Frostborn: The Iron Tower (16 page)

“Do not blame yourself,” said Mara. “You did everything you could for me. More than I could have asked.” She looked up at Ridmark. “Gray Knight. Thank you for sparing Jager. You would have been within your rights to kill him.”

Ridmark nodded. He heard something creak, and realized it was his staff, his knuckles shining white in his hand as he gripped it.

They stood in silence for a moment.

“I can do it,” said Morigna, her voice gentler than Ridmark had ever heard it. “If no one else is willing. I can make it quick.”

“Thank you,” said Mara. 

“Mara,” said Jager, his voice a raspy whisper. 

“No, don’t,” she said. “Please don’t. You know this has to be done. You know there is no other way.”

At last Jager nodded.

“I love you,” said Mara.

“I love you, too,” said Jager. 

Mara kissed him and stood, her face pale and drawn. “I am ready.”

Morigna took a deep breath and reached for the dwarven dagger on her belt.

“No,” said Ridmark. 

The others looked at him. 

“This is not the way,” said Ridmark. 

“Mara wants it herself,” said Morigna. “You might have saved me, and you might have saved Calliande. You saved all of us at some point. But you cannot save her.”

“Perhaps not,” said Ridmark, “but she is not yet lost.” He strode forward, looking at each of them. “We are presuming that we know the future beyond all doubt. We are acting as God, deciding who shall live and who shall die, but we are acting on imperfect knowledge.”

“I know what will happen to me,” said Mara. 

“Do you?” said Ridmark. “You have resisted the transformation so far. We drove off the Artificer when he tried to possess you. Calliande stopped you from transforming. What is to say that you cannot continue? And if we retrieve your bracelet from the Iron Tower, what then? What if it can hold back your transformation indefinitely?”

“Do not taunt me with false hope,” said Mara. 

“I give you my word, upon whatever oaths you wish me to swear,” said Ridmark, “that if you transform, that if you lose yourself to your dark elven blood, that I shall kill you myself.” He touched the handle of the dwarven axe at his belt. “I have the means to do it. And if you insist that Morigna kill you now, I shall not stop her. But it is too soon. We do not know your fate beyond all doubt. What if we kill you and retrieve the bracelet tomorrow? Would you want Jager to live with the burden of that guilt?”

“That is a cruel argument,” said Mara.

“Is it wrong, though?” said Ridmark.

She stared at him for a while, blinking.

“No,” said Mara. She shook her head. “You are…persuasive. I can see how you led armies. Why all of you follow him.”

“Well and good,” said Morigna. “So you do not know the future, Ridmark? Fine. You do not know that the sun will set tonight, either…but it likely will. And we know what Mara’s future likely holds. So how shall we avert that future?”

“Simple,” said Ridmark. “We will storm the Iron Tower and take back the soulstone and the bracelet.”

Morigna raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“We are but seven,” said Kharlacht.

“Eight, with Mara,” said Jager. He sounded a bit steadier than before.

“Eight, then,” said Kharlacht. 

“And while I doubt not our valor, having seen it firsthand,” said Caius, “eight against a fortified castra manned by men-at-arms and dvargir warriors is rather long odds.”

“In the scriptures of the church, did not Gideon prevail with three hundred warriors against the Midianite horde?” said Ridmark. 

Caius laughed, and Morigna rolled her eyes.

“Three hundred is still more than eight,” said Kharlacht. 

“To storm the Iron Tower,” said Morigna, “we need an army.”

“And where,” said Calliande, “are we going to acquire an army?”

“From people I can persuade,” said Ridmark. “We are going to Vulmhosk.”

Chapter 11 - Ascension

Sir Paul Tallmane stalked the Iron Tower’s ramparts, glaring at the forests to the north. The men-at-arms stood at rigid attention as he passed, for they knew that if he found anyone lax, the offender would be flogged in the courtyard. 

There had been too many mistakes already. 

And it was all Ridmark Arban’s fault. 

It had started so smoothly. The Dux had sent Paul from Coldinium with the soulstone, commanding him to secure it within the Iron Tower until Shadowbearer arrived. Ridmark and his ragged little band of followers would try to retrieve the soulstone from Tarrabus’s domus, but they would find Rotherius and the Mhorites waiting for them. Not even the fabled Gray Knight himself could escape from such a trap. 

The first inkling that something that gone wrong came a day later, when the dvargir had found them. They had almost come to blows, but Paul knew that Tzoragar, Dzark of the Great House Klzathur of the city of Khaldurmar, had been sent by Shadowbearer, and he knew better than to argue with the Master’s commands. Not all of his knights and men-at-arms were members of the Enlightened and were repulsed at the thought of marching with the enemies of the High King, but Paul had silenced the dissenters. They knew better than to question the Constable’s will. It helped that the dvargir had remained out of sight, guarding the soulstone. 

Paul’s hand twitched toward his sword hilt as he remembered what had happened next.

Somehow Ridmark Arban set that fire, and he had almost stolen the soulstone. If not for Tzoragar and his dvargir guards, the exile might well have escaped with the stone. Even the possibility of it made panic flutter at the edges of Paul’s awareness. Shadowbearer had not cared when Paul had failed to kill Ridmark Arban at Aranaeus, but he would definitely care if Paul lost the soulstone. 

He stopped and leaned on the battlements, staring into the forests, the guards standing rigid and at attention.

He had thought the soulstone would be safe in the Iron Tower. 

Then he had arrived and found that Mara had escaped. He had almost forgotten about the halfling rat’s half-breed whore. Greater matters were at stake, and as much as Paul would have enjoyed killing Jager (or killing Mara in front of Jager), he dared not fail the Dux and the Master.  

And then his scouts had reported that a man in a gray cloak had fought off the Tower’s men-at-arms and helped Mara escape.

That proved Ridmark and Jager and Mara were in league together. Perhaps they had plotted it together from the beginning. Paul struck the battlements with a fist, and the men-at-arms flinched. Those damned Red Brothers. Tarrabus had spoken so highly of them, yet they had failed to kill Ridmark at Aranaeus and again in Coldinium. 

The flutter of panic at the edge of his mind worsened.

Paul had tried to kill Ridmark in Aranaeus…and he, too, had failed. In fact, it had been worse than a failure. He had fought Ridmark with two of his men-at-arms and two brothers of the Red Family. Five against one, and Ridmark had beaten them. He would have killed Paul, but that pretty blond Magistria had changed his mind. 

Ridmark had promised that if he ever saw Paul again, Paul was going to die.

And Sir Paul Tallmane, vassal of Tarrabus Carhaine, Constable of the Iron Tower, and Enlightened of Incariel, believed him. He had never been afraid of anything in his life. He was strong, and the strong did what they liked and the weak suffered what they must. He had known that all his life. Joining the Enlightened of Incariel had merely codified that. 

But Ridmark Arban was stronger than him. 

Why couldn’t the damned Red Family and the damned Mhorites simply have killed him?

“My lord Constable.”

Paul looked up, realized that one of the men was speaking. “What?”

“Sir Marcast’s patrol,” said the man-at-arms, pointing. “It returns.”

Paul saw a dozen horsemen riding towards the gate. After Ridmark and his pet Wilderland witch rescued Mara, Paul had sent out six different patrols to find the exile and his followers. So far five of the patrols had returned empty-handed, which did not surprise Paul. Ridmark had survived in the Wilderland for five years after Mhalek’s death, and none of Paul’s men-at-arms were that skilled at woodcraft. 

Sir Marcast had gone out with twelve men, and returned with twelve men. Evidently he had failed as well. 

Paul descended from the ramparts, his boots slapping against the stone stairs. The tower of iron rose from the heart of the keep, a massive slab of rough metal. Ugly damned thing. The dark elves of old had raised the useless tower, or so the legends claimed, though Paul could not imagine why they had bothered. 

He reached the courtyard as Sir Marcast reined up, his men-at-arms following suit. Marcast Tetricus was a few years younger than Paul, a son of a noble family of Taliand. He was skilled with sword and lance and horse, a capable leader, a pious knight, and Paul utterly hated him. Marcast was not one of the Enlightened of Incariel, and the pious fool would likely turn violent against if he ever learned the truth. Paul would probably have to kill him, and found himself looking forward to it. 

But later. Right now protecting the soulstone was the most important thing. 

He wished the Master would arrive and claim it.

Marcast removed his helm, revealing a mop of curly black hair and a close-cropped black beard. “My lord Constable.”

“Well?” said Paul. “Did you find them?”

“We found the renegade’s camp,” said Marcast. “Peculiar thing. It was like some of the plants nearby had been killed by frost, but it’s the start of summer.”

“Yet I take it Ridmark himself was long gone?” said Paul. 

“We found no trail,” said Marcast. “The man knows how to conceal his movements.”

“Or you were too blind to see it,” said Paul.

Marcast’s expression did not change, but his eyes tightened. “Perhaps my lord Constable would care to point out the trail for the benefit of his inept men.” 

Annoyance surged through Paul, and he almost ordered Marcast arrested. But none of Marcast’s men were members of the Enlightened. If it came to violence, a good portion of the garrison might die then and there. 

And that was exactly the sort of chaos that Ridmark Arban would exploit. Maybe he had even planned it.

“No,” said Paul. “A waste of further effort. We shall send out the usual patrols for the next few days, but no more. I suspect the exile has escaped with the prisoner, and I doubt we shall see them again.”

“Then we are to let a prisoner escape without lifting a finger?” said Marcast. 

“If you had been able to find her,” said Paul, “then we would not have that problem.” 

“What was her crime?” said Marcast.

Paul had not expected that. “What?”

“Her crime,” said Marcast. “A woman that small…what did she do? What crime was so severe as to warrant imprisonment here, at the very edge of the realm?”

“That is not your concern,” said Paul. “Suffice it to say, she offended Dux Tarrabus, and so deserved her fate.”

Marcast’s eyes narrowed. “Is offending the Dux a crime worthy of imprisonment, then?”

Paul scowled. “It is, sir knight, and unless you come to wisdom and hold your tongue, it is a fate that you might share as well.”

Marcast opened his mouth to argue. “But…”

“Enough,” said Paul. “I am the Constable of the Iron Tower, and I command here. The matter is closed. The prisoner has escaped, and that is that. But I suspect she will be back, accompanied this time by that damned renegade. They will want to steal the treasure the Dux sent here from Coldinium.” That had been the story circulated among the men who were not part of the Enlightened. “When they make an attempt upon the treasure, we shall recapture them, or kill them if they resist.” He pointed at the knight. “Go about your duties, Sir Marcast. And remember. No man is to set foot in the great hall without my express permission.”

Marcast did not look happy, but he nodded. 

Paul stalked across the courtyard. His scabbard tapped against his leg with every step, and he gave it an impatient tug back into place. Soon he came to the double doors to the great hall, the massive iron monolith rising high overhead. Four trustworthy men-at-arms, all of them sworn to the Enlightened, stood guard. Their sergeant bowed and opened the doors to the great hall, and Paul stepped inside, the guards pulling the doors closed behind him.

The hall rose around him, its high, vaulted ceiling cloaked in shadow. The far wall was the rough iron surface of the tower itself, jagged and rippled in the light coming from the twin hearths. A dais rose from the far end of the hall, supporting a single wooden curule chair. Traditionally the Constable only sat in the chair when issuing formal judgments.

Right now the chair held the soulstone. 

As ever Paul found his eyes drawn to the thing. It was a lump of milky white crystal the size of his fist, a faint white glow dancing within its depths. It did not look that impressive, but whenever Paul looked upon it, he felt a terrible sense of…possibility. Like looking at the side of a mountain in the heartbeat before an avalanche, or great wave in the final instant before it struck the shore. 

The stone had power. Or potential power, perhaps. Paul did not fully understand what the Master would do with it, only that he required it to restore the Frostborn and establish the new order where Dux Tarrabus and the Enlightened of Incariel would rule the world as gods. But both the Master and the Dux had made it clear that they required the soulstone …which meant failing them would be a very bad idea. 

Fortunately, the dvargir stood in a ring around the crystal. Ten of the dvargir guarded the soulstone, their black swords and axes in hand. Tzoragar himself led them. Paul frankly could not tell the dvargir apart, but the reliefs of crimson gold on the Dzark’s armor marked him out.

“Lord Constable,” said Tzoragar, his lined, gray-skinned face expressionless.

“Lord Dzark,” said Paul, his tongue tangling around the strange title. He detested the dvargir almost as much as he detested Sir Marcast Tetricus. The dvargir were unfailing polite, and ferocious fighters in battle. They were also utterly convinced of their own superiority, that one day they would rule the world with all the other kindreds as their slaves.