Frostborn: The World Gate

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I doubt it,” said Caius. “Had they possessed more of the beasts, there would have been no reason to hold them back. Likely the dvargir could only bring four with them. The mzrokars have a stupendous appetite for carrion. The dvargir would have brought slaves to feed their mzrokars…”

  “And there are only so many slaves a dvargir army can take along while still maintaining a forced march,” said Gareth. Caius nodded. “Mistress Antenora, your facility with flame is…most remarkable.”

  “I have had a long time to practice, lord Dux,” said Antenora in a quiet voice.

  “Such magic is usually forbidden to the Magistri,” said Gareth, looking at Morigna.

  “They are my apprentices,” said Calliande before Morigna could answer. “That was my mistake, two centuries ago. I should have taken another apprentice. A different apprentice.” She looked at Antenora, and then at Morigna. “A worthy apprentice.”

  To Morigna’s surprise, the compliment warmed her a bit. She must be getting soft. Or the exertions of the night had worn her out.

  “How should we proceed?” said Joram.

  Gareth scowled over the ramparts for a moment. “We will wait until morning. Have the men keep watch, but I doubt the enemy will mount another assault until daylight. Clearly their plan was to assassinate the Keeper, and then to storm the walls with the mzrokar.”

  “Undoubtedly they have other plans,” said Ridmark.

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed Gareth, “but those plans will take time to ready. That will give us time of our own to prepare.”

  “Then we shall ride to Black Mountain tomorrow?” said Calliande.

  “That remains the plan,” said Gareth. “Sir Joram, have the squires and the pages gather the horses. All knights, Swordbearers, and mounted men-at-arms will ride forth at dawn.”

  Arandar frowned. “Will not the foe see our movements and prepare for them?”

  “Most certainly,” said Gareth.

  “Which is why,” said Ridmark, “you will have the horsemen ride out from the southern gate, circle around the town, and charge into the Mhorites from the southeast?”

  For the first time a glimmer of humor appeared on the old Dux’s craggy face. “Clever as before, I see.”

  “Constantine did the same thing during Qazarl’s siege of Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark. “Rode around the town to take the Mhalekites while they assailed the walls.”

  “My hope,” said Gareth, “is that we can break through their lines and make for the Black Mountain before they pursue us. You will accompany me, Keeper, and your companions, along with all our Swordbearers. With God’s help, we can ride for Black Mountain and put an end to this.”

  “A solid plan, my lord,” said Calliande. In truth, Morigna could think of any number of things that might go wrong. But neither could she think of a better plan.

  “Good,” said Gareth. “I suggest we get some rest. Tomorrow will be hard fighting.”

  Mara stepped past them. She had stayed mostly out of the fighting, using her power to reappear and disappear when the kobolds had drawn near to threaten the Dux and the Keeper. The men-at-arms looked at her askance, but none of them troubled her. Perhaps they assumed the Queen of the Nightmane Forest would possess uncanny powers. Or perhaps they took her for another one of the Keeper’s apprentices.

  “Jager,” said Mara. “Husband. Come look at this.”

  Jager strolled to his wife’s side. Both Gareth and Joram gave him bemused looks. Morigna suspected they did not quite know what to make of him. All the halflings they would have encountered in their lives would have been servants. She also wondered what they made of Mara. Gareth had treated her with every respect, but Morigna doubted Gareth entirely believed that Mara had killed the Traveler, that the Anathgrimm were coming as allies.

  If Morigna had not seen those events with her own eyes, she might not have believed them herself. She was still not sure she believed the Anathgrimm were coming to aid them.

  Though looking at the enemies over the wall, she really hoped the Anathgrimm were coming to aid them.

  “What is it?” said Jager, looking into the gloom.

  “What does that look like to you?” said Mara, pointing towards the woods north of Dun Licinia. “There, just south of the forest?”

  Jager frowned. “It looks like they’re…building something? Yes, that’s it. They’re building something.”

  “A siege engine?” said Kharlacht.

  “I think so,” said Jager. “It looks like a siege engine. A…a…what’s the one with the arm, that throws big rocks? Makes sort of a clanging noise?”

  “A catapult?” said Joram, blinking.

  “Yes, exactly, a catapult,” said Jager. “Just like Smiling Otto had.”

  “You really do not know what a catapult is?” said Morigna.

  “I’m a…” Jager started to name himself a thief, looked at Gareth, and changed words mid-sentence. “I’m a very successful merchant with a number of enterprises. Alas, assembling war engines is not one of them.”

  “They’re building the catapult too far from the town,” said Kharlacht. “It doesn’t have the range to reach the walls from here.”

  “Perhaps they will drag it closer to the walls for their next assault,” said Arandar.

  “No,” said Ridmark. His voice was hard, and Morigna gave him a sharp look.

  “The dvargir are the sundered kindred of the khaldari,” said Caius. “They have all our engineering skill. Including the ability…”

  There was a distant clang, and a flash of green light from the distant catapult.

  “Including the ability,” said Caius, “to construct an engine that can reach the walls from such a distance.”

  There was a blur of motion from the catapult, and a ball of blue-green fire shot from it, soaring high overhead like a falling meteor. It passed only a few dozen yards overhead, and slammed into one of the houses a few blocks away. The house exploded in a spray of blue-green fire and shattered brick, and Morigna heard the screams of the wounded and the dying within the burning house.

  “What is that?” said Gareth. “That fire, Brother Caius! What is it?”

  “An elixir made of poisonous gases harvested from the lower caverns of the Deeps,” said Caius. “Both my kindred and the dvargir use it as a weapon of war in our battles.”

  “Joram, send men to stop the fire,” said Gareth. “If we’re not careful, we’ll lose…”

  Another clang rang out, and another ball of green-blue fire rose over the fields, sinking towards the town. It struck another house, and again the house exploded in a snarling fireball, bricks scattering in all directions.

  “My lord, if their shots grow more accurate, they will blast down the walls,” said Joram.

  “Worse, they’ll burn us all like rats locked in a barn,” said Ridmark. “If a dozen more of those missiles land within the town, we could all burn to death. My lord, we have no choice. We have to ride out and destroy that catapult now.”

  Gareth looked at the distant shape of the catapult, and then back at Ridmark. “So be it.”

  Chapter 14: War Engines

  Gavin ran through the streets, following Ridmark and the others to Dun Licinia’s southern forum.

  Screams rang in the night, accompanied by the crackle of the flames. The enemy had not launched another attack upon the walls so far, but they didn’t need to bother. They just had to sit back and fire missile after missile into the town, the strange fire of the dvargir spreading from house to house. Once the town was in flames, then Mournacht could launch a massive assault upon the walls. The uncanny fire of the dvargir seemed immune to water, and could only be put out by smothering it with earth. Gavin was grateful that he had not seen the weapon when he had fought the dvargir before. In the narrow tunnels of Thainkul Dural or Khald Azalar, the fire would have been deadly.

  Though seeing the fire thrown upon innocent women and children within Dun Licinia was far worse.

  Horses packed the southern
forum, whinnying and stamping their hooves with excitement. The knights and some of the lords of the Northerland hurried to their mounts, squires holding the reins of the horses. He saw old Sir Tagrimn haul himself into his saddle with a curse, lifting a massive steel war hammer. Dux Gareth climbed atop his horse, and a squire handed him and a shield and a helmet.

  “Sir Arandar,” said Gavin as a squire led over a pair of horses. The squire looked at him with a mixture of wonder and resentment. Gavin did not blame the boy. He had become a Swordbearer, but he had done so by seeing some things he would rather have forgotten.

  “Aye?” said Arandar, taking the reins of his own horse.

  “I don’t know how to fight from horseback,” said Gavin.

  Arandar blinked. “You know how to ride?”

  “I do,” said Gavin. “I’ve just never fought from the saddle before.”

  “The Dux has lent us some of his horses,” said Arandar, climbing up. More blue-green fire flashed to the north, glinting off Arandar’s armor. “A mount like this has been battle-trained, and knows his business. Better for a knight to have a mount who knows him well, but this will serve. If you give him his head, he will trample the enemy and bite. You can steer him with your knees, and then strike from his back.”

  Gavin gave the horse a dubious look.

  “Or,” said Arandar. “You could dismount and fight from foot. Some Swordbearers do. You cannot extend your soulblade’s power to your mount, alas.”

  Gavin nodded and pulled himself into the saddle. The horse stirred beneath him, blowing out a breath. He knew how to ride. His father had been the praefectus of Aranaeus, but even the praefectus needed to feed himself, and Gavin had worked in his father’s fields. He had also helped the neighbors with their ploughing and planting. Though the difference between his father’s plow horse and the destrier beneath him was like the difference between a butter knife and Truthseeker.

  Dux Gareth shouted orders. Sir Joram remained behind to command the defense, while Sir Constantine was put in charge of the men fighting the fires. It seemed Morigna’s sleeping mist had the ability to smother the fires, so the Dux deputized Morigna on the spot and sent her with Constantine. Under less dire circumstances, the thought of the sober Constantine working with the acerbic Morigna would have made Gavin laugh, but right now he was just glad they had the chance to save more lives from the flames. Calliande and Antenora waited near the Dux atop their horses, while Ridmark steered his mount towards them with a skill Gavin envied. Kharlacht likewise claimed a horse, while Mara and Jager shared one. Jager gripped the reins, his expression grim, while Mara sat behind him.

  “My lady Mara,” said Gareth. “There is no need for you to come.”

  “I would rather stay within the walls,” said Mara, “but my abilities may be useful.”

  “As you will, then,” said Gareth. “We ride!”

  The southern gate of Dun Licinia groaned open, and the Dux led the horsemen forth. Gavin moved his horse closer to Calliande, determined to protect the Keeper and her apprentice.

  ###

  Another blue-green fireball arced across the sky, and Ridmark kept his mount at a walk.

  His instincts screamed for him to charge, to urge the Dux to call for a charge. People burned in Dun Licinia as the dvargir catapult continued its bombardment, and the longer they delayed, the more people would die. Yet Ridmark’s knew that the Dux’s strategy was correct. If the horsemen charged around the wall, they would exhaust their horses and lose their momentum by the time they reached the catapult. The dvargir and the Mhorites would have time to rally around the catapult, and the advantage would be lost.

  So they continued walking around the town’s eastern side, forming up on the northeastern corner of the wall. Torchlight blazed in the ranks of the Mhorites and the dvargir, and kobold bands moved back and forth before their larger allies. Hundreds of dead kobolds carpeted the ground below the walls, and the stench from the burned mzrokars filled the air.

  The horsemen drew themselves up in formation, the knights and men-at-arms unlimbering lances and drawing swords. Ridmark’s staff hung from a leather strap across his chest, and his dwarven axe rested in his right hand, the shield of a slain militiaman strapped to his left arm. He moved closer to Calliande and Antenora. Both women would be the obvious target of the enemy, and Ridmark intended to see them through this battle alive.

  He was grateful Morigna remained behind the walls.

  Antenora lifted her staff, a ball of fire starting to dance over its end.

  “Sir Tagrimn,” said Gareth. “Now.”

  The old knight lifted a trumpet to his lips and blew a series of blasts. The horsemen shouted and raised their weapons, and in one smooth motion surged forward, kicking their mounts to a gallop. The thunder of the hooves filled Ridmark’s ears, and the horsemen charged across the field of slain kobolds towards the besieging army, spreading out in a broad line as they did so.

  A commotion went up from the Mhorite lines, and the orcish warriors scrambled to get themselves in place to absorb a charge of horsemen, but they were too late. The knights and men-at-arms crashed into the Mhorites, hewing and stabbing. Infantry could repulse a charge of horsemen, but only if the infantry stood in proper formation, equipped with spears and shields. The Mhorites had been focused upon the walls of Dun Licinia, and so had not been able to prepare in time.

  They would pay the price now.

  Ridmark’s horse trampled one Mhorite warrior, the orc’s screams coming to an end as a steel-shod hoof crushed the warrior’s skull. He swung his axe with a blur of speed, the blade crunching through a Mhorite’s neck. Ridmark wrenched the weapon free, adjusting his balance as a Mhorite lunged at him with a spear. He got his shield up, deflecting the thrust. The Mhorite started to strike again, but Sir Tagrimn brought his hammer down with a massive bellow. The steel head impacted the back of the Mhorite’s skull, and the resultant mess proved that age had not robbed the old knight of his strength.

  The horsemen broke through the Mhorites, the surviving orcs retreating to either side.

  The dvargir awaited them. The black-armored warriors hastened forward with disciplined precision, forming themselves into a shield wall even as Ridmark watched. Beyond the dvargir rose the woods surrounding the old orcish burial mounds that Qazarl had used to create his undead, and before the woods stood the massive form of the catapult, looking like some monstrous mechanical insect. A haze of shadows glimmered around it, seeming to mantle the great engine in darkness even as it flung fiery death at Dun Licinia. The shadowscribes of the dvargir must have accompanied the army from Khaldurmar, raising wards to protect the catapult from magical attack.

  They would have to cut through the dvargir to reach the catapult.

  “Forward!” said Dux Gareth.

  “For God and the High King!” roared Tagrimn, his hoarse voice like a thunderclap. “At them! Chase them back to the Deeps!”

  The horsemen charged with a shout, crashing into the ranks of the armored dvargir.

  ###

  Gavin fought in the midst of the melee, Truthseeker blazing with fury in his right fist, the ground wet with blood beneath his boots. He had ridden his horse through the charge, managing to strike two Mhorites with Truthseeker, though he was unsure if he had killed the orcs or not. When the horsemen crashed into the dvargir, he had lost his saddle and fallen, and so had been forced to fight on foot.

  Just as well. He was more comfortable this way, and Truthseeker filled him with strength and power.

  Around him the orderly dvargir line had dissolved into chaos, with wedges of knights hammering through them. Men screamed and shouted and cursed, while the dvargir fought in stoic silence. A dvargir warrior came at Gavin, his gray-skinned face grim and hard beneath his black helm. He hammered at Gavin once, twice, three times with his sword, and Gavin caught the blows upon his shield. The dvargir warrior was strong, but Truthseeker’s power filled Gavin, giving him the strength to hold his shield against those
blows. At last the dvargir warrior’s momentum played out, and Gavin struck, whipping Truthseeker at the dvargir’s head. The soulblade rebounded from the black dvargirish steel, but the blow staggered the warrior, and before he recovered Gavin killed him with a quick thrust.

  He flung himself into the fray. Arandar and Kharlacht had kept their seats, and methodically hewed their way through the dvargir warriors. Gavin killed a dvargir that tried to stab at Kharlacht’s legs and shot a quick look around. He heard the shouts coming from the Mhorites, the kobolds, and the other groups of dvargir scattered across the field. All of them were rushing to the defense of the catapult.

  He hoped Antenora and Calliande destroyed it soon. Else they would be overwhelmed and surrounded.

  ###

  Calliande tested her will against the dvargir shadowscribes.

  There were a dozen of them gathered near the catapult, and they had written warding tablets, shields carved with dvargir glyphs and then planted in a ring around the base of the catapult. The shadowscribes had charged those glyphs with dark magic, and together they created an interlocking shell of wards around the massive catapult. Antenora had summoned enough fire to destroy the catapult, a fireball six yards across that spun over her head, but so long as the shadowscribes’ wards remained intact, that fire would not reach the catapult.

  Not unless Calliande broke the wards first.

  She drew upon the power of the Well and the fury of the Keeper’s mantle, sending bolts of white fire at the shell of shadows. Combined, the shadowscribes’ power exceeded her own, but they could not resist the power of the Keeper. Her spell shattered three of the warding shields, blasting them to molten shards. The shadowscribes hastened forward, clad in cowled robes of armored black, and Calliande drew upon the magic of the elements, weaving together fire and earth and charging the spell with the Keeper’s mantle.

  The ground at the base of the catapult exploded, killing three of the shadowscribes and knocking the rest from their feet. Before they recovered, Calliande summoned more power, working spells of breaking and dispelling. Four more warding shields shattered into molten splinters, and as they did, the shell of wards around the catapult collapsed, the shadowy haze vanishing into nothingness.