Calliande must have guessed his thoughts. “They will be under my protection. The Magistri oversee magic in Andomhaim, but the Keeper’s authority exceeds theirs.”
“Let us hope that Swordbearer and Magistrius deign to agree with you,” said Morigna.
Calliande gave Morigna a hard smile. “I can be very persuasive when I wish.”
“Then let us persuade the Mhorites to be elsewhere,” said Ridmark.
He started forward at a run, Gavin, Arandar, Caius, and Kharlacht following him. Truthseeker and Heartwarden began to glimmer with white fire as they responded to the dark magic wielded by the Mhorite shamans. Neither the men-at-arms nor the Mhorites noticed their approach.
Then Ridmark and the others struck the outer edge of the Mhorite warriors.
A warrior whirled to face Ridmark, armored in chain mail, a shield upon his left arm and a broadsword in his right hand. His face had been tattooed and scarred with the stylized skull of Mhor, making his features fierce and grim. The Mhorite started to attack, bellowing out the name of Mhor, and Ridmark struck first. His staff struck a glancing blow against the Mhorite’s right knee. The warrior stumbled, and Ridmark had his opening. He drove the side of the staff into the Mhorite’s neck with crushing force, and the warrior collapsed with the sound of cracking bone. A dozen more Mhorites turned to face him, raising their weapons.
By then, the others had caught up to him.
Gavin and Arandar crashed into the warriors, their soulblades flashing with white fire. One of the Mhorites made the mistake of charging Gavin with his shield lowered, hoping to strike down the young Swordbearer. Gavin reacted faster than the Mhorite expected, and Truthseeker plunged into the orc’s chest. Gavin ripped the blade free, catching the blow of an axe upon his dwarven shield. Arandar slammed his shield into a Mhorite’s face, staggering the warrior, and finished him off with a chop from Heartwarden. Caius broke a Mhorite’s knee with a heavy swing of his mace, and Kharlacht took off the stunned Mhorite’s head without missing a beat.
Another Mhorite came at Ridmark, wielding an axe with broad strokes. He dodged the first swing, jumped away from the second, and brought his staff around in an overhead strike. He caught the axe just behind the head, driving the weapon towards the ground, and the Mhorite stumbled. Ridmark spun the staff, catching the Mhorite in the face, and then swung it again, breaking the warrior’s neck.
He drove on, attacking and blocking and striking, his companions following. A ripple went through the Mhorite warriors, and the men-at-arms shouted, heartened by the arrival of allies.
“The Gray Knight!” roared one of the Mhorites. “It is him! Kill him! Kill him and we shall have the favor of the Chosen of Mhor. Kill him now!”
More warriors rushed towards him, and the shamans began casting new spells.
###
The blood sorcery of the Mhorite shamans blazed before Calliande’s Sight, tainted and dark and corrupted. The shamans’ spells drew their power from blood, augmented and fueled with dark magical force. Such magic could kill and reave, could rip the life from innocent victims and use that death to make itself stronger.
But she had magic to oppose it.
Both Mhorite shamans cast spells at Ridmark, spells of fire and blood to tear his life away. Calliande cast her own spell, working a ward around him. White light shone around Ridmark and the others, and the spells of the shamans shattered against the light.
That got their attention.
Both Mhorite shamans looked at her, and even across the battlefield she felt the weight of their gaze. The shamans began casting spells, calling more bloody fire into existence around their hands.
“I can strike at them, Keeper,” said Antenora. “They are warded, but their wards would not last long against my fire.”
“No,” said Calliande. “Not yet. I can deal with them.”
The Mhorite shamans struck again, sending bursts of bloody fire at her. Calliande swept her staff before her, white fire blazing up its length. The Mhorites’ spells struck her and rebounded, quenched by the fury of the Keeper’s mantle. The power of the Keeper had withstood the wrath of Rhogrimnalazur and the spells of Shadowbearer.
The attacks of the Mhorite shamans, by contrast, were pinpricks.
Calliande pointed the staff of the Keeper at the shamans and worked a spell. She knew elemental magic of her own, learned from the previous Keeper. She called fire as Antenora would have done, but sent it through the mantle of the Keeper. Golden-white fire slashed from the staff in a tight shaft, striking both of the shamans. The fire ripped through their wards and into their flesh, killing them both in an instant. Calliande disliked killing with magic, but if it saved innocent lives, she could do it.
A shout went up from the men-at-arms, and they pushed into the Mhorites, driving them back.
The battle was over a few moments later.
###
“Hold!” shouted the Swordbearer atop the horse, his voice ringing over the battlefield. “Hold, and do not pursue! They will ambush us otherwise.”
Ridmark looked up at the Swordbearer. The knight had removed his helm, revealing an olive-skinned face, green eyes, and curly black hair. He was about twenty-five years old, and held his soulblade Brightherald with the loose grip of the experienced swordsman. Ridmark had known him for years. His name was Sir Constantine Licinius, the son of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland.
He was also Aelia’s brother.
“Hold!” said Constantine again, and his men obeyed, abandoning their pursuit of the fleeing Mhorites to return to the Swordbearer’s side. Ridmark lowered his staff, looking around as his companions joined them.
“Anyone wounded?” said Ridmark.
“No one,” said Kharlacht. “The Mhorites lost their appetite for fighting once their shamans fell.”
“There are other wounded, though,” said Calliande. “The men-at-arms. I will look to them.”
Before Ridmark could say anything, she hurried off to aid the wounded men. Antenora followed after her, her cowl pulled low.
“Sir Constantine!” called Ridmark, walking closer to the horse.
Constantine turned, frowning, and then his eyes widened in surprise.
“Ridmark Arban?” he said, swinging down from his saddle. “God and the apostles. It seems that Camorak was right.”
“Then he did give you Calliande’s message?” said Ridmark.
“He did,” said Constantine. “Camorak!”
One of the most ragged looking Magistri that Ridmark had ever seen stepped around the men-at-arms. His white robe was threadbare and dirty, and he wore it like a long coat over his trousers, heavy boots, and chain mail armor. The Magistri were forbidden from spilling blood with the sword, so the Magistrius wore a heavy wooden cudgel tucked in his belt. He looked about thirty-five, and his face was gaunt, his cheeks unshaven, and he had the bloodshot gray eyes and red nose of a frequent drinker.
“Suppose we’ve got wounds to heal,” said the Magistrius, his voice rusty and tired. He looked at Ridmark. “Who the hell is this?”
“Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark.
The Magistrius grunted. “So you’re the one who’s been causing all the trouble? Name’s Camorak.” He made a vague gesture. “I’ve got work to do. Sir Constantine will tell you what to do. He’s good at that.”
Camorak strode off, muttering to himself.
“A peculiar man,” said Constantine, “but reliable in a fight, and one of the best healers I have seen. A bit overly fond of drink, though.” He looked over Ridmark’s companions. “I see that Mhalekite kept faith with you.”
“I am no Mhalekite,” said Kharlacht. “Bonds of blood and obligation compelled me to follow Qazarl, not bonds of faith.”
“Brother Caius,” said Constantine, “I hope to hear one of your sermons again.”
“It would be my privilege, sir knight,” said Caius.
“Sir Arandar,” said Constantine. “It is good to see you again, though I did not expect to
see you with Ridmark Arban. I had heard of your son’s…difficultly…”
“The lies of Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Arandar.
Constantine frowned. “I once would have thought these stories of the so-called ‘Enlightened’ to be ridiculous, but Corbanic Lamorus has been telling them to anyone who would listen.”
“Has he?” said Ridmark. He was not surprised that the doughty Comes of Coldinium would keep his word. “Good man.”
“You have found other companions since you left Dun Licinia,” said Constantine. “Two Swordbearers? You are not known to me, sir.”
“This is Gavin of Aranaeus,” said Ridmark. “We found the soulblade of Sir Judicaeus Carhaine in Urd Morlemoch, and in an hour of desperate need Arandar gave the blade to him.”
“It is always good to welcome another brother to the Order,” said Constantine, and Gavin offered him a bow. “Then you truly went to Urd Morlemoch again and survived, Ridmark? Camorak said that a woman claiming to be the Keeper spoke to him.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Is your father at Dun Licinia?”
“With Sir Joram,” said Constantine.
“Once your men are ready to travel, we must head there at once,” said Ridmark. “We have much to tell you, and only a little time to prepare.”
###
Calliande knelt next to the wounded man, Antenora standing behind her like a guardian shadow.
“Hold still,” said Calliande.
The man-at-arms tried to smile. “I don’t think I could move just now, my lady.” He bit back a scream, sweat pouring down his face. His wounds were bad. He had been hit in the right leg with an axe, and then in the belly. The links of his chain mail had been driven into his flesh. Calliande worked in haste, plucking out the damaged chain links and doing her best to ignore the man’s cries of pain.
“What are you doing?” demanded a harsh voice.
Calliande looked up as a tall, gaunt man stepped towards her. He had the white robe of the Magistri, but it was tattered and dirty, and he wore it like a long coat over his other clothes. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, and the lines of a deep frown marked his face.
She recognized his voice.
“You must be Camorak,” said Calliande.
“Get out of the way,” said Camorak. “I will heal him as best I can…but his wounds may be too severe.”
“No,” said Calliande. “I shall heal him.”
Camorak snorted. “Oh, you will? Are you a Magistria, then?”
“Yes,” said Calliande. “Among other things.”
Camorak offered a thin smile. “Then you know that to heal a wound, you will have to take the pain into yourself. Over and over and over again, you have to take the pain into yourself.” He gestured at the ruined leg and the mangled stomach. “I don’t think a little girl like you has the strength to do it. The new Magistri always think they do, but not many people can endure pain like that.”
Calliande suspected she knew what had driven the man to drink.
“You’re absolutely right,” she said. “Watch.”
She summoned power, put her hand on the wounded man’s forehead, and cast the healing spell. Her will poured the power of the Well into him, and at once she felt the agony of his wounds. Calliande gritted her teeth, shuddering a little. She felt the gash in his right leg and stomach as if the steel had parted her own flesh. The pain grew worse, and she wanted to scream, to pull her hand away and release her power.
But she did neither. She had done this before and knew what to expect.
The man’s wounds shrank and vanished, the power of the Well repairing his injuries, and the pain faded from Calliande. She let out a shuddering breath and released her hand.
“Well?” she said.
Camorak stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
“If you do not close your mouth,” rasped Antenora, “something will fly inside.”
“You’re her, aren’t you?” said Camorak. “The woman who sent me the message, who claimed to be the Keeper.”
Calliande nodded, stood, and helped the healed man-at-arms regain his feet. “I am.”
“You really are the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Camorak. “God and the saints. Legends and fables walk among us. We’ll come back to Dun Licinia and see Malahan Pendragon walking arm-in-arm with Julius Caesar and Kalomarus the Dragon Knight.” He gave the man-at-arms a gentle slap on the back of the head. “You were just healed by the Keeper of Andomhaim, Marcus. Go and do something useful.”
The man-at-arms staggered off to obey.
“You passed on my message, didn’t you?” said Calliande. “Thank you.”
Camorak shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do. Not every day you hear a voice in your head claiming to be the long-lost Keeper of Andomhaim.” He gestured to the side. “We’ve got more wounded men. Care to lend a hand?”
“Gladly,” said Calliande.
###
“Then we crossed the River Moradel and made our way here,” said Ridmark, concluding the condensed version of what had happened since Qazarl’s defeat.
“Then Lady Calliande was the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Constantine. “Most remarkable. I had thought her an admirable woman, but to sleep for centuries in the name of duty is a great sacrifice.”
“The danger she warned against is about to come to pass,” said Arandar. “If we do not act quickly, the Frostborn will return.”
“Then we had best make haste and return to Dun Licinia,” said Constantine. “My father is there with the gathered strength of the Northerland. If we strike quickly, perhaps we can block the passages to the standing circle before the Mhorites arrive.”
Ridmark nodded, looking at the dark shape of the Black Mountain to the south.
The fate of Andomhaim would be decided there, one way or another.
Chapter 8: The Weaver
They reached Dun Licinia by noon on the next day.
Several of the men-at-arms had been killed during the skirmish with the Mhorites, beyond the reach of even Calliande’s healing magic. The horses of the dead men, combined with the remounts, provided enough steeds for Ridmark and his companions. With the horses, they made good time, passing swiftly through the hills. Twice they spotted small groups of Mhorite scouts at a distance, but the Kothluuskan orcs withdrew rather than risk battle with a larger mounted force. Constantine did not pursue, fearing a trap. Ridmark hoped Rakhaag and his lupivirii were hunting down the Mhorite scouts. The more confusion they could sow among the Mhorite warriors, the harder it would be for Mournacht and Shadowbearer to reach the Black Mountain.
They passed freeholds and farms, all of them empty. The freeholders and their families had withdrawn back to the safety of Dun Licinia and its stone walls, the men taking up arms to serve in Joram’s militia. Only four and a half months ago the people of Dun Licinia had come under attack from the Mhalekite orcs, and now the Mhorites were coming as well.
If Ridmark and Calliande failed here, far more people than the population of Dun Licinia would perish.
Dun Licinia came into sight shortly before noon, a stone-walled town siting in the center of a large valley, the River Marcaine flowing past on its way to the River Moradel. Even from a distance, Ridmark saw that the town was on a war footing. Men patrolled the ramparts of the walls, and siege engines rested atop the octagonal watch towers. The banner of Dux Gareth flew from the keep in the center of the town.
A surge of memory went through Ridmark. He had been here on the day it had all began, the day he met Calliande and Caius and Kharlacht, the day the omen of blue fire marked the conjunction of the thirteen moons. He had fought on those walls, beating back the Mhalekite warriors as they tried to storm the ramparts. He had dueled Kharlacht before the gate, and then had charged towards the old orcish burial mounds north of the town, trying to stop Qazarl’s spell.
And in this valley, when Dun Licinia had been only a keep, he had led the army that had defeated Mhalek’s horde, the fighting ranging through the valley and
all the way to the foothills of the Black Mountain itself. Mhalek had escaped the fighting and fled southeast to Castra Marcaine, determined to take vengeance upon Ridmark. He had killed Aelia, causing Ridmark to leave the realm in search of both the Frostborn and his own death…and now here he was again, back at Dun Licinia for a third time.
Was history repeating itself?
He pushed aside the thoughts. Such gloomy musings were common on the eve of battle, but they could become a dangerous distraction. And if history repeated itself, it did so a new way every time. This was Ridmark’s chance to stop Shadowbearer, to prevent the Frostborn from ever returning to Andomhaim.
He glanced at Calliande riding with the staff of the Keeper across her saddle and felt a bit foolish. Ridmark had been seeking answers about the Frostborn for ten years, ever since he had killed Gothalinzur in the village of Victrix. Calliande had been preparing to stop their return for over two centuries, had sacrificed her entire life to prevent their return.
Calliande saw him looking and smiled a little. “What is it?”
“A long journey,” said Ridmark, “to come back where we started.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” she said. “Coldinium and the Iron Tower and Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, only to return to Dun Licinia again.” Her expression hardened. “Maybe this time we can end it.”
They rode through the northern gate and into the town’s northern forum. Constantine’s men broke away, riding towards their barracks, while Ridmark and his companions followed the Swordbearer down the town’s central street. Dun Licinia was full to bursting, and it took time to push their way through the press. Everywhere Ridmark looked he saw men-at-arms in the colors of the House of the Licinii or Dux Gareth’s various vassals, knights in plate armor, and militiamen in leather or chain mail. Dux Gareth had decided to billet his men inside the town, and consequently there was little room left. Ridmark approved of the plan. Dun Licinia was well-fortified, and if Shadowbearer brought overwhelming force, then the army of the Northerland could retreat behind stone walls.
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 12
