Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13)

by Jonathan Moeller

  So Gavin was able to ride again. He would have preferred to walk, knowing that riding meant that men-at-arms had died in battle, but it was pleasant to ride again.

  The road grew steadily wider and in better repair, just as the river itself became wider with every mile. Sir Tormark and Sir Tagrimn insisted on haste, and Ridmark and Calliande did not argue. Both Tormark and Tagrimn said the battle might start at any moment, and the supplies they had gathered were urgently needed, to say nothing of the Keeper’s presence.

  As they rode south, they encountered other bands of men-at-arms and militia, all of them heading to Tarlion. The men-at-arms and militia spoke of attacks from dvargir raiders and their kobold servants, though they had fared better than Sir Tormark’s party. At Tagrimn’s insistence, the groups combined to form one column. That meant they would travel slower, but given the dvargir raiders in the countryside, relying on strength in numbers seemed like the wiser course. The dvargir and the Enlightened wanted Calliande dead, but even they might hesitate to attack four hundred and fifty men-at-arms.

  The countryside grew steadily more cultivated as they traveled south, the forests giving way to vast cleared fields separated by low stone and earthen walls. Villages built around small castras or stone churches dotted the fields, some of them fishing villages with docks jutting into the Moradel. Many of the villages had been burned, while others looked to have been attacked.

  “This country has seen much war recently,” said Antenora.

  “Aye,” said Gavin. Caerdracon had looked much the same way before Castra Carhaine had fallen to Arandar’s army and order had been restored. The Northerland, too, had been battle-ravaged as the tide of the Frostborn and their creatures had swept across the forested hills. Gavin had grown up in a village much like these (albeit one secretly ruled by an urdmordar), and he knew how much work went into such places, how it took years and years of labor to clear the fields and pastures and tend to the cattle and build houses and barns.

  And all that work could be swept aside in a single afternoon of fire and blood.

  “You are troubled,” said Antenora.

  “Yes,” said Gavin. “Some of those burned villages…the families that lived there might have toiled for decades. And then it was all taken from them in a single day, maybe with their lives.”

  “I have seen this many times,” said Antenora. “Again and again it happened upon Old Earth before I came to this new world, and I suppose it continues uninterrupted there. War brings suffering and cruelty on a vast scale.”

  “It is not right,” said Gavin.

  “It is the nature of war,” said Antenora. “Especially unjust wars like the one the false king wages to secure his stolen crown.”

  “Well, it is still not right,” said Gavin.

  To his surprise, Antenora laughed. It was a raspy, dry sound since she did not laugh often.

  “What?” said Gavin. “It’s not funny.”

  “No,” said Antenora. “It is not. Nor are you. But…you are good at war, Gavin Swordbearer.”

  Gavin shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I’ve survived a lot of battles, but most of that was luck.”

  “True,” said Antenora, “but a good warrior makes his own luck. You are good at war, but it has not cost your heart. Another man, perhaps even another Swordbearer, could ride past those burned villages without blinking an eye. Not you.”

  “It’s not right,” said Gavin. “When we beat Tarrabus and the Frostborn and win this war, maybe we can make things better. We can have peace and people can rebuild, and the Swordbearers and the Magistri can protect the realm from things like the Enlightened and the urvaalgs.”

  “It is a good vision,” said Antenora. “I have heard many men promise to do such things after wars.”

  Gavin looked at her. “Did they ever do it?”

  She didn’t answer him, and for a moment he thought she would refuse to answer. Given the terrible wars she described on Old Earth, wars fought with dreadful machines and weapons powerful beyond imagination, perhaps she never had seen it come true.

  But at last, she spoke.

  “Sometimes,” she said at last. “Not often, but sometimes. And if any man could make true such a plan, it would be you, Gavin Swordbearer.”

  Four days after rescuing Sir Tormark and Sir Tagrimn, they passed Castra Arban.

  They stopped for the midday meal alongside the bank of the Moradel, near a half-dozen stone quays that jutted into the water. Ridmark wanted to press on, lest any of Tarrabus’s spies find them, but both Third and Sir Tormark pointed out that it was impossible to hide nearly five hundred men on the main road, and it was just as difficult to spot one woman among five hundred men. Any spies who saw them would likely assume they were taking supplies to Arandar’s army. For that matter, the chief Enlightened were trapped with Tarrabus at Tarlion and would be unable to attack Calliande.

  Ridmark acquiesced, and Gavin found himself looking at Castra Arban.

  The River Moradel was over a mile wide here, and on the other side of the river rose the vast, ancient castra. It had been built upon a rocky peninsula thrust into the river, and the castra took up the entirety of the peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. A tall curtain wall encircled its grounds, lined with guard towers, and within rose four mighty octagonal keeps, each one topped with war engines. It was as strong as Castra Carhaine, and that citadel had only fallen because of a daring stratagem. Properly provisioned, Castra Arban could hold out against a far stronger foe for years.

  Gavin spotted Ridmark standing at the end of one of the stone quays, gazing at the castra.

  Curious, he walked to the end of the quay and joined the older man, and for a moment they stood in silence. Ridmark’s eyes were distant as he stared at his family’s ancestral home.

  “A little different than Aranaeus, isn’t it?” said Ridmark at last.

  Gavin laughed. “A bit. Though there’s no dark elven ruin standing over the village.”

  “Those are to the west,” said Ridmark. “Old ones long cleared out. Sometimes the local peasants store their crops and cattle inside their walls. Nothing like Urd Dagaash.”

  “Just as well,” said Gavin.

  “Taliand is mostly safe,” said Ridmark, his voice as distant as his eyes. “Or it was, anyway, until the civil war started. Sometimes the ghost orcs raid from the Shaluuskan Forest, or dvargir and deep orcs out of the caverns of the mountains, but not often. So, young nobles are sent elsewhere to learn the arts of war. I was sent to the court of Dux Gareth Licinius, first as a page, then a squire, then a knight and a Swordbearer.” He blinked a few times but did not look away from the distant towers across the river. “I haven’t been back this far south for eight years.”

  “Do you miss it?” said Gavin, and for the first time, Ridmark looked at him. “Castra Arban, I mean?”

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark. He shrugged. “Or I suppose I miss the memory of it. I left when I was eight years old, so I don’t remember it clearly. My mother died a few years before that, and I wasn’t particularly close to any of my brothers, so I was glad to leave.”

  They stood in silence for a while.

  “My mother died when I was young, too,” said Gavin.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “Still, my father did not marry a spiderling, so I cannot complain.” He looked at Gavin again. “Why are we talking about this?”

  Gavin shrugged, a little uncomfortable and not sure how to phrase his thoughts. “It’s…well, it’s always surprising to learn that you’re flesh and blood.”

  “You’ve seen me bleed enough times,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes, but you’ve killed Mournacht and Shadowbearer and the Weaver and done a thousand reckless things that should have gotten you killed,” said Gavin. “You’re the Gray Knight, the magister militum of the Anathgrimm. It’s hard to imagine you…well, as a child.”

  Ridmark snorted. “Now you sound like Calliande.”

  “She’s usually right,” said G
avin.

  Ridmark shook his head. “I’ve seen her riding with Tormark. She keeps asking him questions about Castra Arban, but I know it’s because she’s curious about me.”

  “Can you blame her?” said Gavin. “She is in…”

  He meant to say that she was in love with Ridmark, but his brain caught up to his tongue.

  “She is indeed the Keeper,” finished Gavin, rather less gracefully than he might have wished.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. Gavin supposed Ridmark knew what he had meant to say, but Ridmark did not look offended, only thoughtful. “Yes. Thank you, Sir Gavin. That has helped put my mind in order.”

  “You’re welcome?” said Gavin, unsure.

  Ridmark started to say something, and then frowned, looking to the north.

  A dozen boats were moving down the Moradel. Eight of them were heavy barges, designed for carrying large quantities of cargo. Four were smaller craft of varying sizes, some with oars, some with sails. Gavin looked at one of the barges.

  “I’ve seen that boat somewhere before,” he said. “But…”

  “Vulmhosk,” said Ridmark, and the memory clicked in Gavin’s head. “Those are Smiling Otto’s boats. I wonder what he’s doing this far south.”

  One of Sir Tormark’s men began to shout, and the barges changed course, heading towards the stone quays.

  ###

  Calliande walked to the quays, following Sir Tormark and Sir Tagrimn, Antenora and Third accompanying her.

  “Truly, Keeper?” said Tormark, surprised. “You know Smiling Otto?”

  “An uppity, mouthy rogue of a halfling,” grumbled Tagrimn. “Halflings ought to know their place. He’s as bad as Prince Jager, but at least Jager is Queen Mara’s consort.”

  “Reliable, though,” said Tormark. “Sir Joram swears by him.”

  "And at him," said Tagrimn.

  “We met at Vulmhosk,” said Calliande. She had never thought to see Smiling Otto again. “It was a trading post he kept in the Wilderland on the northern shore of the Lake of Battles. We hired him to smuggle us into the Iron Tower.”

  Tormark laughed. “He never mentioned that.”

  Tagrimn snorted. “I reckon that joining in an attack on the realm’s northernmost fortress wasn’t something the little rat wanted to boast about.”

  “I participated in that same attack, Sir Tagrimn,” said Calliande with a smile, “and I talked about it before the court of High King Uthanaric. If we had not taken the Iron Tower, then Queen Mara would not have gained control of her abilities. If Mara had not gained control of her abilities, she would not have slain her father and become Queen of Nightmane Forest…and without the Anathgrimm, Tarrabus would have won a complete and total victory at Dun Calpurnia.”

  “Truly,” said Brother Caius, who had joined them, “the Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.”

  Tagrimn grumbled something under his breath but said nothing. Likely he just found Otto annoying. For centuries in Andomhaim, ever since the defeat of the urdmordar, it had been customary for noble houses to have halfling servants. Some halfling families had served the same noble houses for generations. Jager had been part of such a family until he had fallen afoul of Sir Paul Tallmane and the Enlightened of Incariel.

  They joined Ridmark and Gavin on the quay as one of the barges maneuvered into place, its oars lashing at the river. Aboard the barge, Calliande saw a motley assortment of human men, Vhaluuskan orcs, and a few halflings. Someone shouted, and Ridmark stepped forward, catching a mooring line as it was thrown from the side of the barge. He tied it into place, and two men wrestled a heavy gangplank into place.

  A moment later Smiling Otto descended from his barge and onto the quay.

  He was about four and a half feet tall, his face gaunt, almost-skull like, and his hair was a tangled mass of gray curls. He wore a brown coat, trousers, and dusty brown boots, a short sword and a dagger belted at his waist. A vicious scar went down the left side of his face, giving his eyelid a permanent droop and his lip a twisted, mocking smile.

  Smiling Otto rarely smiled in truth. But at the moment, he looked amused.

  “Well,” he said, his voice a gravelly rasp. “Well, well. The Gray Knight himself. Still alive?”

  “So far,” said Ridmark.

  “Heh,” said Otto. “Did you like being right? You said the Frostborn were coming back for years, and the lords all thought you were a madman. Now they’re here. Did anyone ever apologize?”

  “Not really, no,” said Ridmark, “but I would have preferred to be wrong.”

  “I hear all kinds of mad stories about you,” said Otto. “They say you raised the Keeper of Andomhaim from her grave and are bringing the dwarves and the manetaurs to war against the Frostborn.”

  “Some of that is true,” said Ridmark.

  Otto’s brown eyes wandered to Calliande. “Ah, the blond girl who lost her memory. Did you ever figure out who she really is?” A human man climbed down next to Otto, middle-aged and grizzled. Calliande remembered his name was Quintus, and he usually served as Otto’s lieutenant in his various business enterprises.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Otto, meet Calliande, the Keeper of Andomhaim.”

  Otto’s eyes went wide. Quintus’s jaw fell open, and he crossed himself. Calliande did her very best not to laugh, but she did smile.

  “Well,” said Otto, recovering his poise. “If had known you were the Keeper, I would have charged you more.”

  “What brings you here?” said Ridmark. “We’re a long way from Vulmhosk and the Wilderland.”

  “Aye,” said Otto. “A long way. We did well enough in that business with the Iron Tower that I decided to come south and retire. Figured I would buy myself a nice little domus in Cintarra and spend my days sitting in the sun and drinking. Then Tarrabus murdered the High King and the civil war started.” He scowled, leaned over the quay, and spat into the river. “Dux Septimus Andrius joined Tarrabus. This scar?” He tapped his face. “One of Septimus’s knights gave it to me. Figured it was time to pay back evil with evil, and none of Prince Arandar’s men knew the bow of a barge from the stern. So I’ve been hauling cargo up and down the Moradel for Sir Joram Agramore.”

  “Prince Arandar appointed Sir Joram as quartermaster for our host,” said Tormark. “He’s had the devil’s own time keeping us supplied, but he’s done it so far. Master Otto, can you carry us the rest of the way to Tarlion?” He gestured at Calliande. “We happened across the Keeper as we gathered supplies, and she must return in safety to Prince Arandar with all haste. Her return might be our best chance to win a decisive victory over Tarrabus Carhaine.”

  “Mmm.” Otto craned his neck for a bit, examining the column on the road. “Aye, we could manage it. It’ll take the rest of the day to load you lot, but we should be able to set off before dark.”

  “That would be very useful, Master Otto,” said Calliande. “Thank you.”

  “I am glad to aid the true High King and the noble Keeper of Andomhaim in their duties,” said Otto. “I will expect extra payment, though.”

  Tormark sighed. “You can take it up with Sir Joram when we arrive.”

  ###

  “Burn with me.”

  Again Ridmark stood in the hall of luminous white stone, the old knight sitting upon the throne with the sheathed sword across his knees. Morigna stood before the dais, watching him, her eyes and face full of worry.

  The woman gowned in fire stood before the dais.

  As ever, her face and features changed, shifting from Aelia to Morigna to Calliande and back again. She would have been naked, and he caught glimpses of her pale limbs, but she wore a gown wrought of living flame, the same fire blazing in her eyes.

  “Burn with me,” whispered the woman.

  “It is almost time, my love,” said Morigna.

  “She’s going to be calling to you, boy,” said the old knight. “She’ll try to destroy you when she finds you. Not out of malice, but from her nature. Fire does not
serve a weak master, only a strong one. You have to understand yourself. You have to be ready.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ridmark.

  “Listen for the heartbeat,” said Morigna. “That means she is calling to you. You have almost found the path to her. When you do, be ready. She will try to destroy you…and you always did have an urge to sacrifice yourself, my love.”

  The dream dissolved into mist, and Ridmark woke up.

  For a moment disorientation took him. He was lying against some sacks of grain at the stern of a barge. Nine of the thirteen moons were overhead, throwing their mingled light across the waters of the river. The River Moradel, that was it. They were heading south to Tarlion.

  Had he been dreaming?

  If so, he couldn’t remember it. Perhaps that was just as well. Calliande had said that someone was sending him dreams through magic, though he had never been able to remember them. Ridmark decided that he had better tell Calliande about it. He felt a little foolish doing so, but given the powers of the enemies they faced, he would not put it past someone like Imaria to try and drive him mad by seeding his thoughts with nightmares.

  Though if she wanted to drive him mad, Ridmark supposed it would work better if he could actually remember the damned dreams.

  Right now, all he felt was a mild annoyance, and he did not feel at all insane.

  Well. No more than usual, anyway.

  He pushed himself off the bags of grain with a grunt, picked up his staff, and froze in puzzlement.

  His heartbeat rang in his ears. Ridmark often heard his heartbeat, but usually after a period of intense exertion. Puzzled, he put his hand to his neck and felt his pulse. His heartbeat felt slow, calm, steady.