Frostborn: The False King (10 page)

Ridmark walked aimlessly for a while, making his way around the massive trees and the carved menhirs. There was a stone terrace a few hundred yards from the Eastern Court, built for the drills of the Anathgrimm, and he decided to go there. In a few hours, he would meet with Mara and Qhazulak and Zhorlacht and the others to plan the next phase of their war against the Frostborn, and he could take that time to practice with his staff. The exercise would do him good, would clear his mind. He would have preferred to find an enemy to fight, but since there were no enemies in Nightmane Forest, he would instead do the next best thing. 

His head still hurt, but the throbbing lessened as he climbed up a low ridge.

Ridmark stepped onto a broad terrace, built from the white stone the dark elves had favored in their construction, though the ubiquitous blue glow made it look like gleaming ice. The terrace overlooked a shallow valley and one of the rushing streams that flowed into the Moradel from the Forest. Ridmark took two steps forward, adjusting his grip on his staff, and stopped. 

Jager strolled towards him, humming a little, his hair mussed, his vest undone, his shirt hanging loose.

Ridmark felt a flicker of embarrassment. Years in the Wilderland had trained him to watchfulness, and he had spent months near Mara and Jager. Therefore, he could not help but notice that whenever Mara and Jager slept together, afterward Mara fell into a deep sleep, while Jager became restless and preferred to wander about or talk. 

He wished he didn’t know that, but he did. Some things ought to be private.

Though given all the terrible secrets Ridmark had learned, this was harmless by comparison. 

“Gray Knight,” said Jager. “You couldn’t sleep either?” 

“No,” said Ridmark.

“More of those bad dreams?” said Jager.

Ridmark frowned. “How do you know about those?”

“Third told me,” said Jager.

Ridmark stared at him. 

“Well, she told Mara,” said Jager. “She tells Mara everything. I just happened to be nearby at the time. Third says you’ve been having constant nightmares, and wake up saying something about fire.” 

“I don’t remember them,” said Ridmark. He supposed if he woke up shouting about a fire, the nightmares must have been about the day Morigna died, about the day Dun Licinia burned. Ridmark had been out of his mind with grief and rage, and Imaria and the Weaver had lured him into the burning shell of Dun Licinia’s keep. If not for Calliande’s intervention, they would have killed him…

He felt a tired pang of regret and guilt when he thought of the Keeper, as he always did, but what was done was done. 

The pang faded, but the anger remained.

“You should have Camorak examine you, I think,” said Jager.

“Camorak has healed my wounds a dozen times in the last year,” said Ridmark. “If I had some sort of illness, he would have discovered it by now.”

“Mmm,” said Jager. “Do you know what I think we should do next?”

“Go back to sleep?” said Ridmark.

“Allies,” said Jager, waving a hand. “We need allies. In the old stories, Calliande and the armies of Andomhaim fought against the Frostborn, but they didn’t do it alone. They had the dwarves and the manetaurs and the high elves and the Dragon Knight to help them. So why are we fighting against the Frostborn alone?”

“You know why,” said Ridmark. “Tarrabus split the realm asunder. The manetaurs and the dwarves are not fools. If they look at Andomhaim now, they see the realm split between Arandar and Tarrabus, and they have no wish to get sucked into Andomhaim’s civil war.” 

“Perhaps we should treat with the dwarves and the manetaurs,” said Jager.

“Ourselves?” said Ridmark.

“Why not?” said Jager. “Mara’s a Queen in her own right. The manetaurs and the dwarves and the others made their treaties with the High King, but the Kingdom of Nightmane Forest did not exist back then.” He scratched his jaw. “Well, I suppose it did, in a sense, but the Traveler wasn’t the sort of make treaties with anyone. Why not make a treaty with the Queen of Nightmane Forest?”

“That will be challenging,” said Ridmark. “The Traveler earned an evil reputation. The manetaurs and the dwarves would be hesitant to follow his daughter.”

“Yet if they don’t,” said Jager, “then once the Frostborn are finished with us they’ll spread across the world. The dwarves and the manetaurs recognized the danger once before, during the last war against the Frostborn. Maybe they’ll be wise enough to recognize the danger a second time.” He stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. “On the other hand, I never lost money wagering against the folly of those who ought to have known better.” 

“Damn Tarrabus and his treachery,” said Ridmark in a quiet voice. “If not for him and the Enlightened, the armies of the realm could have marched alongside the Anathgrimm and driven the Frostborn back a year past.” Someday, somehow, he was going to find a way to kill Imaria Licinius and the Weaver for what they had done…and once he had settled with them, Tarrabus Carhaine the false king was next.

“Aye,” said Jager. “Do you ever think about why?”

“Why all this has happened?” said Ridmark. “All the time. I never find a good answer.”

“Yes, well, the suffering of the mortal condition and all that,” said Jager, “but the question was more specific. Why did Tymandain Shadowbearer summon the Frostborn, both the first time and the second time?”

“To destroy Andomhaim, apparently,” said Ridmark. “At least, he said as much when we fought him the final time.”

“But why?” said Jager. “Why destroy Andomhaim? Out of spite?”

Ridmark’s first reaction was a mild annoyance. Jager was a friend and had gone with Ridmark into some very dangerous places, but nonetheless, mild annoyance was a frequent reaction when speaking with him. Nevertheless, it was an excellent question, and Jager had a knack for asking the right questions. Jager had questioned Tarrabus’s motives before Dun Calpurnia, and if they had realized the truth in time, Uthanaric Pendragon and his sons might not have been murdered, and the realm might still be unified. 

“I don’t know,” said Ridmark at last. “Tymandain Shadowbearer must have had some reason for it, some goal, some purpose that Imaria now inherited.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the first Shadowbearer and the second are using the Frostborn the way Tymandain Shadowbearer used Mournacht, as a weapon.”

“A heartening thought,” said Jager, “possibly.”

“Why?”

“Well,” said Jager, “Mournacht ended with your axe in his skull.” 

Ridmark snorted. “The Frostborn will be a greater challenge.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Jager, “but I confess it bothers me a great deal. We didn’t know why Tarrabus made so many of the decisions that he did…but then the Duxi of Calvus, Arduran, and Tarras went over to his side at Dun Calpurnia, and all was made clear. I would really wish to avoid that moment of horrifying realization again. It isn’t a pleasant sensation at all.” 

“I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “Even Call…even the Keeper did not know.” Jager gave him an odd look, but Ridmark kept talking. “Ardrhythain might have known, but he didn’t tell us.”

“Not that the last archmage of the high elves has made himself particularly useful,” said Jager. “Though he did rescue us from Urd Morlemoch, I’ll give him that.”

“The high elves do not like to interfere with other kindreds,” said Ridmark. “They only created the Magistri and the Swordbearers after the Keeper traveled to Cathair Solas to beg their aid.”

“Maybe we should ask them for help,” said Jager.

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “Your ideas have merit. We’ll discuss them with Mara and the others tomorrow. Though given how the Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest is rumored to have a silver tongue, perhaps we’ll wind up doing you want anyway.”

“Rubbish,” said Jager, making an expansive gesture. “I don’t tell anyone what to do. I just make reasonable suggestions, and my wife and the Anathgrimm can act upon them as they please. I can hardly be blamed if they listen to me most of the time, can I? No, no.” He drew himself up. “I was but a simple halfling merchant, making my modest way in the world when I found myself swept up in momentous events not of my doing…”

Ridmark barked out a harsh laugh, almost against his will. 

“Then it seems likely we shall send emissaries to the dwarves and the manetaurs,” said Ridmark.

“Damned if I know who, though,” said Jager. “Not the Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht might be able to do it, and some of the other wizards, but most of them don’t have a thought in their heads about anything other than fighting.”

“We can worry about it after the decision,” said Ridmark.

“True, true,” said Jager. “A slightly different matter. Did you know that Kharlacht has been seeing a woman?”

The change in topic threw Ridmark so thoroughly that it took him a moment to collect his thoughts.

“One of the Anathgrimm women?” said Ridmark. As far as he knew, the Anathgrimm women would only accept Anathgrimm men as husbands, preferably Anathgrimm warriors who had proven themselves in battle. 

“No, they’d likely chop his head off for impudence,” said Jager. “At least, I’d hope they’d start by chopping off his head. Anyway, you remember the Vhaluuskan orcs that fled here after the Frostborn started raiding in Vhaluusk for slaves?” Ridmark nodded. “It seems he’s been seeing quite a lot of the daughter of one of the headmen.” 

“He mentioned once he was betrothed before he joined Qazarl,” said Ridmark. “An orcish woman in his village. That was all, though. He never speaks of his past.” 

Jager shrugged. “Maybe he decided to think about the future.”

“Maybe,” said Ridmark. 

“And maybe,” said Jager, “you should consider following his example.” 

Ridmark frowned. “Courting a Vhaluuskan orcish woman? I doubt she would respond well.”

“A human woman,” said Jager.

Ridmark frowned at him. Not many people could meet his gaze, not without flinching, but Jager was one of them. He kept smiling that cocky little smile of his. 

“Why?” said Ridmark at last. 

“See, I’ve known you for a year and a half,” said Jager. “We’ve done all kinds of stupid and dangerous things together. So I think I know you pretty well by now, and I don’t think you’re the sort of man who should be alone.”

Ridmark glared at him. Jager just kept smiling and looking back.

“You go too far,” said Ridmark at last.

“No, I don’t,” said Jager. “What are friends for, if not to tell you uncomfortable things you don’t want to hear?”

Ridmark sighed. “Say your speech and get it over with.” 

“Some men are at their best when they’re alone,” said Jager. “They become monks and bishops or whatever. When I met you, you were still mourning your wife, and that almost got you killed a few times.”

“As I recall, you almost got me killed a few times,” said Ridmark.

“True,” said Jager, “but if it hadn’t been me, it would have been something else. Then you met Morigna, and then…”

“Morigna’s dead,” said Ridmark. “She’s dead, and Imaria and the Weaver killed her. Are you suggesting I forget her?”

“Of course not,” said Jager. “She was not…shall we say, a forgettable woman.” 

“No,” said Ridmark. He had started to pace, and he made himself stop.

“She was also a woman of strong opinions,” said Jager.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. 

“I suspect one of those opinions,” said Jager, “would be that you ought not to destroy yourself in a blaze of vengeance.” 

“You sound like the Keeper,” said Ridmark.

“She does offer sound counsel,” said Jager.

“So what is your counsel, then?” said Ridmark, turning to face him once more. “That I find some terrified peasant woman, seduce her, and then forget about her? Brother Caius would say that those who are unwed should not lie together.” 

“I’m not saying that,” said Jager, though his tone said otherwise. “We’re at war, yes, but…you’re a human, not an Anathgrimm orc. You were not meant to live like one, but you are. You must want more than war and blood and death.” 

“What do I want?” said Ridmark.

“Yes, what do you want?” said Jager. 

Ridmark said nothing for a while. He wanted Morigna back. He wished that Aelia had never died. He wished that he had been wise enough to see the danger, to stop the return of the Frostborn. Sometimes he wished that he had never started upon this path, that he had never gone to Urd Morlemoch. 

But those were things that could never happen.

“What I want,” said Ridmark, “is a second chance.”

“To do what?” said Jager.

“I keep thinking,” said Ridmark, “about how I’ve known them all of my life.”

“I’m sorry?” said Jager.

“Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Ridmark. “Imaria Licinius. Paul Tallmane. Caradog Lordac, and all the others allied with him. I’ve known them for years…and I had the chance to kill them all, and I passed. Morigna’s death wasn’t my fault, Jager. The return of the Frostborn wasn’t my fault. It was theirs…and I keep thinking of how much evil might have been averted had I killed them years ago. That’s what I want. A second chance to kill them all.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. Jager looked a little unsettled, though Ridmark could not have said why.

“Oh,” said Jager. “Well, guess you’ve got what you want, then.”

###

Later that morning, after he had practiced with his staff for a few hours, Ridmark returned to the Eastern Court, the pale blue light glinting off the heaped stones of the throne. Mara was not on the throne, but stood a few paces away, surrounded by Jager and Camorak and Zhorlacht and Qhazulak and a half-dozen of the Queen’s Guard. 

Ridmark stepped closer, and as one, they all turned to look at him.

He kept the grimace from his face.

There was news, and almost certainly it was bad.

“Something is wrong?” he said, stopping a few paces from the others. 

“We’ve had a message,” said Mara.

“Do you remember Magistrius Tulliarius?” said Camorak. 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Old man, missing an arm. The Frostborn killed the knight he was sworn to serve, but he led the survivors here.”

“We settled him in the southern portion of the Forest,” said Mara. “Last night he received a message, passed through the loyalist Magistri sworn to Arandar. The Keeper is coming to Nightmane Forest.”