Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ridmark still had a grip on his staff, and he snapped the weapon up before him, holding it horizontally before his face. The urvaalg’s jaws snapped shut, intending to bite the staff in half, but the staff once carried by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain had endured far more potent forces. The urvaalg’s fangs did not even scratch the black wood, and Ridmark shoved, forcing the urvaalg’s head back. The urvaalg tried to release the staff from its jaws, but Ridmark had shoved it too far forward, and the creature could not get its teeth free. Ridmark shoved again, and the urvaalg reared back, just enough that Ridmark could draw back his legs and kick. His boots hammered into the urvaalg’s midsection, and Ridmark twisted, flipping the creature off him.

  He surged back to his feet just as the urvaalg attacked, black claws slashing and black fangs snapping. Ridmark retreated several steps and then struck back, landing several blows in rapid succession with the staff. The impacts landed hard, and the urvaalg flinched from the strikes. Yet while the staff could harm an urvaalg, it was difficult to land a killing blow with the weapon. Ridmark needed his axe.

  Unfortunately, he was not sure where his axe had landed.

  The urvaalg lunged again, trying to drive Ridmark out of the circle of light surrounding the campfire, and Ridmark swung the staff. The side of the weapon caught the urvaalg’s jaw, and the creature’s head snapped back, though not hard enough to break any bones. The urvaalg crouched, burning eyes fixed on Ridmark, and as it did, he saw the glint of metal behind the urvaalg.

  His axe lay on the stones there.

  Ridmark threw himself into a furious attack, striking again and again with a rapid flurry of sweeping blows. None of the blows were meant to hit or even harm the urvaalg, but the creature had learned that the staff could hurt it, and the urvaalg retreated step after step. At last Ridmark had advanced enough that he could take the risk, and he struck again, dropped his staff, and seized the axe with both hands, swinging it and straightening up with the same motion.

  It was just in time. The urvaalg bounded forward, jaws yawning wide, and Ridmark buried the axe in its chest, the blade sliding between two of the ribs. The creature’s weight pressed against Ridmark, forcing him to take several stumbling steps back, and he felt the reek of rotten meat coming from the urvaalg’s gaping jaws.

  He twisted to the side, ripping his axe free, and the urvaalg fell forward, landing hard. It started to rise again, but Ridmark brought the axe down on the top of its head.

  There was a crack, and the urvaalg fell limp to the rocky ground.

  Ridmark wrenched the axe free, retrieved his staff, and stepped back, his heart hammering in his chest. He looked towards Calliande at once, but she was unharmed. None of the urvaalgs had reached her.

  He turned around again and saw the blue light in the darkened forest.

  For an instant, he thought that Third had indeed been pulled through the rift, or that they had landed in the territory of the Anathgrimm and that Queen Mara had found them. But Mara and Third traveled in pulses of blue fire, and this light was steady. It reminded Ridmark of the blue fire that the Warden and the Sculptor had used in their spells, the ghostly blue light of dark magic.

  He hurried to the fire, putting himself between Calliande and the light.

  A moment later, the creature glided from the forest.

  It stood about seven feet tall, and it wore blue armor like Ridmark’s. Unlike Ridmark’s dark elven armor, the creature’s armor was ornate, adorned with elaborate reliefs and scrollwork. A winged helmet of blue dark elven steel covered its head, and in its armored right hand, it carried a longsword of the same metal.

  The creature’s face was the grinning skull of a long-dead dark elf, and the blue light came from its eyes.

  It glided forward, floating a few inches off the ground, and Ridmark felt the icy weight of the undead thing’s attention. The creature said something in a musical-sounding language that Ridmark did not know, and he remained motionless. The undead thing regarded him for another moment and then started speaking in the orcish tongue, though the words were archaic.

  “You have slain my hounds, churl,” said the creature.

  “Then you should not have set them to hunt me,” said Ridmark.

  “Do not think that the high elves can save you,” said the undead dark elf. “Our power is greater. The shadow of Incariel has made us strong. They cling to their feeble superstitions. We shall triumph, for with the shadow of Incariel we shall make ourselves the gods of this world.”

  “A man I knew said much the same,” said Ridmark. “It didn’t end well for him.”

  “Bah!” rasped the creature. “Mortal dog! Perish!”

  The undead thing raised its armored left hand, blue fire blazing to life around its fingers. It was casting a spell. Ridmark sprinted forward and struck with his staff, and the weapon landed on the creature’s hand, snapping its arm to the side. The spell unraveled, but the undead creature attacked with its sword, and Ridmark got his axe up to block.

  Soon he found himself on the retreat. The undead thing was fast, quicksilver fast, and unencumbered by the necessity of breathing. The sword flashed back and forth before Ridmark, and he had to devote his entire attention to his defense. Staff and axe blurred before him, deflecting the undead creature’s thrusts and swings, but Ridmark could not find a way to land a blow on the creature. A few times he jabbed the staff through the creature’s guard, but the staff rebounded from the plates of dark elven armor. Unless Ridmark thought of something clever, the creature was going to wear him down.

  The beach lit up with dazzling white light.

  Both Ridmark and the creature froze with surprise, and then a shaft of brilliant white fire passed through Ridmark and drilled into the undead creature. The flames did no harm to Ridmark. If anything, it felt pleasantly warm. But the creature shrieked as the fire burned into it, and the undead thing ripped apart in a spray of yellowed bones and blue armor. The armor clattered away in all directions against the stony beach, and the sword fell with a ringing clang.

  Ridmark turned and saw that Calliande had gotten to her feet, the staff of the Keeper blazing with white fire in her right hand. Her face was tight with concentration, her blue eyes narrowed.

  “It shouldn’t get up again,” said Calliande. Her eyelids fluttered as she drew upon the Sight. “And I don’t think there are any others nearby.” She looked at him, and concern flooded her face. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “That cut on your temple…”

  She made a dismissive wave. “It should heal shortly.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark, walking to join her. “Calliande, where are we?”

  She grimaced. “Ah. Well…it’s a long story. Morigna was right about me.”

  “How so?” said Ridmark.

  “I might have been overly clever.”

  Chapter 2: Summons

  Arandar Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim, knew that there would be hard fighting ahead. Tomorrow the host of Andomhaim would march against the Frostborn. Thanks to Calliande and Ridmark, allies would join them, but even the combined forces of Andomhaim, the dwarves, the manetaurs, and the Anathgrimm might not be enough to turn back the tide of the Frostborn.

  He knew he might be marching to his death and the destruction of Andomhaim.

  Tonight, though, Arandar would celebrate his victory.

  It really wasn’t his victory, he knew.

  It belonged to the tens of thousands of men who had fought and struggled and died outside the siege walls that Tarrabus Carhaine had raised around Tarlion. It belonged to the Swordbearers who had dueled the Enlightened of Incariel in the final moments of the battle. It belonged to the nobles and the knights who had organized and led their men into the fray, who had kept their commands intact in the chaos of the battle. It belonged to the Magistri who had labored to heal the wounds of the battle, saving many men who otherwise would have perished from sword and spear and arrow.

  So tonight
, he would let the city of Tarlion and his army celebrate. They had set out to reunify Andomhaim under its lawful High King, and they had done so against long odds. The Frostborn were invading from the north, and Imaria Shadowbearer was still free and spinning her webs of evil. Arandar might lead the realm of Andomhaim to its final destruction, and that thought weighed heavy upon its mind.

  Tonight, though, he could not let any of that show. Tonight, he must play the victorious High King, leading the chief nobles and knights of the realm in the feast. The High King could not show doubt or hesitation or weakness to his lords and knights, and Arandar would not rob his men of the joy of their victory.

  Nevertheless, a sense of doom weighed upon him.

  So, he was not entirely surprised when the alarm bells started ringing out.

  Arandar sat at the high table in the great hall of the Citadel of Tarlion, the ancient seat of the High Kings of Andomhaim. The hall was as large and wide as the Great Cathedral of Tarlion in the city below the Citadel, and its windows of stained glass showed scenes from both the scriptures and the history of Andomhaim. Hundreds of knights and lords sat at the tables below the dais, eating and drinking. The food was not rich, but thanks to the granaries of Taliand and the supplies they had taken from the men of the former Dux Timon Carduriel, the food was plentiful.

  The old proverb always said that hunger made for the best spice.

  Around Arandar sat the chief lords and knights who had followed him – Dux Gareth, Dux Leogrance, Dux Kors, Dux Sebastian, and Prince Cadwall, along with the three kings of the baptized orcish kingdoms and the Masters of the Two Orders. A chair had been left empty for Calliande, who Arandar suspected would arrive shortly. He had seen her talking to Ridmark before they had left the Great Cathedral for the Citadel.

  Though come to think of it, maybe they wouldn’t be along shortly. Arandar had seen the way that Ridmark and Calliande had been looking at each other before the battle. She had been in love with Ridmark for years, and perhaps Ridmark had finally worked through the various griefs that had both driven him to bold deeds and led him to keep Calliande at arm’s length.

  Perhaps Ridmark and Calliande were off somewhere celebrating the defeat of Tarrabus Carhaine in their own way.

  Of course, even that reminded Arandar of his own duties. His son and heir Accolon was safe in Nightmane Forest, as was his daughter Nyvane, but now that the Enlightened were defeated Arandar could summon them to his side. He would have to arrange for marriages for his children, suitable marriages that would strengthen the realm and ensure that Accolon one day would have heirs of his own. Arandar supposed that he had better remarry himself to establish better ties with the nobles, and perhaps to have additional heirs if any tragedy should befall Accolon.

  And, truth be told, it would be nice not to sleep alone any longer.

  More and more, such thoughts pulled at him. From what he had seen, the women of Tarlion had been very grateful to those who had lifted the siege, and he was the High King of Andomhaim. It would not take much to persuade a woman to spend the night in the bedchamber of the High King, though guilt tugged at Arandar at the thought. The Dominus Christus had said that a man had ought to lie only with his own wife, and Arandar himself was the result of one of Uthanaric Pendragon’s dalliances.

  On the other hand, Arandar’s wife had been dead for years. And they all might be dead in another month.

  An army of pages and squires moved through the great hall, pouring wine for the nobles and knights. Soon Arandar would lead them in a toast, and then the Duxi and the Comites would have toasts of their own. Many a lord and knight would set out from Tarlion tomorrow with a sharp hangover, but there were worse things.

  Sir Gavin and Antenora stood behind Calliande’s empty chair, talking in low voices. Gavin had become a fine young knight, and he had been in some of the hottest fighting in the battle. Antenora waited next to him, a dark shadow in her long black coat and hood. She and Gavin seemed close, and Arandar was not sure that he approved. A young man like Gavin needed a young wife. Antenora was ancient, and cursed with dark magic. She was more undead than truly alive.

  Still, given the dark days to come, perhaps they ought to find their joy where they could.

  “This is good wine,” said Prince Cadwall, taking a sip from his goblet.

  “Aye, my lord Prince,” said tough old Corbanic Lamorus, the Constable of Tarlion who had held the city against a year of siege. “You’re fortunate there was any left. Had Tarrabus’s men broken into the city, we would have drunk it all to deny it to him.”

  “Very sensible,” said Leogrance, calm and patrician as ever.

  Dux Kors let out a booming laugh. “It is an excellent wine. Almost as good as the wine we drank when we took Castra Carhaine from the usurper’s dogs. Sitting in Tarrabus’s hall and drinking Tarrabus’s wine, aye, that was a splendid feast.”

  “Though sitting in the High King’s hall with the usurper defeated,” said Dux Gareth, “is the finest feast of all.”

  “Agreed,” said Arandar. “We…”

  Right about then, the alarm bell started to sound.

  The conversation ceased, and the knights and nobles looked around. The bell sounded as if it was coming from somewhere in the city below, deep and clanging and dolorous. Arandar frowned. Had the sentries upon the walls of Tarlion seen enemies approaching? Had the Frostborn acted already? Or were some of the remnants of the Enlightened launching an attack? Most of the Enlightened had been killed or had surrendered, but a few had escaped and might have been stupid enough to attack.

  “That is not the sentry bell,” said Corbanic, frowning. “I’ve…never heard that bell before, come to think of it.”

  “Nor have I,” said Arandar, alarm turning to puzzlement. He had grown up in Tarlion. He knew what the city’s bells sounded like, both the bells of the church and the bells and horns and trumpets of the sentries upon the walls. “The magical defenses of the city, perhaps?”

  “Lord Corbanic and I disarmed those,” said Master Kurastus, the Master of the Order of the Magistri. “With the Enlightened broken, it no longer seemed necessary to keep the wards against dark magic active.”

  “And that’s not the magical defense of the city,” said Corbanic, getting to his feet with a growl. “I know what that bell sounds like, my lord King. That bell…damned if I know what it is.”

  There was a flicker of blue fire at the far end of the hall, and a sudden commotion from the knights and lords there. Arandar just had time to glimpse a dark figure glimmering with blue fire, and then it vanished.

  Only to reappear before the high table.

  The woman was tall and lean, paler than normal, with thick black hair and the pointed dark elven ears of her father’s blood. Her eyes were as black as her hair and were usually as cold as a winter night. She wore close-fitting dark armor of some dark elven material, and always carried a pair of short swords of dark elven steel at her belt. Threads of blue fire pulsed and glimmered beneath her skin, fading away as she caught her breath. The nobles around Arandar shifted. They were always unsettled by Third, but there was no denying that her skills had helped win the battle against Tarrabus.

  “Lady Third,” said Arandar.

  Third bowed to him, the movement always seeming correct but somehow mechanical. Of course, Third was the half-sister of the Queen of Nightmane Forest, and under no obligation to bow to him or to anyone else.

  “High King,” said Third. “The alarm bell. It is ringing from the Tower of the Keeper.”

  Arandar frowned. “The Tower?” That was impossible. The Tower of the Keeper had been sealed since the last Keeper had disappeared centuries ago.

  Except that Calliande had been that Keeper. She had sealed the Tower, and then put herself to sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. If anyone could open the Tower, it would be the Keeper of Andomhaim herself.

  Arandar looked at the Keeper’s chair, and suddenly he knew exactly where Calliande and Ridmark had gone.

&nb
sp; “They have opened the Tower, haven’t they, Lady Third?” said Arandar.

  “They have,” said Third. “I fear it has gone ill. There is some sort of magical defense around the Tower that has been activated, and…”

  Arandar rose to his feet. “I wish to see for myself.”

  ###

  In short order, the squires had horses saddled, and Arandar rode from the Citadel. He had given orders that the feast should continue in his absence, though he imagined that the festivities would be rather subdued. Or the knights and lords would continue drinking with enthusiasm. Arandar rather hoped they would.

  There might not be another chance.

  Third accompanied him on horseback, as did Gavin and Antenora. Both the Swordbearer and the Keeper’s apprentice had appointed themselves the Keeper’s bodyguards, and both were furious with themselves for letting the Keeper go into danger. Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Brother Caius, and Camorak went with Arandar as well. Kharlacht and Caius had gone with Arandar into the dangers of Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, and they were trustworthy companions. Camorak was a drunkard, but he had been a reliable man-at-arms in the service Dux Kors for years, and he was now a capable healer of the Magistri. Master Kurastus of the Magistri accompanied him, along with Master Marhand of the Swordbearers and Sir Constantine Licinius and Sir Valmark Arban.

  The High King of Andomhaim could not do anything alone.

  Given the number of people who wanted to kill him, it seemed wise to travel with well-armed companions. Though if it came to a fight, Arandar was not helpless himself.

  The sword hanging on his left hip guaranteed that.

  He had carried the soulblade Heartwarden for years, but Excalibur felt different. For one, the blade was a little shorter and a little thicker, reflecting the ancient designs of swords upon Old Earth. For another, the sword’s presence in his mind felt different. Excalibur was a soulblade, but it had possessed magic long before Ardrhythain had reforged it into a soulblade. Heartwarden had burned with rage whenever confronting a creature of dark magic. Excalibur did the same, but the sword also had a sense of stern implacability, of an unyielding tower of iron. It put Arandar in mind of a stern but fair magistrate sitting upon his curule chair and issuing judgments.