Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13)

by Jonathan Moeller

  That was unlikely. Tarrabus found it hard to think any lower of Timon than he already did.

  “We need only be patient, my lords,” said Septimus. “Tarlion has almost run out of food. Supplies are coming to us along the coast road from Arduran…”

  “Paid for out of my pocket, I should add,” said Timon.

  Verus let out a sneering laugh. “Yes, your precious gold. Once we are all starving to death, perhaps you can use that to fill your belly.”

  “This bickering is pointless,” said Septimus. “We need only wait. We have come a long way, my lords, and we need only go a little farther until victory is ours.”

  “Waiting is equally pointless,” said Verus, drawing himself up. “We should attack at once. Now, while Arandar and his fools are still celebrating their empty victory. Enough of squatting in the mud and throwing insults from behind our walls. Let us smash Arandar’s army like the empty shell that it is, and sweep them from the field like chaff.”

  A burst of irritation went through Tarrabus. If they stormed from the walls and attacked, they might prevail. They also might get slaughtered, trapped between Arandar’s siege wall and the contravallation wall. Verus Macrinus, in his mindless bloodlust, failed to see that.

  “And if you commit to such a rash course,” said Timon, “you will get us all killed. Or captured. Do you fancy standing in chains before Arandar Pendragon?”

  Verus laughed. “Perhaps he will use your bloated backside as a cushion for his throne.”

  Timon reddened further, and both men started shouting at each other, with Septimus trying to shout over them. It was an undignified spectacle, and the nearby men-at-arms and dvargir watched. The contempt on the faces of the men-at-arms for their lords was plain, while the dvargir only looked amused. Rzarn Malvaxon likewise shared their amusement, his expression that of a man watching children squabble.

  Suddenly Tarrabus was desperately sick of them, and felt the impulse to order the execution of everyone around him.

  “Enough!” said Tarrabus. The three Duxi fell silent, staring at him. “That is enough! You are Duxi of Andomhaim and Initiated of the highest circles of the Enlightened of Incariel! You will cease this childish bickering and focus upon our task. Am I understood?”

  Verus, Timon, and Septimus all stared at him. Malvaxon’s lip twitched. It looked as if the Rzarn was trying to stop himself from laughing, damn him.

  “Am I understood?” repeated Tarrabus.

  The three nobles nodded.

  “We will continue to wait,” said Tarrabus. “Tarlion is almost out of food, and we have supplies coming from Arduran. Once we are within the walls of Tarlion, our position shall be unassailable. We have come a very long way, my lords, all of us. Will you quail at the final steps to ultimate victory? Are you the Enlightened of Incariel, or are you no better than those superstitious peasants bowing and scraping before their wooden crosses and painted saints?”

  The nobles said nothing, their expressions sullen.

  “Return to your commands, my lords,” said Tarrabus, tired of them. “We hold for another few days. No one is to go beyond the contravallation wall without my express permission. Am I understood?”

  The nobles nodded and stalked away, leaving Tarrabus alone with Malvaxon. The title of Rzarn was the most powerful noble rank among the dvargir, similar to that of a Dux among the men of Andomhaim, and Malvaxon’s armor reflected his prestige. Like all dvargir, he wore armor of peculiar black metal, but it had been adorned with inlays of red gold that gleamed like blood. Malvaxon also wore an amulet of office against his chest, a sinister-looking thing of red gold adorned with both rubies and the twisting glyphs of the shadowscribes. The Rzarn’s beard and hair were more gray than black, his face lined with age and cruel wisdom. Tarrabus always had the feeling that Malvaxon’s gaze cut right through him like a knife.

  “Your vassals seem restless, High King,” said Malvaxon.

  Tarrabus dismissed his first scornful response. He could show the rough side of his tongue to Timon and Verus and Septimus. The three fools certainly deserved it. He dared not take any such liberties with Malvaxon. The Rzarn of Great House Tzanar was an ally, not a vassal, and Malvaxon had the full authority of the Council of Rzarns of Khaldurmar behind him. Unlike their khaldari cousins, the dvargir eschewed kingship for a sort of oligarchic republic, and as the Council’s representative to Tarrabus, Malvaxon had the full power of the dvargir behind him.

  Tarrabus needed that power.

  “Men always quail in the final moments before ultimate triumph,” said Tarrabus. “They will carry out my commands, whether they wish it or not.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” said Malvaxon with a smile. “One wonders if your vassals have a similar clarity of purpose.”

  Tarrabus answered with a tight smile of his own. “Their clarity of purpose matters not, for they follow my purpose.”

  “Ah,” said Malvaxon. “You, High King Tarrabus, seem worthy to wield the shadow of Incariel. Your followers…well, that remains to be seen. Perhaps you shall indeed remake mankind in the image of the dvargir and the dark elves as you so desire.”

  “Perhaps I shall,” said Tarrabus. “Additional aid from Khaldurmar would assist greatly with that glorious goal.”

  “It would,” said Malvaxon, “should it be forthcoming. Alas, the Great Houses of Khaldurmar took sharp losses in the battle at Dun Licinia. It seemed the previous prophet of the great void was unable to save himself from the Gray Knight,” rage flickered through Tarrabus at that, “and many of our finest warriors perished alongside him.” He gestured at the camp around them with an armored hand. “You have our engineers. You have our siege engines. You have the wall we built for you. You have our slave soldiers, the deep orcs and the kobolds, and you have the raids we have carried out behind the lines of your foes. If that is not enough for you to prevail…well, perhaps you do not deserve to triumph.”

  “Well, my lord Rzarn,” said Tarrabus. “I look forward to proving you wrong.”

  Malvaxon offered a slight bow. “We shall see.”

  He walked away without another word, a group of dvargir warriors falling in around him. Tarrabus scowled after the dvargir, then turned and stalked into his pavilion. His squires leapt to attention as he approached, ready to hear his commands.

  “Out!” snapped Tarrabus, and the squires hastened to escape.

  Unlike the rest of the camp, his pavilion was richly furnished, with comfortable chairs, a wooden table, and a wide bed. Tarrabus started forward, belatedly realized that he should have told his squires to remove his boots first, pulled them off himself, and stalked to the table. He removed the Pendragon Crown as he did and set it upon the table, the red gold glinting in the dim light.

  He reached down to unbuckle his sword belt, and as he did, the side of his hand brushed Excalibur’s crosspiece. A glimmer of white light flashed from the sword, and pain erupted through Tarrabus’s arm. He snarled in rage, ripped the sword belt from his waist, and threw the weapon upon the table. It bounced with a clatter.

  Tarrabus flung himself into a camp chair, seized a flagon of wine, and took a long drink. He probably should not have been drinking that much so early in the day, but he did not care. His mood was foul, and he needed something to lighten it. He couldn’t even find a decent woman in the camp. All the remaining women within the camp were lice-ridden peasant camp followers, and he would sooner go without than debase himself by lying with such filthy creatures.

  So instead he drank, draining off the flagon of wine and bellowing for his squires to produce another one. After they arrived, he told them to clean off his boots and cloak, and then to leave him until he summoned them. Tarrabus knew that his immoderate drinking would inspire resentment among the commoners and the rest of the nobles, especially after he had restricted the wine ration, but he did not care. The commoners were little better than animals, too stupid to appreciate what he would do for humanity. The nobles were frightened children, desirous of the
power that the Enlightened of Incariel could bring to mankind, but too timid to reach out and take it…

  “Like King Ahab of old, do you sulk when thwarted in your will?”

  Tarrabus’s head snapped up from the cup of wine. Fury bubbled up at the intrusion, but his reason caught up with his anger before he did anything rash.

  For one thing, it was a woman’s voice.

  For another, it was only half a human voice. One half was the voice of a woman, calm and collected. The other was an inhuman, alien rasp, impossible for a human throat to produce, a voice that seemed to come from a long way off.

  Tarrabus had known one man and one woman who spoke that way. Ridmark had killed the man upon the slopes of Black Mountain…but his mantle had passed to the woman.

  Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer stepped from the shadows, and Tarrabus raised his eyebrows.

  Before, she had always worn the white robe of the Magistri, though she had left their order behind when she had forsaken the power of the Well and the faith of the Dominus Christus for the shadow of Incariel. Now she had forsaken the robe as well in favor overlapping plates of dark armor. The armor clung close to her slender body, yet somehow made her look insect-like, as if a sleek hunting mantis had taken human shape. Her eyes were the color of quicksilver, reflecting everything around them like a distorted mirror, and while her face was still lovely in shape, her skin had turned pallid and gray, threads of black shadow crawling through her flesh as if the dark power of Incariel had replaced her blood. When Rhison Mordane had lost control of the shadow, it had twisted him into a monster.

  Tarrabus supposed that Imaria had become a monster as well…but unlike Rhison, she was in complete control of herself.

  “New wardrobe?” said Tarrabus.

  To his surprise, she laughed and twirled in front of him, though her double voice made the laugh eerie. “The dvargir provided it. Given the number of dangers to my life, it only seemed prudent. I am not yet free of the flesh. Not yet. Until then, I must preserve it.”

  “For a steep price, no doubt,” said Tarrabus.

  “I am the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, the successor of Tymandain Shadowbearer,” said Imaria. “I am their prophet of the great void. I asked for the armor, High King of Andomhaim, and they gave it to me at once. The dvargir are wise to heed me, for I shall free them of their flesh and their blind lust for power. You, too, should heed me, for I shall free you as well.”

  “Why don’t you go ask Malvaxon for more soldiers?” said Tarrabus. He took another drink of wine. “That would be useful. If he’s heeding the great prophet of the void, the great prophet should ask for more soldiers.”

  “You should follow Malvaxon’s example and heed me,” said Imaria. She stepped closer, her shadow spinning around her in the gloom of the pavilion, and then the shadow lashed back to rise over her like giant black wings. “Why have you not summoned the Deep Walker?”

  Tarrabus said nothing for a moment, a flicker of fear going through his sour mood.

  He had known Imaria for a long time. She had always been wild and emotional to the point of instability, but she had loved her sister Aelia, and then had hated Ridmark for failing to save her from Mhalek. Tarrabus had seduced Imaria before that, and after Aelia’s death Imaria had been easy to manipulate and even easier to recruit into the Enlightened of Incariel. Tarrabus had regarded her as an enjoyable toy for the bedchamber and a useful tool from time to time.

  Now, though…now she was something else.

  Imaria had said once that she had died and been born anew as Shadowbearer, that Imaria Licinius had been the larval form of Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer, and she had not been wrong. She was still mad, but now she had power to back up that madness. The mercurial, emotional young woman crippled by her own self-loathing had vanished, and in her place, something colder and darker and far more dangerous had appeared.

  She had indeed become the bearer of Incariel’s shadow, and she reminded Tarrabus a great deal of Tymandain Shadowbearer.

  “I spoke to Malvaxon about the Deep Walker,” said Tarrabus.

  “I didn’t tell him to summon the Deep Walker,” said Imaria. “I told you to summon the Deep Walker. You are the Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened. You know the ceremony. Why have you not called the Deep Walker?”

  “I spoke to Malvaxon,” said Tarrabus, hardening his voice. She might have been the Shadowbearer, but he was the High King of Andomhaim. “He counseled against it. The dvargir regularly enslave the creatures of the Deeps, but never the Deep Walkers. They will only summon one in the most desperate of circumstances, and the creatures cannot be controlled, only…negotiated with.”

  “Are you so blind that you do not see the desperation of your circumstances, Tarrabus Carhaine?” said Imaria.

  Tarrabus scoffed. “Are you as timid as Dux Timon? Yes, the situation is unpleasant. But it is hardly desperate. Tarlion only has a few days of food left. We only need wait until the defenders’ strength has failed, and we can take the city with…”

  “I speak not of the fall of Tarlion,” said Imaria, “but the return of the Keeper of Tarlion.”

  Tarrabus said nothing. He had sent out spies with instructions to find the Keeper and waylay her, but then Arandar’s army had arrived and other matters had occupied his attention.

  “What about her?” said Tarrabus. “She is only one woman.”

  Imaria stared at him, her face a blank mask.

  “Are you truly that great of a fool?” she said at last.

  Tarrabus scowled.

  “She is the reason the loyalists escaped Dun Calpurnia,” said Imaria. “She and Ridmark Arban. That one woman can cause a great deal of trouble. If not for her, you would have taken Tarlion by now, I would have claimed the Well, and the shadow of Incariel would have freed us all from time and matter and causality.”

  “Don’t pin your mistakes on me,” said Tarrabus, refusing to let her blame him for her failings. “You and the Weaver went to kill Ridmark and Calliande, as I recall. Both at Dun Licinia and at Dun Calpurnia. Both times you failed, and you told me Ridmark killed the Weaver at Khald Tormen.” He scowled and pointed at her. “Had you killed the Keeper at any one of those encounters, I would be inside the walls of Tarlion. Had you killed her at Dun Licinia, I would not have Arandar and his pet idiots snapping at my heels as I try to besiege the city.” She said nothing, and he pressed on. “Tymandain Shadowbearer would have killed them both, but you lack both his power and his…”

  To his surprise, Imaria threw back her head and howled with laughter. The black shadow exploded behind her, crawling up the walls of the pavilion.

  “Yes,” said Imaria, her alien voice buzzing with amusement. “Tymandain was mighty and I am not, is that what you wish to say, High King? Tymandain was an archmage of vast power and experience, and I am not. You are correct. He was strong and I am not…but he is dead and I am not.” She laughed again, high and wild, the alien half of her voice transforming the laugh into something out of a mad nightmare. “His strength was his undoing. My weakness shall be our victory, and the victory of Incariel itself.”

  Tarrabus scoffed. “And how shall your weakness bring us victory?”

  She moved faster than he would have thought possible. One moment she stood on the other side of the table. The next she was straddling him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her shadow coiling and wrapping around them like a cloak caught in the wind.

  It felt very, very cold.

  “How does weakness win against strength, Tarrabus Carhaine?” said Imaria. His twisted reflection stared back at him from her quicksilver eyes.

  He tried not to let his misgivings show upon his face. “How?”

  “By turning the strong to their will,” whispered Imaria into his ear. “Even Tymandain did that in his strength. The high elves thwarted him, so he wrought the dark elves. The dark elves failed him, so he summoned the urdmordar to break them. Andomhaim thwarted him once, so he summoned the Frostborn to defea
t them. And when the Frostborn were defeated, he created the Enlightened to eat Andomhaim out from the inside like a worm consuming a mighty oak tree. When the tree falls at last…then my path to the Well shall be clear. After so long.”

  “After so long?” said Tarrabus. “You’re barely twenty-six years old.”

  “My physical vessel is twenty-six years old,” said Imaria. “I am the Shadowbearer. I have worked to free the shadow of Incariel for millennia beyond count. I have looked into the abyss of time and it has looked into me, and I understand. Time is the prison. Matter is the prison. Cause and effect are the prison. I shall destroy them all and free us at last.”

  “How very compelling,” said Tarrabus. Tymandain had spouted such esoteric philosophical nonsense as well. Tarrabus had no idea what it all meant. Freedom from matter? Time? Those were impossibilities. Tarrabus intended to master time and conquer matter, to make mankind immortal. The shadow of Incariel would give him the power to do that.

  “Even you, Tarrabus,” said Imaria, and she kissed him on the tip of the nose. Her lips felt like ice. “Even you shall understand in the end.” The shadow coiled around her, and she suddenly appeared on the other side of the table. “I shall begin the end. I shall summon the Deep Walker myself, not you, and not Malvaxon.”

  “You?” said Tarrabus, surprised. “I thought you had to move around constantly to keep Ardrhythain of the high elves from finding you.”

  “Ardrhythain is deep within the threshold,” said Imaria, “and he will not be able to return until after sunrise tomorrow. For now, I am free to act. I require seven women to perform the ceremony. Bring them to me, and I shall summon the Deep Walker…and I shall bring you the death of the Keeper and victory over all your enemies.” She paused. “If you are strong enough to take it.”

  Chapter 6: Smugglers

  They rode south on the Moradel road, and Gavin admitted that it was nice to have a horse underneath him again. When they had set out from Castra Carhaine to Nightmane Forest, they had traveled with enough horses to pull the wagons and had enough remounts that everyone had been able to ride. Attrition and battle had taken its toll, and Gavin had traveled on foot from Khald Tormen. During the fight with the dvargir slavers and their kobolds, Sir Tormark had lost some men but none of the horses.