“It is,” said Antenora. “But remember the army that marched with Uthanaric Pendragon to Dun Calpurnia. That army was stronger, but a year of civil war weakened the host of the Andomhaim. The Frostborn used that year to build their strength to even greater heights. Uthanaric’s army was barely equal to the Frostborn. I do not think Arandar’s army will be equal to it.”
“We will have the dwarves and the manetaurs,” said Gavin.
“Yes,” said Antenora. “I hope their strength will make up the difference. But if it does not…” She sighed. “I have seen many wars in my life, Gavin Swordbearer, though I cannot remember them all. I have seen many armies march to their final defeats. This one…I fear it feels the same.”
“Maybe,” said Gavin. “But like you said, no one can see the future. We may yet be victorious.”
A faint smile went over the gaunt face. “My mind tells me that we see defeat, but you cheer my heart.”
“Well,” said Gavin, “we’re not beaten yet.”
But a cold part of his mind pointed out that she had an excellent point. The army had been weakened, badly weakened, by Tarrabus’s folly and the year of civil war. The Anathgrimm had been able to hold the Frostborn in the Northerland, but the Frostborn would have been able to spend the past year summoning more forces through the world gate.
Perhaps they were indeed marching to their deaths.
But he would fight nonetheless.
And Antenora was right. Whatever happened, however this ended, he was glad they had had this time together
However brief it turned out to be.
###
Several days later, the host of Andomhaim came to a stop on the banks of the River Moradel and the River Mourning.
Arandar rode back and forth along the southern bank of the River Mourning, the walls and towers of Castra Carhaine rising across the river. The castra was a strong place, filling a peninsula of land that jutted into the water where the River Mourning met the larger River Moradel. Water surrounded the castra on three sides. The great curtain wall, nearly fifty feet high and twenty feet thick, came right to the edge of the waters. Octagonal watch towers stood at intervals along the wall, topped with ballistae and catapults. Within the curtain wall stood three massive keeps, each one topped with war engines.
Castra Carhaine was a strong fortress, and it had been a hard nut to crack during the campaign across Caerdracon. They had only been able to take the castra thanks to Antenora, Sir Gavin, and Sir Constantine launching a daring raid through the castra’s water gate. Arandar supposed that if the battle went ill, they could fall back to Castra Carhaine and hold the Frostborn here.
The castra had been an important water crossing for centuries, and thankfully was well equipped with barges and large rafts. Already dozens of craft moved back and forth across the water to the piers of the castra and the surrounding bank, unloading troops, horses, and supplies. Arandar had sent Sir Joram, Sir Tormark, and Dux Leogrance to take charge of the host on the northern bank of the River Mourning, organizing the men for the march to the Northerland. Arandar spoke with the lords and the knights and the kings as they crossed the river, speaking of the campaign to come in the north. His mind turned over the details, considering a thousand different possibilities. What if the dwarves arrived first? Or the manetaurs? What if the Frostborn bent their full power to destroy the manetaurs before they could join the other forces?
“Do you think they’ll change the name?”
Arandar blinked, startled out of his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder to see Gavin talking with Caius and Kharlacht and the others.
“The name of what?” said Caius.
“Castra Carhaine,” said Gavin. “It doesn’t belong to Tarrabus Carhaine anymore, does it?”
“It does not,” said Camorak. The Magistrius looked disgruntled, though that was likely because there hadn’t been any strong drink on the road north. “The High King stripped him of his lands and titles and disinherited him. Not that the scheming bastard had any heirs. Probably was too busy worshipping devils and plotting murder to find the time to sire any little Carhaines.”
“So, what happens to the castra?” said Gavin. “And all the rest of the duxarchate?”
“According to the laws of Andomhaim, all the lands of Caerdracon reverted to the crown when the treacherous nobles were stripped of their rank and benefices,” said Caius. He probably knew the relevant laws and traditions better than Arandar himself did. “The High King holds the lands now. But he will give the lands to a new Dux, who will appoint new Comites for Caerdracon. Though some of the nobles of Caerdracon refused to have anything to do with Tarrabus – old Rilmar Cavilius of Westhold, for one. They will likely keep their lands as a reward for their loyalty.”
“Will the castra change its name?” said Gavin.
“No, it will likely keep the name of Castra Carhaine,” said Caius. “The House of the Licinii rules in the Northerland, but Castra Marcaine was not built by them. Their House died out, but the castra kept its name when the Licinii became the ruling House of the Northerland.” He shrugged. “Tarrabus fell into folly and evil, but his ancestors were not wicked. Should their memory be erased because their descendants turned from the righteous path? Your own soulblade was once carried by Judicaeus Carhaine, and he would have had nothing to do with the Enlightened.”
“I had not given that any thought,” said Gavin. “That seems wise.”
“Perhaps the High King will make you the Dux of Caerdracon,” said Kharlacht.
“God and the saints, no!” said Gavin, and the others laughed.
“Actually,” said Arandar, looking over his shoulder at the others, “that is not the worst idea I’ve heard today.”
“Please tell me you are joking, your Majesty,” said Gavin.
“Well,” said Arandar, “I think…”
Blue fire swirled next to Arandar’s horse, and Third solidified out of the flames.
“Lady Third,” said Arandar. She had been running messages for him, and her help had been invaluable. The Magistri could send messages through their magic, but the spell drained them, and it wasn’t always completely reliable. Third, by contrast, was always reliable. Arandar had to stop himself from overusing her power, knowing that it was best to hold her back for an emergency.
“Lord High King,” said Third with her usual calm. “Dux Leogrance asks that you join him on the northern bank as soon as possible. It seems the locusari scouts have been raiding the outlying villages around Castra Carhaine, and some of the freeholders claim that they have seen bear-creatures moving along the River Moradel.”
“Medvarth?” said Arandar, frowning.
“Perhaps,” said Third. “The description matches that of a medvarth.”
“Very well,” said Arandar. “We’ll take the next barge.”
###
Before following the Gray Knight and his companions from Urd Arowyn, Gavin had never been on a boat.
Now, it seemed, he was on a boat every few weeks.
The barge was even larger than the one that Smiling Otto had used to carry them down the River Moradel, a massive slab of thick, weather-beaten wood. A crew of grizzled watermen tended to the barge, manning the heavy oars and the thick rudder. The watermen looked singularly unimpressed by the army making its way across the River Mourning, though Gavin preferred to ride on a barge manned by experienced men who knew their business.
He did know how to swim, but he wasn’t particularly good at it.
Arandar boarded the barge, as did Gavin and Antenora and the other members of the High King’s guards and entourage. At the request of the barge’s captain, their horses remained behind for the next trip, lest the weight cause the craft to capsize.
At Master Marhand’s insistence, they did take a pair of the ballistae, lest the frost drakes try to attack the High King as he crossed the river. There had been both locusari scouts and frost drakes spotted flying over Castra Carhaine, and a barge or a raft was vulnerable t
o attack from above.
The barge pushed off from the bank and headed towards Castra Carhaine, the rowers attacking the current with smooth, solid strokes. Gavin stood next to Antenora, the breeze tugging at his hair, shafts of sunlight falling from the cloudy sky to strike the water. It was pleasant on the river, Gavin thought, so long as the weather was good and so long as the barge didn’t turn over.
Then Antenora’s head snapped up, her yellow eyes widening as she looked at the sky.
Somehow Gavin wasn’t surprised.
“Master Kurastus!” said Antenora. “The enemy comes. A warding spell!”
Kurastus did not need to be told twice. At once the old Magistrius began casting a spell, white fire glimmering around his fingers. An instant later the dome of light surrounded the barge, shielding it from hostile magic and the cold breath of the frost drakes.
But the enemy was not aiming for the barge.
Three frost drakes dropped out of the sky, jaws yawning wide. Both ballistae fired, but the drakes were descending at a steep enough angle that the bolts missed. All three drakes unleashed their freezing breath, and the plumes of white mist swept across the surface of the river.
The barge jolted beneath Gavin’s feet, and he stumbled, trying to keep his balance. Antenora almost fell into him, but she slammed the end of her staff against the deck, the symbols along its dark length flaring as she called her magic. Gavin looked around, wondering if the barge had hit something, or if one of the drakes had landed on the craft itself.
Then he saw the ice stretching away for fifty yards around them.
The drakes had frozen the water around the barge, immobilizing it. Sooner or later the current would carry them out to the Moradel, or the ice would melt in the heat. Yet by the time that happened, the frost drakes would kill them or the locusari scouts would land and tear them apart as they fought on the deck of the barge.
It was a perfectly executed assassination attempt on the High King, and Gavin realized it might well succeed
And kill them all in the process, of course.
“Master Kurastus, hold your spell!” said Arandar, yanking Excalibur from its scabbard. “Men-at-arms, get those ballistae reloaded! Antenora, use your magic on the drakes! Defend yourselves!”
The three drakes banked in formation over the river, and Gavin saw the Frostborn upon their backs. To his surprise, he thought one of the three was a woman – she was smaller and slimmer than the other two Frostborn, and her shape seemed more feminine. Did the Frostborn have women? They must have – Antenora had said a Frostborn woman named Arlmagnava had tried to kill her in the threshold, and Ridmark, Arandar, and Jager had faced Arlmagnava in the hours before the battle at Dun Calpurnia.
Antenora thrust her staff, and a fireball leaped from the end and soared skyward. It passed through the dome of light and hurtled towards the drakes, forcing them to scatter to avoid the fire.
It did nothing to slow the scores of locusari scouts who plummeted towards the barge, their wings blurring. Gavin whipped Truthseeker before him in a flare of white fire, cutting one of the locusari in half. In front of him, another locusari blurred past one of the rowers, taking off the poor man’s head in a spray of blood.
Everything dissolved into chaos around him, but it was disciplined chaos. The Magistri turned their attention to strengthening Kurastus’s ward and casting spells of healing. The Swordbearers devoted their attention to defending the barge. Gavin lost himself in the fury of the battle, cutting down locusari after locusari, sending their gleaming blue carapaces scattering to the deck.
The men-at-arms working the ballistae reloaded and fired, and this time they had better luck. The two bolts punched into the side of a frost drake, and the creature screeched and flew away towards the River Moradel, no longer under the control of its rider. The remaining two frost drakes slowed, hovering as their riders assessed the situation, and Gavin felt the cold, burning gaze of the remaining two Frostborn.
“That is her,” said Antenora. “Arlmagnava. I fought her before I came to this world.”
Gavin braced himself for another wave of locusari scouts, but it seemed the Frostborn had fought enough for this day. The two frost drakes turned and flew to the north, trailed by their remaining locusari scouts.
Antenora used her fire magic to break away the ice that sheathed the barge, and they continued towards Castra Carhaine.
###
That night Arandar held a council of war with the chief nobles in the great hall of Castra Carhaine.
The hall of Castra Carhaine reflected the ancestral pride of the House of the Carhainii. The floor had been paved in gleaming marble, and the tapestries hanging on the walls showed the triumphs of past Duxi of Caerdracon. Most of the nobles of Andomhaim preferred to display tales from the scriptures in their art, images of the Dominus Christus healing the lepers or Joshua leading the men of Israel into battle against the wicked Canaanites, but such religious themes were absent from the tapestries of the Carhainii. A huge stone throne rested on the dais at the far end of the hall, carved from a single block of blue marble, its back worked in the black dragon sigil of the House of the Carhainii.
Arandar supposed that whoever became the new Dux of Caerdracon and the Lord of Castra Carhaine would tear out the symbols of the House of the Carhainii and install his own sigil. Though Arandar decided that Gavin was right, that the castra should retain its name. Calliande had cleansed the ancient temple of the Enlightened hidden in the catacombs beneath the fortress, but there was no reason that Tarrabus’s ancestors should be forgotten.
In fact, Arandar wanted to make sure that Tarrabus himself would be remembered so future generations would not walk his path of folly and woe.
“It seems likely,” said Gareth Licinius, “that Castra Marcaine has fallen to the enemy.”
The old Dux looked grim. Castra Marcaine was his ancestral seat and home. With the loss of Castra Marcaine, the entirely of the Northerland had been lost, and the Frostborn would be free to march into Caerdracon.
“That is grievous news,” said Arandar. He sat at the head of the long table, the Duxi and the kings and the Masters and the more influential Comites seated along its length.
“The freeholders of Caerdracon speak of parties of medvarth warriors and constant flights by locusari scouts,” said Gareth. “It seems likely that the Frostborn are preparing to move in strength from the Northerland to Caerdracon.”
“Aye,” rumbled Dux Kors. “Let’s meet them and chase them back to their world gate with their tails between their legs.”
“I do not think Castra Marcaine fell very long ago,” said Dux Sebastian. “No more than a week at most. All the stories are too recent. If we hasten, perhaps we can secure a more northern strong point and prepare to face the Frostborn there. Dun Calpurnia, perhaps.”
“This is good counsel,” said Arandar. “The Frostborn destroyed the town, but the fortifications can be restored with relatively little work. The town will make a strong base for our campaign into the Northerland. As soon as the army finishes crossing the River Mourning, we will make for Dun Calpurnia with all the speed we can muster.”
He prayed they would not be too late.
Chapter 6: Predecessor
The forest surrounding Cathair Solas was ancient.
Ridmark had spent years wandering the Wilderland and had seen every kind of forest there was, from the towering, mossy trees of the Qazaluuskan Forest to the tough pine trees that covered the Northerland. The realm of Andomhaim was ancient, nearly a thousand years old, but compared to many other things, Andomhaim was but a child. He had seen the twisted, eerily beautiful ruins of dark elven citadels, every one of them far older than Tarlion. He had walked through the silent ruins of the dwarves, abandoned and desolate for millennia before Malahan Pendragon had founded the realm of Andomhaim. In the marshes near Moraime and the Torn Hills near Urd Morlemoch, he had seen the bones of long-slain warriors rise as undead, animated by ancient necromancy lingering from th
ose battles.
It seemed that many battles had been fought in the forest surrounding Cathair Solas.
Ridmark and Calliande walked through clearings littered with old bones. The bones should have crumbled into dust long ago, but some lingering magic seemed to hang over the clearings, keeping the skeletons from crumbling into dust. Many of the skeletons looked elven, armored in plates of blue dark elven steel and holding swords and axes of the same metal. Calliande’s Sight often detected undead wandering through the trees, and she steered them around the creatures.
In other places, they saw cairns of heaped stone, and crumbling towers of orcish build, like the ruined towers that Ridmark had seen in the Wilderland. From time to time they passed crumbling walls and broken towers of white stone, ancient dark elven strongholds now falling into rubble. Ridmark supposed the old ruins were siege forts built by the dark elves and the urdmordar who had once tried to storm the island and take Cathair Solas.
After the first day, the ground sloped upward steadily, and soon Ridmark and Calliande spent a great deal of their time climbing and working their way around boulders and the trunks of fallen trees. Calliande’s clothes hindered their progress. When traveling, she usually wore boots and trousers and a leather jerkin, but she had been wearing a green dress and mantle and cloak. Often, she had to climb with her skirt bunched up in one hand, the other grasping the staff of the Keeper to maintain her balance.
“How much higher does this slope go?” said Ridmark.
Calliande caught her balance and looked around. “A few thousand feet, I think. Not high enough that we’ll see snow, but high enough that it will definitely be colder.”
“We should rest here for a moment,” said Ridmark, looking at the gray sky overhead. “It’s almost noon. A few moments to catch our breath won’t hurt.”
Calliande hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”
Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14) Page 7
