Ricatus was right that the men of Andomhaim would need every sword to defeat the Dragon Cult.
About two miles later, Ridmark saw riders showing the colors and badge of the House of the Licinii, the white hart upon a field of green. He spotted a massive banner showing the same colors and sigil, flying from a lance held upright by a young knight. Dux Constantine Licinius sat atop his horse behind the banner, speaking with two other knights. One was an old man with craggy features and a bushy gray beard. The second was around forty, about Ridmark’s own age, with a lined, jowly face and red hair threaded through with silver.
“My lord Dux!” called Ridmark.
Dux Constantine looked up from his conversation and grinned. He was only a few years older than Gavin, which likely explained why the two men had become friends. A pang of memory went through Ridmark. Constantine looked a great deal like his sister Aelia – the same olive-toned skin, the same green eyes, the same black hair and hooked nose. Of course, he also looked a great deal like Imaria, who had murdered Morigna, sold herself to the shadow of Incariel, and nearly destroyed the world.
“My lord Ridmark,” said Constantine with an easy smile. The soulblade Brightherald rested in its scabbard upon his belt. He had wielded that soulblade during the final battle against Tymandain Shadowbearer and Mournacht of Kothluusk in the foothills of the Black Mountain. Ridmark wondered if the Mhorites remembered Constantine’s part in the death of Mournacht, or if the Mhorites just blamed Ridmark for it since he had dealt the death blow to the Warlord of Kothluusk. “My lord Gavin, my lady Antenora, my lady Keeper. It is good to see you all again.”
“And you, my lord Dux,” said Calliande. “It has been too long since we came to Castra Marcaine.”
“Aye, well, you and the Shield Knight are needed across the realm,” said Constantine. “A pity it takes a war to bring us all together again.”
“Though you ought to come back to the Northerland,” said Sir Tagrimn Volarus, the older knight. He had seemed an old man when Ridmark had first met him decades ago. He was like a boulder that simply grew more weathered with age, his essential solidity never wavering. “You’ll have your fill of fighting and then some.”
“As I recall,” said Comes Joram Agramore, the red-haired knight, “when we first met the Keeper, Dun Licinia was about to come under siege from the Mhorites.”
Tagrimn grunted and spat into the dust. “Aye, and we whipped them, and we’ll whip these Dragon Cultist dogs as well. Though I’ve heard the cultists and the Mhorites have made an alliance?”
“They have,” said Ridmark. “You’ll get the chance to fight Mhorites again.”
“Ah, splendid,” said Tagrimn. He cracked his thick knuckles. “Fighting medvarth raiders and Qazaluuskan tribesmen grows tiresome. I would like to face a different foe. Just for the sake of variety.”
“Merovech commands human wizards, goblins, ogres, and gnolls, among other creatures,” said Ridmark. “I fear you’ll have your fill of variety, sir.” Tagrimn grinned at that. “Might I introduce my companions? Sir Niall of Ebor, a knight in my service.” Niall offered a hasty bow from the saddle. “Sir Ricatus Eborium, a knight of the Prince of Cintarra.” Ricatus offered a smooth bow, stiffly correct. He wouldn’t dare risk offending a lord as powerful as the Dux of the Northerland. “And Lady Rhiain, in service to the Keeper.”
“Welcome,” said Constantine.
Tagrimn grunted. “You’re the one who dealt with the traitor, aren’t you, lad?”
A flash of something like annoyance went through Ricatus’s eyes, quickly suppressed.
“I…did, yes, Sir Tagrimn,” said Niall, uncomfortable as ever with praise. “I was just trying to stop him from opening the gate to the enemy. I wound up killing him in the fighting.”
Tagrimn grunted. “These southern nobles. Faithless to the last.”
Ricatus offered a thin smile. “It was our lands that were overrun, Sir Tagrimn. Once we come to battle with the foe, we shall show our faith.”
“We shall all have the chance to show our valor soon enough,” said Joram. “The High King wants to cross the river and march to Castra Melidern as soon as possible. The Dragon Cult has already brought the Mhorites to their side. Who knows what other allies they might gather if given more time?”
“The danger is greater than that, my lord,” said Calliande. “This war began when the Heralds of Ruin used the Dwyrstones to open the rifts. All the rifts have been closed, but one remains. Merovech Valdraxis has been using that gate to draw more goblins and ogres to Andomhaim. The longer we wait, the stronger he becomes.”
“Better to take the war to the enemy than to wait for him to bring it to you,” said Tagrimn. “I…”
Without warning, five ghost orcs appeared out of nothingness next to the road.
Tagrimn all but jumped out of his saddle, and Ridmark’s hand flew to Oathshield’s hilt before he stopped himself. He found himself looking at three ghost orc rangers, Vhorshala the priestess of Shalask, and Warlord Shalmathrak himself.
The rangers wore leather armor and the strange blurring cloaks produced by the secret crafts of the ghost orcs. Most orcish men were green-skinned and bulky with muscle. The ghost orcs were thinner, almost gaunt, and their skin was a peculiar silvery-gray. Vhorshala wore a long vest, a skirt, and a tattered cloak, and carried a carved staff in her right hand. Shalmathrak himself wore chain mail and had long black hair that hung loose around his shoulders. He stood with the coiled tension of the veteran warrior. Ridmark knew just how dangerous Shalmathrak was – the Warlord of the Shaluuskan Forest had killed a Herald of Ruin by himself, securing the dark soulblade Ghostruin, which fortunately was now locked in the Tower of the Keeper and could no longer hurt anyone.
“God and the saints!” said Tagrimn, starting to draw his sword. “We…”
“Hold!” thundered Constantine in a tone of absolute command. Tagrimn was as implacable as a rolling boulder, but the authority in the Dux’s voice made even the old knight stop. “The High King said the ghost orcs have allied with us against the Dragon Cult.”
“Dux Constantine Licinius of the Northerland,” said Ridmark. “May I introduce Shalmathrak, Warlord of the Shaluuskan Forest, and Vhorshala, one of the chief priestesses of that realm.” He was unsure of her actual title. He knew that the priestesses of Shalask had their own hierarchy, much as the church of Andomhaim did, but Vhorshala had been disinclined to discuss the matter, and there had been far more urgent topics to discuss anyway.
“Dux Constantine,” said Shalmathrak, offering a polite bow. The Warlord’s voice was a deep rasp, and he spoke Latin with a peculiar accent. “An honor.”
“Warlord,” said Constantine. “I confess I have never spoken with a ghost orc before.”
“Until recently, I had little opportunity to speak with humans,” said Shalmathrak. “But our old enmity means little. The Heralds of Ruin are the servants of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, and he shall devour us all unless we act as one.”
“The Warden has an evil reputation among us,” said Tagrimn, giving Shalmathrak a wary glance. His hand kept jerking like he wanted to grasp his sword.
“I doubt that not, sir knight,” said Shalmathrak. “But I also doubt your tales of him are as dark as ours. Humankind is a newcomer to this world, and you were never enslaved to the dark elves. But we were, and of the tyrants who ruled us, the Warden is the strongest and most cunning. I ask that you forgive my bluntness, for I have news that cannot wait. Shield Knight, the enemy approaches.”
“Where?” said Ridmark.
“Across the river,” said Shalmathrak. “My scouts have sighted dvargir warriors and large bands of kobolds.”
“Dvargir?” said Joram, taken aback. “What the devil are the dvargir doing here?”
Tagrimn scowled. “Taking advantage of the war to enrich themselves, as they always do. During our war against the usurper Tarrabus Carhaine, the dvargir were the only ones who came away from that battle richer.”
“
They did the same during the War of the Seven Swords in Owyllain,” said Calliande.
“We can discuss the history later,” said Ridmark. “Right now, we need to act.” Belatedly, he realized that he ought to let Constantine take command of the situation. “My lord Dux, I advise that you send messengers along the marching column to urge the men to vigilance. If the dvargir are moving along the riverbank, we need to be ready.”
“That is sound counsel,” said Constantine. “We…”
Right about then, an arrow flashed from the direction of the river and plunged into the neck of a man-at-arms riding a few paces away.
###
Chaos erupted around Niall, and he almost welcomed it.
He disliked the title Lordsbane. Niall hadn’t set out to kill anyone. He had always known that he was good at violence, and then he had seen Prince Accolon walk into the trap and Niall had wound up killing an abbot. Later he had saved Accolon’s life again during the Heptarchy attack, and at Rhudlan, he had killed Lhanwyn Corinium during the fighting at the gate.
Because of that, a legend was building up around Niall. Niall Lordsbane, who had twice saved Prince Accolon’s life. Niall Lordsbane, who had stopped the traitor Lhanwyn Corinium from handing over Rhudlan to the Dragon Cult.
Niall felt unworthy of it.
He hadn’t desired to become a knight. He had wanted to make sure his aunt Rhiain was safe and healthy. Then in Rhudlan, he had been seduced by Pompeia. He ought to have known better. He had in fact known better, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. The sight of her body had set a fire in his blood that he had never experienced, and he had no more been able to stop himself than water could have prevented itself from flowing downhill.
Or a moth could have stopped itself from circling the flame.
Considering what happened to a moth that got too close to the fire, that was an apt comparison.
He felt unworthy of the renown that he had acquired, but Niall had his duties now, his oath to Lord Ridmark, and he would honor them.
And when the battle began, when the swords came out and the arrows started flying and the screams began, Niall almost welcomed it. At least in a fight, he knew what to do, unlike the doubts that gnawed at him the rest of the time.
When the dying man-at-arms fell from the saddle, Niall exploded into action.
He was riding next to Rhiain, so in one swift, smooth motion, Niall urged his horse next to her even as he yanked the shield hanging from the side of his saddle and lifted it. His action came just in the nick of time. An arrow buried itself in the shield and hung there vibrating like a plucked harp string. Another half-second and the arrow would have either hit Niall or punched into Rhiain. He, at least, was wearing chain mail. She had no protection, and if she was going to stay close to Calliande, Niall had to start insisting that she wear armor, the way Lord Ridmark more or less bullied the Keeper into wearing hers.
“To arms!” roared Constantine. The Dux seemed like a kindly and noble lord, more like Prince Accolon than someone like Ricatus or the late Lord Hadrian Vindon. He also had the voice of a battlefield captain, able to make his words boom over the fighting like a thunderclap. “To arms! To arms!”
Ricatus was on the left side of the road, and he turned his horse, preparing to charge in the direction of the archers. Niall shot a quick look to the west. The grass-covered ground sloped down for about twenty yards until it came to the steep riverbank.
“No, don’t!” shouted Niall. “The ground will trip up the horses!”
Ricatus glared at him for a second and then nodded. The older knight leaped from his saddle, shield on his left arm, sword raised in his right. Constantine and Ridmark had also realized the danger because both Swordbearers shouted commands. The men-at-arms scrambled forward, jumping from their saddles. Calliande dismounted and hurried to the man-at-arms who had taken the arrow in the neck, and Rhiain scrambled from her saddle and ducked behind her horse.
The dismounted men hurried forward, shields raised, swords drawn back to strike, and one of their attackers came into sight.
Niall had never seen anything like it before.
The thing was a spindly creature about four and a half feet tall, its body covered with gray scales. It had a long, snakelike tail, and a lizard-like head rested atop its slender neck. The creature had yellow eyes with vertical black slits, and an elaborate crest of crimson scales rested atop its head. It had long, slender fingers topped with black claws, and in those clawed hands, it held a short bow.
During the siege of Rhudlan, when they had been waiting to repulse the assaults of the enemy, Moriah had sometimes told Niall stories of the Shadow Ways, the labyrinth of tombs, sewers, catacombs, and ancient ruins that sprawled beneath Cintarra. The creature was a kobold, one of the subterranean danger she had told him about.
The kobold leveled its bow, trying to loose an arrow, but Niall was faster. He bashed the creature across the face with his shield, knocking it to the side. Before it could recover, his sword hewed right through the kobold’s neck. A distant part of his mind noted that it was far easier to cut through the neck of kobold than it was a goblin or a Heptarchy orc, and the creature went down. Sir Ricatus slew another, plunging his sword into the kobold’s torso and yanking his blade free.
Around them, the battle erupted. Lord Ridmark, Dux Constantine, and Sir Gavin all attacked with blurring speed. The three men were Swordbearers and moved with the deadly quickness of the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade. Ridmark killed two of the kobolds even as Niall looked. In the same glance, he saw a pair of kobolds bounding towards him and Ricatus, spears in hands.
“Shield!” barked Ricatus.
They had fought alongside each other numerous times, and while Niall didn’t like Ricatus Eborium and still blamed him for the sheep enclosures that had destroyed Ebor, they worked together well. With smooth efficiency, Niall stepped between the kobolds and Ricatus, his shield angled to deflect their spear thrusts. The kobolds were small but stronger than they looked, and their spearheads slammed into his shield with considerable force. The impact jarred his arm and shoulder, but the wood of his shield held.
While he blocked the kobolds’ attacks, Ricatus prepared his blow. His sword swept down and took off the head of the kobold on the left, and on the backswing, his blade raked across the ribs of the kobold on the right. The creature staggered from the strike, letting out a chittering shriek, and part of Niall realized that the kobold had a forked tongue like a serpent or a lizard.
He finished it off with a quick strike.
By then, the rest of the column had been roused, and men-at-arms and knights poured into the grasses, hunting for the kobolds.
Niall and Ricatus joined the fray.
###
A short time later, the fighting was over.
Ridmark cleaned the kobold blood from the blade of Oathshield and listened to the knights reporting to Dux Constantine. A group of about seventy kobolds had lain in ambush along the road, concealed in the high grasses. An armored warrior could not cross the river without a raft or a boat. The lighter kobolds had no such difficulty and swum the river with ease. Then they had lurked in the grasses and waited until they attacked.
All the kobolds had been wiped out.
Three of Constantine’s men had been killed, and fourteen more had been wounded. Calliande had started healing the wounded at once, and so had Antenora and the Magistri who had been traveling with the Dux. Ridmark was relieved that for once Calliande had someone to help with the work of healing. Left alone, she would heal every wounded man until her strength failed and she collapsed from exhaustion.
“Have the kobolds allied with the Dragon Cult?” said Joram.
“No,” said Ridmark, using Aegisikon to flip one of the dead kobolds on its back. Gray scales covered the creature’s body, save for its chest, where a sigil had been branded into its flesh. “This was a slave. That’s the sigil of Great House Tzanar, one of the dvargir noble houses. They do most of Khaldurmar
’s slave trading, and they hire out as mercenaries.”
“You’re sure of that?” said Tagrimn.
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus hired House Tzanar during the siege of Tarlion. And they also sell slaves to the xiatami of Najaris in Owyllain.”
“I heard rumors that the Dragon Cult had hired dvargir mercenaries,” said Ricatus. For once his sour mien had vanished, and he only seemed worried. “Some of the scouts thought they saw dvargir moving near Castra Melidern…”
“How could the Dragon Cult afford mercenaries?” said Niall.
“Slaves, probably,” said Calliande. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Merovech is selling some of his goblins and ogres to House Tzanar. The dvargir would enjoy new and unusual slaves. Perhaps he brought treasure with him from the Frankish Empire. For all we know Merovech has chests of gold and jewels.”
“Either way, we need to bring news of this to the High King at once,” said Joram. “Bad enough that we face the Dragon Cult and the ogres and the goblins. The dvargir mercenaries and their kobold slaves would make their forces all the stronger.”
“We will,” said Constantine. “That was one of the reasons I summoned you, Ridmark. The High King’s party is traveling a few miles ahead of ours. He will want to speak with you and Calliande, for you have faced the Dragon Cult and the Heptarchy.”
“Of course,” said Ridmark.
He had known Arandar Pendragon ever since they had traveled to Urd Morlemoch together, and the High King of Andomhaim was no fool. The more Ridmark could tell him of the Dragon Cult, the better a chance they would have in the upcoming battles. And Arandar would want to know how Accolon had fared in the months since Caitrin Rhosmor’s murder.
“Then let us set out as soon as the column is back in formation and the dead men have been buried,” said Constantine. “Comes Joram, you are in command until I return.”
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