“I obey,” said Antenora, dismissing her wall of fire and moving to Gavin’s side.
“That was useful, that wall,” said Gavin. “Else the enemy would have encircled us.”
Again that almost-smile came over her face, and she looked away.
Gavin followed Constantine and Kadius as the men-at-arms filed from the gatehouse. He paused long enough to use Truthseeker’s magic to give healing to some of the severely wounded men. A Swordbearer could not use healing magic as effectively as a true Magistrius or a Magistria, but Gavin did what he could. He tarried as long as he dared, Antenora waiting next to him, and then followed the other men onto the ramparts.
Only to find that the battle was already over.
Hundreds of men-at-arms and knights marched through the gate, pouring into Castra Carhaine like water through the breach in a dam. Already Gavin saw crossbowmen in the colors of the Arbanii and the Durii hurrying along the ramparts, securing the siege engines and turning them to face the inner keeps. He looked for any remaining Carhaine men-at-arms. Surely they could not have all been killed?
“They’ve fallen back to the keep,” said Constantine, pointing with Brightherald. A mob of Carhaine men-at-arms had withdrawn to the steps of the nearest of the three keeps, standing before the doors.
“They’ll dig in there, sir knight,” said Kadius.
“No matter,” said Constantine. “Surely the Constable must see that his position is hopeless. If not, we’ll burn them out.” He shrugged. “Taking Castra Carhaine with two of three keeps intact is good enough for one night’s work.” He turned back to Kadius. “We’ll join the others, and prepare to storm the…”
“Hear me!”
The voice of Calliande, Keeper of Andomhaim, rang over the courtyard like a thunderclap.
Gavin and the others hurried down the stairs, joining the other Swordbearers and the Rhaluuskan orcs as they formed up to face the mob of Carhaine soldiers. Gavin saw the fear on the faces of the enemy, the determination to fight to the bitter end. He wondered how many of them were Enlightened, how many of them had sold their souls to the shadow of Incariel, and how many of them were here simply because they had no choice.
“Claudius Agrell, Constable of Castra Carhaine, hear me!” said Calliande, the spell throwing her voice over the courtyard.
Gavin spotted Calliande atop her horse, flanked by Master Marhand and Crowlacht. Sometimes Gavin thought that Calliande was two people in the same body. There was Calliande, the kind, gentle healer who often smiled. Then there was the Keeper of Andomhaim, stern and implacable and terrible. Ever since Dun Calpurnia and the murder of Uthanaric Pendragon, Gavin had seen less of Calliande and more of the Keeper.
She brought her horse to a halt, her green cloak stirring in the wind. She wore the same clothes she usually did, a leather jerkin and trousers and dusty boots, though of late at the insistence of the Prince and the Duxi she had started wearing a chain hauberk beneath the jerkin. Calliande was a beautiful woman, with long blond hair and clear blue eyes in a strong face, and right now that beauty somehow made her seem sterner as the staff of the Keeper flickered with white fire in her right hand.
A knight wearing a surcoat with Carhaine colors stepped from the crowd of men-at-arms. He was a young knight, no more than thirty, with long black hair and a trimmed mustache. Something in his sneering arrogance reminded Gavin of Paul Tallmane and Caradog Lordac, two other knights in Tarrabus Carhaine’s service…and both men had been Enlightened.
“You have words for me, woman?” shouted the knight. “Then speak them!”
“There is no further need for bloodshed, Sir Claudius,” said Calliande. “The castra has fallen. Tell your men to lay down their arms and they can be spared.”
“And who are you to treat with me?” demanded Claudius.
“I am the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Calliande, “representing the Prince Regent and the lawful heir to the Pendragon Crown, Excalibur, and the High Kingship of Andomhaim. If that is not enough for you, your gates are broken, and our army has taken your castra.”
“Tarrabus Carhaine is the true High King of Andomhaim!” said Claudius. “And you have no authority, woman. You are simply a witch with a few tricks, and you shall see the power of the Enlightened for yourself!”
“Then show me,” said Calliande, her voice as cold as the Frostborn.
Claudius stepped forward, shadows erupting from his skin as he called upon the shadow of Incariel. As he did, he changed as the man-at-arms Gavin had fought had changed, only this time the transformation was complete. Sir Claudius became a hulking, gray-scaled monster, fangs jutting from his lips, claws bursting from his fingers, and he charged with inhuman speed, raising a greatsword in his right hand.
Calliande was faster.
White fire lanced from her staff and struck Claudius, and the Enlightened knight fell back with a shocked scream. Perhaps Tarrabus had told him the shadow of Incariel could overcome the Keeper, and perhaps Claudius had been foolish enough to believe it, but Calliande proved it wrong now. The white fire ripped into him, burning into his flesh, and Claudius fell to his knees.
He got to his feet, but not before Marhand and a half-dozen other Swordbearers surrounded him and made an end of it.
Marhand stepped over Claudius’s twisted corpse, lifting his soulblade.
“Well?” he said.
The remaining Carhaine men-at-arms threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Castra Carhaine was theirs.
###
“There are not that many wounded, my lady Keeper,” said old Kurastus. The Master of the Magistri looked the part of the common image of the Magistri, old and gray-bearded and scholarly. Fortunately, he lacked the arrogance that infected so many of the Magistri, which was likely why he had not been corrupted by the Enlightened. “We can tend to them. You have earned some rest.”
“Have I?” said Calliande.
Kurastus blinked at her.
“Thank you,” said Calliande. In truth, she did want to sleep. There was so much work to be done. With Castra Carhaine taken and Caerdracon in the hands of the loyalists, Prince Arandar would have to decide upon his next move, plan the campaign to take the war to Tarrabus and lift the siege of Tarlion. Or maybe it would be better to go to the aid of the Anathgrimm, to send them help before the Frostborn overran the Northerland and invaded Caerdracon…
She shook her head. The dark thoughts chased each other around her head, but she could do nothing about them now. Right now, she needed to sleep.
“Send some Magistri to search the castra,” said Calliande. “Likely there is a hidden temple of the Enlightened here. We should root it out.”
“It shall be done,” said Kurastus.
Calliande left the tent of the wounded. Gavin and Antenora awaited her outside, Gavin shading his eyes as he watched the sun rise over the River Moradel to the east. It struck her how much older he seemed, how much steadier. Someday, she thought, he would be remembered as Swordbearer of legend.
If they won the war.
“You should get some rest,” said Calliande.
Gavin yawned. “Probably.”
“I’m serious,” said Calliande as she headed towards her own tent. “This is as safe as we are likely to be for some time.”
“I shall remain on guard, Keeper,” rasped Antenora.
“Thank you,” said Calliande. She stopped in front of her tent. “Thank you both. We could not have taken Castra Carhaine without your help.”
Gavin shrugged. “It was your plan. Just like at the Iron Tower.” He laughed a little. “Though I think this went better than the Iron Tower. There wasn’t the spirit of a half-mad dark elven lord to possess Sir Claudius.”
“Indeed,” said Calliande. “Prince Arandar has called for a council of war tomorrow in the great hall of Castra Carhaine. We will need to be there.”
“I shall,” said Gavin. He nodded. “Good night. Or good morning by now, I suppose.”
Gavin walk
ed towards his own tent a short distance away, and Calliande watched him go. For all his bravery, Gavin was still a young man. Calliande was older than he was, far older if she counted the time spent in sleep below the Tower of Vigilance, and Antenora was older by far. Yet Antenora seemed…younger, somehow, when she was with Gavin.
“I have seen many wars, Keeper,” said Antenora.
“I know,” said Calliande.
“I do not believe we can win this one,” said Antenora.
“Why not?” said Calliande.
“The Frostborn need only wait,” said Antenora. “The Anathgrimm will delay them, but they can bring more and more strength through their world gate while our forces bleed themselves. Even if we are successful and place Prince Arandar upon the throne, Andomhaim will have been weakened. The Frostborn could sweep us aside, or they could break through the Anathgrimm and destroy us first.”
Calliande said nothing for a moment.
“You are right,” said Calliande.
“Forgive me if I have spoken too harshly,” said Antenora.
“No,” said Calliande. “It is nothing I have not said to myself a thousand times.” She sighed. “We will not win this war.”
They stood in silence for a while.
“Not without help,” said Calliande at last.
“Help?” said Antenora. “You know of allies?”
“I do,” said Calliande. “I thought they would have aided us by now, but…come with me to the council tomorrow. You shall learn more. Perhaps it is time to take a gamble.” She yawned. “And you are right. I must rest.”
“I shall stand guard,” said Antenora.
“Thank you,” said Calliande, and she slipped into the tent. It held only a bedroll and a chest for her clothes, and Calliande pulled off her cloak, jerkin, chain mail hauberk, and belt, collapsing onto her blanket with a sigh. She was utterly exhausted, and sleep beckoned, but there was one more thing she had to do first.
Something she did every night before she slept. It had become a ritual, a source of comfort in a world that offered little of it.
She grasped the handle of the dagger sheathed at her belt, closed her eyes, and cast a spell.
And as she had every night for the last year, she felt a faint tugging from the weapon, a thread that connected the blade to the man who had given it to her a year and a half past.
Ridmark Arban was still alive. Calliande said a brief prayer of thanks.
She missed him so much that it felt like a blade in her flesh.
Calliande lay against her bedroll and closed her eyes. She might never see Ridmark again.
But it comforted her to know that he was still alive.
Chapter 3: Councils of War
“You shall have to prepare yourself for what is coming,” said Morigna, “and I do not think you are ready, not yet.”
Calliande turned, blinking in surprise.
She stood on the rocky shore of a vast lake, its surface rippling in a cool wind, a wall of white mist rising from the waters. Calliande was certain, utterly certain, that she had stood upon this shore before, but she could not remember when.
For the moment, the dead woman standing next to her commanded all her attention.
Morigna looked just as she had on the day she had died, lean and fit and pale with long black hair and black eyes like polished stone. She wore leather and wool, her tattered cloak of green and brown strips hanging from her shoulders, her sigil-carved staff in her right hand.
“You’re dead,” said Calliande.
“Yes,” said Morigna. “As ever, your powers of observation astound me. Truly, one suspects the legend of the Keeper is by no means overstated.”
A familiar irritation went through Calliande. She missed Morigna, but by God, that woman had possessed a sharp tongue.
“Then this is a dream,” said Calliande.
“Well, yes, obviously,” said Morigna. “Has recovering your powers rendered you unable to state anything except the obvious?”
“Then why am I dreaming about you?” said Calliande.
Morigna shrugged. “Maybe it is your guilt over my death. After all, you were in love with Ridmark, and he was in love with me, and my death…”
“No!” said Calliande at once. “I would have saved you if I could.” She shook her head. “If I had seen the truth, if I had realized that Imaria would become the new Shadowbearer…your death was my fault. I failed you. I should have…”
Her voice trailed off.
“You’re laughing at me?” said Calliande, appalled.
“You have spent a great deal of time around Ridmark,” said Morigna. “Truly, you have learned his ability to blame himself for everything.”
Calliande let out an exasperated sigh. “Whether you are my own mind or Morigna’s spirit, truly you are as irritating as I remember.”
“Death changes some things,” said Morigna, “but not others. One of the things that change is the perception of time. So I see some of what lies before you. You must be ready.”
“Ready for what?” said Calliande.
“To save Ridmark from himself,” said Morigna.
Calliande frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know him as well as I do,” said Morigna. “To save us all, he will try to destroy himself.”
Calliande woke up with a gasp, her head pounding with a throbbing ache, the tent silent and dark around her.
###
The next morning Calliande walked into the great hall of Castra Carhaine, Gavin and Antenora following her.
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 from 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, like 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.
“Ostentatious,” said Antenora.
Calliande could just imagine what Morigna would have said about the great hall. That, in turn, made her think of the strange dream, and she tried to put it out of her mind.
A long wooden table ran the length of the great hall, and the lords and knights loyal to Arandar had gathered there. Arandar rose from the head of the table as she approached. He still wore his armor, the soulblade Heartwarden at his side.
“My lady Keeper, welcome,” said Arandar. “Please, join us.”
“Aye,” said Prince Cadwall, smiling as he lifted a cup of wine. “We shall drink from Tarrabus’s wine cellars and eat from Tarrabus’s larders. After all the pain he caused us, I find it satisfying. A small and petty revenge, to be sure, but a nonetheless enjoyable one.”
“Aye!” said Sir Tagrimn Volarus, a scowling old knight sworn to Dux Gareth Licinius. “I plan to take every Carhaine banner I can find and use them as saddle blankets.” He spat upon the marble floor. “I would think of other things to do with them, but such words are not fit for the ears of a noble lady.”
Calliande smiled. “My father was a fisherman, Sir Tagrimn, and after seeing so many battlefields, I doubt you could say anything that could shock me.”
“If anyone could do it,” said Dux Gareth with a faint smile, “Sir Tagrimn could do it.” He had aged in the last year, the lines deeper in his craggy face, his hair turning more white than gray. Imaria’s betrayal had hit him hard, and Calliande wondered if there was anything left inside the old man but grief and anger. No – there remained his duty. Gareth Licinius would never yield to the enemy, not while he had an ounce of strength left.
Perhaps Ridmark had learned that from him.
Or perhaps he had inherited it from his father.
“This w
as a great victory,” said Dux Leogrance Arban. He did not look very much like his youngest son with his patrician features, but he had Ridmark’s cold blue eyes. “Castra Carhaine was one of the great fortresses of the realm.”
“Aye,” said King Ulakhur of Rhaluusk, “but my warrior Crowlacht told me of how the Iron Tower fell. It seems, Keeper, that the stratagem worked here as well, to the pain of the murdering dog Tarrabus.”
“A great victory,” said Leogrance. “Yet it was a battle, not the war. Caerdracon is ours, but Tarrabus still besieges Tarlion, with all the strength of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras beneath his banner, to say nothing of the dvargirish mercenaries he has hired. We must decide how to proceed.”
“That is why I have called you here, my lords,” said Arandar. “Castra Carhaine is ours, but it must be a stepping stone on the path to Tarrabus and a reunified Andomhaim.”
“Forgive me, my lord Prince,” said Calliande, “but I fear there is another matter the lords of Andomhaim must first address.”
“By all means,” said Arandar. “If anyone has earned the right to speak, it is you. If not for your efforts, none of us would be here.”
A flash of guilt went through Calliande. Her efforts had saved their lives, but if she had been wiser, if she had been better prepared, then the Frostborn would never have returned.
“Tarrabus is a deadly foe,” said Calliande, keeping the regret from her face and voice, “but we face a deadlier foe by far in the Frostborn.”
“Aye,” said Leogrance, “but the Anathgrimm have kept them at bay so far.”
“The valor of the Anathgrimm is great, but they cannot stand against the Frostborn forever,” said Calliande.
“They have so far,” said Gareth.
“Most of us fought against the Anathgrimm during High King Uthanaric’s campaign against the Traveler’s raids,” said Sir Tagrimn, gesturing with a goblet of wine. “I never thought I’d say this, but those spiny devils make fierce warriors, and I’m glad they’re on our side, along with that otherworldly Queen of theirs.”
Frostborn: The False King Page 5
