Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15) Read online

  The sword thrummed in Ridmark’s hand. It was ready to open another gate.

  “Go!” said Ridmark, and he ran towards Calliande, Third, and Caius following him. The frost drakes reeled overhead, their wings flapping as they prepared to come around for another pass. Across the fields, thousands more medvarth and locusari poured around the walls of Dun Calpurnia, heading for them, and Ridmark spotted the Frostborn striding in their midst, greatswords of cold gray metal in their hands.

  “If we stay here we’re dead,” said Calliande, looking back and forth as she tried to keep all the enemy in sight at once.

  “I know,” said Ridmark, and he slashed Caledhmaer before him, visualizing a destination. A curtain of gray mist rose before him, shining with pale light. “Then let’s leave.”

  Calliande went through the gate, then Third, and then Caius. Ridmark shot one last look over his shoulder as the hordes of the Frostborn closed around him, and then he stepped through the gate. A moment of spinning disorientation shot through him, and then he stood upon a rocky hilltop, a few pine trees rising around him.

  Ridmark released the gate, and then looked for any signs of enemies.

  There were none.

  For the moment, at least, they were safe.

  ###

  Calliande drew on the Sight, trying to figure out where they had gone.

  To her surprise, they had not traveled far. They stood on a hilltop in the southwestern edge of the Northerland, not far from Dun Calpurnia and the River Moradel. In fact, if she looked west, she saw the distant shape of Dun Calpurnia’s towers and the frozen ribbon of the Moradel glittering in the setting sun.

  She also saw the armies of the Frostborn milling around the walls of the town, seeming like a horde of insects from this distance.

  “We’re not more than three or four miles from Dun Calpurnia,” said Calliande.

  “No,” said Ridmark, staring at the town. Caledhmaer burned in his right hand. She wondered if the heat of it troubled him.

  “They will realize where we are soon enough,” said Third.

  Ridmark nodded. “By then we’ll be gone.”

  “Why didn’t we leave as soon as we realized the danger?” said Caius. “Granted, we did probably slow the march of the Frostborn host by a day or so until they reorganize from their scare. But it was a grave risk.”

  “We didn’t have a choice,” said Ridmark, gesturing with Caledhmaer. “It takes the sword a moment or two to…recover, or recharge, or renew itself after it stops time or opens a gate. Not long, but long enough.”

  “Why did we come here, then?” said Calliande.

  “I wanted to have a look at the Frostborn army,” said Ridmark, “and to make sure that the host of Andomhaim did indeed escape.” His voice hardened. “And if there were prisoners…perhaps we could do something to free them.”

  “Then let us look for them,” said Calliande.

  She took a deep breath and cleared her mind, falling into something like a trance. In that half-trance, she reached for the Sight, and she swept it towards Dun Calpurnia. At once she saw the mighty auras of power radiating around the Frostborn themselves, and the lesser auras of magical strength surrounding the khaldjari and the cogitaers. Images flashed before her eyes, fragments of the battle that had been fought here earlier. There were echoes of the power that Ridmark had used against the revenants, and she shivered with remembered fear as she saw her husband with fire burning in his veins and heart and eyes once more.

  There were also echoes of many deaths…but not as many as there would have been if the Frostborn had crushed the host of Andomhaim.

  Calliande turned the Sight to the south, straining her ability to the limits. She caught a glimpse of the powerful auras of soulblades perhaps a dozen miles south, along with the auras of a great many exhausted, wounded men.

  Then the vision of the Sight snapped away from her. She had pushed it too far, and Calliande stumbled. Ridmark was at her side in an instant, his strong hand taking her elbow.

  “I’m fine,” said Calliande, taking a deep breath. “I’m fine. I…just pushed the Sight a little too far. Got dizzy.” She shook her head to clear it. “But the army did get away, I’m sure of it. I think they’re doing a forced march about twelve or fifteen miles south of here.”

  “Will they camp for the night soon?” said Caius. “We can probably join them.”

  “I doubt it,” said Ridmark. “The locusari and the frost drakes move too fast. If Arandar stops for the night, they’ll have him. He will have to push the men through the night if he’s to have a chance of getting away from the Frostborn.”

  “It seems likely the High King is making for Tarlion,” said Third.

  Calliande nodded. “He knows the truth about Incariel now. Imaria will do everything she can to convince the Frostborn to take the city and give her the Well.” She let out a breath. “We’re not fighting a battle to save just Andomhaim, or even to keep the kindreds of the world from being conquered. We’re fighting to save the world from…”

  “Hell,” said Ridmark. “That’s what Imaria wants to unleash.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande, remembering the gleeful madness in Imaria’s face. Imaria had been twisted into a living reflection of the shadow of Incariel, capricious and random and cruel. No, rather, she had deliberately twisted herself into a living reflection of that shadow, and she wanted to do the same with the rest of the world.

  “A flight of locusari scouts have taken to the air,” said Third, pointing. Calliande saw the blue shapes rising from within the ruined town, fifty or sixty of the creatures. The scouts broke up into five or six separate groups and began circling over the fields and hills surrounding the town. “Most likely they are looking for us.”

  “Then we had better go,” said Calliande. She looked at Ridmark. “To Arandar?”

  “No, not yet,” said Ridmark. “I think we had better go to Cathair Solas first.”

  She hadn’t expected him to say that. “Cathair Solas? Why?”

  “Because the Frostborn are too powerful,” said Ridmark. “Or, rather, their magic is too powerful. The men of Andomhaim have the Magistri, the dwarves have the stonescribes, and the manetaurs have the arbiters.”

  “And the Keeper,” said Caius.

  Ridmark smiled at Calliande. “And the Keeper. But even together, I don’t think that’s enough to fight the spells of the Frostborn, especially if the Magistri are busy warding against the frost drakes at the same time.”

  “You may be right,” said Caius. “During the battle at Dun Calpurnia, nearly the full effort of the Magistri went to warding away the drakes’ freezing breath. They had little power to spare for anything else.”

  “Ardrhythain would have magic that could turn the tide in the battle, along with the other elven magi,” said Ridmark. “You and Calliande were at Urd Morlemoch. You saw what Ardrhythain did single-handedly against the Warden’s orcs.”

  “Why would Ardrhythain help us now?” said Calliande.

  In truth, she did not want to go back to Cathair Solas. A tangle of guilt and anger and remembered fear went through her at the memory of the place. Ridmark had almost died there, consumed by the power of the sword. He had mastered it, but he had only undergone that horrible trial because she had brought him there, following a plan that she had laid for herself (and forgotten) two hundred and twenty years ago. She had nearly lost her temper at Ardrhythain, demanding to know why the high elves had not done more against the Frostborn.

  And Ardrhythain had shown her just what would happen if the high elves chose to exert their will over the other kindreds. If they lived through the next few weeks, Calliande suspected that the memory of Ardrhythain’s golden eyes filling with shadow would give her nightmares.

  “Because,” said Ridmark, “the high elves are forbidden by their threefold law from seeking power or dominion over other kindreds. But they have always followed the Dragon Knight in times of war. And if the Dragon Knight commands them to come to
battle, I think they will come.”

  “The high elves are reclusive,” said Third. “The Traveler lived in fear of their wrath, but they never ventured from Cathair Solas to challenge him.”

  “It is worth the asking,” said Ridmark. “At worst, we only lose a few hours. At best, we gain powerful new allies against the Frostborn.” He thought for a moment, watching the locusari scouts spiral upward. “But before we try, we should send a message.”

  “A message?” said Calliande.

  “To Camorak, if he’s still alive,” said Ridmark. “We need to tell the High King where we are going and what we are doing. The men of Andomhaim also need to know that help is on the way. They’ll be less likely to despair if they know the dwarves and the Anathgrimm and the manetaurs are on the way.”

  “They do know the dwarves and the Anathgrimm are coming, at least,” said Third.

  “They do?” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Caius. “Mara found a patrol in the Northerland and came with them to speak with Arandar. The Anathgrimm were about two days away from the Moradel, and the dwarves were several days behind them.”

  “Good,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps we should try to warn the Anathgrimm. No, Qhazulak will be in command, and he’s no fool. He would have sent out scouts, and he would have realized what happened by now. Mara might be able to link up with the host of Andomhaim on the Moradel road.”

  “Though my sister the Queen,” said Third, “will be disappointed to learn that she missed your wedding.”

  Ridmark blinked, and then he smiled. “Will she?”

  “You told her?” said Calliande.

  Third shrugged. “She commanded me to see to the lord magister’s safety and well-being. Becoming betrothed, presumably, was part of that. Though I am pleased I will be able to give her a fuller report when next we meet.” She smiled a little. “And I had never been to a wedding before.”

  Calliande laughed. “Then I am pleased we were able to introduce you to the experience.”

  “We had best get moving,” said Ridmark. “Can you send the message to Camorak?”

  “I will try,” said Calliande. “If I can’t find Camorak, I’ll try to locate one of the other Magistri and give them the message.”

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and cast the spell, calling on the magic of the Well. A flicker of old memory went through her. She had spoken to Camorak the first time this way, using the spell of far-speaking to contact a Magistrius in Dun Licinia to warn them against Mournacht’s host. That had ended with Mournacht slain, and Tymandain Shadowbearer defeated…but Imaria had claimed his mantle and done far more harm.

  Calliande hoped this ended better.

  She drew on the magic of the Well, and funneled the spell through the Keeper’s mantle of power, making the spell much stronger than it would have been otherwise. She projected her thoughts south, moving her will along the Moradel road in search of Camorak. Her mind’s eye glimpsed ragged columns of men marching south, tired and wounded, and she saw hundreds of points of light among them.

  A familiar light danced before her will. Camorak had indeed made it through the battle alive, though he seemed exhausted.

  Calliande touched his thoughts. “Camorak?”

  For a moment, nothing happened, and then his surprise flooded through the link of the spell.

  “Keeper?” said Camorak. Even in her head, his voice sounded rusty from years of hard drinking, though likely the rigors of campaigning had kept him sober. “Is that you? You’re alive?”

  “I’m not a ghost, and I’m not haunting you,” said Calliande, “so yes, I’m still alive.”

  “What about the Gray Knight?” said Camorak. “He disappeared after the battle along with you.”

  “He is well,” said Calliande. “He mastered the sword, and he is now the Dragon Knight. Third and Caius are with us. The sword grants him the power to travel quickly from place to place, and we are going to find the armies of our allies and get them marching to Tarlion. How are matters with the host?”

  “Poor,” said Camorak. “We are marching through the night to get away from the Frostborn. The High King is heading for Tarlion. The Frostborn are freezing the River Moradel yard by yard, and they’re going to use it as a highway to reach the city. We might have a devil of a time getting there before the Frostborn do.”

  “We’ll have help coming for you as soon as we can,” said Calliande. “Tell the High King. The Dragon Knight is coming, and so are the dwarves, the Anathgrimm, and the manetaurs.” And perhaps the high elves, if Ridmark was right, but Calliande would not promise that.

  “I will,” said Camorak. He paused. “God go with you, Keeper.”

  “And you, Magistrius,” said Calliande. “We shall need God’s help before this is over.”

  She ended the spell and let out a long breath, her vision coming back into focus.

  “Did it work?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “I told Camorak what happened, and he will tell the High King. At least they will know help is on the way.”

  “We ought to help ourselves first,” said Third, looking at the sky. “Those locusari have spotted us.”

  “Then it’s time to go,” said Ridmark.

  He turned, raising Caledhmaer, and Calliande watched with fascination. Her Sight saw power blaze and writhe through the sword, more complex than she could comprehend. The curtain of mist and pale light appeared, the gate rippling before both her mortal eyes and the Sight.

  “Cathair Solas,” said Ridmark.

  “I hope this visit goes better than the last one,” said Calliande.

  He gave her a faint smile. “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

  Calliande nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped through the sword’s gate.

  Chapter 5: Bred To War

  Mara could sleep anywhere.

  It was a skill she had learned long ago. She had not always been the Queen of Nightmane Forest, with an army of violent mutated orcs eager to obey her every command. Before that, she had accompanied Ridmark and Calliande on their quest to Urd Morlemoch, sleeping on the ground wrapped in her cloak. Yet before she had met Jager, she had been an assassin of the Red Family, and she had grown accustomed to sleeping whenever and wherever she needed to rest.

  And long before that, she had been a homeless wanderer, fleeing from the Traveler’s tyranny to seek a new home and a new life away from his cruelty.

  That seemed like it had been such a long time ago.

  Now the Traveler was dead at her hand. The Anathgrimm, the orcs her father had bred to worship him as a god, had been ready to kill themselves in despair, but Jager had persuaded them to follow Mara as their Queen instead. The Anathgrimm had followed her through a year and a half of war, battling the minions of the Frostborn throughout the Northerland.

  The Traveler had sought to make the Anathgrimm into the best soldiers ever to walk under the sun, and Mara feared that her father had succeeded brilliantly. They could march for days without stopping, could endure hardship and deprivation without complaint. The orcish kindred enjoyed fighting far more than did humans or dwarves or halflings, but the Anathgrimm reveled in battle, gloried in it, enjoyed it the way other kindreds might enjoy a good meal or a long rest.

  It made Mara sad. Her father had wrought the Anathgrimm into warriors, and war was all that they knew how to do.

  Though right now, the world needed warriors.

  “We can push further today, my Queen,” rumbled old Qhazulak, the Lord Captain of the Queen’s Guard, the most formidable warriors of the Anathgrimm. Like all the Anathgrimm, Qhazulak’s face was partially hidden beneath a mask of black bone that had grown from his flesh. At first Mara had not been able to tell the individual Anathgrimm apart, but now she could do so at a glance. All the Anathgrimm had iron-hard black bones that grew outside their bodies, giving them additional armor and weapons. Thanks to the black spikes that grew from their forearms, no Anathgrimm could ever be completely d
isarmed.

  “We could,” said Mara, “but the warriors will arrive at the battlefield tired and spent. Better to let them rest.”

  Qhazulak grunted. “The Anathgrimm scorn both pain and weariness.”

  “That is unquestionably true,” said a deep voice. Jager grinned up at the Lord Captain. “But if your warriors arrive at the battlefield full of vigor, they will kill all the more of the enemy, and will be even more effective warriors.”

  Mara smiled at Jager, grateful that he had expressed her intentions better than she could. She was good at many things, but eloquent expression was not one of them. Her husband was tall for a halfling, only an inch or so shorter than she was, and even while on the march to war against the Frostborn, he managed to stay clean, his black leather jerkin crisp over the blue dark elven armor he had taken from the Warden’s armories in Urd Morlemoch. He had a short sword of dark elven steel and a dwarven-forged dagger at his belt, and he smiled an insouciant smile at Qhazulak beneath his mop of curly brown hair, his large eyes the color of amber.

  Mara had been with Jager for years, and she had been married to him for a year and a half, and it still astonished her that such a deep voice could come from such a short man. Of course, under the armor he had a remarkable lot of muscle, as she knew quite well.

  “If it is the Queen’s will then we shall camp here,” said Qhazulak, though she could tell he did not approve.

  “Perhaps it is for the best, Lord Captain,” said another Anathgrimm. Father Zhorlacht wore a priest’s robe that had been specifically cut to fit over the bony spikes of the Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht was the first of the priests of the Dominus Christus that Caius had trained among the Anathgrimm. Of course, the Anathgrimm priests were rather different from the human priests Mara had met among the men of Andomhaim. Caius had said that the priests of the Dominus Christus were forbidden from spilling blood with the edge of the sword, so Zhorlacht now carried a club that looked like the trunk of a small tree. (Caius had likely set an example with that huge dark elven warhammer he used.) Instead of using dark magic as he had when serving the Traveler, Zhorlacht now employed earth magic to empower his spells, arguing that it was licit for a baptized orc, since he trafficked with neither the dead nor evil spirits for his magic.