Frostborn: The False King

by Jonathan Moeller

  Gavin had to get her away, no matter what the cost.

  He started to turn, and Antenora staggered, letting out a hissing breath.

  The wall of fire flickered, and the dvargir began walking through it, shields extended. Symbols of shadow twisted and crawled across the front of their black shields, protecting them from the fire. More and more dvargir warriors passed the flames, and Antenora hissed again. The wall of fire winked out, and she started to gather power for another spell, a ball of flame spinning over the end of her staff.

  One of the dvargir warriors carried a set of chains connecting to loops of black metal. It was a metal collar, the chains joining it to ankle and wrist cuffs, and Truthseeker snarled in response to the dark magic of the thing. They were going to put that on Calliande, binding her for the journey back to Tarlion and Tarrabus Carhaine.

  They would do it over Gavin’s dead body!

  Which might not be difficult to accomplish.

  Antenora gestured, and a ball of fire leaped from her staff end to slam into the dvargir. She hadn’t been able to gather much power, but the sphere nonetheless exploded in a bloom of fire a half-dozen yards across. The dvargir staggered, raising their shields to ward off the flames, and in that moment of hesitation Gavin attacked, the hot air from the fireball washing over him.

  He crashed into the line of the dvargir, Truthseeker hammering down, and landed a hit on the nearest warrior. The soulblade crunched through the black helmet, and the dvargir’s void-filled eyes widened. Gavin ripped Truthseeker free and struck again, the soulblade sinking into another warrior’s neck. The dvargir went down, and Gavin stepped back.

  By then the dvargir had recovered, and they were ready for him.

  Gavin had battled dvargir before, and they always fought carefully, advancing in an orderly, disciplined formation, each warrior covering the other. Truthseeker made Gavin stronger and faster than the dvargir, but their heavy armor and shields could withstand all but the heaviest blows. He managed to cut down another dvargir warrior, but they continued their steady advance. Antenora flung burst after burst of fire, but the dvargir raised their shields, absorbing the spell upon the shadow sigils.

  Caradog had prepared his ambush well.

  Soon Gavin had to focus his whole strength upon his defense, working his shield and his soulblade to block the steady attacks of his enemies. A blow slipped past to strike his shoulder, and the flat of a sword clipped the top of his head as he ducked under the swing. He stumbled, and barely got his shield up to deflect another strike.

  He was almost out of room to maneuver.

  Odd that he had survived Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar and Dun Calpurnia only to die on a road in the wilds of the Northerland.

  Blue fire swirled behind the line of the dvargir and surprise shot through Gavin. That blue fire…was Mara coming?

  A woman stepped out of the fire, gaunt and clad in dark armor, black hair flying around her head as she attacked with twin swords of dark elven steel. She cut down two dvargir and spun, retreating from their surprised counterattacks, and Gavin broke free from the encirclement, attack with vigor.

  The strange woman’s cold, dead black eyes met his.

  “Duck!” she shouted and then vanished in a swirl of blue fire.

  Gavin glanced over his shoulder and saw a storm of javelins flying through the air.

  He ducked, raising his shield over his head, and one of the javelins rebounded from the dwarven steel with a tremendous clang. The rest crashed into the dvargir, killing several and wounding more.

  “What?” shouted Caradog.

  Gavin straightened up, his shoulder and his leg throbbing, and risked a glance over his shoulder.

  A mass of armored warriors charged towards them, the green skin of orcish faces half-concealed behind masks of black bone.

  The Anathgrimm had found them.

  Caradog Lordac snarled and drew his sword, shadows wreathing the blade.

  ###

  Ridmark sprinted forward, staff in his hand.

  The band of men-at-arms in the colors of Sebastian Aurelius lay prone upon the road, their horses walking back and forth in distress. Ridmark did not think the gaseous weapon of the dvargir had killed the men-at-arms, only stunned them. The white fire flared as Gavin battled the dvargir, retreating beneath their attack, and Antenora’s staff blazed with flames. Antenora had not changed in the last year, but Gavin looked older, a little taller, his face harder.

  Ridmark couldn’t see Calliande anywhere. The mist must have stunned her. A wave of fear went through him, followed by a torrent of furious rage. What the hell had she been thinking to come here? Didn’t she know it was dangerous? Didn’t she remember what happened to women who got too close to him?

  His anger focused upon the dvargir. Wallowing in emotion was useless…but here was a worthy target for his rage.

  Qhazulak bellowed a command, and the Anathgrimm flung another volley of javelins as they charged, sending a rain of sharpened iron at the dvargir. Again the lines of the dvargir reeled under the impact, and Gavin recovered his balance, going back on the attack as Truthseeker shone like a torch.

  “The exile!”

  A blond-bearded man in the colors of the Carhainii strode towards Ridmark, shadows wreathing his sword and seeming to flow in the veins beneath his face. It was Caradog Lordac, a household knight of Tarrabus Carhaine and one of the traitorous Dux’s loyal henchmen. Ridmark had hoped that Caradog had fallen in the fighting at Dun Calpurnia…but if he had not, then Ridmark could rectify that error.

  “Truly, the shadow of Incariel favors the bold,” said Caradog, lifting his sword. The shadows made it look like a rip in the wall of the world, a gash into bottomless nothingness. “Today I shall take the Keeper back in chains to the true High King, and lay the head of the Gray Knight as his feet as well.”

  “No,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff. “Today is the day you will die.”

  He said it without rancor, without threat, without challenge. That made Caradog flinch a little, but the knight’s sneer soon returned.

  “You are deluded about so many things, Ridmark Arban,” said Caradog. “What is one more delusion before you die?”

  As the Anathgrimm crashed into the dvargir, swords rising and falling, Caradog sprinted towards Ridmark with enhanced speed, shadows trailing from his blade. Ridmark wasn’t sure he could take Caradog alone, but the Anathgrimm and Gavin and the others were engaged against the dvargir.

  Ridmark’s anger reasserted itself.

  He had told Jager he wanted a second chance to kill some people…and his chance had come.

  Ridmark ran to meet Caradog. The Enlightened thrust his sword, and a stream of shadows erupted from the blade, coiling towards Ridmark like a nest of enraged serpents. Ridmark swept the staff before him, and as he did, symbols of white light appeared on its length. The high elven archmage Ardrhythain had carried the staff for centuries, altering its nature so it could wound creatures of dark magic and resist the shadow of Incariel. The torrent of shadows splintered as they brushed the gentle glow of the symbols and Ridmark charged unhindered. Surprise went over Caradog’s face for a moment, and then the rage returned.

  Sword met staff with a clack of metal on wood, and Ridmark blocked a dozen blows in as many heartbeats. Caradog attacked in a storm of steel and shadows, driving Ridmark back with every step. The Enlightened knight was fast and strong, and veins of shadow bulged and writhed beneath his skin. It took all of Ridmark’s skill and strength to stay ahead of the Caradog’s furious attacks. Caradog should have killed Ridmark within the first moment of the combat.

  Yet he could not.

  Ridmark had other advantages. His staff had a longer reach than Caradog’s sword, and he could shift from one-handed to two-handed at will, altering the length and reach of his swings in response to Caradog’s blows. Soon he had taken the initiative, forcing Caradog back. Caradog snarled and cursed, but soon fell silent, his full attention turned to his defense. Ridma
rk did not let up, hammering swing after swing as Caradog retreated. Fury filled Ridmark, but he did not let it drive him. The Enlightened had ripped apart Andomhaim and brought back the Frostborn. They deserved to die for what they had done.

  Ridmark couldn’t kill all the Enlightened of Incariel…but Caradog Lordac was within reach.

  Caradog went on the attack, and Ridmark fell back. Like many noblemen, Caradog had never trained properly on how to fight a man armed with a staff. Ridmark had once possessed the same weakness until his father’s sword masters had beaten the ignorance out of him as a boy, and ever since the death of Mhalek, the staff had been his primary weapon.

  He knew was he was doing, and he goaded Caradog into an attack.

  As the knight raised his blade, Ridmark sidestepped, feinted, and whipped his staff around, reversing the direction of its swing. The length of black wood slammed into the back of Caradog’s right knee, and Ridmark heard the crack of bone, followed by Caradog’s scream of pain. The knight stumbled as his damaged leg started to fold, and Ridmark dodged Caradog’s desperate thrust, drew back his staff and swung with all his strength.

  This time, his staff smashed into the back of Caradog’s head. Once more he heard a loud crack, and Caradog’s eyes rolled up as he collapsed to the ground. The blow would have killed a normal man, but Ridmark suspected the shadow of Incariel was already healing Caradog’s wounds.

  Ridmark would fix that soon enough.

  Yet he hesitated just for a moment. Mercy didn’t stay his hand, but necessity. Tarrabus and all his vassals and allies were besieging Tarlion…so what the devil was Caradog doing here with a band of dvargir?

  Best to figure.

  Ridmark drew the dagger from his belt. It was a dagger of dwarven steel, inscribed with the glyphs of the stonescribes. The Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave of Coldinium had given the weapon to Morigna, and Ridmark had carried it since her death.

  Caradog groaned, trying to move. Ridmark kicked away his sword, put Caradog’s left hand atop his right, and then stabbed.

  The dwarven dagger sheared through flesh, pinning both of Caradog’s hands against the earth. Caradog’s eyes popped open wide, and he screamed long and loud.

  “Stay here,” said Ridmark, and he gave Caradog another blow across the head with the staff. “We’ll talk later.”

  He turned to aid the Anathgrimm but found that the fight was already over. The dvargir had been expecting an ambush, not a battle, and the warriors dvargir fled back into the hills.

  As he looked, a green cloak caught his eye.

  Calliande lay motionless upon the ground as the men-at-arms stirred, shaking off the effects of the sleeping mist.

  She wasn’t moving.

  Fear and the anger twisted together in Ridmark, and he hurried towards her.

  ###

  Gavin lowered Truthseeker with a long breath, his shoulders and knees aching from the fight.

  The battle had felt as if it had taken hours, but he knew it had been a matter of moments. It was always that way. The fighting seemed to stretch for an eternity, but once it was over, very little time had passed. That, and all his exhaustion and wounds seemed to pile upon him at once, and he wanted to lie down and catch his breath and wait for the throbbing in his shoulder and leg to subside.

  He forced aside the exhaustion and turned to Calliande.

  She still lay unconscious upon the ground, the crossbow bolt jutting from her stomach. Her eyes were closed, and he did not like the waxy sheen her skin had taken.

  “Gavin Swordbearer,” rasped Antenora. “You must heal her. Quickly!”

  Gavin looked at Calliande. He had healed a variety of wounds with Truthseeker’s power, but never one this severe. To judge from the grease upon the bolt, it had been poisoned, which was likely why Calliande had fallen unconscious.

  “The bolt is envenomed,” said Gavin. “I’ll have to heal the poison in her blood, and we’ll also have to pull out the bolt so it doesn’t get sealed up in her flesh. I don’t…I don’t think I can heal her fast enough for that, Antenora. We need a proper Magistrius, I…”

  Antenora started to answer, and then she turned her head.

  Ridmark Arban strode towards them.

  Gavin had not seen the Gray Knight for nearly a year, but he had changed little in that time. He still wore his gray high elven cloak and the blue dark elven armor they had taken from Urd Morlemoch’s armory, along with the same worn leather jerkin and trousers and boots. His black hair was close-cropped, and the lines of the brand of a broken sword still marred the left side of his face.

  He hadn’t changed, yet something about him seemed different. He had always been a hard man, but he seemed harder now. His eyes blazed with rage, and Gavin almost flinched as the older man looked at him.

  “God and the saints,” said Gavin. “You still have good timing.”

  Ridmark smiled a little. “It’s good to see you, Sir Gavin.” The smile faded as he looked at Calliande. “She’s hurt. A dvargirish bolt…it must have been poisoned.”

  “We must heal it,” said Antenora. “At once!” Her face twisted with anguish. “She cannot die, Gray Knight.”

  “I can’t heal it fast enough,” said Gavin. “If I pull out that bolt, it will rip out half of her guts. We…”

  “I know,” said Ridmark. “Camorak!”

  Gavin remembered the drunken, sour-tempered Magistrius from Dun Licinia. Camorak hurried towards them, his white coat long ago turned to mud-spattered gray, a club stained with dvargir blood in his right hand.

  “They’re running,” said Camorak. “The dvargir never did like a fair fight when they could get away with an ambush…God!” His bloodshot eyes went wide when he saw Calliande. “How…”

  “Can you heal it?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Camorak, kneeling next to her as he flexed his fingers, white fire glowing around his fingers. “Ah, there’s poison in her blood. This is really going to hurt. God and the apostles, I wish I had a drink or five. One of you will have to pull the bolt out.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Ridmark. He handed his staff to Gavin, who took it on impulse.

  “We’ll have to be quick,” said Camorak, taking a deep breath. “On three. One, two…three!”

  Ridmark yanked the quarrel out of Calliande’s stomach.

  It made a mess. The barbs on the quarrel made the wound twice as large, and a shudder of fear went through Gavin. He had seen wounds like that, but he had never thought to see a wound that severe on Calliande. He loved her the way the common soldiers had once loved the High King Uthanaric, and she had always seemed so strong and determined. Gavin sometimes forgot that she was as mortal as he was.

  Camorak growled and thrust his hands against her wound, the white fire blazing. His teeth gritted, and the cords on his neck stood out. To heal a wound, a Magistrius had to take the pain of the wound into himself, and some of the Magistri could not manage it. Camorak could, though. Save for Calliande herself, he was the best healer that Gavin had ever seen.

  The white glow faded, and Camorak withdrew his hands with a wheezing grunt. Gavin looked at the ragged hole in Calliande’s jerkin and chain mail and saw that the skin beneath it was smooth and unmarked.

  “God,” said Camorak. “That was a bad one. God and the saints. I hate crossbows. I would give all of Andomhaim for a jug of good Durandis brandy!”

  “You earned it,” said Ridmark. “Thank you, Camorak.”

  “Eh,” said Camorak, jerking back to his feet. “This and soldiering were the only things I was ever good at. Suppose I had better see to the rest of the wounded.”

  “Magistrius,” said Antenora, her raspy voice taut. “Thank you. I failed to protect her. I would have failed in my task, if not for you.”

  Camorak shrugged. “We’d all be dead, if not for the Keeper. I do what I can. But it was the Gray Knight’s idea to come looking for you.”

  He turned and headed towards the Anathgrimm, and Calliande opened her eyes, drawi
ng in a long breath.

  ###

  Calliande had a tremendous headache.

  Come to think of it, every inch of her body ached.

  Then she remembered the crossbow bolt plunging into her, the dvargir swarming out of the hills as Caradog’s boasting filled her ears, and her eyes shot open, and she sat up as she summoned power for a spell…

  “Careful, Keeper,” said Antenora. Her cold hands closed around Calliande’s shoulders. “You were wounded. The Magistrius Camorak healed you and neutralized the poisoned, but you will be weak for some time yet.”

  “Camorak?” said Calliande, blinking. No, that wasn’t right. Camorak was in Nightmane Forest with Ridmark. She had sent him there to watch over the Gray Knight, to keep him safe.

  She looked up and saw Ridmark staring down at her, and a jolt of emotion went through her.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “How…”

  A strange flicker went over his face. Anger? Guilt? Relief? All of them at once?

  “How do you feel?” he said. His voice had not changed, but it sounded harder than she remembered.

  “I…better than I should,” said Calliande. “You arrived just in time.” She shook her head, annoyed with herself. “We blundered right into his trap.”

  “Then it was a trap?” said Ridmark. “They were here for you?”

  “Aye,” said Calliande. “Caradog said so.”

  Ridmark shook his head. “I thought the Frostborn would come for you. Not Tarrabus’s dogs. What were you thinking?”

  She flinched a little from the anger in his voice. “I…”

  “Only thirty men?” said Ridmark. “You knew the Frostborn and Tarrabus would do whatever they could to kill you, and you’re trying to creep across the Northerland with only thirty men? Why? If they kill you, the war is lost, and yet you did it anyway!”

  “It was necessary,” said Calliande, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. “I…”