Though if they were trapped here, they could not stop Shadowbearer from reaching the Black Mountain. Ridmark hoped Shadowbearer did not have enough Mhorites to bottle up the men of Andomhaim.
They reached the town’s central forum. The keep rose on one side, a tall square tower encircled by a stone curtain wall, and a large stone church on the other. Tents and wagons laden with supplies filled most of the forum. It looked as if Dux Gareth and Sir Joram were preparing for a siege. The Dux of the Northerland had always been a thorough commander, careful to prepare for every contingency.
Constantine reined up in the center of the forum and dropped out of his saddle, and Ridmark and the others followed suit. A small army of squires hurried forward to secure the horses, and Ridmark followed Constantine to the gate of the keep’s courtyard. A raised wooden platform stood there, supporting a table covered with maps.
Sir Joram Agramore and Dux Gareth Licinius waited there.
Joram was a heavyset man about Ridmark’s age, with curly red hair and bright green eyes. He wore mail and a surcoat, a sword waiting at his belt. Dux Gareth Licinius put Ridmark in mind of an old oak tree, weathered and battered but strong enough to withstand a storm. Wrinkles creased his olive-colored skin, and his hair had turned an iron-gray, but he wore his plate armor without the slightest trace of weariness. He looked older than Ridmark remembered, more tired. Ridmark had last seen the Dux five years ago, when the Master of the Order had expelled Ridmark from the Swordbearers and banished him.
Gareth’s green eyes met Ridmark’s, and a flicker of expression went over the Dux’s face. Was the old man glad to see him? Angry?
“Father,” said Constantine, bowing before the dais. “I have returned from patrol. We encountered a Mhorite warband north of the Black Mountain and defeated them.”
“I am glad you returned victorious, my son,” said Gareth. His voice was deep and resonant and hoarse, the voice of a man accustomed to shouting commands in battle. “And I see you have brought us visitors.”
“I have, Father,” said Constantine.
“Ridmark Arban,” said Gareth.
Ridmark bowed. “My lord Dux.”
“It seems you bring strife wherever you go,” said the Dux.
Ridmark frowned. “I do not understand.”
“Dux Tarrabus of Caerdracon leveled charges against you,” said Gareth, “claiming you led an army of bandits against the Iron Tower and murdered his vassal Paul Tallmane. The orcish headman Crowlacht and the King of Rhaluusk dispute those charges, and claim that Sir Paul was a servant of dark powers. Comes Corbanic Lamorus of Coldinium in turn has leveled charges against Tarrabus, claiming he hired the Red Family of Mhor to murder you, and that Tarrabus has turned against the Dominus Christus to worship the shadow of the dark elves. Your father has offered his support to Corbanic and the King of Rhaluusk.”
“My father?” said Ridmark, surprised. He had not spoken to the man since before the first battle of Dun Licinia.
“Yes,” said Gareth. “Dux Leogrance has been suspicious of Tarrabus, and this has given him an opportunity. Both men are gathering followers and allies, and if the High King does not resolve the matter soon it may lead to civil war within the realm.”
“I see,” said Ridmark. “That was…not my intent.”
“Ridmark.” The Dux sighed. “I wished you had stayed in the Northerland.”
Ridmark blinked. “Truly, my lord? After…Aelia’s death?”
He had never spoken of Aelia’s death to her father.
Gareth’s eyes were cold, his voice hard. “Aelia’s death was upon Mhalek’s head, not yours, and you did all you could to save her. So did I, for that matter. Perhaps we both failed. The last few years have been turbulent, and your help would have been welcome, especially now. Tarrabus Carhaine might have arranged for your banishment, but so long as I am Dux that decree will not be enforced in the Northerland.”
“Thank you,” said Ridmark. A wave of emotion went through him. Relief? Gratitude? He could not have said.
“Perhaps it is just as well that he did, my lord Dux,” said Calliande. “For if Ridmark had not left the realm, I would be dead, along with many others.”
“Lady Calliande,” said Sir Joram. “It is good to see you again. When Qazarl brought siege against Dun Licinia, many would have died from their wounds if not for your healing spells.”
“And you, Sir Joram,” said Calliande. “I fear we have brought the storm to your doorstep yet again.”
“Many of your companions, Ridmark,” said Gareth, “are not known to me.”
“This is Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, my lord,” said Ridmark. “An honorable warrior. Bonds of blood compelled him to follow Qazarl, but Qazarl betrayed him, and he has been a loyal ally ever since.”
“We shall need every sword in the days to come,” said Gareth.
“You remember Brother Caius, I trust?” said Ridmark.
“Of course,” said Gareth. “I see your mission to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the tribes of Vhaluusk took something of an unexpected turn.”
“So it did, my lord Dux,” said Caius, “but a man cannot always see what the Lord has in store for him.”
“Truly,” said Gareth. “You I know, Sir Arandar. Another foe of Tarrabus Carhaine, I see.”
“All the evil that you have heard of Tarrabus Carhaine is true, my lord,” said Arandar.
“What of the task he gave you?” said Gareth. “To retrieve the soulblade of his distant kinsman from Urd Morlemoch?”
“I am pleased to say that I succeeded with the aid of the Gray Knight and the others,” said Arandar, “and found a worthy bearer of the soulblade.”
“This is Sir Gavin of Aranaeus, a village in the southern Wilderland,” said Ridmark. Gavin offered an awkward bow to the Dux. “When we met him, he helped us defeat an urdmordar that had taken the people of his village captive. After he took up Truthseeker, he single-handedly slew an urvuul, fought Mhorites and Anathgrimm in the mountains of Vhaluusk, faced a basilisk in the darkness of Khald Azalar, fought against Shadowbearer himself, and helped slay another urdmordar in the northern Wilderland.”
“Truly?” said Gareth, raising his eyebrows. “That is an impressive string of deeds for such a young man.”
“The Gray Knight speaks the truth,” said Arandar. “I was there for much of it, and witnessed many of his actions with my own eyes.”
Gavin shrugged. “It sounds much more impressive than it really was, my lord. Mostly I was terrified out of my mind and trying not to make a fool of myself.”
“I have been in more battles than I can recall and am at least four times your age,” said Gareth, “and I still feel that way. Be welcome, Swordbearer.”
“This is Morigna of Moraime, another village in the Wilderland,” said Ridmark.
He half-expected Morigna to say something unpleasant. She had made her attitudes about the nobles of Andomhaim clear, despite the fact that she had never met one and had inherited those attitudes from Coriolus, a man who had lied to her for nearly her entire life.
Yet she only bowed. Perhaps she was learning some tact. Perhaps she was doing him a favor. Or perhaps her sense of self-preservation kept her quiet, given the High King’s laws against magic in Andomhaim.
“Lord Gareth,” said Morigna. Gareth nodded in turn.
“This is Jager of Cintarra and Mara of Cintarra, husband and wife,” said Ridmark, “and they have given invaluable help. Jager is a man of many skills…”
“What skills are those?” said Gareth.
“I buy very low and sell high,” said Jager.
Morigna snorted.
“And you, madam?” said Gareth.
Mara hesitated.
“She is the daughter of the Traveler of Nightmane Forest,” said Ridmark. There was no use hiding Mara’s parentage. If Zhorlacht was as good as his word, sooner or later several thousand Anathgrimm would descend upon Dun Licinia, ready to obey Mara’s commands. Best to prepare the Dux so
oner rather than later. “When we were in Khald Azalar, she slew her father for his crimes and took his place as the Queen of Nightmane Forest.”
For the first time, Gareth looked astonished.
“Truly?” said the Dux at last.
“I fear so, my lord,” said Mara in a quiet voice.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” said Arandar.
“As did I,” said Gavin. “If that counts for anything.”
“The Traveler of Nightmane Forest has been an enemy of Andomhaim since Malahan Pendragon founded the realm,” said Gareth. “A dozen different High Kings have waged campaigns against him, and we have never been able to pass the wards of Nightmane Forest to reach his stronghold. Forgive me, but…you are one small woman, and you slew him?”
“Yes,” said Mara. “In the name of my mother, who died so I could escape Nightmane Forest as a child.”
“The Anathgrimm have sworn loyalty to her,” said Ridmark, “and an army of them now march to Dun Licinia to aid us against the Mhorites.”
“That also is true,” said Arandar. “I swear it upon my honor as a Swordbearer.”
Gareth considered this for a moment, and then offered Mara a deep bow, Joram following suit.
“Then we bid you welcome, Queen of the Nightmane Forest,” said Gareth. “I would look forward to hearing your tale as leisure later.”
“Thank you,” said Mara, blinking. “If we live through the days to come, I shall be happy to tell it.”
“And this is the sorceress Antenora,” said Ridmark, as Antenora bowed, “the apprentice of the Keeper of Andomhaim.”
“Then the Magistrius Camorak spoke the truth,” said Gareth. “You found the Keeper of Andomhaim?”
“I did,” said Ridmark, gesturing at Calliande. “My lord Dux, this is Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim.”
Joram let out a laugh. “Of course. That was who you were the entire time. That explains…quite a lot, actually.”
“The last Keeper of Andomhaim disappeared two hundred and thirty years ago, after the Frostborn were defeated,” said Gareth.
“She disappeared,” said Calliande, “because I put myself into a magical sleep beneath the Tower of Vigilance, waiting for the omen of blue fire on the day of the conjunction of thirteen moons.”
“Why did you do this?” said Gareth.
“Ridmark was right, my lord Dux,” said Calliande. “Ridmark was always right. The Frostborn are returning.” She looked at Joram. “I know that you and many others thought that he had been driven mad with grief, that he had gone a fool’s errand. But the Frostborn are returning. They will return, unless we act at once.”
“How?” said Gareth.
“Shadowbearer,” said Calliande.
“A legend of the dark elves, I understand,” said Gareth.
“For a legend,” said Jager, “he is distressingly corporeal.”
“He is real,” said Calliande, “and he is coming here with an army of Mhorite orcs. He has fooled them into thinking that he is the incarnation of Mhor, and they will follow his every command. Using the standing stones upon the slopes of the Black Mountain, he will open a gate to the world of the Frostborn and summon them here. For the Frostborn are a kindred from another world, just as humanity was, my lord Dux.”
“Then what do you suggest?” said Gareth. “Your message to Camorak said an army was coming. With God’s help and the blessing of the Dominus Christus, the men of the Northerland can face and defeat an army. How can we defeat a wizard out of legend?”
“He is powerful, but he is not invincible,” said Calliande. “A soulblade will kill him, if a Swordbearer can get close enough. He also has no defense against the power of the Keeper. If I have assistance, I can defeat him. For he is the reason I went into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance.”
“Why?” said Gareth. “Could not your successor have stood guard against Shadowbearer?”
“Perhaps,” said Calliande, “but any man or woman can be corrupted. For that is how Shadowbearer waged war against Andomhaim since the defeat of the Frostborn. He tried to corrupt the High Kingdom. He engineered the war of the five Pendragon princes that weakened the realm. He created the Eternalists, and he founded the Enlightened of Incariel to do his work in secret. I fear Shadowbearer might have agents among the people of Dun Licinia even now.”
Gareth frowned. “That is a very grave charge.”
“It is no different than what Comes Corbanic has said,” said Arandar, “and we have eyewitnesses…”
“Murderer!”
The woman’s voice rang over the forum, cutting through the hubbub of voices and background noise.
Ridmark turned, as did the others. Two figures clad in white robes cut through the press, making their way towards the dais. He did not recognize the white-robed man, but he recognized the white-robed woman at once.
She looked so much like Aelia Licinius Arban that it sent a little stab of pain through him.
The woman was about twenty-five, with long, curly black hair and bright green eyes in a lovely face. Like her father and brother and late sister, she had olive-colored skin, and shared the sharp jaw and prominent nose of the Licinii family.
She was Imaria Licinius, a Magistria of the Order, Aelia’s sister, and the mistress of Tarrabus Carhaine.
And, unless Ridmark missed his guess, a member of the Enlightened of Incariel.
###
Morigna watched as Imaria approached, her right hand opening and closing into a fist. She wanted to take up her staff and cast a spell, to kill the Magistria before she could come any closer. Yet that would be a tremendously bad idea. For one, the kind of earth magic that Morigna used was banned in Andomhaim, and she had no wish to be forcibly enrolled in the Magistri. For another, Ridmark seemed to respect the old Dux, and murdering the man’s daughter in front of him would be unwise.
To Morigna’s surprise, she felt a flicker of respect for Gareth Licinius, partly because the old man reminded her of Ridmark. He had the same aura of command, of authority. Though Morigna supposed she had it backwards. Ridmark had been a squire under the Dux, and he had likely learned those qualities from the old man. For that matter, she saw how Dun Licinia had prepared itself for war. The Dux took his responsibility to defend his people seriously, and Morigna could respect that.
At least he seemed nothing like Tarrabus Carhaine.
Imaria stopped a few yards from the dais, glaring at Ridmark. A man in a white robe waited behind her, his arms folded behind his back. He looked old, at least twenty or thirty years older than the Dux. His white hair was close-cropped, and his eyes were a pale shade of blue. There was a dreamy, unfocused expression upon his face, and Morigna wondered if the old man was lucid. At first she thought he was a Magistrius, but his white robe had no black sash, and was a different design than those of the Magistri she had met. For that matter, the old man was barefoot, and she was entirely certain the proud Magistri would not deign to stride about unshod.
Given the amount of horse droppings she had seen upon the cobblestones, she could at least agree with the Magistri on that.
“Ridmark Arban,” said Imaria. She had not changed much since Morigna had last seen her in the castra of Coldinium, and yet something seemed different. The woman appeared stronger, more confident. “You dare to show your face here again?”
“Daughter,” said Gareth. There was a mixture of exasperation and concern on his expression. “This is not the time for such a discussion.”
“Is that so, Father?” said Imaria. “The man who murdered your daughter and my sister stands before you, and you have nothing for him but platitudes?”
“Constantine,” said Gareth, and the young Swordbearer stepped forward. “Please escort your sister to her rooms.”
“I will go where I please,” said Imaria. “I am a Magistria, and neither a Swordbearer nor a secular lord can command me.”
The conversation degenerated into something that had the air of an oft-repeated fa
mily argument. Calliande, Antenora, and Mara all looked at Imaria, and Morigna wondered if their Sight detected any hint of dark magic about her.
Morigna moved closer to Mara. “Do you see dark magic within her?”
“No,” murmured Mara in a quiet voice. “But I don’t think I would unless she actively drew upon the shadow of Incariel.”
“You would not,” said Calliande. “The shadow of Incariel isn’t magic. It’s something else, something darker, something from a place mortals were never meant to visit. We can only sense it with the Sight if she uses it in front of us.”
“She one of them,” said Jager. Morigna started a little. The halfling had moved to Mara’s side in utter silence. “I’m absolutely sure of it. My skin crawls when I look at her. Same way it did with Tarrabus.”
Morigna started to remark that the state of Jager’s nerves was hardly a reliable guide, but stopped herself. Now was not the time.
Besides, the little thief was likely right.
“The old man’s worse, though,” said Jager.
“The old man?” said Morigna, looking at the gaunt, white-robed figure. “What about him?”
“I don’t know,” said Jager. “He’s one of the Enlightened too, I think, but he seems…different.” He let out an exasperated sound. “I hate to be so vague, but it is difficult to put the sensation to words. If I had to guess, I would say that he is a more powerful Enlightened than Imaria.”
“They did have levels of authority,” said Morigna. “Jonas and Paul Tallmane both claimed to be Initiated of various circles within the Enlightened. Perhaps that was a signifier of rank.”
“We had best put a stop to this,” said Calliande.
Morigna was in complete agreement. For his part, Ridmark was denying everything Imaria flung in his face. Yet if Imaria continued her accusations, she could distract the Dux at a critical moment. It would be an appalling end if they had come all this way only for Shadowbearer to triumph because Imaria’s embittered whining kept them away from the Black Mountain.
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 13