Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “A fine speech,” said Tarrabus. Behind him, the Duxi and their nobles took several steps back. Useless cowards. “I have heard such terrifying tales of the Deep Walkers. But unless you can match deeds to your boastful words, it seems the tales are only a disappointment in person.”

  “Indeed?” said Soulbreaker. “Proud words from a man who understands not his own motivations.”

  “And what do you know of my motivations?” said Tarrabus.

  The dead face smiled and then split apart like an overripe fruit. The Weaver had been able to change his form at will, but his body had exploded into threads of shadow and then knit itself back together, bloodless and silent and quick. Soulbreaker’s body ripped itself apart in blood and organs and meat as if her body had just fallen into the teeth of an invisible sausage grinder.

  Then her body reassembled itself.

  One moment she had been a peasant whore, unimportant and unremarkable.

  The next she was Samothrace Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon and Tarrabus’s father. He looked just as he had on the day that Tarrabus had killed him, tall and cold and imperious, his eyes like blue ice, his lined face shaved and his gray hair close-cropped.

  Soulbreaker’s new form was identical to Tarrabus’s dead father, save that behind his eyes burned cold blue light.

  As he had every day of his life, he looked at Tarrabus with cold contempt.

  “You are weak, boy,” said Soulbreaker in Samothrace’s iron tones of command. “Utterly weak. An unfit vessel for the power of Incariel. Shadowbearer’s great plan shall come to fruition during your lifetime, but I always feared you would prove unfit.” He looked around. “And it seems my fears were justified. The realm was yours. Tarlion was yours. You needed only to reach out and take it. Instead, you are squatting in this oversized ditch, too cowardly and too weak to take Tarlion by storm.”

  “If am so weak,” snapped Tarrabus, “then why I am High King of Andomhaim? Why am I the master of the Enlightened? Why I am alive when you are not?” He rebuked himself. Soulbreaker was playing games with him, trying to rattle him. “You can take the forms of the dead, Deep Walker. An impressive trick, but if I needed that, I could simply buy an urshane from the dvargir slavers.”

  Samothrace grinned as he never had in life, and his face ripped itself apart, followed an instant later by his body. Blood and bone and sinew rewove itself…

  Tarrabus’s breath hissed in his throat.

  Aelia Licinius stood before him, smiling, blue fire burning in the depths of her eyes. She was as beautiful as he remembered, as beautiful as the day when Dux Gareth had announced her betrothal to Ridmark Arban. Aelia had inherited her father’s beak of a nose, alas, but that did nothing to dim her beauty, the vigor of the life that had filled her, the brilliance of the smile upon her face.

  Tarrabus had loved her, and she had made him doubt.

  All his life, he had believed in the doctrines of the Enlightened, believed that the weak deserved to suffer, that one day he would make mankind into immortal gods. Yet Aelia had made him waver. He had regarded the faith of the Dominus Christus as a risible superstition, but seeing her faith, seeing how she cared for the old and the sick of Castra Marcaine’s town, had made him doubt. Not that he had ever told her truth, but she had nonetheless made him consider a different path, made him consider abandoning the Enlightened.

  And then Ridmark had not been strong enough to save her, proving once and for all that the strong deserved to rule the weak, that the doctrines of the Enlightened were true.

  All that came crashing back as he looked at Soulbreaker.

  “Your father was right about you, Tarrabus,” said Aelia, shaking her head, her black hair sliding against her shoulders. “You were always weak…”

  “Ridmark was the weaker one,” said Tarrabus. “He was not strong enough to save you.”

  Aelia laughed, high and merry. “No one could have saved me. Not Ridmark. Not my father. Not the entirety of the Two Orders, for it was my appointed day to die. But Ridmark was stronger than you, Tarrabus, he was always stronger…”

  “Ridiculous,” spat Tarrabus, “I am the High King of Andomhaim, and I shall save mankind. Ridmark is a branded exile and outcast, a penniless rogue wandering the Wilderland in search of a redemption that does not…”

  “That exile brought you to the brink of defeat,” said Aelia, still smiling. “He saved the Keeper from the shadows of her past. He slew Tymandain Shadowbearer. He kept you from destroying the army that even now besieges you. Ridmark could not save me, but I chose wisely to accept him as my husband. He was always stronger than you, and…”

  “Silence!” shouted Tarrabus, drawing his sword and pointing it at her, shadows streaming from the blade like smoke. “I am the High King! Ridmark is a useless rogue who consorts with…”

  He made himself shut up, despite the rage pulsing through him. The Duxi were staring at him. The men-at-arms were staring at him. He would not show weakness to those fools. He would not!

  “Very clever,” said Tarrabus, lowering his sword. “But Aelia has been in her grave nearly seven years. Any other clever masks you wish to don, Soulbreaker? Perhaps you shall paint yourself in motley and do a little dance?”

  Soulbreaker laughed at him. “Perhaps you do have sufficient control to be of use.” Again, her body ripped itself apart, returning to the original form of the dead prostitute. “You have summoned me, Shadowbearer. What do you want of me?”

  “What would you ask of Soulbreaker, High King Tarrabus?” said Imaria. “A pact can be made.”

  “I desire three deaths,” said Tarrabus. “I command you to kill Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim. I command you to kill Arandar of Tarlion, the so-called Prince Regent of Andomhaim. And I command you to kill Ridmark Arban, the magister militum of Nightmane Forest. Find all three of them and kill them by whatever means you wish, but kill them as quickly as possible.”

  “What will you give me in exchange if I give you these three lives?” said Soulbreaker.

  “I command you to take those three lives,” said Tarrabus.

  “One does not command a Deep Walker,” said Imaria. “They accept bargains. Not even the bearer of Incariel’s shadow can command them.”

  “Fine,” said Tarrabus. “A bargain. What do you wish? More lives?” A hint of an uneasy murmur came from the watching men-at-arms.

  “I can take as many of your lives as I wish, with or without your permission,” said Soulbreaker.

  “Then what do you want?” said Tarrabus.

  “Power.”

  Tarrabus scoffed. “If you are so powerful, then what need have you of power from me?”

  “Because there is a power in this world that I desire,” said Soulbreaker. “The same power that Incariel desires to gain to shatter time and obtain its freedom.”

  “And what power is that?” said Tarrabus.

  “The Well of Tarlion,” said Soulbreaker.

  Imaria’s eyes narrowed a little as she contemplated the creature.

  “The Well?” said Tarrabus, baffled. “The power of the Magistri? Is that not inimical to you?”

  “In its present shape,” said Soulbreaker, “it is useless to me. It is also useless to you. But it can be reshaped. Do you not know your own history, Tarrabus Carhaine? Once your city of Tarlion was Cathair Tarlias, the Tower of the Moon, one of the great strongholds of the high elves. The Well at the heart of the Tower of the Moon was the source of their mightiest spells. Your Magistri have barely tapped the power available in the Well.” She laughed at him. “Ah, I see. You do not understand the truth. The Well is the reason for everything. A hundred thousand years of war, and you do not understand your true enemy or the reasons why you are fighting.”

  “I understand my reasons perfectly,” said Tarrabus. “What do you want with the Well?”

  “Merely to drink from it,” said Soulbreaker. “That’s all. One drink. That is all I require. Once you take Tarlion, I will give you the three lives you wish
in exchange for one drink from the Well of Tarlion.”

  Tarrabus considered it. He didn’t know why the Deep Walker wanted to drink from the Well, and he didn’t care. He needed to get into Tarlion to reunify the realm under his command and start the work of turning mankind into gods. Soulbreaker could bathe in the damned Well for all he cared.

  “Very well,” said Tarrabus. “I agree to your terms.”

  “So be it,” said Soulbreaker. “I shall find your foes and kill them, Tarrabus Carhaine.”

  Her body ripped apart, skin and muscle and blood shredding and remaking themselves. This time, the pile of meat grew larger and larger, swelling and expanding until a mountain of bloody flesh loomed over Tarrabus.

  Then the twisted form pulled together into a sleek black dragon, its head crowned with horns, spikes running down its spine, and great black wings unfolded from its back. Cries of shock and alarm came from the men-at-arms, and the dragon lifted its head and loosed a blast of flame over their heads. The wings spread, and the creature leaped into the air, rising high into the sky and circling away to the east.

  Bit by bit calm returned to the camp.

  Tarrabus looked at Imaria, who stood at the other end of the circle, gazing at the sky. The circle of blood and shadows still pulsed, holding the corpses of the six women motionless. Imaria’s gaze fell upon him, his distorted reflection dancing in her eyes.

  “Do not disturb the circle,” she said. “If the circle is disturbed, the binding upon the Deep Walker breaks, and it will be free to do as it wishes.”

  “What was this business with the Well?” said Tarrabus. “Why does she want to drink from it?”

  Imaria gave him a cold smile. “Because she is right. The Well is the truth.”

  Before he could question her further, she vanished in a swirl of darkness. Tarrabus knew he might not see her again for some time. She came and went as she pleased, and apparently, she needed to keep moving to prevent Ardrhythain from finding her.

  He turned and looked at the three Duxi, who gazed at him with fear.

  “Dux Septimus,” said Tarrabus. “Order guards to stand watch here. No one is to touch the circle under pain of death.” Though given the dark energies surging through the circle, that order might be redundant.

  “As you wish, High King,” said Septimus at last, staring at the dead women. All three of the Duxi seemed shaken, and Tarrabus’s lip curled with contempt. They were content to hear the promises of power, but when the time came to get their hands dirty, they quailed.

  He stalked away, heading towards his pavilion, and to his annoyance, he saw Malvaxon and his guards standing near the entrance. Malvaxon had a goblet of wine in his hand, and he took a sip as Tarrabus approached.

  “I am impressed,” said Malvaxon.

  “That we bound the Deep Walker?” said Tarrabus.

  “That you’re still alive,” said Malvaxon. “Do you understand the nature of the creature you have bound?”

  “It is similar to a malophage, I expect,” said Tarrabus.

  “Hardly,” said Malvaxon. “You would have been better off summoning a malophage.”

  “To the best of my knowledge, the Keeper has defeated a malophage twice,” said Tarrabus. “Sending a third one after her would be folly.”

  Malvaxon grunted. “We call the creatures Deep Walkers, but we don’t know what they really are. They are alien beings, akin to the malophages, yes, but far more powerful. They have no proper bodies of their own, and instead take the bodies of their victims. The Deep Walkers can change form and take new shapes, and they wield powerful magic, more powerful magic than even the urdmordar.”

  “If they are so powerful, why do they not already rule the world?” said Tarrabus.

  “Because they cannot fight mortals without an invitation,” said Malvaxon. “And once they receive an invitation, they cannot be controlled. Why do you think the dvargir do not summon the Deep Walkers to fight our battles? We did, once, in the early days of Khaldurmar, and one Deep Walker nearly destroyed our entire civilization until we managed to defeat it.”

  “A fascinating lesson of history,” said Tarrabus. “Does it have a point?”

  “You may have just unleashed a power you have no hope of controlling,” said Malvaxon.

  “If the Deep Walker turns against us,” said Tarrabus, “I will simply destroy the circle and end the binding.”

  “Yes,” said Malvaxon, taking another sip of his wine. “I’m sure the situation will be just as simple as you think it is.”

  He gestured to his guards, and the dvargir departed, heading back to their encampment.

  Tarrabus stared after them with annoyance. For all that he was paying them, the dvargir could have been more useful.

  No matter. Even the dvargir quailed when the chance for ultimate power came their way.

  Tarrabus would not. A few more days and Tarlion would fall.

  And then he would show the realm the true meaning of power.

  Chapter 8: Fortifications

  Two days after they boarded Smiling Otto’s barges, Gavin saw the towers of Tarlion for the first time.

  He stood on the bow with Antenora, Third, Ridmark, Calliande, and Camorak. Kharlacht and Caius were practicing weapons on the stern, and Gavin knew he ought to have joined them, but he was too excited. He wanted to see Tarlion. He was a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, but he had never even seen the capital of the realm he was sworn to defend.

  Gavin wanted to rectify that.

  Of course, Camorak said that he liked Cintarra better, that Tarlion was too formal and too stuffy and that the city of Prince Cadwall was more freewheeling and had better liquor, but that was all right. Gavin intended to visit Cintarra one day if he lived long enough.

  “All right,” said Camorak. “Another mile or so, and you should be able to see the Tower of the Moon.”

  “Good,” said Gavin.

  Camorak laughed. “You do know the city is under siege?”

  “I know,” said Gavin. “Maybe we can fix that. But I still want to see it. I’ve never seen a real city before. I’ve been to Coldinium, but I’ve been told that it isn’t a proper city.”

  “It isn’t,” said Camorak.

  “Any minute now,” said Calliande.

  They all looked at her, and she grinned. “It’s been a long time. I spent years in Tarlion learning to be a Magistrius and then the Keeper. Even before that, sometimes I would go with my father to the fishmongers’ market, and I would stare at all the towers and churches.” Her smile faded a little. “I haven’t been back in over two hundred years.”

  “It might have changed since then,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. She looked at him for a moment and then threaded her arm through Ridmark’s. Gavin blinked in surprise. They were obviously in love, but he had never seen them share so much as a kiss. Maybe Ridmark still felt guilty over Morigna’s death. Or maybe Calliande did not want to show any weakness in public since she was the Keeper of Andomhaim.

  Or, Gavin concluded, it wasn’t any of his business.

  Then Third spoke, and Gavin forgot all about that.

  “I believe,” said Third, “that is the Tower of the Moon.”

  Gavin leaned forward, shielding his eyes. In the distance, he saw the River Moradel expand into the endless blue reach of the southern sea. He had to admit it was a beautiful sight. Gavin had seen the ocean when they had gone to Urd Morlemoch, but at the time he had been preoccupied with not getting killed. Against the backdrop of the sea he saw a massive stone crag, and atop the crag sat a vast castra of white stone, towers and walls and turrets rising high. That had to be the Citadel, the ancient seat of the High Kings of Andomhaim. From within the Citadel rose a slender white tower like a pale needle against the sky.

  “Is that…” Gavin squinted. “That tower. Is that a dark elven ruin?” It seemed astonishing that Tarlion would be built around a dark elven ruin. But even as he said it, Gavin realized that w
as wrong. Urd Morlemoch and Urd Arowyn and the other dark elven ruins he had visited had been beautiful, but it had been an alien, unsettling, twisted beauty, a beauty that created misgivings in anyone who looked at it. The tower rising from the Citadel was simply beautiful, albeit in a stark and austere way.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “That is the Tower of the Moon, and it holds the Well that is the source of the magic of the Magistri.”

  “The Tower of the Moon?” said Gavin. “Which moon? There are thirteen of them.”

  Calliande laughed. “I believe the name comes from a property of the tower. When moonlight from any of the thirteen moons strikes it, the tower gives off a silver light. Tarlion has no need of street lamps. The tower illuminates the city at night.”

  “Which is damned irritating if you’re trying to sleep,” said Camorak.

  “Who built it, then?” said Gavin. “Malahan Pendragon?”

  “The high elves,” said Calliande.

  Gavin gave her a startled look. “The high elves?”

  “The tower was once named Cathair Tarlias,” said Calliande. “The high elves abandoned it and locked it long ago. When Malahan Pendragon and the first Keeper arrived here from Old Earth, the gate they used brought them to the foot of the tower’s hill. The Sight sent a vision of power to the Keeper, and it told her how to open the tower and urged her to settle there. The Keeper knew it not at the time, but Ardrhythain had sent the vision to her.” Calliande shrugged. “I suppose Ardrhythain realized that humans might one day wield soulblades, that they could help stand against the power of the urdmordar.”

  Kharlacht and Caius joined them, and Caius began pointing out the landmarks of Tarlion as the barge moved closer. He showed Gavin the dual towers of the Great Cathedral of Tarlion, the slender spire of the Tower of the Magistri where the Magistri trained to use the magic of the Well, the eight octagonal towers of the Castra of the Swordbearers, and the towers and spires and domes of the rest of the buildings of the oldest and first city of mankind upon this world.