Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (38 page)

The creature had many names, but Tarrabus’s father had called the high elven wizard Shadowbearer, and Tarrabus used that name. It had been Tarrabus’s father, the Dux Samothus Carhaine, who had introduced Tarrabus to both Shadowbearer and the teachings of the Enlightened of Incariel. The strong would rule over the weak, Samothus had said, and Tarrabus would be strong, not matter how cruel the lessons, no matter how much torment it took.

Or else.

But Tarrabus had learned his father’s lessons well. 

So well, in fact, that he had murdered the old tyrant and taken the title of Dux of Caerdracon himself shortly before Mhalek’s invasion of the Northerland. His father had been right. The old faith and the old morality were deluding lies, and the strong ruled and the weak suffered. Tarrabus had never doubted this, never wavered in his faith in the new order.

Except for when he spoke to Aelia Licinius and watched her tend to the orphans and widows of Castra Marcaine. 

She had made him question.

His sword hand curled into a fist. Even now, after five years, he still felt pain and rage at her death. 

She never should have married Ridmark Arban. The wretched Swordbearer had been too weak to save her, in the end. 

“You are displeased, my lord Dux?” 

Shadowbearer’s strange voice was deeper and more resonant than any human voice, yet carried a strange, reverberating echo. As if two voices were trying to speak through the same mouth at once.

Tarrabus realized that his thoughts were wandering, that a scowl had come over his face, and he smoothed his expression back to calm. He was the Dux of Caerdracon, and the Dux did not show his emotions before lesser men. 

As did the High King. And within the next two years, Tarrabus Carhaine would be High King of the realm of Andomhaim, once the decrepit Pendragon and his foolish sons had been consigned to the grave. 

The first steps had already been taken.

“No,” said Tarrabus, turning his mind to the task at hand, “no, I am not displeased.”

“You are not, lord Dux?” said Rotherius. “The Red Family failed to kill the exile.” 

“Disappointed, if not surprised,” said Tarrabus, descending from the dais toward one of the hearths. It was cold this far north, even in the end of the spring. “The exile is a formidable foe, even without a Soulblade. Perhaps you are fortunate to be alive at all.”

Rotherius scowled. “Aye, my lord Dux. That trickery with the marsh gas…clever business. But fear not, my lord. Ridmark Arban has slain too many of our brothers. He has earned the lasting enmity of the Red Family, and the Matriarch has decreed that we shall hunt him down.” He paused. “With no additional charge to you, my lord Dux.”

“How very gracious,” said Tarrabus, his voice dry. “Go about your business.”

Rotherius bowed and left the hall of the Iron Tower. Tarrabus stood in silence for a moment, Paul waiting at his right hand. A distant, faint scream rang out from the depths of the Tower’s dungeons. The Enlightened of Incariel kept many prisoners here, those too useful to kill. Many of Tarrabus’s personal enemies had ended up in the dungeons below the fortress

Given that he was the Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened, his enemies were their enemies. 

“I thought you said,” said Tarrabus, “that this wretched Eternalist of yours would prove more than a match for Ridmark and Calliande.”

“I did,” said Shadowbearer, walking from the dais. “Alas, it seems my faith was misplaced. Victory was in his hand…and then he neglected to pay his hirelings. A simple, foolish, spiteful mistake, but enough to ruin all.”

“Now what?” said Tarrabus. “We must have that empty soulstone for the new order to arise. Otherwise the next opportunity will not arrive for another century and a half.” He fully intended to be alive then, of course, but he had no wish to wait that long. “Can’t you simply find another?”

“No,” murmured Shadowbearer, his shadow pointing in the wrong direction as he approached. “I barely stole that one from the caverns of Cathair Solas. Ardrhythain will not allow the lapse again. It must be the soulstone Calliande carries.”

“You should have killed her yourself,” said Tarrabus, “when you had the chance.”

Paul flinched. No one else would dare to speak to Shadowbearer like that. But the Enlightened of Incariel were Tarrabus’s to command, and he would soon be the High King of Andomhaim. He would not display weakness before anyone, not even Shadowbearer himself.

“Plainly,” said Shadowbearer. Paul let out a relieved sigh. “Even I am not infallible, Tarrabus Carhaine.” He looked to the east. “Not yet, anyway. Alas, at the time Ardrhythain was hunting for me, and this would be a most inconvenient time to die. He continues his hunt for me, and I must move on.”

“Here?” said Tarrabus. “He is coming here?”

A ripple went through the ancient wizard’s shadow.

“Indeed,” said Shadowbearer, “and you will be glad that I shall lure him elsewhere, for the battle between us would turn the Iron Tower to smoking slag. But fear not. I shall return, and there is yet a year to open the way.”

Without another word, he turned and disappeared in a swirl of darkness. 

“The wizard is…mercurial,” said Paul at last. 

“He is,” said Tarrabus. “And we must have that soulstone, Sir Paul. The new order cannot arise without it. Ridmark Arban will die for his crimes, of course, and we shall dispose of that…tattered anachronism that calls herself Calliande. But all things in due time.” Ridmark had spent five years warning of the return of the Frostborn. Let him see the depths of his failure. Let him know the utter dregs of final despair before death. “But first we must have the soulstone.”

“But how, my lord Dux?” said Paul. “If Shadowbearer fears to confront Calliande, and his minions have failed to overcome Ridmark…how shall we obtain the soulstone?” 

“Main force has failed,” said Tarrabus, “so the soulstone shall be stolen away.”

Paul frowned. “That would require the skill of a master thief.”

“Yes.” Tarrabus glanced at his right hand, where his signet ring had once been. “And I know just where to find one.”

Another scream rang out from the dungeons.

THE END

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Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: THE MASTER THIEF

An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:

In the Year of Our Lord 538, Malahan Pendragon and the Keeper of Avalon led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm through a magical gate to a new world, a world far from the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here Malahan founded the new realm of Andomhaim and raised his citadel at Tarlion, and in time his new kingdom spread far and wide.

And the knights of Andomhaim encountered the kindreds of this new world, the orcs and the manetaur, the dark elves and the dvargir, and waged many wars against them. 

Yet not all the kindreds they encountered were foes.

For the orcs and the dark elves kept the halflings as slaves. Slender and short of stature, the halflings were nimble and stealthy, yet lacked the strength of men and orcs and dwarves. Therefore they were easily enslaved, and the pagan kings of the orcs kept vast numbers of halflings to toil in their fields and serve in their citadels.

Yet the High King overthrew the orcish kings of Khaluusk. And in joy and gratitude, the halflings of Khaluusk swore solemn oaths to the High King and his nobles, to serve forever as free servants in their fields and houses. Thus were the men of Andomhaim free to pursue war against the many foes that threatened them.

And so the halflings joyfully labor for their masters to this day, grateful to serve their liberators. 

CHAPTER 1 - WINGS

Forty-one days after it began, forty-one days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban moved alone through the forest. 

Something felt wrong, and he wanted to have a look around. 

The forest was quiet, the gray light of dawn just brightening the trees. It was the end of spring and the beginning of summer, and new green leaves whispered in the breeze. He moved in silence through the trees, his boots making no sound against the forest floor, his heavy staff ready in his right hand. The forest was quiet, but it did not mean it would stay that way. Warbands of pagan orcs might come down from the hills of Vhaluusk to the north or the mountains of Kothluusk to the west. Packs of lupivirii prowled the forest, and bands of dvargir and kobolds raided from the Deeps in search of captives and loot. 

And there were older dangers in the woods. The wild forest had been the site of many wars over the centuries, battles amongst the tribes of orcs, between the orcs and the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, between the men of Andomhaim and the urdmordar. 

Between the men of Andomhaim and the Frostborn.

Ridmark looked northwest. He saw nothing but trees in that direction, trees and boulders and fallen leaves.

But he knew what waited for him to the northwest. The spell-haunted Torn Hills and the massive ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, the fortress rising like a tower of bones jutting from the earth. The undead Warden, ancient and mighty and cruel.

And the answer Ridmark had sought for so long.

The secret of the return of the Frostborn. 

But he could not learn the secret if some creature in the forest killed him first.

So Ridmark kept going, remaining watchful. 

Something uneasy rattled in his mind. Of course, he was never at ease, not really. Not since the day he had pursued Mhalek to the great hall of Castra Marcaine, had seen Aelia’s blood spill upon the black and white tiles of the hall…

He pushed that out of his mind. This was not the time to dwell upon it. 

Given that a more immediate danger might lie at hand.

Ridmark had spent the last five years wandering from one end of the Wilderland to another, seeking answers about the Frostborn and finding very little. Yet he had grown familiar with the forests of the Wilderland, and this one felt wrong. 

Too quiet, and no sign of any animals. Ridmark could think of any number of reasons for that, and none of them were good. The creatures of the dark elves haunted the woods, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things. If Ridmark encountered one, he would die. He had no weapon that could harm a creature of dark magic. Once he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle, but he had lost that, too, through his own folly. Though there were any number of more mundane predators that would frighten away animals – fire drakes, swamp drakes, wyverns, manticores, and others.

He stopped and stood in silence, listening.

Perhaps he was simply being paranoid. 

But he had not survived this long by ignoring his instincts, and his instincts told him that something was wrong. 

Ridmark needed a better look around, and he knew where to find one. 

He moved at a quick, silent run through the trees, weaving around boulders as the ground grew rockier. The terrain sloped upward, and the trees cleared to reveal a tall, stony hill jutting from the earth. Atop the hill rose a half-ruined tower of rough stone. Ridmark had no idea who had built it. Perhaps an orcish war chief had used it as a stronghold. Or maybe a group of fleeing dwarves had constructed it as a hasty, temporary refuge. Or perhaps the knights of Andomhaim had raised it in the past as a stronghold against the dark elves or the urdmordar or the Frostborn.

But whoever had built the tower had been dead for centuries, and it stood abandoned atop the hill. Yet its crumbling shell still had a commanding view of the surrounding forest.

Ridmark made his way up the path to the top of the hill, staff ready in his hand. The tower had been abandoned when he had last passed here, but someone or something might have claimed occupancy since. Yet the tower remained undisturbed. Flowering bushes grew around its base, and the interior was empty. Half-rotted timbers slumped against the walls, covered with lichen and mushrooms, and a rough stone staircase wound its way to the tower’s top. Ridmark climbed the stairs, taking care to keep his balance upon the uneven stones. It would be a grim joke to have survived Urd Morlemoch, two female urdmordar, a renegade Eternalist, and a crazed orcish shaman only to trip and break his neck upon a loose step. 

He reached the tower’s top and found that he could see for miles, the green forest spreading like a mottled carpet over the ground. To the northeast he saw the distant grim shapes of the mountains of Vhaluusk. Kharlacht had shown little interest in ever returning to his homeland, and having visited, Ridmark could not blame him. To the west he glimpsed the massive, white-crowned shapes of the mountains of Kothluusk. The pagan orcs of Kothluusk lived among the vales and slopes of those mountains, while the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms maintained their fortresses beneath the mountains, forever at war with the orcs. 

And to the northwest, Ridmark just made out a faint white haze.

The mist rolling through the spell-ravaged lands of the Torn Hills, haunted by spirits and urvaalgs and worse things. 

Urd Morlemoch waited beyond those hills. 

It was not much farther now. Another ten days to Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark thought. Then they could enter the ruined citadel and confront the Warden. For all his power and magic, the Warden was imprisoned within Urd Morlemoch, and the Warden was bored. He enjoyed games, lethal, cruel games. Ridmark had survived one of the Warden’s games, and he thought he could so again. 

Just as he had thought he could save Aelia from Mhalek.