargir, deep orcs, kobolds, and halfling slaves packed between the circumvallation and contravallation walls, and that many men in that small a space made for sanitation problems.
Consequently, the camp stank. It was unimportant, but it annoyed him nonetheless.
“My lord,” said the man standing at his side, watching the two Swordbearers and the orcish headman scramble back to Arandar Pendragon’s siege wall, “shall we call the attack? They must be disorganized. If we strike at once, we can drive them from their wall.”
Tarrabus looked at him, exercising all his will to keep his contempt from showing. Septimus Andrius, Dux of Calvus, was about Tarrabus’s own age, and had been one of the Enlightened for almost as long as Tarrabus. Indeed, it was Tarrabus who had arranged for the death of Septimus’s father, raising Septimus to the title of Dux and putting another of the Enlightened into a powerful position. Septimus, alas, almost looked like the popular image of a wicked nobleman from a peasant’s song. He was thin and pale to the point of being cadaverous, with thick black hair and hooded black eyes.
Worse, he had no military sense whatsoever, and had garrisoned his castras and strongholds so badly that they had barely slowed down Arandar’s army as it marched south from Caerdracon. The conquest of Caerdracon had occupied Arandar for nearly a year. Calvus had barely held out for three weeks, Arandar’s army seeming to gain speed with every mile.
And now Arandar’s army sat outside Tarrabus’s contravallation wall.
“No,” said Tarrabus. “They will be prepared for us. If we issue forth, we shall charge into their siege engines and their crossbows, and they will sally from the gates. We will be repulsed, and repulsed badly enough that we might be defeated. No, we shall wait for now.”
Septimus looked disappointed, even angry, but said nothing. He knew better.
“Send word to the other commanders,” snapped Tarrabus to one of the squires waiting behind him. “We will remain within the contravallation wall. Anyone who disobeys this command will be punished with crucifixion. Go!”
The squire hastened down the ladder to the camp.
Tarrabus waited with Septimus for a while, watching the siege wall. As he expected, Arandar was preparing for an attack, but he would not leave the protection of his earthworks. Arandar, regrettably, was no fool, and he had proven a capable commander. It grated upon Tarrabus that Arandar Pendragon was still alive. The man had been an annoying afterthought. Tarrabus had commanded Sir Linus Rillon to make sure that Arandar and his son Accolon would be killed, and his daughter Nyvane could have been dealt with at leisure. Instead, that idiot Sir Linus had gotten himself killed at Accolon’s hands. Tarrabus had easily turned Linus’s blunder to his advantage, sending Arandar on that fool’s quest to Urd Morlemoch. No one, save for Ridmark Arban, had ever entered the Warden’s stronghold and returned alive.
So, of course, Ridmark Arban had returned alive with Arandar.
A pulse of rage went through Tarrabus at the thought of Ridmark. Everything had been going so smoothly. The centuries-old plan of the Enlightened had come to its long-awaited fruition…and then Ridmark Arban had blundered into matters beyond his understanding.
His meddling had ruined so many plans.
Tarrabus looked forward to killing him.
Of course, there were many other men to blame for how badly things had gone wrong.
“Come,” said Tarrabus, turning towards the ladder. “I shall need to speak with the other lords to calm them after Sir Rhison’s rash folly.” Sir Rhison had promised Tarrabus that he would be victorious against whatever champion Arandar set forth.
Like so many others, he had failed Tarrabus.
He descended the ladder and paused, waiting for his bodyguards to form up around him. The work of many years had brought all the nobles of Caerdracon, Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras into the fold of the Enlightened, and those who had not embraced the truth of Incariel had been eliminated after Tarrabus had rid himself of Uthanaric and his sons.
Yet the commoners, though…the commoners still clung to their faith in the Dominus Christus and the obsolete church, even if they still followed their lords. The commoners were too stupid to understand the grandeur of Tarrabus’s purpose, to grasp that he intended to transform mankind into the immortal gods of the world. Instead, their brutish minds mocked him as a devil-worshipper.
That was dangerous. Already there had been three assassination attempts. One of the men had been killed in the attempt, and two of them had been captured alive and handed over to the dvargir and their inventive methods of torture. The screaming had lasted for days. That should have been enough to discourage further attempts, but Tarrabus had no doubt the commoner scum would try again, loyal to their obsolete god and the bastard son of the family that had ruled Andomhaim for a thousand years.
How he hated the commoners.
He would have killed them all, if he didn’t need them to conquer Tarlion.
But he did need them. For now.
A dozen bodyguards accompanied Tarrabus wherever he went in the camp. Six of them were his own household knights, his companions since childhood, and all of them Enlightened. They were as loyal as he could expect anyone to be. Of course, many of the nobles in the camp thought they would have done a better job of commanding the siege than Tarrabus, and he had no doubt that disaffected nobles had been behind at least one of the assassination attempts.
The six dvargir warriors of his bodyguard would help make up for that.
The dvargir looked a great deal like dwarves, with the same granite-colored gray skin, the same height, and the same stocky build. Unlike the khaldari, the dvargir had eyes that were uniformly black, eyes that looked like bottomless pits into an eternal freezing void. Like the Enlightened, the dvargir had turned to the shadow of Incariel. Unlike the Enlightened, the dvargir did not seem to have a grand, unifying mission, save their own enrichment and aggrandization. Tarrabus had already paid a fortune to his dvargir mercenaries, to say nothing of the slaving rights he had promised them, and he would no doubt pay them a second fortune before Tarlion was taken and Arandar Pendragon slain.
If both he an
d Arandar were slain tomorrow, Tarrabus thought sourly, the only ones to profit from the entire affair would be the damned dvargir.
Septimus caught his balance as he stepped away from the ladder. Both the knights and the dvargir warriors regarded him with cold, blank expressions.
“Shall we, then?” said Tarrabus.
“As you wish, my lord King,” said Septimus. “No doubt the others are at the royal pavilion.”
“No doubt,” said Tarrabus. Most likely they were waiting to complain at length. In time, he would not need them, either, but for now he had to listen to their incessant whining.
He strode through the camp, Septimus walking at his side, his bodyguards spread out around him.
The camp was crowded.
Tarrabus made his way through the center of the camp, the contravallation wall on his right and the circumvallation wall on his left. Beyond the wall on his left, he saw the towers of Tarlion rising in the distance, sealed behind the siege wall. Walking in the space between the two walls created the illusion of walking through a narrow valley.
A valley that was crammed with an encamped army.
When Arandar had come out of the north, building the contravallation wall had seemed like a good idea. Tarrabus had risked getting caught between Arandar and the walls of Tarlion, and that damnable scoundrel Sir Corbanic Lamorus would seize the opportunity to emerge and attack Tarrabus from behind. The contravallation wall had let Tarrabus keep Arandar at bay.
Unfortunately, it had also trapped his army.
The men-at-arms and militia bowed as Tarrabus swept past them, but he felt their cold stares, and his anger burned again. He knew the lowborn fools presumed to judge him. He was their High King by right of conquest. The red gold Pendragon Crown sat upon his brow, and the sword Excalibur, carried by Malahan Pendragon from Old Earth to Tarlion, hung upon his left hip. Of course, Tarrabus couldn’t use the sword. He couldn’t even touch it. The archmage Ardrhythain had reforged Excalibur into a soulblade centuries ago, and the sword blazed with fury whenever Tarrabus presumed to touch it.
Nevertheless, the High King carried Excalibur, so Tarrabus carried the damned thing.
Once he had taken Tarlion and proven beyond all doubt his right to the throne, he would take great pleasure in throwing the sword into the sea.
He strode through the camp, looking neither right nor left as his bodyguards cleared a path, but nonetheless the sights came to his eyes. His men were tired, gaunt, unshaven. A year of siege had worn them down, and Tarrabus had ordered rations halved to preserve their meager supplies. The downside was that his men had grown increasingly weak and irritable from hunger. Thanks to the fools’ inability to comprehend the glory of the shadow of Incariel, morale was already weak. The lack of food only compounded the stress of the situation.
The fact that he had forced the men of Andomhaim to fight alongside their ancestral enemies had not improved things.
The dvargir had set up their own camp in the northwest, not far from the River Moradel itself, complete with their own fortifications. The dvargir kept to themselves within their own camp, and Tarrabus had no doubt the cunning rats had their escape plan all mapped out should the battle go against them.
The same could not be said of the dvargirs’ slave soldiers, the kobolds and the deep orcs. They only traveled through the camp in large, well-armed groups, otherwise violence would break out. The kobolds and the dvargir and the deep orcs had all been enemies of the men of Andomhaim for centuries, and those ancient enmities were not easily set aside. If a fight broke out, it might turn into a general melee, and then Arandar Pendragon need only sit back and watch as Tarrabus’s army tore itself apart.
Tarrabus always tried to look regal as he strode among his men, but he could not keep the rage from his face as the damned useless sword Excalibur thumped against his leg.
How had it all gone so wrong? The plan should have worked. Tymandain Shadowbearer had set it in motion centuries ago. The Enlightened had carried it out piece by piece over the decades, and Tarrabus was the one to bring it to fruition. The Frostborn would destroy the High King, the Magistri, and the Swordbearers, and the Enlightened would seize the realm and Tarrabus would place himself upon the throne of the High King. Then the Enlightened would sweep aside the primitive superstition of the church, and Tarrabus would use the shadow of Incariel to transform mankind into immortal gods, stronger than the urdmordar and more powerful than the dark elves. Then they would treat with the Frostborn as equals, and rule the world forever.
Instead, Tarrabus found himself slogging through the muddy ground surrounded by an army only held together by fear and greed.
Where had it gone all wrong?
Paul Tallmane, he decided. It was Paul Tallmane’s fault. Tarrabus had sent Paul to steal the soulstone and kill Ridmark Arban, and the blundering oaf had botched both tasks. Tymandain Shadowbearer had reclaimed the soulstone and prepared the gate, of course, but if Paul Tallmane had simply done his job right, then Ridmark Arban and Calliande would have been dead and they couldn’t have interfered.
It was also Tymandain Shadowbearer’s fault. The ancient archmage had been so powerful, but he had never used that power well. He could have wiped out Calliande and Ridmark, but he had failed abjectly.
And it was also Imaria’s fault and the Weaver’s fault. She had opened the gate, yes, but they had both failed to kill Ridmark. They had tried to kill Ridmark at Dun Licinia and Dun Calpurnia, and he had escaped both times, as had the Keeper. And if Imaria had told the truth, then the Weaver had failed again at Khald Tormen, and it had cost the pompous old braggart his life.
Tarrabus cursed Paul Tallmane, Tymandain Shadowbearer, Aventine Rocarn, Caradog Lordac, the Weaver, Imaria, and everyone else who had ever failed him, whose incompetence had brought him to this mess.
The situation was dire…but victory was guaranteed, so long as he did not waver.
Victory was guaranteed because Tarrabus knew something that Arandar Pendragon did not.
Specifically, he knew that Tarlion was going to run out of food first.
It was only a matter of another five or six days. Tarlion had been under siege for a year, and Tarrabus had been the Dux of Caerdracon, high in prestige and high in the High King’s trust. He knew exactly how much food had been within the walls of Tarlion before he had sealed off the city, and while his army was almost out of food, he knew that Tarlion would run out first.
And then he would attack with everything that he had. The attack would shatter Tarlion’s wakened defense, and he would at last force his way into the city. Once he did, his position would be secure. He could resupply his forces, use Uthanaric’s treasury to hire as many dvargir mercenaries as he needed, and step by step he would reconquer Andomhaim, destroy the church of the Dominus Christus, and transform mankind into immortal gods.
He would rule over the world forever, a god-king among a race of immortals.
And all he needed to do was to hold his position for another few days.
His pavilion came into sight, the blue banner with the black dragon sigil of the Carhainii flying over the tent. Two more high nobles and one dvargir waited before the tent, the noblemen arguing, the dvargir standing calm and motionless. The older and thinner of the two noblemen was Dux Verus Macrinus of Tarras, his face leathery and his eyes hard and cold. The younger and fatter was Dux Timon Carduriel of Arduran, and he looked like a steel pear in his armor. His family had grown fat and rich on the trade of the coast, and Tarrabus thought most of that fat had been stored in Timon’s belly.
Both Duxi were Enlightened, but the dvargir standing next to them was more dangerous by far.
His name was Malvaxon, and he was the Rzarn of Great House Tzanar of Khaldurmar, which made him the most powerful slaver of the dvargir. When Tarrabus had asked the dvargir to send aid because of their mutual devotion to the cause of the shadow of Incariel, the dvargir had been more than happy to comply.
In exchange for an enormous quantity of g
old and the right to take slaves unopposed from anywhere in Andomhaim, of course.
It was grating to allow the dvargir so much power in Andomhaim. Tarrabus had started upon this path to make mankind into immortal gods, not to allow the dvargir to run rampant through the realm. But Tarrabus was not yet strong enough to turn away help. The Frostborn had failed to wipe out the loyalists at Dun Calpurnia, and Tarrabus needed more soldiers. The dvargir had those soldiers, and were willing to put them to use in Tarrabus’s cause.
If Tarrabus succeeded, if he took Tarlion and secured control of Andomhaim, then the cost will be well worth it.
“My lords,” said Tarrabus.
“This is a disaster, lord King,” said Timon. “An utter and complete disaster.” He mopped his brow for a moment. “Sir Rhison was a mighty champion and a fell knight. His defeat has completely demoralized the men. How shall we recover?”
“Sir Rhison was one knight,” said Tarrabus. “One man, however skilled, does not determine the fate of our army, especially since we have tens of thousands more.”
Dux Verus let out a sneering laugh. “Is that so, Timon?” He and Timon hated each other. Arduran and Tarras had been rivals for centuries, and had sometimes gone to war before the High King could restrain their excesses. “The slightest setback has you quivering like a child under your bed.”
Timon glared at the older man. “Forgive me for not wallowing in your own delusional optimism. We have serious problems, and blindingly intoning our devotion to the shadow of Incariel shall not make our difficulties disappear.” He blanched and glanced at Tarrabus, as if afraid his comment would lower his standing in Tarrabus’s eyes.
Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13) Page 7
