Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I will return with my shield, or with Tarrabus upon it,” said Ridmark.

  “You do not fight with a shield,” said Third.

  “Poetic license,” said Caius.

  “Ah.”

  Calliande nodded, blinked, and took a deep breath. “Go.”

  Ridmark nodded back and walked from the hilltop, following the direction that Prince Cadwall had taken to his camp. Third and Antenora fell in behind him, followed by Kharlacht, Camorak, and Caius.

  He remembered the day he had parted from Calliande after the battle of Dun Calpurnia, and a wave of misgiving went through him. Ridmark had been near-certain that he would never see her again.

  The same feeling gripped him now.

  Well, he would just have to win and come back to her.

  “You know,” said Camorak in his rusty voice, “I spent years fighting Mhorites from the saddle in Durandis. When I became a Magistrius, I figured I was done with all that. Shows just what I know.”

  “I thought I would never return to Khald Tormen,” said Caius. “No man can see the future.”

  “Or dwarf,” said Camorak.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Let us join Prince Cadwall, and see if we can put an end to the harm Tarrabus has done to this realm.”

  ###

  Tarrabus sat alone in his pavilion, scowling into his emptied goblet of wine.

  There were a dozen problems that required his attention, but he could not bring himself to care. He should have found his lassitude alarming, he knew, and the lack of attention at the wrong moment could prove fatal.

  Yet he could not stop brooding about how things had gone so wrong.

  Certainly, he had not been defeated, and if his plans worked, with a few weeks Arandar’s army would be broken, the Keeper would be dead, and Tarlion would be his at last.

  Yet just as he stood on the cusp of victory, the precipice of defeat yawned before his feet. So many things had gone wrong. There had been so many setbacks. Tarrabus ought to have been ruling a unified Andomhaim by now, the church and its superstitions purged from the land, the Enlightened working to turn mankind into gods by elevating the strong and crushing the weak. He should have been negotiating with the Frostborn as an equal. Instead, he was sitting in his pavilion in a muddy ditch of a camp, drinking bad wine and waiting on his idiotic and unreliable servants to carry out his will.

  How had it gone so wrong?

  Why had he been saddled with such useless and incompetent followers?

  Tarrabus started to reach for the carafe of wine, and the pavilion flap opened. One of his squires entered. Tarrabus pinned the boy with a glare, but the squire swallowed and delivered his message.

  “Your Majesty,” said the squire. “Dux Timon is here to see you. He says it is urgent.”

  “Tell him…” started Tarrabus.

  Timon burst into the pavilion, all but bowling over the poor squire with his bulk. His face was alight with excitement, his eyes shining with hope.

  “The dvargir have spotted them!” said Timon.

  Tarrabus scowled. “Spotted who?”

  “My reinforcements!”

  Tarrabus stood. “They have?”

  “On the coast road, making their way here,” said Timon. “Perhaps five or six miles distant. They will be here within the hour.”

  “Has Arandar responded?” said Tarrabus.

  “Not yet,” said Timon. “But there is a great deal of movement within his camp. We think his scouts have spotted the reinforcements and he is preparing to march to intercept them.”

  “Leaving a token force to hold his siege wall,” said Tarrabus with tight satisfaction. “Show me at once.” He pointed at the squire. “Get my horse.”

  “My lord High King,” said Timon, bowing and holding the pavilion flap for him.

  Tarrabus paused long enough to don the Pendragon Crown. Excalibur lay upon the table, and he almost took the sword with him, but sheer impatience won out. That, and he was tired of the damned thing. Let it sit here for a few hours until he needed to carry the useless token once more.

  Tarrabus stalked back into the camp, and the squire approached with his horse. He hauled himself into the saddle, Timon following suit. Tarrabus beckoned his household knights, and they fell in around him as he thundered through the camp, the common men-at-arms and the militiamen scrambling to get out of his way. They rode southeast through the space between the circumvallation and the contravallation walls, and soon came to the southeastern edge of the camp, the crash of the sea in Tarrabus’s ears.

  Tarrabus dismounted, climbed to the nearest watchtower, and walked to the dvargir looking glass. The guards bowed and got out of his path, and Tarrabus reached for the glass. It was a tube of black metal, holding lenses far clearer and more powerful than anything the men of Andomhaim could produce. Tarrabus put his eye to the end of the device and swung it until he saw the coast road.

  He spotted the column of horsemen at once, a plume of dust rising behind them, their surcoats and tabards sea-green and adorned with the ship sigil of Dux Timon Carduriel.

  Tarrabus felt his sword hand curl into a fist. At last!

  He climbed back down to his horse.

  “Was I not right, my lord High King?” said Timon, his excitement plain. “My men are coming!”

  Tarrabus resisted the urge to hit him. “Yes. Hasten! Call the host to arms, and summon Rzarn Malvaxon!”

  His household knights sounded their horns as they galloped through the camp and back to Tarrabus’s pavilion and Imaria’s circle. By the time he returned, Dux Septimus and Dux Verus were already there, while Malvaxon stood a distance away, surrounded by his warriors.

  “My lords!” called Tarrabus, reining up. “The hour has come. Our reinforcements are arriving from the east.” He did not bother to add that those horsemen were the scrapings of Arduran, old men and shepherds and peasants made into men-at-arms and put into the saddle. That didn’t matter. Their purpose was not to win, but to distract. “Arandar is marching to meet them. Once he does, we shall sally forth and break him.”

  “How?” said Verus with a scowl.

  “Rzarn?” said Tarrabus.

  “In secret,” said Malvaxon, “my slaves have constructed a large tunnel beneath the three earthwork walls at their southernmost point, just above the shore. So far, it has eluded detection from the enemy. When the mine is fired, it will collapse, and it will open a breach in all three walls simultaneously.”

  “Are you sure it will work?” said Dux Septimus.

  The Rzarn turned an indulgent smile towards him. “My kindred were building mighty works of stone and iron long before your kindred had figured out how to rub two sticks together to start a fire, my lord Dux.”

  Septimus scowled, but Tarrabus kept talking before an argument could begin.

  “Once the walls are down, we will charge and attack,” said Tarrabus. “We will catch Arandar’s host between our men and Dux Timon’s reinforcements, and we shall break them utterly. Once we do, we shall have the supplies Dux Timon’s men brought from Arduran, and we shall capture the supplies of Arandar as well. The day will be ours, and we shall have the leisure to starve out Tarlion and that fool Corbanic Lamorus.”

  No one said anything. Their lack of enthusiasm annoyed Tarrabus. Well, at least Timon realized the significance of the plan.

  “Prepare your men,” said Tarrabus. “Gather your best troops at the southern end of the camp, and…”

  One of the dead women bound within the circle of blood and shadow moved.

  Tarrabus had almost forgotten that it was there.

  Soulbreaker had not reappeared since the failure of her first attempt on Calliande’s life, and Tarrabus wondered if the Deep Walker had been banished back to wherever it came from. Yet the circle had remained, and Tarrabus had ignored it, preoccupied with other problems. Now one of the corpses stepped from the circle, and it ripped itself apart in a spray of blood and flesh, reknitting itself into the form of the dark-haired wo
man that Soulbreaker favored.

  She looked around, smiled, and walked towards Tarrabus.

  “Ah,” said Soulbreaker. “That’s better.”

  Malvaxon took several steps back, his guards following suit, and put the Duxi between him and the Deep Walker.

  “You failed,” said Tarrabus in a flat voice.

  Malvaxon took another step back.

  Soulbreaker laughed. “You mortals! You think because something happens once, it is decided forever. Though given how easy it is to extinguish your little lives, perhaps you have no choice but to think that way.”

  “The High King is the Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel, and you will obey him!” said Septimus.

  Soulbreaker laughed. “Will I? Did he summon me, or did the bearer of Incariel’s shadow? I do not see her here.” She tilted her head to the side. “I wonder what you would look like without your skin. Would you like to find out? I’m sure I could find a mirror, and you ought to live long enough for me to show you.”

  She took a step towards the nobles, and Septimus flinched, reaching for his sword.

  “Enough,” said Tarrabus, and Soulbreaker’s eyes turned his way. A chill went through him as he felt the weight of that alien gaze, but he kept it from his face. “You failed once, but now you have a chance to redeem yourself. Go forth and kill the Keeper. That shall provide an excellent distraction as we shatter Arandar’s army.”

  For a moment Soulbreaker said nothing, and tension fell over the army.

  “As you wish,” said Soulbreaker.

  Her body ripped itself apart again, and Tarrabus expected her to take the form of the great black dragon. Instead, she became a thing that looked like a giant black panther, albeit a panther with six legs and a body covered in black armor plating.

  Soulbreaker shot forward, climbed over the contravallation wall as easily as walking across level ground, and vanished from sight.

  “A miserable creature,” said Septimus, not quite able to keep the quaver of fear from his voice.

  “No matter,” said Tarrabus. “Prepare your men. Rzarn, be ready to collapse the mine at my command. Today we shall have victory over Arandar and his band of fools.”

  Chapter 17: An Accidental Battle

  The horsemen rode southeast, Prince Cadwall and his household knights at the head, the horsemen flying the banners of every lord and knight who had remained loyal to Prince Arandar. Ridmark, Third, Caius, Camorak, Antenora, and Kharlacht rode with the Prince’s guard, since if Tarrabus intended a trap, Ridmark suspected it might land upon whoever was commanding the horsemen.

  They made good time. The immediate area outside the walls of Tarlion was flat with occasional rolling hills. Before the war, it had all been farmland, and from time to time Ridmark spotted a vineyard that had been burned or a cottage that had been set aflame. Tarrabus had ravaged the countryside on his approach to Tarlion.

  Perhaps today they could avenge all the deaths at Tarrabus’s hands.

  The Moradel road stretched from the northern gate of Tarlion to the edges of the Northerland at Castra Marcaine, but the coast road went from the city’s eastern gate and along the shore of the southern sea, passing through the royal domain and through Arduran and Tarras before turning north to Caertigris. It was pleasant, grassy country, with a warm salt-scented breeze rising from the sea and the crash of the surf against the shore filling Ridmark’s ears.

  If they were going to have a battle, at least the weather would be pleasant for it.

  “My lord Prince,” said Ridmark. “A suggestion.”

  Cadwall looked at Ridmark. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Come to a halt and let Third scout ahead,” said Ridmark. “She can cover ground far more quickly than any of the rest of us. If we know the disposition of the enemy, we can make a better plan of battle.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Cadwall, his dark eyes flashing as he thought it over. “Lady Third. I have no right of command over you. Will you scout ahead?”

  “If you wish it,” said Third.

  “I do,” said Cadwall. He turned to his standardbearer and gave a command, and the man blew the command to halt. Behind them, the columns of horsemen came to a stop. Third dropped from the saddle, vanishing into blue fire before her boots even hit the ground.

  Prince Cadwall was impatient, but they did not need to wait long. Third reappeared a few moments later, the blue fire dimming in her veins as she caught her breath.

  “The enemy moves along the coast road to the south, lord Prince,” she announced without preamble. “A long column, perhaps three miles. The horsemen are escorting many supply wagons loaded with food.”

  “They haven’t seen us yet?” said Cadwall.

  “They do not appear be alarmed,” said Third.

  “Then their commander is a fool,” said Kharlacht. “Did they not put out scouts?”

  “I did not see any,” said Third. “I did not see enough of them to make an accurate judgment, but these horsemen do not seem to be fighters to match those of Prince Arandar’s host or the false king’s army.”

  “Likely Dux Timon took all the men of fighting age with him when he marched at Uthanaric’s call,” said Cadwall, “and these are the old and the young and the inexperienced.”

  “That seems probable, lord Prince,” said Third.

  “Five columns,” said Cadwall, rubbing his chin. “We’ll split our men into five columns, and the columns will charge the road simultaneously. We’ll form into wedges, and we’ll ride right through the men on the road, turn, and ride through them again. If they’re inexperienced, that might force them to break and run, and we can compel the supply wagons to surrender. God knows we’ll need the food to feed the people of Tarlion and our army.”

  The Prince turned to his knights and gave the orders, and the horsemen of Arandar’s army began to arrange themselves into a new formation, armor and lances and swords flashing in the sun as the riders moved. It was a complex maneuver, but the knights and mounted men-at-arms were veterans of a year’s fighting and many campaigns before that, and it did not take long before they were ready.

  “All right,” said Prince Cadwall, drawing his sword. “We are ready. God be with us. Standardbearer, sound the charge.”

  The standardbearer’s horn rang out, loud and wailing, and answering horns rose from the rest of the host, followed by a mighty shout as the knights urged their mounts forward. Ridmark put his heels to the sides of his horse, and the beast surged forward with an excited whinny. Around him, he heard the thunder of thousands of hooves striking the earth at once. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ridmark felt a flicker of excitement. It had been a long time since he had fought like this, in a charge of horsemen galloping towards an unsuspecting enemy. The Anathgrimm did not use cavalry, and after he had been banished from Andomhaim, Ridmark had always fought on foot. Even as a Swordbearer, he had usually fought on foot, since a soulblade’s strength and speed did not extend to its bearer’s mount. He gripped his dwarven war axe in his right hand, and the countryside seemed to fly beneath him.

  The coast road came into sight, clogged with horses and wagons. Beyond was the vast blue expanse of the southern sea, the waves topped with white foam. All the horsemen wore surcoats and tabards of sea-green with the ship sigil of Dux Timon Carduriel upon their chests. They were trying to prepare themselves to receive the charge or to gallop out to meet their opponents away from the supply wagons, but their efforts had generated only chaos. Third’s assessment had been correct. The enemy was inexperienced, and they would be no match for the hardened fighters of Cadwall’s horsemen.

  “Charge!” shouted Cadwall, pointing his sword. His standardbearer blew another blast, and the knights kicked their horses to a gallop, lances falling into place or swords raised high to strike.

  The charge crashed into the column, and the wedges of horsemen tore through the reinforcements like knives through butter. Ridmark’s horse leaped onto
the road, and his axe flashed in his hand, taking the head from a mounted man-at-arms as he passed. His horse thundered past the road and onto the high grass between the road and the beach. Ridmark turned the horse, urging the beast back towards the road, and rode through the enemy column once more, killing another man-at-arms as he did.

  By the fourth time he had done that, the enemy had been defeated.

  The column had shattered, the horsemen slain or fleeing for their lives to the east. The wagon drivers and teamsters seemed to be commoners impressed into service by Dux Timon’s knights, and they surrendered without any resistance. No doubt Prince Cadwall’s force had taken casualties, but Ridmark doubted there had been very many.

  He reined up, Kharlacht, Caius, Camorak, Antenora, and Third joining him, and looked around for more foes to fight, but there were none left. They had either fled, surrendered, or were slain.

  “That,” said Camorak, “was the easiest battle that I have ever seen.”

  Ridmark grunted, lowering his axe. “It was. It was too easy.”

  Third shrugged. “Perhaps our foes are more incompetent than we believed.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark, but the ease of their victory made him uneasy. They had swept the road of the enemy, but Tarrabus had to have known that would happen. Ridmark knew that Tarrabus was ruthless enough to sacrifice thousands of men without hesitation, but he did not think Tarrabus would do it without hoping to gain something from it.

  But what had been the point?

  “We should rejoin Prince Cadwall,” said Ridmark, “and…”

  He was turning his horse, so he saw the explosion of blue fire rip through the southern edge of the siege walls an instant before the titanic thunderclap reached his ears.

  ###

  Gavin waited as Calliande walked in circles around the glyphs of purple fire, alternating between watching the sky and watching the siege wall.

  Nearby Prince Arandar waited on his horse with his household knights and some of his chief nobles, and the Swordbearers and Magistri assigned to protect Calliande stood in a ring around the base of the hill. Before the siege wall stood the assembled warriors of the three orcish kingdoms and the Order of the Soulblade, commanded by the three orcish kings and Master Marhand. A light breeze blew from the south, and the camp seemed oddly silent as the men waited for the fighting to start.