Frostborn: The Iron Tower (25 page)

“You could rule this world,” said the Artificer. 

“I am a loyal man of the Dux Tarrabus of the Carhainii,” said Paul, belching. He finished off his wine and poured himself another cup. 

“Yes, your master,” said the Artificer. “A master who esteems you so much that he has sent you from the heart of your realm to this wretched outpost on the edge of the wilderness. Tell me, how much loyalty do you feel to such a master as that?”

The Dux had never treated Paul badly. Tarrabus Carhaine valued loyalty above all things, and was willing to forgive the failures of his servants so long as they did not betray him. And despite Paul’s occasional (and excusable) failures, he had remained in the Dux’s favor. Yet had the Dux ever rewarded him as his talents deserved? By now Paul ought to have been named a Comes, or one of the household officials of Castra Carhaine. Instead Paul had been named the Constable of the Iron Tower and shunted off to the desolation of the Wilderland, left to fight Mhorites and Vhaluuskans and kobolds raiding out of the wild lands. 

“I feel,” said Paul, gesturing with his wine cup, “that he has not rewarded me as he ought.”

“Are you a dog, to beg scraps from your master?” said the Artificer. “You should take what is yours. You could rule a realm of your own, all the lands from Urd Mazekathar to the southern sea. All this can be yours if you but reach out and take it!” 

“No,” said Paul, “no, it can’t.” The Artificer’s words stirred something in his memory. The tale of the Dominus Christus’s temptation in the desert, which he had heard from the village priest of Caudea as a child. Of course, he had thought the priest’s teachings to be rubbish even then, and that was before Tarrabus had inducted him in the Enlightened. Had any priest of the church ever wielded power to match that of an Initiated?

Yet the Artificer’s words seemed similar to the temptations the Dominus Christus had experienced in the desert. 

“Why not?” said the Artificer.

“Because,” said Paul, “I am only a knight and an Initiated of the Third Circle. Tarrabus is the Lord of House Carhainii, the Dux of Caerdracon, and the Initiated of the Seventh Circle. And when Shadowbearer takes the soulstone, Tarrabus will be the High King.”

“Then he is stronger than you?” said the Artificer.

“Obviously,” said Paul, draining and then refilling his wine cup. “For the undead spirit of an ancient wizard, you are remarkably obtuse.” 

“But you can be stronger,” said the Artificer, “if you but accept my power.”

Paul laughed. “Come now, sir. I’m sure your power will have a price. Or you’ll want something from me. I haven’t lived this long by betraying Tarrabus Carhaine, and I certainly will not start now.”

“You are wise to doubt me,” said the Artificer, “but my words are sincere. Take my power, and the world shall be yours. Tarrabus Carhaine shall bow before you, and whatever you wish shall be yours for the taking.”

“How very generous,” said Paul, wondering why the Artificer’s words did not alarm him. They really should have. No one offered power without a price.

Yet he could not bring himself to care. A side effect of his new power, perhaps?

“To prove my good faith,” said the Artificer, “I shall give you a warning.”

“Of what?” said Paul, casting aside an empty wineskin and reaching for another. 

“Of the impending attack,” said the Artificer. “Your foes and mine shall assail the walls of this fortress tonight, within a matter of hours.”

“I’m sure,” said Paul. 

“Your scouts have grown lax,” said the Artificer, “and failed to notice the raiders gathering in the woods. Soon they will strike.” 

“I very much doubt,” said Paul, “that they have enough men to get over the walls.” He took a sip of the wine and winced. It wasn’t as good as the wine from the first skin. “And if they do attack, the crossbowmen and the engines will make short work of them.” 

“Are you so sure?” said the Artificer.

“Entirely,” said Paul. “I suppose you’ll offer me your power next, and then I’ll accept it in desperation and you’ll exact your price.” He snorted. “I am not so much a fool as you think.”

“Presumably not,” said the Artificer. Was there a note of mockery in that rasping whisper? “But you shall see soon enough.”

Paul hesitated, a hint of unease worming into the chill of the shadows filling him. Perhaps he ought to check. Command the guards to extra vigilance. 

But why bother? No one would attack the Iron Tower. Who would bother? Ridmark, yes, but Ridmark was a renegade with a ragged band of fools. Let him make all the mischief he wanted outside the walls. If he tried to break into the Iron Tower, the guards would kill him, and if he actually got past the guards, Tzoragar and the dvargir would dispose of him in short order. 

And if not…why, Paul would just have to kill the Gray Knight himself. 

The power of the shadows filling him made his victory certain.

He found himself looking forward to it.

Paul smiled and took another drink of wine as he contemplated that pleasant thought.

###

“Now,” said Ridmark.

It was almost midnight, and the only light was the pale blue glow of moonlight through the narrow windows. Morigna got to her feet at once, while Jager yawned and stood.

“Close to midnight,” said Jager. “The ideal time for thievery.” His grin flashed in the gloom. “You have natural instincts for this sort of thing, Gray Knight.”

“How splendid to know,” said Morigna, “that if we do in fact save the world from the Frostborn, the Gray Knight can turn to petty burglary to finance his retirement.” 

Jager’s grin turned in her direction. “Though if you need to provide for yourself in your old age, Morigna dear, Mara and I shall hire you to stand in our gardens to scare away crows.”

“You, little thief,” said Morigna, “could not afford me.”

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark. 

He glided up the stairs and opened the lock, pushing the door open as silently as he could manage. The small courtyard was deserted, though he saw the dull glare of the ovens’ flames from the kitchens. Ridmark led the way to the main courtyard, and then risked a quick walk to the base of the curtain wall. Fortunately, no one noticed them. The night guards had their attention on the forests. Ridmark circled around the base of the wall, Morigna and Jager following him. He scanned the ramparts as his eyes adapted to the pale, blue-tinted moonlight. He saw no guards upon the ramparts of the northern wall, but firelight flickered in the windows of the towers over the gate. The guards would be within.

Unfortunately, so was the mechanism for the gate’s portcullis. 

Ridmark let out a long breath. They would have to overpower the guards, open the gate, and hold it open until Crowlacht and the others got inside. He looked at the gate towers for a moment, thinking. 

Then he turned to whisper in Morigna’s ear.

“Your sleeping mist,” said Ridmark. “Can you cast it through the door?”

She thought for a moment. “I think so. It will likely be effective, as the mist will be concentrated in a confined area.” 

He nodded and stooped to whisper in Jager’s ear. “Morigna will stun the guards. When she does, secure them. I will open the gate.”

“And then?” said Jager.

“And then we send the signal,” said Ridmark, “and hold the gate until Crowlacht arrives with Calliande and the others.” 

“The signal is likely to draw attention,” said Jager.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, “which is why we shall have to fight.”

Jager nodded in the darkness and took a deep breath. “Well. Let’s get on with it, shall we? I’d like to give Mara a bracelet by dawn.”

Ridmark expected Morigna to make another cutting remark, but she only nodded, her face set in the hard mask she assumed when going into danger. He beckoned, and they climbed the stairs to the ramparts. Beyond the battlements Ridmark saw the dark forests of the Wilderland, eerie in the pale moonlight. There was no sign of Crowlacht’s warband, though that meant nothing. The cunning old headman knew how to keep his warriors in order. 

Ridmark strode along the ramparts until they came to the door of the western gate tower. It was closed and locked, firelight leaking through the narrow windows. Ridmark gestured to Morigna, and she crept forward, craning her neck to peer through the window into the guard room. Then she closed her eyes and started gesturing with her free hand, murmuring under her breath as she summoned magical force. Purple fire blazed around her fingers, and she pointed at the gatehouse. The light from the windows dimmed as the guard room filled with mist, and Ridmark heard a muffled shout of alarm, followed by the clatter of armor as the guards collapsed. He looked around, wondering if the purple light or the shouts had attracted notice, but the Iron Tower remained quiet.

So far. 

“Hurry,” murmured Morigna. “It will not last for long.”

“Jager,” said Ridmark. 

The halfling thief nodded, produced his tools, and went to work. In short order he opened the lock, and Ridmark pushed through the door and into the guardroom. The room was round, with a table in the center and racks of spears and crossbows upon the wall. Five men-at-arms lay slumped on the floor, unconscious from Morigna’s spell. Jager started tying them up, using their belts to bind their hands and wrists and stacking their weapons upon the table. Ridmark crossed the guard room and opened the door on the far side. Beyond was a rectangular room over the gate itself, the walls lined with a clever array of gears and chains and counterweights. The machine would let one man raise or lower the portcullis and open the gates unaided. 

“Go to the top of the gate tower,” said Ridmark, “and light the signal fire on the count of ninety. When you do I’ll open the gate.”

“Why not do it now?” said Morigna. 

“Because,” said Ridmark, “the moment that signal fire goes up, every man-at-arms and knight in the Iron Tower will realize the gates are open. We’ll have to hold them off until Crowlacht can arrive. Go.”

She ran from the room, and Ridmark began counting, moving to the two massive steel levers in the center of the floor. At the count of ninety, he gripped one of the levers and pulled with all his strength, his muscles straining. For a moment the lever did not move, and then shifted toward him with a massive, resonant click. Clanging noises rose around him, and the gears upon the wall began to spin, the chains rattling as the machinery raised the portcullis.

Ridmark looked around in dismay. He had not realized that the apparatus would be so damned loud. The other guards would surely notice the noise. A sudden shout came to his ears, and Ridmark saw a door on the eastern side of the lever room.

He had made a mistake. The gate had two towers. Both towers would be manned. Morigna had neutralized one, but not the other. 

He took his staff in both hands.

The door burst open a moment later, and five men-at-arms raced into the lever room, skidding to a stop when they saw Ridmark. They wore chain mail and blue tabards. 

“Leave,” said Ridmark. “Now. No one need die today. The Constable is a servant of dark powers.”

“It’s him,” said one of the men-at-arms. “The Gray Knight.”

“Kill him!” shouted another. “Kill him and the Dux’s reward shall be ours!” 

The men-at-arms charged, and Ridmark jumped into motion.

He dodged the first thrust of a sword, his staff moving in a blur, and shattered the man’s hand. The man-at-arms fell with a bellow of furious pain, clutching his broken hand, and the other end of Ridmark’s staff slammed into his temple and sent him sprawling. The remaining four men-at-arms fanned out around Ridmark, trying to surround him, but he whipped his staff in a circle, the blur of the weapon driving them back. Before they recovered their balance, Ridmark charged to his left, his staff striking the knee of the nearest man. The man-at-arms bellowed, and Ridmark finished him off with a strike to the head, reversing his staff to deflect a sword thrust aimed at his back. 

The other three men attacked in a rush, and Ridmark retreated, his staff blurring right and left. They were driving him toward the whirling gears and clanking chains of the machinery. If his cloak got caught in the gears, or worse, his leg, the fight and then his life would be over in short order. 

He feinted to the right, and his target flinched. Ridmark changed course at the last second, his staff striking left, the power of his blow ripping the sword from the hands of a man-at-arms. The blade struck the gears with a clang and bounced away, and Ridmark drove the end of his staff into the man’s stomach. The man-at-arms doubled over with a wheeze, and Ridmark brought his staff down across the back of his neck.

The man-at-arms collapsed, but the remaining two kept attacking. Ridmark retreated, the clank and groan of the gears filling his ears.

Then one of the men-at-arms stiffed with a scream of pain, and Jager appeared behind him, sword and dwarven dagger dripping with blood. Jager stabbed again, and the man-at-arms collapsed. The final man-at-arms threw himself at Ridmark with a terrified scream, and Ridmark dodged. The man-at-arms lost his balance and stumbled, falling face-first into the gears.

There was a hideous crunching noise, a spray of crimson mist, and then the headless corpse fell to the floor. 

“God and the apostles,” said Jager, stepping away from the corpse. “A bad way to go.” 

“There are better ones,” said Ridmark. The western door burst open, and he lifted his staff. But Morigna came running into the room, her own staff at the ready. 

“Ridmark!” said Morigna. “What happened?”

“I miscalculated,” said Ridmark. “Did you light the signal fire?”

“Aye,” said Morigna. 

“Any sign of Crowlacht yet?” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Morigna, “but it is so dark in the woods I could not see. But the gate was noisy, and the fire was visible. The castra is roused, and…”

The clanking of the gears faded as the gates finished opening, and the sound of horns rang over the Iron Tower. 

The guards were calling the men to battle.

“Now what?” said Jager.

“Barricade the doors, both of them,” said Ridmark. “Now we hold this room until Crowlacht and the others arrive.”