Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Read online

  “Third!” he shouted.

  She vanished again, and Ridmark dashed forward. His sudden action took the deep orcs off guard, and he burst through the door and into the inn. The brick walls of the building still stood, as did the stone chimney, but the interior floors had been gutted, leaving charred and broken timbers scattered across the floor.

  It made for hellishly difficult footing.

  The deep orcs got their crossbows up, and Ridmark used the footing to his advantage. He kicked, sidestepping as he did, and his kick knocked a chunk of ruined timber from the floor and into the face of the nearest deep orc. Since the deep orc did not have eyes, the obstruction could not disrupt the creature’s aim, but the piece of wood did snap the deep orc’s head back, and the orc stumbled, the bolt from its crossbow slamming into the wall. The deep orc also staggered into the path of another crossbow bolt. It tore through the orc’s black armor with a punching noise, and the creature fell.

  Ridmark charged the remaining three deep orcs, leaping over another fallen timber. His staff was light and smooth in his hands, its surface carved with sigils. Ardrhythain of the high elves had given Ridmark the staff after his escape from Urd Morlemoch, and though the weapon was light, it struck with the force of a steel bar. Ridmark whipped the staff around, driving the weapon into the temple of the nearest deep orc. The orc’s head snapped to the side with the sound of cracking bone, and the creature collapsed.

  The remaining two deep orcs charged, and Ridmark retreated, beating aside the blows of their axes with sweeps of his staff. Here the uneven footing worked to his advantage. The deep orcs could see heat, but the wreckage upon the floor did not give off any heat, and again and again they tripped, allowing Ridmark to dodge blows that should have killed him.

  Blue fire flashed, and Third slew the deep orc on Ridmark’s left with an efficient slash of her blades. The remaining deep orc tried to retreat, only to stumble over a broken table.

  Ridmark’s staff crashed on the crown of the deep orc’s head, ending the fight. The deep orc fell with a dying gurgle, and the sudden silence was shocking. Part of his mind noted that the last deep orc had fallen on the very spot where Ridmark had once sat and eaten and drank with Tarrabus Carhaine and the other squires.

  The rest of his mind focused on the more immediate danger.

  “They were scouts?” said Ridmark.

  “Almost certainly,” said Third, tapping one of the dead deep orcs with her blade. The leather armor of the slain orc seemed to drink the light the way a sponge drank water, and Ridmark knew only one kindred capable of forging armor like that. “These weapons and armor are of dvargir make.”

  “Scouts,” said Ridmark. “Slave soldiers the dvargir sent ahead.”

  Third straightened up, and Ridmark met her gaze over the dead deep orcs.

  “The Keeper is in danger,” said Third.

  “Then we must return to the Keeper at once,” said Ridmark. “Go. I will catch up to you.”

  Third nodded and disappeared in a swirl of blue fire. Before the blue fire had even vanished, Ridmark was already out the door, running hard to the east down the main street of Regnum, his gray cloak streaming behind him. The last ambush along the banks of the Moradel had almost killed Calliande, and Caradog Lordac had nearly taken her captive.

  Ridmark had wound up killing Caradog with his own hands.

  And if another the Enlightened of Incariel threatened her, he would do the same.

  ###

  A flare of sharp pain went through the temples and neck of Calliande of Tarlion.

  She blinked in irritation, reaching a hand to her face. Perhaps a fly had decided to bite her. Along this stretch of the Moradel, the flies grew fierce during the summer months. But the skin of her face was smooth and unmarked, if sweaty in the summer heat, and she felt nothing.

  She was clenching her jaw again. Calliande closed her eyes and took a moment to relax, consciously easing the muscles of her jaw. After the return of the Frostborn, she had developed the bad habit of clenching her jaw while tense, and she had been tense often in the last year and a half. She had to stop it. It would wear down her teeth, and her jaw had developed this irritating habit of popping when she talked.

  It seemed ridiculous that her jaw bothered her when there was so much wrong in Andomhaim, when so many people had died and so many other people were suffering, but it still bothered her. Some part of her pointed out that she couldn’t fix any of the things that troubled her, so instead she fixated upon her aching jaw.

  Which, come to think of it, she still couldn’t fix.

  “Keeper?” said a raspy, timeworn voice.

  Calliande opened her eyes. “Yes?”

  She sat next to the dying embers of last night’s campfire. Around her, the camp came to life as Sir Ector’s men tended to their horses and weapons. Sir Ector Naxius was a middle-aged man wearing the green surcoat of the House of Aurelius, his skin like creased leather from years of riding back and forth across the plains of Caertigris. He strode among his men, checking their work, praising and criticizing when necessary. He was a good leader, but he still deferred to Ridmark’s judgment.

  They all did, and Calliande felt a little flicker of worry when she thought of Ridmark. He would come back, she told herself. He was a skilled scout, and he had Third with him.

  But there was always that flicker of fear when he left, the fear that she might never get to see him again. They had reconciled during the journey back from Bastoth and the Range, and she was glad to have him back in her life, to be able to rely on his aid again. For him to be killed now…

  She rebuked herself. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and it was her task to assemble an alliance capable of bringing the war to the Frostborn, to find a way to defeat the Enlightened and restore the true High King to the throne of Andomhaim. She didn’t have time to daydream about a man like a love-struck girl.

  Or to fret about her jaw. Even if it did ache damnably.

  “Keeper?” said the worn voice again.

  Calliande blinked, shook her head, and forced herself to pay attention.

  “I’m sorry, Antenora,” said Calliande. “I was thinking. What’s wrong?”

  Her apprentice stood a short distance away, staff in hand. Antenora could have sat at the fire, but Antenora hardly ever sat, and sometimes stood guard motionless for hours. She wore all black, black boots, black trousers, and a long black coat with a hood that concealed her gaunt, gray-tinged face, her brittle black hair, and her harsh yellow eyes.

  “Nothing is wrong at present, Keeper,” said Antenora. “You appeared in pain.”

  “My jaw,” Calliande admitted. “I should stop clenching it. But it’s not important. And I should not complain. You were the one who stayed up all night on guard.”

  “I require neither rest nor sustenance,” said Antenora.

  “Did anything happen last night?” said Calliande.

  “Another frost drake overflew us,” said Antenora. “One of the Frostborn was riding it. A member of the Order of the Inquisition, I expect.”

  Calliande frowned and remembered not to clench her jaw. “They will want to keep an eye on Arandar’s army as the Prince marches for Tarlion.”

  “Perhaps they will send the false king aid,” said Antenora.

  “I doubt that,” said Calliande. “They can’t, at least not yet. The Anathgrimm and the garrison at Castra Marcaine still have the Frostborn bottled up in the Northerland. They’re not yet strong enough to break out of the Northerland, and they’ll have to deal with Turcontar and Curzonar and the manetaurs. If Arandar can defeat Tarrabus this year, he can turn a unified Andomhaim against the Frostborn.”

  “Many things are uncertain in battle,” said Antenora.

  Calliande knew that was a polite way of saying their hopes were thin.

  So many things depended on time. If the manetaurs arrived in time to aid Mara. If Arandar defeated Tarrabus and became the High King. If Calliande managed to convince the dwarves to c
ome to the assistance of the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs.

  She needed to get to Khald Tormen as soon as possible, and it was not just her heart that wanted to see Ridmark return. The sooner he rejoined them, the sooner could they depart and continue their journey. It would be at least two weeks before she could reach the Great Gate of Khald Tormen, and then it would take the dwarves a few weeks to prepare for a campaign, assuming she could convince them…

  Something unusual happened.

  Antenora smiled. It made her look younger, almost like the young woman she had been rather than the cursed soul she had become.

  Gavin walked from his tent, yawning again as he adjusted his sword belt. He was almost eighteen now, and he had matured a great deal in the year and a half that Calliande had known him. Gavin was taller and stronger and broader than he had been, but the changes were more than physical. When she had met him, he had been a brash boy, the kind of boy who would set off from his Wilderland village to beg aid from the court of Dux Gareth at Castra Marcaine.

  Now he was a Swordbearer. He was knight, a wielder of the soulblade Truthseeker, and he had won renown in battle, even if he seemed oblivious to the fact.

  And Calliande was almost sure that Antenora had fallen in love with him, unlikely as it seemed. Antenora was fifteen hundred years old, even if she could not remember much of that time, and she claimed that the curse of dark magic had withered away her ability to feel any emotions save regret.

  It seemed Antenora was wrong about that.

  Gavin seemed oblivious to it, which was probably just as well.

  “Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora.

  “Good morning,” said Gavin. He had brown eyes under a mop of curly brown hair, and he still looked cheerful, if a bit sobered by the war.

  “Sir Gavin,” said Calliande with a smile.

  “Did you sleep well?” said Gavin.

  “Not particularly,” said Calliande.

  “I do not require sleep,” said Antenora.

  “Do you think we can get across the Moradel today?” said Gavin, sitting next to Calliande.

  “We should,” said Calliande. “The river is shallower here, and I ought to be able to freeze it so we can cross. Once Ridmark and Third return, we will depart. We can take the Shaluuskan road, cross the kingdom of Khaluusk, and come to Durandis. Then it should only be a few days to the Great Gate of Khald Tormen.”

  If all went well. Calliande had seen enough of war to know that things rarely went well.

  “Do you think the dwarves will heed us?” said Gavin.

  “They should,” said Calliande. “The Three Kingdoms fought the Frostborn the last time. Some of the older dwarves will remember the war. They know the Frostborn will conquer the entire world if not stopped…”

  A deep voice raised in song cut her off. Specifically, a deep voice singing the twenty-third Psalm in flawless Latin.

  “Ah,” said Antenora. “Brother Caius is awake.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande, picking up the worn staff of the Keeper and rising to her feet. She decided to talk to Caius. He knew more about Khald Tormen and the Three Kingdoms than she did, and perhaps talking to him would ease her mind.

  She circled to the side of the camp where some of the men-at-arms had gathered as Caius led them in prayer. Calliande spotted Camorak at the back, his head bowed. The Magistrius wore a long white coat over chain mail and leather, though road dust and sweat had turned the garment a splotchy gray. Given how often he was drunk, his pious streak surprised her. Then again, he had lost his wife and child to the plague, so perhaps he was praying to the Dominus Christus for the repose of their souls.

  Brother Caius stood before them. He was short and stocky with muscle and wore the brown robe of a friar over dark elven armor taken from the armories of Urd Morlemoch. He had gray skin the color of granite, blue eyes the color of marble, and a gray beard and receding gray hair. A wooden cross hung from a cord around his neck, which seemed out of place with the mace of dwarven steel at his broad leather belt and his hammer of dark elven steel slung over his shoulder. The church forbade the priests and friars and monks of the Dominus Christus from spilling blood with edged weapons but said nothing about blunt weapons, which was just well, since Caius wielded them with great skill

  Once the Psalm was finished, Caius led them through a portion of the liturgy, and Calliande recited the formal Latin words with them. She hoped that God would hear their prayers, that he would show them the way to victory and peace. And if not…she hoped the Dominus Christus would forgive her failures. There were so many. She had failed to stop the Frostborn from returning. She had failed to keep Tarrabus from murdering Uthanaric Pendragon and his sons, failed to keep the realm of Andomhaim from splitting into civil war.

  She had failed to save Morigna, and she had seen what that had done to Ridmark.

  After the liturgy had finished, Brother Caius called the blessing of God and the Dominus Christus upon them, and the men-at-arms went about their duties.

  “Keeper,” said Camorak in his rusty voice. He didn’t seem to be hung over this morning, which was surprising, given his talent for finding liquor. Despite that, he had an even greater talent for using the magic of the Well to heal, and Calliande had seen him bring back men who had been but heartbeats from death.

  “Magistrius,” said Calliande.

  “God and the saints, I hate it when people call me that,” said Camorak.

  “You are a Magistrius,” said Calliande.

  “Don’t remind me,” said Camorak. “I was happier as a common man-at-arms.” He rubbed a hand over his graying stubble. “Still, it will be good to see Durandis again. Haven’t been back since I came into the magic and joined the Magistri.”

  “What is Durandis like, Magistrius?” said Gavin. “I’ve never been there.” He shrugged. “I suppose I haven’t been most places.”

  “Suppose you haven’t, sir knight,” said Camorak. “Least not most civilized places, from the stories I’ve heard of you. Durandis is pleasant enough. Plains in the east, hilly in the west. All the folk carry weapons because the Mhorite raiders come out of Kothluusk further west. Of course, I suppose they’ll be quieter now after the Gray Knight split old Mournacht’s head in half at the Black Mountain.”

  “I look forward to seeing it, Magistrius,” said Gavin. “I am a Swordbearer, but all I’ve seen of the realm is the Northerland and Caerdracon and some of Caertigris. If I am to defend the realm from dark magic, I would like to see more of it.”

  “What?” said Camorak. “You want to see more of the realm, or you want to see more of dark magic?”

  “The realm!” said Gavin, eyes widening. “I’ve seen enough dark magic to last me a lifetime and then some.”

  Camorak laughed. “Aye, me too, and I’ve seen half what you have, sir knight. But I look forward to seeing Durandis again. The men of Durandis make the best brandy in the realm, and perhaps if we ask nicely we can get into Dux Kors’ liquor cellar in Castra Durius…”

  Gavin had another virtue. He was an excellent listener, and with a few words he had the taciturn Magistrius talking at length about his time in Durandis. Calliande listened with half an ear, but her eyes turned towards Brother Caius. She expected him to be alone in prayer, but instead he was talking with Kharlacht. The tall orcish warrior had moved away from the others, his blue dark elven armor and greatsword a striking contrast to the green of his skin and the black of his topknot. Unlike the others, Kharlacht had acquired his dark elven armor and weapon before Calliande had even met him, before he had even left Vhaluusk.

  She slipped away from the others and headed towards the dwarven friar and orcish warrior.

  “It is a strange thing,” said Caius, “to return to one’s homeland after so long.”

  “That I understand,” said Kharlacht. “When we traveled through the Vhaluuskan forests and the village of Khorduk on our way to the Vale of Stone Death, we were nowhere near my old village. Yet it was still strange to return af
ter so long, to talk again with Vhaluuskan orcs.”

  “Aye,” said Caius. “I have not been back in twenty years.”

  Kharlacht snorted. “A brief time in your span of years.”

  “Perhaps,” said Caius. “Yet I have traveled far in those twenty years.”

  “You never did say why you left,” said Kharlacht.

  Caius raised a gray eyebrow over an eye like blue stone. “Nor have you ever said outright why you left Vhaluusk and joined Qazarl.”

  Kharlacht said nothing for a moment. “Loss.”

  “Why else would someone leave their homeland?” said Caius.

  He fell silent as Calliande approached.

  “My lady Keeper,” said Caius.

  “Brother Caius,” said Calliande.

  “We were speaking of our homelands,” said Kharlacht.

  “Mine is in Taliand, in the lands of Ridmark’s family,” said Calliande. “A little village directly across the River Moradel from the walls of Tarlion itself.” She sighed. “I wonder if it is even still there. Everyone I ever knew there died long ago.”

  Kharlacht and Caius shared a look.

  “I confess it was strange to return to Vhaluusk,” said Kharlacht, “but it was not quite that strange.”

  “Forgive me,” said Calliande. “That was maudlin. Where I came from is less important than where we’re going. Specifically, Khald Tormen.”

  “It has changed little during the centuries of my life,” said Caius. “You should be greeted…cordially, if not warmly, since my kindred do nothing warmly. King Axazamar should know of you, as will the chief historians of the stonescribes. You should have no trouble proving your identity as Keeper of Andomhaim.” He shrugged. “I wonder why the Three Kingdoms have not marched against the Frostborn already. They knew the danger during the last war against the Frostborn, and the danger will not have lessened.”

  “Perhaps they do not wish to involve themselves in Andomhaim’s civil war,” said Kharlacht.

  “Aye,” said Caius. “The kings and nobles of my kindred do not take sides in the wars of humans, for it never ends well. Perhaps they are preoccupied with another foe. There are many such foes near the Three Kingdoms.”