Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Normally, yes,” said Corbanic. Like everyone else in Tarlion, he looked tired and ill-fed, though the fierce glitter in his dark eyes had not faded. “But war makes for desperate measures. This is the only place in Tarlion where I’m certain the Enlightened cannot hear us. There were quite a few of the Enlightened within Tarlion when Tarrabus built his circumvallation wall. They tried to open the gate and attempted to assassinate me a few times. Would have done for me, too, if the Magistri hadn’t been there to heal me.” He shook his head. “I think we killed all of them by now, but it’s always best to be wary of serpents in the grass.”

  “Agreed,” said Smiling Otto.

  Corbanic snorted. “I thought I would wind up hanging you one day as Comes of Coldinium, but I’m glad I didn’t. It seems you are bringing me good news.”

  “Of a sort,” said Ridmark. “There isn’t much time, so I will be brief. Prince Arandar has the Keeper Calliande with him…”

  “The blond girl who was with you in Coldinium?” said Corbanic, surprised.

  “The same,” said Ridmark. “She is preparing a spell that will tear a breach into the siege wall, the contravallation wall, and the circumvallation wall in a single instant.”

  Corbanic blinked. “She can do that?”

  “She is the Keeper,” said Third.

  “When she does, Arandar will attack with all his strength,” said Ridmark. “I have been sent to ask you to launch an attack from the northern gate of Tarlion when the walls are breached. The Prince believes that if you attack from the south and he attacks from the north at the same time, we can break Tarrabus and end the siege.”

  Corbanic let out a long breath and stared into the depths of the Well for a moment.

  “Our situation here is desperate,” said Corbanic. “You’ve realized that by now.”

  Ridmark nodded. “Tarrabus knows that you only have a few days of food left. He plans to attack soon after you run out.”

  “He need wait only another four days,” said Corbanic. “We are scraping the last bit of food from the larder, and the entire city has been on half rations for weeks. Sooner or later, something is going to snap.” He shrugged. “The defenders have fought valiantly, and the population of the city has borne the hardship well. But a man can only defend himself against hunger for so long. Eventually, when he is hungry enough, he will do something desperate. Or a woman watching her children starve to death is liable to do something mad.”

  “Like open the gate to Tarrabus if he promises food?” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Corbanic. “Every few days he has a herald ride along the walls, promising food if the gate will be opened. The people are not fools. They know I unlocked the magical defenses along the walls, and that Tarrabus and his servants are creatures of dark magic. But in a battle between reason and hunger, hunger will win in the end.”

  “Then Tarrabus is telling a lie,” said Ridmark. “He’s almost out of food, too. His own lines of supply from Arduran and Tarras have been cut ever since Arandar trapped him.”

  “He’s lying now,” said Corbanic, “but soon he will be able to make good on his promises.”

  Ridmark frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We captured a spy who climbed over the wall and into the city a few days ago,” said Corbanic. “At first I was not inclined to believe his tale, but later some defectors made it to the wall and told the same story. Tarrabus has reinforcements coming. Evidently before Prince Arandar’s wall went up, Dux Timon Carduriel sent a message to his castellans in Arduran. They have assembled reinforcements and supplies for Tarrabus’s host. Three thousand horsemen are riding along the coast road to Tarlion, escorting a caravan of supplies. Once Tarrabus sees them, he’ll launch an attack along the siege wall to distract the Prince while the supplies are brought in. And when our people see Tarrabus and his dogs feasting outside the walls while their children go hungry, morale will collapse, and someone will open the gates to him. It will be inevitable at that point.”

  “Not if the Prince is ready for those horsemen,” said Ridmark, his mind racing through the possibilities. There was danger in this, yes, but also an opportunity as well. “Do you know when these horsemen will arrive?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Corbanic. “From the sounds of it, right about the time the Prince and the Keeper will launch their attack.”

  “When they do,” said Ridmark, “will you ride forth to their aid?”

  “Where will the attack happen?” said Corbanic. “Where will the Keeper breach the walls?”

  “She plans to breach them in a straight line from Dux Leogrance’s camp to the northern gate of Tarlion,” said Ridmark. “A straight line to allow both our army to attack and you to charge from the gate.”

  “What of the horsemen from Arduran?” said Corbanic. “If they arrive during this attack, it will be disastrous.”

  “It could be,” said Ridmark. “You know as well as I do, my lord, that once the sword is drawn and the arrow set to the string, no man can see the outcome of any battle. But I think this is our best chance. So does Prince Regent Arandar, and so does the Keeper, and she had long experience of battle long before any of us were born.”

  “That blond girl is truly the Keeper?” said Corbanic. “It is hard to believe.”

  “Once we defeat Tarrabus and Arandar rides through the gate of Tarlion to take his place as High King,” said Ridmark, “if God wills it you shall see it with your own eyes.”

  “So be it,” said Corbanic. “Tomorrow at dawn I shall assemble our horsemen at the Forum of the North below the northern gate of the city. We shall put our fates in the hands of God and the Keeper.”

  “I trust both,” said Ridmark.

  “You had better go, Master Otto,” said Corbanic. “The sooner you carry Lord Ridmark and Lady…Third, was it?” Third bowed to the Constable. “The sooner you carry them from Tarlion, the safer we shall be.”

  Otto snorted, but he bowed in turn to the old knight. “As you say, Sir Corbanic. But war is your business, smuggling is mine.”

  “God gives us all our own tasks in life,” said Corbanic in a dry tone. “Go. May we meet again victorious.”

  “I hope so,” said Ridmark, and Corbanic gestured to his son. Cortin gave the orders, and the men-at-arms fell in around Ridmark, Third, and Otto as they left the Citadel and headed back for the Forum of the Sea and their boat.

  As they headed south along the Via Ecclesia, the Tower of the Keeper came back into sight, and as it did, Ridmark heard the heartbeat in his head once more.

  Except this time, it was much stronger.

  It seemed to thunder inside his skull like the beat of a drum, louder and louder. Ridmark stared at the tower’s white length, past the mist-wreathed trees and mist-choked windows, and his eyes were drawn to the domed chamber at the top. The heartbeat was coming from there, and it was calling to him, drawing him to it.

  For a moment, he seemed to see a woman gowned in fire. She ought to have been screaming in agony, but instead she was beckoning to him. Ridmark thought it was an absurd image.

  He did not realize he was walking towards the woods at the foot of the Tower until Third grabbed his shoulders.

  “Stop,” she said. “Stop!”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” said Otto.

  “Do not speak to a lord’s son in that tone, halfling!” said one of Cortin’s men-at-arms.

  “Even when he’s about to do something stupid?” said Otto.

  Ridmark blinked. The gate in the low wall was only a few yards away. He hadn’t realized that he was walking towards it, and nor had he realized that it had gotten so close.

  A chill went through him. Just what were those strange dreams doing to him? The dreams had to be connected to the heartbeat.

  “Ridmark,” said Third. She only called him by name in moments of dire peril.

  Apparently, this counted.

  “I’m fine,” said Ridmark, shaking his head. “I…something in the Tower seemed t
o pull me, it…”

  “It is said that the Tower is filled with dangerous magic for the unwary,” said Cortin, giving the white tower a dubious look. “Evidently that legend at least is founded in truth.”

  “Clearly,” said Ridmark, looking away from the misty trees and the garden. “It’s the Keeper’s tower, so let’s see if we can give it back to her.”

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night,” said Otto, and they headed back to the harbor.

  Chapter 15: The Lost Tower

  Calliande worked until three or four hours after midnight.

  Around her Arandar’s host arrayed itself for battle, preparing to charge into the breach she would create in the walls tomorrow. The three orcish kings had insisted that they would lead the charge through the breach, flanked by their headmen and warriors, and Arandar had not argued. Given that the orcish warriors were probably the fiercest infantry in the entire army, it made sense to use them as shock troops. With the orcs would come the bulk of the Swordbearers, save those guarding Calliande and Arandar from the assassins of the Enlightened. Then the men-at-arms and militia footmen would advance, while the horsemen hung back to make sure Tarrabus did not attempt a breakout and escape. Given that the horsemen would become a liability within the cramped space between the earthwork walls, that was probably the best role they could play in the battle to come.

  To mask their movements, Arandar sent parties of horsemen with torches riding back and forth while he rotated crossbowmen from the ramparts to the camp. Even the dvargir could not see perfectly in the dark, and their spyglasses would observe endless groups of torch-bearing men moving back and forth. It would be obvious that Arandar was up to something, but hopefully, Tarrabus and his allies would not realize what it was until it was too late to do anything about it.

  But the preparations for the battle were in the hands of Arandar and the Duxi.

  Calliande attended to her own work.

  Antenora stood at her side, lending what power she could to Calliande’s efforts. Gavin stood watch over them, along with Sir Constantine, ten other Swordbearers, Camorak, and a dozen other Magistri. Calliande had chosen a low hill a few hundred yards north of the camp to do her work. The hill overlooked the Moradel road, and that road passed through the three earthwork walls until it reached the northern gate of Tarlion.

  From here she would cast the spell, and Calliande walked in circles around the hilltop over and over, purple fire flickering around her fingers as she worked spell after spell of earth magic, fusing it with the irresistible power of the Keeper’s mantle. Soon hundreds of symbols of purple fire burned in the air, shifting around each other in complex, elaborate patterns.

  In a way, it was a simple spell. She had seen Morigna use it often during their battles against Mhorites and the Devout and deep orcs and a dozen other foes. The spell of earth magic reached into the ground and folded it, rippling it like a banner caught in the wind. Morigna had possessed sufficient skill with the spell to knock her enemies from their feet while allowing her allies to keep her balance.

  Calliande was doing the same thing.

  More or less.

  And on a far larger scale.

  Essentially, the spell would grip the earthwork walls and fold them back into the ground. It was almost like smoothing a blanket if the blanket was thousands of yards long and weighed tens of thousands of pounds. There was no way Calliande could shift that much earth with a single spell.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to.

  As she circled the hill, she cast the earth-folding spell again and again. The earth magic fused with the power of the Keeper’s mantle, holding the spells ready and waiting. In a way, it was like building a wall. There was no way Calliande could have built a wall in a single instant. But she could lay down brick after brick, piling them higher until she had built a wall. The magic of the great spell would work in the same way.

  And if it worked, all those bricks would fall upon the head of Tarrabus Carhaine.

  Calliande blinked the sweat from her eyes and pushed the thought aside. The effort of working the spells took all her attention, and she could not spare any thought for idle speculation. In a way, it was a relief. The blessing of hard work was that she could not spare any effort to worry over Ridmark or fret about the course of tomorrow’s battle.

  She had discarded her formal dress for her usual traveling clothes of boots, trousers, shirt, leather jerkin, and green cloak. Ridmark would have insisted that she wear a chain mail hauberk underneath the jerkin, so she did. It was uncomfortable, but he had a point. If Soulbreaker came for her again and got close enough to use physical attacks instead of magic, the armor might save her life. Or if one the Enlightened decided to shoot an arrow at her for that matter.

  The hours passed. Soon thousands of purple symbols burned in the air, whirling around each other in an intricate pattern. It was like the great spell Calliande had used at Dun Calpurnia to ward Uthanaric’s army from the freezing touch of the Frostborn and their servants. In a way, it was even easier, because the power of that spell had been dispersed among tens of thousands of targets.

  This spell would release its energy in one colossal burst.

  Calliande lost herself in the flow of magic, weaving the spells and braiding their energy together. It was much easier than the healing spells she used on a regular basis. This took more energy, but at least she didn’t have to inflict searing pain on herself …

  After some time, she blinked, wiped the sweat from her face, looked at the maze of power floating before her, and nodded. She examined the spells, both with her mortal eyes and the vision of the Sight, and nodded in satisfaction.

  “My lady Keeper?” said Gavin. He looked a little tired, but he had kept watch without a break during the night. “Is…it ready?”

  “Almost,” said Calliande. “I need only bring the spells together and activate them. Ten minutes of work at the most. And when I do, the spell will go off. I can do nothing more until Arandar is ready to launch his attack.” She looked around until she found Constantine Licinius. “Sir Constantine. Please send a message to Prince Arandar. When he is ready, he can send word to me. Ten minutes after that, I will open the breaches.”

  Constantine nodded and gestured to one of the other Swordbearers, a skinny young knight who did not look old enough to shave, let alone to wield a soulblade. Likely he had taken up the soulblade of an older knight who had fallen in battle. Ridmark had been only eighteen when he had become a Swordbearer, and Gavin had been younger still.

  The young Swordbearer nodded and ran off.

  “What will you do now, Keeper?” said Constantine.

  “I think,” said Calliande, “that I am going to lie down and try to get some rest for tomorrow. If something tries to kill us, please wake me up so I can try to kill it back.”

  Constantine laughed. “It shall be as you command.”

  “At least this time we don’t have to worry about the Weaver dropping out of the sky,” said Gavin.

  “No,” said Calliande, looking for a comfortable spot on the hilltop without success. “Just Imaria Shadowbearer. Or Soulbreaker. Or both at once.” Imaria was dangerous, but she lacked the raw power of Tymandain Shadowbearer. Calliande suspected she would not risk a direct confrontation, but would instead try to attack from the shadows.

  Soulbreaker, though…Soulbreaker had the magical power to attack Calliande directly, and the physical prowess that the Weaver had displayed in combat.

  “Do you think that Imaria was the one that summoned Soulbreaker?” said Gavin.

  “Most likely, Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora. “Likely she received the knowledge with the mantle of the Shadowbearer, and she would not care about the carnage Soulbreaker unleashed.”

  Calliande frowned, sleep momentarily forgotten. “What do you mean?”

  Antenora shrugged. “Imaria Shadowbearer does not seem to care about the damage she does. Therefore it seems unlikely she will care if Soulbreaker
runs amok across Andomhaim. Perhaps it is the nature of the bearer of Incariel’s shadow. Tymandain Shadowbearer engineered many wars and killed thousands, and their deaths did not trouble him either.”

  Calliande thought that over. “To the bearers of Incariel’s shadow, their methods matter less than their goal.”

  “What is the goal of the Shadowbearer?” said Antenora.

  “To destroy Andomhaim,” said Gavin. “That’s why Tymandain Shadowbearer summoned the Frostborn here in the first place. To destroy Andomhaim, since the Two Orders threatened him.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “Except…Tymandain Shadowbearer was a hundred thousand years old, and he had been the Shadowbearer for longer than the memory of man. What was he working for that entire time?”

  Gavin shrugged. “To rule the world, probably.”

  Except he hadn’t been trying to rule the world. He had subverted and corrupted and seduced, not conquered. The Enlightened of Incariel had just been his latest effort, as had the summoning of the Frostborn. For that matter, if Tymandain had wanted to rule the world, why had he summoned the Frostborn? If he wanted to conquer the world, the Frostborn were powerful rivals.

  Ridmark had killed Tymandain Shadowbearer, but Imaria had inherited his goals.

  What did she want other than destruction and chaos and death?

  Calliande didn’t know, and right now, she was too tired to figure it out. Tomorrow promised to be another long and exhausting day.

  Assuming she lived through it.

  “Gavin, Antenora, all of you, thank you,” said Calliande. “I’m going to get some sleep. Wake me if necessary.”

  She wrapped herself in her green cloak and lay down, the staff of the Keeper resting next to her. For a time, the purple fire of the spell distracted her, and then she drifted off to sleep.

  ###

  And in her sleep, she dreamed.

  Calliande turned, looking around.

  She had dreamed of this place before.

  It was a stony shore facing a broad gray lake, pieces of worn driftwood scattered along the beach. A vast wall of gray mist rose from the waters of the lake, concealing whatever lay beyond it. A chill wind blew off the lake, tugging at Calliande’s hair and cloak. Despite the wind, the wall of gray mist never moved. It must have been held in place by some sort of magical force.