Nearby stood the rest of Ridmark’s lieutenants.
“Third tells me,” said Brother Caius, “that we have fighting ahead of us.” He was a dwarf of Khald Tormen, short and broad with skin the color of gray granite and eyes like blue marble. Even after the last year of fighting, he still wore the brown robes of a mendicant friar and a wooden cross on a cord around his neck. Beneath his robes, though, he wore the dark elven armor they had taken from Urd Morlemoch, along with additional armor taken from the Traveler’s armories in Nightmane Forest.
“Several hundred medvarth,” said Ridmark. “They are planning on using Liavatum as a camp before continuing to the siege of Castra Marcaine.”
“Good,” rumbled Qhazulak. The old Anathgrimm orc was the Champion of Nightmane Forest, the most respected warrior of the Anathgrimm. It had gotten easier for Ridmark to tell individual Anathgrimm apart, despite their bone masks, and Qhazulak’s appearance was more distinctive than most. Old scars marked his green skin, and his voice had a harsh rasp from a lifetime spent shouting commands in battle. “It has been too long since we have seen battle.”
“Two days,” said Camorak, scowling at the Champion. Most of the Magistri Ridmark had met wore flowing white robes, bound about the waist with black sashes. Camorak had once been a man-at-arms in service for Dux Kors of Durandis, and he wore chain mail and leather. Instead of a white robe, he wore a long white coat. At least, it had started out as white. Now it was mottled gray, though white patches still showed here and there. Camorak had a lined face and gray-shot hair, though his eyes were much less bloodshot now that he had little access to drink. “We fought that khaldjari band two days ago.”
“It has been too long,” said Qhazulak. “Now we shall see battle, and we shall put our foes to flight.”
Camorak drew breath to respond, but Kharlacht spoke first.
“What is our plan of battle?” said the Vhaluuskan orc. He had changed little in the year and a half since Ridmark had first met him upon the slopes of Black Mountain. Kharlacht remained tall and strong and somber, his black hair cut in a warrior’s topknot, his green-skinned face forever scowling behind his tusks.
“The easiest approach to Liavatum is from the north,” said Ridmark. “An old road climbs the hill and approaches the gate. There the medvarth will have to pass through a narrow defile. If we strike them from both sides, we will take them by surprise and cut them in half.”
Qhazulak grunted. “We just face medvarth?”
“I saw the medvarth, along with a dozen locusari warriors,” said Third, not looking up. She didn’t look like she was paying attention, but Ridmark knew that her vigilance never wavered.
“It is rare for the medvarth to go anywhere without the supervision of the Frostborn, the khaldjari, or the cogitaers,” said Kharlacht. “They are too violent, and left to their own devices will turn upon each other.”
“I saw no Frostborn,” said Third. “It is possible there were khaldjari or cogitaers among them.”
“Let us hope for cogitaers,” said Qhazulak. “They are frailer than the khaldjari.”
“More dangerous, though,” said Caius.
Qhazulak gave an indifferent shrug.
A young man approached, wearing chain mail and a leather jerkin, a sword at his belt, and a shield slung over his shoulder. He was about fourteen years old, and looked a great deal like his father – the same dark eyes, hawkish nose, and dark curly hair, though his face lacked the grim, weary cast of his father’s expression. Prince Regent Arandar had sent his son and heir Accolon with Ridmark, hoping to keep him safe and out of reach of the false king Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened of Incariel.
Here in the Northerland, Accolon was indeed out of reach of Tarrabus and the Enlightened. As for safe…well, there was no safe place left in Andomhaim.
“Lord magister,” said Accolon, holding up a waterskin.
“Thank you,” said Ridmark. He took a long drink and passed the waterskin back. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he had grown. “Wait here.”
Accolon nodded, his expression calm. He had been serving as Ridmark’s squire ever since Dun Calpurnia. If they were victorious, Arandar would become High King, and Accolon would become the High King one day in his father’s footsteps. He needed to know how to command men in war.
Of course, Arandar would only become High King if they found a way to defeat Tarrabus Carhaine, if they found a way to reunify the realm and drive back the Frostborn. Else the Frostborn would add this world to their Dominion, and Tarrabus would rule Andomhaim as the satrap of his Frostborn masters.
If Ridmark was honest with himself, he knew that was the most likely possibility…but he would not surrender. If the Frostborn wanted to conquer the world, he would make them fight for every bloody inch so long as he still had breath.
“An ambush would be the best way to proceed,” said Kharlacht.
“We need to exercise caution,” said Qhazulak.
“Caution? From you?” said Camorak.
“The warrior must see the battlefield as it is, rather than how he wishes it,” said the old Champion. “The medvarth, when startled, fly into a berserker fury. They are dangerous opponents.”
“But if they are packed together in that defile,” said Caius, “likely their fury will turn upon each other. We have seen it before.”
“Third,” said Ridmark. “How far are the medvarth from the defile?”
“Perhaps two and a half hours,” said Third. At last, she lifted her face, her dead black eyes regarding them. The Anathgrimm didn’t flinch. Accolon swallowed but didn’t look away. Ridmark would have to compliment him on that later. The High King could not afford to show weakness. “Maybe slower, maybe longer. I did not see much of the terrain between the enemy and the village.”
“I did,” said Ridmark.
“When?” said Kharlacht, surprised. “You were not gone that long.”
“Fifteen years ago,” said Ridmark, “when I was still a squire. Dux Gareth rode through the hills to visit his vassals, and I accompanied him.” Tarrabus Carhaine had been there as well. Pity that a stray arrow or a kobold raider hadn’t killed Tarrabus then. The realm would have been better for it. “Let’s move.”
The Anathgrimm broke camp, and they hastened to the east, making for the old road leading to the ruins of Liavatum.
###
Ridmark crouched behind a boulder, watching the road.
Boulders and pine trees littered the hill’s slopes, the ground carpeted with pebbles and pine needles. It was difficult to move in silence upon such ground, and the Anathgrimm had made a hellish racket getting into position. But now they were in place, and the bone-masked warriors waited in perfect silence.
Third had not lied when she said the road passed through a narrow defile. It was so steep that it was almost a gully, and Ridmark’s hiding place was nearly fifteen feet above the road proper. Any force passing along that road would be hideously vulnerable to an ambush. Despite their savagery, the medvarth were not stupid, and neither were their commanders, and they would make sure to send out scouts.
Fortunately, Ridmark had his own way of dealing with scouts.
Blue fire swirled next to him, and Third appeared, resting upon one knee, twin short swords of dark elven steel in her hands. The blue metal of the blades gleamed beneath a layer of yellow ichor from dead locusari warriors.
“I have accounted for seven of the locusari warriors,” said Third.
“Only seven?” said Ridmark in a quiet voice. He heard the distant tramp of armored boots against the ground. “I thought there was at least a dozen.”
“Yes,” said Third. “The remainder screen the rear of the medvarth warriors. They fear attack from behind. Given your previous tactics against the enemy, this is a prudent fear.”
Ridmark nodded. “Then be ready.”
He waited as the tramp of boots grew louder, and the first of the medvarth warriors came into sight.
Sir Constantine Licinius had once described the medv
arth as bears that walked as men, and Ridmark thought that as good a description as any. The heads of the medvarth were like those of bears, though with flatter features, narrower eyes, and larger fangs. The creatures stood between six and seven feet tall, their bodies heavy with muscle. Like bears, jagged spikes of greasy fur covered their hides, though they wore steel plate armor and carried swords and maces and axes. The Frostborn had found the medvarth upon some distant world and now used them as foot soldiers in their armies. The medvarth marched in formation, though each soldier kept a few feet from the others. In battle, the medvarth worked together, but in the absence of foes, they often fought amongst themselves.
Ridmark hoped he could turn that to his advantage.
He glanced back at Kharlacht and Caius. The half of the Anathgrimm warriors that remained with Ridmark were ready. On the other side of the defile waited Qhazulak with the other half of the warriors. Behind the Anathgrimm were Camorak and Accolon. Accolon had his sword and shield out, while Camorak has his club ready. The Magistri were forbidden from spilling blood with the sword, so in battle Camorak beat his enemies to death with a club. Ridmark wanted them both to stay out of the fight. Accolon, because he was the heir to the throne of Andomhaim. Camorak, because he was the only one who could heal the wounded.
But the fight might come to them anyway. Ridmark had been only a few years older than Accolon when he had killed the urdmordar Gothalinzur in combat…and he had been younger than Accolon when he had killed his first foe in battle. Boy or not, Accolon had already killed enemies in battle.
Ridmark pushed aside the thoughts.
The medvarth column moved into the defile, the narrow space forcing them to go only four abreast. Ridmark set an arrow to his bowstring in silence. This would have to be timed perfectly. Too soon and the medvarth could recover. Too late, and the medvarth would have moved up the hillside, giving them the high ground.
He waited, his heart thundering in his ears, watching as the medvarth climbed the road, gauging their numbers in his head…
The moment had come.
“Now!” roared Ridmark at the top his lungs, shooting to his feet.
He raised his bow and released, sending an arrow into one of the medvarth warriors. The shaft hit the creature in the shoulder, and it staggered back with a snarl, glaring up at him. As one every single medvarth looked up at him.
At the same time, the Anathgrimm surged to their feet, drew back their arms, and flung their javelins in a high arc. The soldiers of the Empire of the Romans upon Old Earth had used a similar tactic, throwing heavy iron javelins to disable the shields of their foes. Ridmark had never found out if the Traveler had copied the tactic and instructed the Anathgrimm in its use, or if it had originated during the long wars between the high elves and the dark elves and the urdmordar.
Whatever its origin, the tactic proved brutally effective.
A rain of two hundred heavy javelins fell into the medvarth warriors, and the tight-packed medvarth had no chance to dodge. Scores of the warriors perished as the iron javelins punched through their armor and into their torsos, the heavy bladed heads driving through armor and flesh. Scores more were wounded. The Anathgrimm flung another volley of javelins, sending a rain of iron into the medvarth. This time, the enemy was prepared and managed to get their shields up, though more medvarth were killed and wounded.
“Go!” shouted Ridmark, but the Anathgrimm knew their business. The warriors behind him split into two groups, one group heading towards the base of the hill, the others running towards the end of the defile further up the slope. The medvarth were trapped in the defile, and if all went well, the Anathgrimm could encircle them, driving the medvarth to enraged fury, causing the creatures to turn upon each other in their frenzy.
Or they would charge through the Anathgrimm and break free.
Ridmark dropped his bow, drawing his staff from over his shoulder. The length of black wood could do little permanent harm to a medvarth warrior, but it proved an excellent tool for stunning and hindering the medvarth, allowing the Anathgrimm to strike with their heavy swords and axes. Kharlacht and Caius ran close behind him, Kharlacht with his dark elven greatsword, Caius with his mace of dwarven steel.
They reached the road just as the first of the medvarth warriors ripped free, roaring in fury and raising their weapons.
One of the medvarth came at Ridmark, a javelin jutting from the side of its chest. The creature howled in rage and swung an axe in Ridmark’s direction, and he ducked, the heavy steel blade missing him by inches. He twisted, snapping the staff around to hit the medvarth’s left knee, and the creature stumbled. As it did, Ridmark swung his staff up, striking the shaft of the javelin. The impact drove the iron head deeper into the medvarth’s flesh, and the creature stumbled with a gurgling roar.
Kharlacht’s greatsword sank into the side of its neck, hot red blood spurting over the blue blade. Ridmark kept going as the medvarth collapsed to the ground, and engaged another medvarth warrior. This one was uninjured, and it cast aside its shield, a javelin jutting from the reinforced wood. The medvarth came at Ridmark with a yawning roar, a sword in its right hand, slashing with the razor-edged claws of its left hand. Ridmark retreated, whipping his staff back and forth to deflect the claws. The medvarth lumbered after him, its furious yellow eyes fixed upon him.
So the creature didn’t see Caius dart behind it and swing his mace. The weapon of dwarven steel hit the back of the medvarth’s right knee, and even over the roar of the battle, Ridmark heard the crack of shattering bone. The medvarth stumbled as its wounded leg collapsed, its howl of rage turning to a shriek of pain, and Ridmark brought his staff down upon the crown of the medvarth’s head with three rapid blows. Even the medvarth’s thick skull could not withstand that kind of battering, and the creature collapsed, blood leaking from its nostrils and jaws.
Ridmark looked around for more foes, but for a moment the area around him was clear. The Anathgrimm drove into the stunned and wounded medvarth, cutting them down one after another. Ridmark saw wounded and slain Anathgrimm upon the ground, but far more dead medvarth. They were winning the battle, step by bloody step…
Then a thunderclap rang out from the midst of the melee, and a dozen Anathgrimm hurtled through the air. They hit the ground with a clang of armor, and Ridmark looked for what had attacked them.
Two cogitaers glided from the midst of the fight, their gray robes swirling around them.
The creatures were another kindred that the Frostborn had enslaved and added to their armies. The medvarth were fierce, the locusari relentless, and the khaldjari diligent, but the cogitaers were powerful with magic. Each one stood barely five feet tall, their features thin and delicate, their skin a pale blue color, silvery hair stirring about their heads. They floated a few inches above the ground, and as Ridmark watched they began to gesture, silvery light glowing around their fingers and their eyes as they gathered power for another spell. The cogitaers looked frail, but their spells could decide the course of a battle.
And the battle hung in the balance.
Ridmark sprinted forward, and the silver-glowing eyes shifted to him. The cogitaers remained calm but increased the speed of their spell, the silver light brightening. At the last minute, Ridmark threw himself forward, hitting the ground, and the cogitaers flung their hands in his direction. He felt some invisible clip the side of his torso. It was like taking a glancing hit from a medvarth’s fist, and the impact of it flung Ridmark backward. He managed to stop himself and rolled to one knee, his chest and left shoulder aching, and the cogitaers turned to face him with a serene calm.
Blue fire swirled behind them, and Third stepped out of nothingness, dark elven steel flashing in her hands. Before the cogitaers could react, she struck the creature on Ridmark’s left, and the cogitaer’s calm dissolved into a shriek of pain as a sword blade erupted from its chest. The remaining cogitaer whirled, bringing its hands up for a spell, but Ridmark heaved himself from the ground, snatching his dwarv
en axe from his belt.
He buried the blade in the back of the cogitaer’s skull. The creature shuddered, then collapsed to the ground, its odd silvery blood seeping into the dirt.
“Thanks,” said Ridmark, wrenching his axe free.
“The Queen commanded that you were to be kept safe,” said Third, and she vanished again in a swirl of blue light.
Ridmark retrieved his staff and joined the fight.
###
A short time later they were victorious, the surviving medvarth fleeing into the pine trees and the hills.
“We fared better than I expected,” said Qhazulak. “Thirteen dead, and a score wounded, in exchange for one two and sixty-seven slain Anathgrimm.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark, looking over the dead. More Anathgrimm had been killed than he would have liked, but he had been in enough battles to know that they always carried a cost. Camorak moved among the wounded Anathgrimm, his face a tight grimace, white light flaring around his fingers as he drew upon the magic of the Well to heal the wounds. Camorak drank too much and talked too much, but he was one of the best healers Ridmark had ever met, and for all the lives that he saved, Ridmark would forgive the man a great deal. In fact, the only better healer he had ever met was the Keeper herself…
A jumble of guilt and regret went through his head at the memory of Calliande, and he pushed the thought out of his head.
“As soon as the Magistrius has finished healing the wounded, we should be gone from here,” said Caius. “This is the seventh group we’ve hit in the last month. The Frostborn are bound to react sooner rather than later.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark, glancing at the sky. The fighting had felt as if it had taken days, but barely an hour had passed since the Anathgrimm had set their ambush upon the slopes. He thought they had a good four or five hours yet until sundown, but the Anathgrimm had seen a great deal of hard fighting recently, and even they needed to rest from time to time. “Tomorrow at first light. We’ll camp in the ruins of Liavatum, help ourselves to the supplies of the medvarth, and the continue on our way tomorrow.”
Frostborn: The False King Page 2
