Frostborn: The World Gate (16 page)

They passed freeholds and farms, all of them empty. The freeholders and their families had withdrawn back to the safety of Dun Licinia and its stone walls, the men taking up arms to serve in Joram’s militia. Only four and a half months ago the people of Dun Licinia had come under attack from the Mhalekite orcs, and now the Mhorites were coming as well. 

If Ridmark and Calliande failed here, far more people than the population of Dun Licinia would perish. 

Dun Licinia came into sight shortly before noon, a stone-walled town siting in the center of a large valley, the River Marcaine flowing past on its way to the River Moradel. Even from a distance, Ridmark saw that the town was on a war footing. Men patrolled the ramparts of the walls, and siege engines rested atop the octagonal watch towers. The banner of Dux Gareth flew from the keep in the center of the town.

A surge of memory went through Ridmark. He had been here on the day it had all began, the day he met Calliande and Caius and Kharlacht, the day the omen of blue fire marked the conjunction of the thirteen moons. He had fought on those walls, beating back the Mhalekite warriors as they tried to storm the ramparts. He had dueled Kharlacht before the gate, and then had charged towards the old orcish burial mounds north of the town, trying to stop Qazarl’s spell. 

And in this valley, when Dun Licinia had been only a keep, he had led the army that had defeated Mhalek’s horde, the fighting ranging through the valley and all the way to the foothills of the Black Mountain itself. Mhalek had escaped the fighting and fled southeast to Castra Marcaine, determined to take vengeance upon Ridmark. He had killed Aelia, causing Ridmark to leave the realm in search of both the Frostborn and his own death…and now here he was again, back at Dun Licinia for a third time. 

Was history repeating itself? 

He pushed aside the thoughts. Such gloomy musings were common on the eve of battle, but they could become a dangerous distraction. And if history repeated itself, it did so a new way every time. This was Ridmark’s chance to stop Shadowbearer, to prevent the Frostborn from ever returning to Andomhaim. 

He glanced at Calliande riding with the staff of the Keeper across her saddle and felt a bit foolish. Ridmark had been seeking answers about the Frostborn for ten years, ever since he had killed Gothalinzur in the village of Victrix. Calliande had been preparing to stop their return for over two centuries, had sacrificed her entire life to prevent their return. 

Calliande saw him looking and smiled a little. “What is it?”

“A long journey,” said Ridmark, “to come back where we started.” 

“It was, wasn’t it?” she said. “Coldinium and the Iron Tower and Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, only to return to Dun Licinia again.” Her expression hardened. “Maybe this time we can end it.” 

They rode through the northern gate and into the town’s northern forum. Constantine’s men broke away, riding towards their barracks, while Ridmark and his companions followed the Swordbearer down the town’s central street. Dun Licinia was full to bursting, and it took time to push their way through the press. Everywhere Ridmark looked he saw men-at-arms in the colors of the House of the Licinii or Dux Gareth’s various vassals, knights in plate armor, and militiamen in leather or chain mail. Dux Gareth had decided to billet his men inside the town, and consequently there was little room left. Ridmark approved of the plan. Dun Licinia was well-fortified, and if Shadowbearer brought overwhelming force, then the army of the Northerland could retreat behind stone walls. 

Though if they were trapped here, they could not stop Shadowbearer from reaching the Black Mountain. Ridmark hoped Shadowbearer did not have enough Mhorites to bottle up the men of Andomhaim. 

They reached the town’s central forum. The keep rose on one side, a tall square tower encircled by a stone curtain wall, and a large stone church on the other. Tents and wagons laden with supplies filled most of the forum. It looked as if Dux Gareth and Sir Joram were preparing for a siege. The Dux of the Northerland had always been a thorough commander, careful to prepare for every contingency. 

Constantine reined up in the center of the forum and dropped out of his saddle, and Ridmark and the others followed suit. A small army of squires hurried forward to secure the horses, and Ridmark followed Constantine to the gate of the keep’s courtyard. A raised wooden platform stood there, supporting a table covered with maps. 

Sir Joram Agramore and Dux Gareth Licinius waited there. 

Joram was a heavyset man about Ridmark’s age, with curly red hair and bright green eyes. He wore mail and a surcoat, a sword waiting at his belt. Dux Gareth Licinius put Ridmark in mind of an old oak tree, weathered and battered but strong enough to withstand a storm. Wrinkles creased his olive-colored skin, and his hair had turned an iron-gray, but he wore his plate armor without the slightest trace of weariness. He looked older than Ridmark remembered, more tired. Ridmark had last seen the Dux five years ago, when the Master of the Order had expelled Ridmark from the Swordbearers and banished him. 

Gareth’s green eyes met Ridmark’s, and a flicker of expression went over the Dux’s face. Was the old man glad to see him? Angry? 

“Father,” said Constantine, bowing before the dais. “I have returned from patrol. We encountered a Mhorite warband north of the Black Mountain and defeated them.”

“I am glad you returned victorious, my son,” said Gareth. His voice was deep and resonant and hoarse, the voice of a man accustomed to shouting commands in battle. “And I see you have brought us visitors.” 

“I have, Father,” said Constantine. 

“Ridmark Arban,” said Gareth.

Ridmark bowed. “My lord Dux.”

“It seems you bring strife wherever you go,” said the Dux. 

Ridmark frowned. “I do not understand.” 

“Dux Tarrabus of Caerdracon leveled charges against you,” said Gareth, “claiming you led an army of bandits against the Iron Tower and murdered his vassal Paul Tallmane. The orcish headman Crowlacht and the King of Rhaluusk dispute those charges, and claim that Sir Paul was a servant of dark powers. Comes Corbanic Lamorus of Coldinium in turn has leveled charges against Tarrabus, claiming he hired the Red Family of Mhor to murder you, and that Tarrabus has turned against the Dominus Christus to worship the shadow of the dark elves. Your father has offered his support to Corbanic and the King of Rhaluusk.”

“My father?” said Ridmark, surprised. He had not spoken to the man since before the first battle of Dun Licinia. 

“Yes,” said Gareth. “Dux Leogrance has been suspicious of Tarrabus, and this has given him an opportunity. Both men are gathering followers and allies, and if the High King does not resolve the matter soon it may lead to civil war within the realm.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. “That was…not my intent.”

“Ridmark.” The Dux sighed. “I wished you had stayed in the Northerland.”

Ridmark blinked. “Truly, my lord? After…Aelia’s death?”

He had never spoken of Aelia’s death to her father. 

Gareth’s eyes were cold, his voice hard. “Aelia’s death was upon Mhalek’s head, not yours, and you did all you could to save her. So did I, for that matter. Perhaps we both failed. The last few years have been turbulent, and your help would have been welcome, especially now. Tarrabus Carhaine might have arranged for your banishment, but so long as I am Dux that decree will not be enforced in the Northerland.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. A wave of emotion went through him. Relief? Gratitude? He could not have said. 

“Perhaps it is just as well that he did, my lord Dux,” said Calliande. “For if Ridmark had not left the realm, I would be dead, along with many others.” 

“Lady Calliande,” said Sir Joram. “It is good to see you again. When Qazarl brought siege against Dun Licinia, many would have died from their wounds if not for your healing spells.” 

“And you, Sir Joram,” said Calliande. “I fear we have brought the storm to your doorstep yet again.” 

“Many of your companions, Ridmark,” said Gareth, “are not known to me.”

“This is Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, my lord,” said Ridmark. “An honorable warrior. Bonds of blood compelled him to follow Qazarl, but Qazarl betrayed him, and he has been a loyal ally ever since.” 

“We shall need every sword in the days to come,” said Gareth. 

“You remember Brother Caius, I trust?” said Ridmark. 

“Of course,” said Gareth. “I see your mission to bring the word of the Dominus Christus to the tribes of Vhaluusk took something of an unexpected turn.”

“So it did, my lord Dux,” said Caius, “but a man cannot always see what the Lord has in store for him.”

“Truly,” said Gareth. “You I know, Sir Arandar. Another foe of Tarrabus Carhaine, I see.”

“All the evil that you have heard of Tarrabus Carhaine is true, my lord,” said Arandar. 

“What of the task he gave you?” said Gareth. “To retrieve the soulblade of his distant kinsman from Urd Morlemoch?”

“I am pleased to say that I succeeded with the aid of the Gray Knight and the others,” said Arandar, “and found a worthy bearer of the soulblade.”

“This is Sir Gavin of Aranaeus, a village in the southern Wilderland,” said Ridmark. Gavin offered an awkward bow to the Dux. “When we met him, he helped us defeat an urdmordar that had taken the people of his village captive. After he took up Truthseeker, he single-handedly slew an urvuul, fought Mhorites and Anathgrimm in the mountains of Vhaluusk, faced a basilisk in the darkness of Khald Azalar, fought against Shadowbearer himself, and helped slay another urdmordar in the northern Wilderland.”

“Truly?” said Gareth, raising his eyebrows. “That is an impressive string of deeds for such a young man.”

“The Gray Knight speaks the truth,” said Arandar. “I was there for much of it, and witnessed many of his actions with my own eyes.” 

Gavin shrugged. “It sounds much more impressive than it really was, my lord. Mostly I was terrified out of my mind and trying not to make a fool of myself.” 

“I have been in more battles than I can recall and am at least four times your age,” said Gareth, “and I still feel that way. Be welcome, Swordbearer.”

“This is Morigna of Moraime, another village in the Wilderland,” said Ridmark. 

He half-expected Morigna to say something unpleasant. She had made her attitudes about the nobles of Andomhaim clear, despite the fact that she had never met one and had inherited those attitudes from Coriolus, a man who had lied to her for nearly her entire life. 

Yet she only bowed. Perhaps she was learning some tact. Perhaps she was doing him a favor. Or perhaps her sense of self-preservation kept her quiet, given the High King’s laws against magic in Andomhaim. 

“Lord Gareth,” said Morigna. Gareth nodded in turn. 

“This is Jager of Cintarra and Mara of Cintarra, husband and wife,” said Ridmark, “and they have given invaluable help. Jager is a man of many skills…”

“What skills are those?” said Gareth.

“I buy very low and sell high,” said Jager.

Morigna snorted. 

“And you, madam?” said Gareth.

Mara hesitated. 

“She is the daughter of the Traveler of Nightmane Forest,” said Ridmark. There was no use hiding Mara’s parentage. If Zhorlacht was as good as his word, sooner or later several thousand Anathgrimm would descend upon Dun Licinia, ready to obey Mara’s commands. Best to prepare the Dux sooner rather than later. “When we were in Khald Azalar, she slew her father for his crimes and took his place as the Queen of Nightmane Forest.” 

For the first time, Gareth looked astonished. 

“Truly?” said the Dux at last.

“I fear so, my lord,” said Mara in a quiet voice.

“I saw it with my own eyes,” said Arandar.

“As did I,” said Gavin. “If that counts for anything.”

“The Traveler of Nightmane Forest has been an enemy of Andomhaim since Malahan Pendragon founded the realm,” said Gareth. “A dozen different High Kings have waged campaigns against him, and we have never been able to pass the wards of Nightmane Forest to reach his stronghold. Forgive me, but…you are one small woman, and you slew him?” 

“Yes,” said Mara. “In the name of my mother, who died so I could escape Nightmane Forest as a child.” 

“The Anathgrimm have sworn loyalty to her,” said Ridmark, “and an army of them now march to Dun Licinia to aid us against the Mhorites.” 

“That also is true,” said Arandar. “I swear it upon my honor as a Swordbearer.”

Gareth considered this for a moment, and then offered Mara a deep bow, Joram following suit. 

“Then we bid you welcome, Queen of the Nightmane Forest,” said Gareth. “I would look forward to hearing your tale as leisure later.” 

“Thank you,” said Mara, blinking. “If we live through the days to come, I shall be happy to tell it.”

“And this is the sorceress Antenora,” said Ridmark, as Antenora bowed, “the apprentice of the Keeper of Andomhaim.”

“Then the Magistrius Camorak spoke the truth,” said Gareth. “You found the Keeper of Andomhaim?” 

“I did,” said Ridmark, gesturing at Calliande. “My lord Dux, this is Calliande of Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim.”

Joram let out a laugh. “Of course. That was who you were the entire time. That explains…quite a lot, actually.”

“The last Keeper of Andomhaim disappeared two hundred and thirty years ago, after the Frostborn were defeated,” said Gareth. 

“She disappeared,” said Calliande, “because I put myself into a magical sleep beneath the Tower of Vigilance, waiting for the omen of blue fire on the day of the conjunction of thirteen moons.”

“Why did you do this?” said Gareth.

“Ridmark was right, my lord Dux,” said Calliande. “Ridmark was always right. The Frostborn are returning.” She looked at Joram. “I know that you and many others thought that he had been driven mad with grief, that he had gone a fool’s errand. But the Frostborn are returning. They will return, unless we act at once.”

“How?” said Gareth.

“Shadowbearer,” said Calliande. 

“A legend of the dark elves, I understand,” said Gareth. 

“For a legend,” said Jager, “he is distressingly corporeal.”