Frostborn: The False King (5 page)

“This way,” murmured Constantine. “Stay close to the base of the wall.”

The older Swordbearer led the way along the base of the curtain wall, marching as if he owned the fortress, which Gavin supposed was something that nobles learned alongside swordplay and high-flying rhetoric. There were men upon the walls, though most of the defenders were sleeping in the tents at the moment. Likely the Constable and his knights doubted that Arandar Pendragon would be reckless enough to launch an attack upon the castra in the dark of the night. 

They climbed a flight of stairs to the ramparts, and as they did, Gavin looked over the battlements. In the hills to the north, he saw the massed loyalist army flying the banners of the Duxi and the Comites and the kings of the baptized orcish kingdoms. They had to stay well away from the walls because of the power of the siege engines, but Gavin noted that a large group of horsemen waited near the front of the lines of infantry. 

He hoped the commander of the castra had not noticed the horsemen.

They strode towards the gatehouse of Castra Carhaine. The gatehouse was a fortified mass of stone, with two watch towers rising on either side. Guards in the colors of Tarrabus Carhaine stood watch, keeping a wary eye on the loyalist host to the north. The Constable might have been too lax to guard the river gate, but that had not extended to the gatehouse. Four men stood at the door to the gatehouse, and suspicious eyes turned towards Gavin and Constantine as they approached. 

“What is this?” said one of the Carhaine men-at-arms. “We aren’t due to be relieved until dawn. Why is your company here? You…”

“I don’t recognize them!” said another of the men-at-arms.

“To arms!” shouted the first one.

Constantine yanked his soulblade from its scabbard, and Gavin followed suit. Truthseeker had the shape of a longsword and at the base of the blade, just above the crosspiece, glowed a piece of crystal. It was a soulstone, and it gave Truthseeker its magical power…which in turn, gave Gavin the ability to move faster and strike harder than he could otherwise.

He drew upon his link to the soulblade, letting it fill him with its power, and he charged. The nearest man-at-arms drew his sword, but Gavin struck first, Truthseeker a blur of steel and white fire in his fist. The blade crunched into the soldier’s neck, and Gavin wrenched Truthseeker free, spinning as a second man-at-arms came at him, sword raised. Gavin got his shield up in time, and the sword rebounded from the dwarven steel, the man-at-arms staggering. Gavin stabbed with Truthseeker, landing a telling blow, and the man-at-arms fell, bleeding from a wound that would soon prove mortal.

Then Truthseeker blazed in Gavin’s fist, white fire running up the length of the blade.

There was dark magic nearby…or someone was drawing upon the shadow of Incariel. 

Two of the remaining men-at-arms rushed at Gavin, shadows streaming up their arms and wrapping around their swords. They were part of the cult of the Enlightened, which meant they could draw upon the shadow of Incariel for strength and power.

Gavin went on the attack, and his blade met the sword of the first Enlightened, the shadows recoiling from the soulblade’s fire. The Enlightened man-at-arms came at Gavin, driving him towards the edge of the rampart, no doubt hoping to knock him off the edge. Gavin blocked again with his shield, recovering his footing.

Fire flared atop the ramparts, and a gout of flame engulfed the Enlightened soldier’s head. The man’s sneer of rage dissolved into a horrified scream as Antenora gestured, flames crackling around her staff. Gavin struck at once, driving Truthseeker’s point into the burning man’s throat, and the soldier fell past Gavin to land in the courtyard below.

The second Enlightened dueled Constantine, shadow-wreathed sword flashing against Brightherald’s fire, and as the man-at-arms fought, he seemed to change. The veins beneath his skin turned black, pulsing with shadow, and greenish-gray scales spread across his face, even as claws burst from his fingers and his body bulged with muscle. Gavin had seen this before. Sometimes when the Enlightened of Incariel called upon the shadow, it granted them strength and power.

And sometimes, it consumed them. 

The Enlightened screamed in agony and ecstasy, the transformation quickening. It would have gone further, but Gavin stabbed, driving Truthseeker into the gap in the armor beneath the soldier’s arm. The transforming man-at-arms staggered, and Constantine took off his head with a sweep of Brightherald.

Shouts of alarm rang out from the courtyard, and Gavin saw men-at-arms running for the stairs, preparing to swarm onto the ramparts. 

“Lady Antenora!” said Constantine. “The door, quickly.” 

Antenora nodded and thrust her staff against the door to the gatehouse, the sigils upon her staff blazing. The blast ripped the door off its hinges and sent it tumbling into the interior of the gatehouse. Within Gavin glimpsed a massive steel winch, chained to the elaborate gears and counterweights that controlled the fortified gate itself. Pulling one lever would open the portcullis, and pulling the second lever would open the massive gates themselves.

There were also a dozen men-at-arms standing watch over the mechanism, and they charged as Gavin and Constantine stormed into the room. Five of the men-at-arms were Enlightened, shadows streaming from their swords, and Gavin ran to meet them. He caught a blow on his shield, wheeled, and thrust back, Truthseeker’s edge carving a vicious gash across his attacker’s arm. The soulblade drew blood, yet the wound also sizzled as its magic battled against the dark power in his opponent’s flesh. The man-at-arms stumbled with a scream of pain, and Gavin cut him down, turn just in time to catch a descending mace on his shield. The mace rebounded from the dwarven steel with a great clang, and Gavin staggered back from the force of the blow, but by then Kadius and his men-at-arms had swarmed into the gatehouse, shouting their battle cries. The force of their attack drove back the Carhaine men-at-arms. 

“Lady Antenora!” shouted Constantine. “The western door! Sir Gavin, with me!”

Antenora whirled to face the western door as the last of Kadius’s soldiers ran into the gatehouse. Gavin ran to join Constantine, sheathing Truthseeker, and they both gripped the lever controlling the portcullis. Together, with soulblade-augmented strength, they pulled both the first lever and the second. A shudder went through the floorboards beneath their feet, and the gears whirled, the counterweights sliding in their greased grooves along the wall.

As they did, Antenora cast her spell. A wall of flame erupted on the ramparts outside of the western door, snarling and crackling, and the Carhaine men-at-arms who had sprinted up the stairs to the battlements came to a sudden stop. At the same time, the eastern door burst open, and more Carhaine men-at-arms rushed into the melee, trying to reach the gate levers.

“Hold!” roared Kadius, cutting down a Carhaine soldier with a hammer blow of his sword. “Hold the gate! Whatever the cost, hold the gate!”

Gavin fought alongside the other men. 

###

Calliande drew upon the Sight.

Castra Carhaine remained quiet, yet to the power of the Sight, she saw conflict. The Sight saw spikes of elemental magic as Antenora used her spells, and dozens of loci of dark power scattered throughout the fortress. The Enlightened of Incariel looked like that when drawing upon the shadow of Incariel. Even worse, a miasma of shadow hung over the entire place, like a layer of soot on the ceiling above a fire pit. Calliande had no doubt that Incariel had been worshiped here for a long time, that the Enlightened had met here in secret for decades, leaving the taint of their shadow over the fortress. 

Perhaps Calliande would have a chance to drive away that shadow.

A clang echoed from the curtain wall, and she drew herself up, releasing the Sight.

“The gate,” said Prince Arandar. “It is opening.”

Arandar Pendragon, she reflected, had settled well into his new role as Prince Regent and future High King of Andomhaim. He sat atop his destrier with calm ease, his dark eyes fixed on Castra Carhaine, his gray-shot black hair stirring in the cool breeze rising from the Moradel. Arandar disdained the ornate armor favored by his late father Uthanaric for the simple plate and chain mail he had worn as a Swordbearer. Around him waited the chief lords and knights who had remained loyal when Tarrabus Carhaine had turned to the Enlightened – stern Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland, fierce Dux Kors Durius of Durandis, the young Dux Sebastian Aurelius of Caertigris, the calm Prince Cadwall Gwyrdragon of Cintarra, the regal Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand, the battle-thirsty orcish kings of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk, the Masters of the Orders of the Soulblade and the Magistri, and numerous others. They were all hard men, accustomed to command and having their orders obeyed, yet Arandar had mastered them.

So far, anyway. 

If they failed to take Castra Carhaine, after the campaign in Caerdracon had taken so long, some of the lords might come to doubt their Prince Regent.

But the gate was opening. The plan was working. 

“Aye, my lord Prince,” said Gareth, squinting into the red-lit gloom. “It has opened!”

“Then we must act at once,” said Arandar with iron calm. “Master Marhand, headman Crowlacht.” 

Master Marhand turned his horse, his soulblade Torchbrand already in his fist. The hard-bitten old man was lean as a horsewhip, yet tough as an old oak club. He had come through the battle of Dun Calpurnia unscathed, killing three Frostborn in single combat, and had fought in the hottest battles of the campaign through Caerdracon. Around him waited another fifty Swordbearers, soulblades in hand, and behind them came fifty warriors of the orcish kingdom of Rhaluusk, grumbling as they steered their horses. The orcs of Rhaluusk preferred to fight on their own feet. A paunchy orc of middle years led the Rhaluuskan warriors, his yellowed tusks rising from a gray beard, but Crowlacht carried his huge steel war hammer with ease, and Calliande had seen him wield the weapon with the vigor of an orcish man half his age.

“We are ready, lord Prince,” said Marhand. 

“Aye!” said Crowlacht, his black eyes beginning to glimmer with the red light of orcish battle rage. “Let us teach these dogs the price of betraying the High King!”

Calliande pulled herself into the saddle of her horse, laying the staff of the Keeper flat before her.

“My lady Keeper,” said Arandar. “Once again, are you sure you must go?”

“I must,” said Calliande. “If there are powerful Enlightened within the castra, the Swordbearers will need my aid.” The Constable that Tarrabus had left in command of Castra Carhaine, Sir Claudius Agrell, was likely high within the circles of the Enlightened. It was also possible that Tarrabus might have sent the Weaver or Imaria Shadowbearer to defend his ancestral seat. 

If they showed themselves…Calliande had business with them both. 

“Then may God be with us all, and guide your sword arm,” said Arandar, raising his voice to address the men. “Go!”

“Ride!” shouted Marhand, pointing Torchbrand towards the curtain walls. The Swordbearers and the orcish warriors surged forward with a shout, galloping toward Castra Carhaine, and Calliande rode in their midst. As they galloped, she drew upon the power of the Well at Tarlion’s heart, letting the magic fill her.

She fed that power through the mantle of the Keeper, the ancient power that the Keepers of Andomhaim had wielded since the founding of the realm. That was the secret of the Keepers’ might, the strength that had let them defy orcish warlocks and dark elven princes and the urdmordar and the Frostborn. No other magic could resist the power of the Keeper’s mantle, and when she fed the magic of the Well through it, was magic was amplified greatly. 

She would need that power soon enough.

The horsemen galloped towards the northern gate, falling into a wedge formation with the Swordbearers at the tip. Calliande looked at the ramparts, and she saw crossbowmen hastening into place, heard the roar of a decurion shouting orders. 

The crossbowmen raised their weapons, and Calliande lifted the staff of the Keeper, calling upon her power. 

A storm of quarrels fell towards the horsemen, but Calliande had already cast her warding spell. A flickering aura of white light surrounded the horsemen, deflecting the crossbow bolts. She did not stop them all. Two orcs fell dead from their saddles, and more were wounded, but her ward had absorbed the worst of the attack. 

Then the Swordbearers thundered through the gate and into the courtyard. Screams and shouts and the clash of steel upon steel filled her ears. For a moment, the orcs and the remaining Swordbearers piled up near the gate as they urged their horses through, and Calliande cast a warding spell again, shielding them from the crossbow bolts. Yet there were fewer crossbowmen than she would have expected. Gavin’s and Constantine’s attack on the gatehouse had been more effective than she had hoped. 

They burst through the gate and stormed into the courtyard. 

The castra’s courtyard had become a battlefield, and the Carhaine men-at-arms had rallied in haste to try to hold the gate, but to no avail. The Swordbearers crashed through them, scattering their attempt to form a shield wall, and the Rhaluuskan orcs rushed into the gaps, hammering down the scattered men-at-arms. 

For an instant, a wave of queasy guilt went through Calliande. The soulblades had been forged to defend men and orcs and halflings and other mortals from the powers of dark magic, not to be used against them in battle. Yet Tarrabus Carhaine had forsaken Andomhaim and the Dominus Christus to follow the dark shadow of Incariel. Calliande had done her utmost to avoid this war, had sacrificed her entire life and spent centuries waiting below the Tower of Vigilance to defend the realm from the Frostborn, and yet thanks to the treachery of Tarrabus Carhaine and Imaria Licinius, the Frostborn had returned. 

The guilt hardened and evaporated into cold determination, even familiarity. 

She was at home on a battlefield. 

Since Calliande had been a girl, she had seen battle after battle, war without end. Sometimes she wondered if there was even such a thing as peace, or if peace was only an illusion and war was the true state of mortal man. Calliande had done her utmost to avoid this war…but now that if had come, she would not stop for anything less than victory.