Frostborn: Excalibur (Frostborn #13) Read online

  FROSTBORN: EXCALIBUR

  Jonathan Moeller

  Table of Contents

  Description

  A brief author’s note

  Chapter 1: Outriders

  Chapter 2: Knights

  Chapter 3: Next Time

  Chapter 4: Champions

  Chapter 5: Setbacks

  Chapter 6: Smugglers

  Chapter 7: Seven Corpses

  Chapter 8: Fortifications

  Chapter 9: Prince Regent

  Chapter 10: Two Kings

  Chapter 11: Council of War

  Chapter 12: Hunger

  Chapter 13: Fire

  Chapter 14: Constable

  Chapter 15: The Lost Tower

  Chapter 16: Contravallation

  Chapter 17: An Accidental Battle

  Chapter 18: An Ancient Sword

  Chapter 19: Civil War

  Chapter 20: The Fortunes of Battle

  Chapter 21: Enlightenment

  Chapter 22: Sovereign

  Chapter 23: A Last Question

  Chapter 24: Heartbeat

  Epilogue

  A Second Author’s Note

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

  Glossary of Characters

  Glossary of Locations

  Description

  Ridmark Arban is the Gray Knight, leading the defense of Andomhaim from the brutal Frostborn.

  Yet the realm of Andomhaim is riven with civil war. The false king Tarrabus has usurped the crown in the name of the shadow of Incariel, and the loyal lords must fight the ruthless rebels.

  Unless Ridmark can defeat Tarrabus and reunify Andomhaim, the Frostborn will prevail.

  But Tarrabus Carhaine, deadly and wicked, will not be defeated without terrible cost...

  Frostborn: Excalibur

  Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

  Ebook edition published January 2017.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  A brief author’s note

  At the end of this book, you will find a Glossary of Characters and a Glossary of Locations listing all the major characters and locations in this book. Note that the Glossaries contain spoilers for the previous twelve books of the Frostborn series.

  A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link.

  Chapter 1: Outriders

  Six hundred and five days after it began, six hundred and five days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban braced himself for something to go wrong as he walked through the forests of Taliand.

  Because something always went wrong when he crossed the River Moradel.

  Every single time, something went wrong.

  But the moment, it seemed that the forests of central Taliand were quiet.

  Ridmark moved from tree to tree in silence, his bow in his hand, his gray cloak hanging loosely around him. It was another hot day, the summer sun harsh overhead, though the boughs of the ancient trees kept much of the glare at bay. To the south, Ridmark saw the worn mountains of central Taliand, their slopes cloaked in trees and boulders. The buzz of insects filled his ears, along with the occasional creak of branches, but other than that, nothing moved in the forest.

  That didn’t surprise him, not entirely. Long ago, the land that had become Taliand had been ruled by petty dark elven princes and brutal orcish warlords. Malahan Pendragon and his heirs had led war after war against those princes and warlords, driving them from the forests and mountains. In time the land had been conquered and named Taliand, and Ridmark’s distant ancestor had become the first Dux of Taliand and the lord of Castra Arban. Ever since then, Taliand had been part of the heart of the realm of Andomhaim. Even now, with civil war raging between Arandar Pendragon and Tarrabus Carhaine and the Frostborn invading from the north, the battle had not yet touched Taliand.

  Ridmark knew that would not last.

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath. As far as he could tell, no one had passed this way for weeks. After nearly two solid years of battle and mayhem, it was almost startling.

  Blue fire flickered in the corner of his vision.

  A column of blue fire flashed at the base of one of the trees, and a tall woman stepped from the fire. She had long black hair and dead black eyes in a gaunt, angular face, and wore close-fitting armor of black metal plates. Twin short swords hung at her belt, and a glimmer of blue fire pulsed in her veins and her eyes, fading as she strode towards him.

  “Lord magister,” said the woman.

  “Third,” said Ridmark. “Anything?”

  “Nothing for five miles in any direction,” said Third. She stopped and paused to smell the air for a moment. The wind stirred her black hair, revealing the elven points of her pale ears. “This is a peaceful country. The war has not reached it yet.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. An old memory flickered through his mind as he recalled a day he had accompanied his father and his brothers on a hunt. They had ridden not far from here, pursuing the stags that wandered the forests of Taliand.

  “We chose wisely to travel south from the Shaluuskan Forest before crossing the River Moradel,” said Third. “The western side of the river has been more peaceful than the eastern bank.”

  “It has,” said Ridmark. “Let us return to camp.” He started walking to the east, and Third followed him. “We should cross the Moradel today.”

  “We are only a few days’ journey from Castra Arban,” said Third. “Undoubtedly we could obtain a ferry at your father’s seat for an easier crossing.”

  Another memory went through Ridmark. He had not returned to his childhood home, the ancestral seat of the House of the Arbanii, for nearly eight years. His last trip had been a visit with Aelia before they returned to Dux Gareth’s court at Castra Marcaine in the Northerland. Castra Arban sat upon a spur of land thrust into the river, and he remembered its tall towers and strong walls. On clear days, the river became a mirror, reflecting the castra’s image into the waters. A shiver of pain went through Ridmark. Both he and Aelia had hoped she would become pregnant during that visit, that on their next trip to Castra Arban they could present Dux Leogrance with a grandchild.

  Instead, a year later, Aelia was dead.

  Ridmark pushed aside the memory. What was done was done, however much he might regret it, and there had been more losses and more pains piled up in the years since. And if he did not keep his head clear, there might be still more losses.

  “We could,” said Ridmark. “But undoubtedly Tarrabus will have spies watching Castra Arban. We can’t underestimate how far he is willing to go to kill the Keeper. Better to cross here, I think. From here, the River Moradel widens until it’s over a mile across at Tarlion.”

  Third said nothing for a moment. Queen Mara had commanded her half-sister to look after Ridmark, and Third had interpreted that command to include Ridmark’s mental state as well as his physical safety. It was sometimes annoying, but Third was excellent at spotting errors in Ridmark’s reasoning.

  “Agreed,” said Third. “On balance, crossing here is the least risky of our options.”

 
; “Yes,” said Ridmark. “Though every option carries risks now that we are so close to Tarlion.”

  Ridmark had heard a dozen different rumors and stories from travelers as they drew closer to Tarlion, and all of them contradicted each other. One story said that Tarrabus had overcome Arandar and mounted his head on a stake. Another said that Tarrabus had seized Tarlion, and Arandar in turn now laid siege to him. Still another rumor claimed that Tarrabus had hired dvargir mercenaries from Khaldurmar and turned them against his own nation, allowing the dvargir to take slaves from the people of Andomhaim. That much, at least, Ridmark knew was true. Twice the dvargir had attacked Calliande, attempting to take her captive and present her to Tarrabus.

  His fingers tightened against his bow. If the dvargir tried to take Calliande, they would do it over his dead body.

  Which, he had to admit, the dvargir were entirely capable of doing.

  “Once we cross the river, we shall have to exercise greater vigilance,” said Third. “The western side has been peaceful. The eastern side will not.”

  “It will not,” agreed Ridmark. They had seen groups of men moving along the Moradel road on the eastern bank of the river. Some had the look of bandits, while others had been wearing the colors of Tarrabus Carhaine. The duxarchate of Calvus was on the other side of the Moradel, and the Dux of Calvus, Septimus Andrius, had thrown in with Tarrabus and the Enlightened. Calvus was hostile territory, and the last time they had passed through it, they had been attacked by dvargir, and the Weaver had murdered Sir Ector Naxius and taken his place.

  Of course, Ridmark had avenged Sir Ector.

  Burn with me…

  “Lord magister?” said Third.

  Ridmark blinked away a memory of fire and looked at Third. To his chagrin, he realized that his attention had wandered.

  “Calvus will be chaotic,” he said. “We will simply have to be vigilant regardless of what happens.”

  “Sound counsel,” said Third.

  “Then let us put it into practice,” said Ridmark, and he led the way back to the camp.

  ###

  Calliande helped make breakfast as the sound of steel on steel rang through the air.

  The men-at-arms who had been sworn to poor Sir Ector were appalled. Calliande was the Keeper of Andomhaim, the most powerful wielder of magic in the High Kingdom, the supreme authority on magic within the realm, and the advisor of the rightful High King.

  Nonetheless, she sliced the dense loaves of travel bread and roasted them over one of the campfires while a bemused man-at-arm chopped sausages and passed them to her.

  She found it relaxing. Her decisions had shaped the fate of kingdoms and nations, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. Another woman might have found that exhilarating. Calliande found that it filled her with trepidation. She had a heavy, heavy responsibility, and she dared not take it lightly.

  By comparison, deciding when to take the bread off the pan was almost relaxing.

  “Better!” called Brother Caius.

  Calliande looked at her friends and smiled.

  On the other side of the campfire, in a cleared space between the tents, stood Gavin of Aranaeus. Of course, Antenora called him Gavin Swordbearer, and the name had caught on. Gavin was a strong young man of about eighteen, with brown eyes and curly brown hair. On his left arm rested a round shield of dwarven steel that had survived every battle since Khald Azalar and Dragonfall, and in his right hand he grasped the soulblade Truthseeker, which he had carried since their frantic escape from Urd Morlemoch. Right now, the soulblade was dark, the soulstone embedded in the tang of the sword giving off an occasional flicker of white light. That was good, since soulblades blazed with wrath in response to the presence of dark magic.

  Before Gavin stood two older men, an orc of Vhaluusk in blue armor and a dwarven friar in brown robes. Kharlacht gripped a greatsword of dark elven steel, the blue blade glinting in the morning sun, while Caius held his mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel. Caius moved to Gavin’s right, while Kharlacht moved to the Swordbearer’s left. Gavin responded at once, sidestepping to move closer to Kharlacht and put the orcish warrior between him and Caius. The dwarven friar circled to Kharlacht’s left, but Gavin pivoted, keeping his shield up and waiting for an opportunity to move inside Kharlacht’s greater reach and strike.

  Calliande smiled to herself. She had seen enough battles to notice how much Gavin had improved as a swordsman. Back when they had left Aranaeus, Gavin had rarely lasted long against Kharlacht and Caius during their practice duels. Now they had been fighting for five minutes without any mistakes on Gavin’s part, and Gavin won these mock fights as often as he lost them.

  The year he had spent with Prince Arandar’s army, fighting their way across Caerdracon to the gates of Castra Carhaine, had honed his skill. Calliande was pleased that he had survived.

  So many others had not.

  “Antenora,” said Calliande.

  Her apprentice stood next to her, a dark shadow in her hooded black coat, black-gloved hands grasping her dark staff. Beneath her hood, her yellow eyes glittered, and a flicker of longing went over her face as she gazed at Gavin. Antenora was a ruin of the prideful young woman she had once been, but enough of that young woman remained in the creature that she had become that she was falling in love with Gavin.

  Calliande couldn’t help Antenora or Gavin with that. She could, however, at least make sure Antenora was busy.

  “Keeper?” said Antenora.

  “More fire, please,” said Calliande.

  Antenora nodded, put the end of her staff into the campfire, and concentrated. Her staff pulsed with flames, symbols of yellow-orange fire glowing along its dark length, and the campfire blazed to new heat. Calliande held a hand over the fire and nodded.

  “Thank you,” said Calliande, dropping fresh slices of bread into the pan.

  “I confess I had never thought of using the magic of elemental fire for cooking,” said Antenora, her voice a worn rasp.

  “Well, you don’t need to eat,” said Calliande. “The rest of us do.”

  “It is strange to see the Keeper of Andomhaim cooking breakfast,” said Antenora, and Calliande laughed. “Why is that amusing? It is strange.”

  “It is strange, but it shouldn’t be,” said Calliande. “The Keeper of Andomhaim has power, and the only proper use of power is to serve. Perhaps if Tarrabus Carhaine had served breakfast once or twice in his life, he might have learned a touch of humility.”

  “I’ve met Tarrabus Carhaine,” said a rusty voice. “The man never served anyone in his life.”

  Calliande looked up as Camorak approached. The Magistrius wore his usual worn gray coat over his armor. He looked better than usual today, his eyes less bloodshot, and he had even managed to shave. The lack of strong drink on the road had done him good.

  “So have I,” said Calliande. “You’re not wrong.” In fact, Tarrabus had forced a kiss on her, and the memory still filled her with revulsion. She was reasonably sure Tarrabus had not tried to do the same to Camorak.

  Camorak grunted and worked a spell, a protective ward glimmering around his right hand. He reached into the fire and plucked out a piece of toast, his hand protected by the spell, sat down next to Calliande, and started to eat.

  “You could make yourself useful,” said Calliande.

  “I already am, noble Keeper,” said Camorak. “I’m not hung over…”

  “Because you ran out of strong drink three days from Castra Durius,” said Antenora.

  “Whatever the reason, I am not hung over,” said Camorak, “and I warded myself against heat before I reached into the fire, thereby sparing you the effort of healing burns.” He smiled and popped a piece of sausage into his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to inflict that discomfort on you so early in the morning.”

  “How very thoughtful,” said Calliande.

  “Though,” said Camorak, “after you’ve healed a man with his guts hanging down his legs, burned fingers don’t se
em that serious.”

  “They don’t,” said Calliande, and she took the rest of the toast from the fire. Camorak was abrasive and blunt, and he had a habit towards drunkenness that was going to kill him unless he got it under control. He was also one of the best healers that Calliande had ever met. To heal the wounds of another, a Magistrius or a Magistria had to take on the pain of the wounds for the duration of the healing spell, and many Magistri simply did not have the stamina to do so. Camorak did, though, and many of the men-at-arms traveling with her were still alive because Camorak had healed their mortal wounds.

  She sometimes envied Camorak’s ability to get drunk. Too much strong drink simply made Calliande woozy and nauseated. On the other hand, she knew that Camorak had started drinking to deal with the loss of his wife and child to plague years before he had even become a Magistrius. She suspected that the drinking had become a habit for him since he hardly seemed crippled by grief for his wife and child.

  Ridmark, though…there was a man who knew what it meant to be driven by grief.

  But Ridmark seemed to have gotten better. When Calliande had met him on the slopes of the Black Mountain, he had been haunted by his wife’s death at the hands of Mhalek. After Imaria and the Weaver had killed Morigna, Ridmark had been filled with rage, so much that he had nearly killed himself to strike at Morigna’s murderers in the burning wreckage of Dun Licinia’s keep.

  He had repaid the Weaver for Morigna’s death with fire and agony.

  In doing so, he had also saved the royal court of Khald Tormen and secured the help of the dwarves in the grand alliance Calliande was trying to build against the Frostborn. After surviving that ordeal, Ridmark no longer seemed so grief-stricken or enraged. Now he seemed…older, somehow, sadder but wiser, but no less determined, and he even laughed on occasion.

  Calliande found that she liked the change in him.

  That was something else she enjoyed about cooking. It was an excellent time to sort through her thoughts while something else occupied her hands.