Frostborn: The False King (9 page)

The Court had been arranged with oak trees growing on the side, the trunks seeming like pillars and the interlocked branches overhead like a vaulted roof. At the far end of the impromptu hall stood a heaped mass of granite boulders, a few of them arranged to form a stone throne. 

Mara, Queen of Nightmane Forest, sat upon the stone throne.

The chair dwarfed her. She was barely five feet tall, and she seemed like a tiny thing in her father’s seat. The dark elven armor and the diadem of blue steel that she wore made her seem taller, but not by very much. She had large green eyes and pale blond hair, the hair swept back to reveal the points of her half-dark elven ears. Once she had taken care to conceal those points, but no longer. Despite her size, she looked like a cold, aloof dark elven noblewoman.

The illusion shattered when she smiled. 

“Somehow, I just knew you would return victorious,” said the halfling man standing next to the Queen’s throne. He was thin and lean and muscled, his voice surprisingly deep despite his size. Unlike his wife, he had not changed his usual style of clothing and wore black boots, black trousers, and a black leather vest over a crisp white shirt, a sword and a dagger at his belt. “Or with a pile of dead medvarth behind you.” 

“As much as we might have wished to drag a pile of dead medvarth into Nightmane Forest,” said Caius, “I fear we would not wish to offend your wife the Queen.”

“A sensible policy,” said Jager, smiling as he brushed some dust from his sleeve. 

“I have always thought so,” said Mara, rising from the throne. She had a soft voice, but when she spoke in Nightmane Forest, people listened. “Welcome home, my friends.”

Home? Had Nightmane Forest become Ridmark’s home? He didn’t know the answer to that. Castra Arban had once been his home, and then Castra Marcaine, but both places were lost to him. Perhaps a man like the Gray Knight would never have a home.

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, “my Queen.” 

Mara smiled at him, took Jager’s hand, and walked forward. Others followed the Queen and Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest. There were a half a dozen Anathgrimm of the Queen’s Guard, the oldest and most vicious fighters of the Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht walked with the Queen’s Guard, wearing armor over his black robe. Once he had been a priest of the Traveler, wielding dark magic in the dark elven prince’s name. After accepting baptism and ordination from Caius, he had become Father Zhorlacht, one of the first the priests of the Dominus Christus among the Anathgrimm. If they lived long enough, Ridmark thought, Zhorlacht would likely become the first bishop of Nightmane Forest since the Anathgrimm would prefer priests from their own kindred. 

They preferred priests of their own kindred, but they would accept no one else but Mara as their ruler. 

One other walked behind Mara, a human girl of about ten years, wearing a blue dress, her resemblance to Accolon and Arandar obvious. Nyvane’s expression was grave, as she took her duties as the Queen’s handmaiden seriously, but she kept wanting to smile as she looked at her brother. 

“We return with victory,” said Qhazulak. “Seven times we faced the foe, and seven times we were victorious.”

“I doubted it not, my Champion,” said Mara. She looked at Ridmark. “All fourteen of the warbands we sent returned. All have taken losses, yes, but all return with victories.”

“The souls of our brothers shall reside with Dominus Christus for eternity,” said Zhorlacht. “Nor were their deaths in vain, though all Anathgrimm desire a glorious death in battle surrounded by the corpses of our enemies. From what the other warbands have reported, we doubt the Frostborn will be able to assail Castra Marcaine this year.”

“They will bring reinforcements eventually,” said Ridmark.

Zhorlacht smiled behind his black tusks. Smiling only made the Anathgrimm look more ferocious. “Eventually. But not this year.”

“Which will give Prince Arandar the time he needs to claim the High King’s throne and bring a unified Andomhaim to our aid,” said Mara. 

“We need to rethink our strategy,” said Ridmark. “Our successes will draw the notice of our enemies.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Mara with a sigh. “Such is the nature of war.” She looked at Third. “And you, sister? Are you well?” 

Third stared at Mara for a moment.

“No,” said Third at last, “but I am no worse than when I left and better than I have been for centuries. Therefore, I have no cause for complaint. I have done as you have commanded, and kept the Gray Knight safe.”

“Thank you,” said Mara. “We shall plan a new strategy tomorrow. Tonight, we shall feast in the Eastern Court, to celebrate our victories. The young Anathgrimm have brought food out of the storehouses without falling prey to the death spells so we may eat our fill.” 

###

Later that night, hundreds of Anathgrimm feasted in the Eastern Court, listening as Caius recounted the tales of their battles in the Northerland. Neither Kharlacht nor Qhazulak were particularly eloquent, but Caius made up for it, and Ridmark had to admit Caius made the warband’s victories sound better than they had been. All Ridmark remembered was the blood and the screaming and the rage that never left him. From time to time Jager interspersed with comments that elicited roars of laughter from the Anathgrimm. 

“That is a sound,” said Mara in a soft voice, “that I thought I would never hear in this place.” 

“Perhaps it never was heard here before this year,” said Ridmark. 

He walked alone with the Queen at the edge of the Eastern Court. Night had fallen, and the blue glow of Nightmane Forest had dimmed somewhat, though the motes of blue light still danced from branch to branch. The sight was eerie and alien, but it was nonetheless beautiful. The Traveler had been insane and cruel and twisted, but in his own way he had been brilliant, even if his gifts had been twisted in the service of his selfish evil. 

“No,” said Mara. She looked up at him. “What do you think?”

He looked back at her. Ridmark had never had a sister, but if he had, he imagined he would have felt about her the way he felt about Mara. He had refused to kill her at the Iron Tower, she had saved their lives at Urd Morlemoch, and she had given him some good advice when he needed to hear it. Though Ridmark was not sure if he was the protective older brother, or if she was the wiser older sister.

Maybe they were both.

“I think,” said Ridmark, “that we will draw a response from the Frostborn sooner rather than later.”

“You are right,” said Mara. “While you were gone, they launched an attack on the northeastern border of the Forest, trying to break through the wards.”

“Did they succeed?” said Ridmark.

“No. Not even close,” said Mara, a dark satisfaction in her voice. “My father was a monster, but his warding spells were potent. Only the Warden’s warding spells were greater.”

“Perhaps the Traveler’s skill at wards were greater than the Warden’s,” said Ridmark, “given that he could leave Nightmane Forest and the Warden can never leave Urd Morlemoch.”

“Let us be grateful for small favors,” said Mara. “The magical attack upon the wards failed, so the Frostborn have turned to a different tactic. Zhorlacht’s scouts have seen bands of medvarth led by khaldjari building fortifications along the eastern bank of the Moradel. They are constructing small forts – little more than a tower, a ditch, and an earthwork wall, but forts nonetheless.” 

“A sentry line,” said Ridmark. “Our raids have hurt them, so they are digging in along the Moradel, building a line of fortifications to stop and track our warbands.” 

Mara nodded. “That was Zhorlacht’s thought. It seems we have indeed gained Andomhaim some time. Given the resources it will take the Frostborn to build that line, they will have to abandon their attack upon Castra Marcaine for another year.”

“We’ve gained time, but nothing else,” said Ridmark. “The forces Dux Gareth left at Castra Marcaine aren’t strong enough to do anything but hold the castra. And unless Arandar claims the realm soon, next year enough Frostborn reinforcements will come through the world gate that the Frostborn will be able to keep us bottled up in Nightmane Forest while they conquer the Northerland.”

“Yes,” said Mara. “We will not be completely trapped. There are exits from Nightmane Forest through the tunnels of the Deeps, and we can leave through the southern and western borders of the Forest.”

Ridmark nodded. “But our effectiveness will be reduced.”

“I fear so,” said Mara. She sighed. “The Anathgrimm are the deadliest warriors in this world…but even they cannot fight this war alone.” 

She fell silent, gazing at the firelight from the Eastern Court.

“How has it been here?” said Ridmark.

Mara smiled a little. “I am grateful Jager stayed.”

“Stayed?” said Ridmark. “Why would he have left?”

“When he married me, he could not have possibly have known the kind of burden he would take on,” said Mara. 

“The burden of the Anathgrimm,” said Ridmark.

“I could not bear it without him,” said Mara. “I was trained as an assassin. I do not like to speak to crowds. I do not like to give orders. Jager, though…Jager loves an audience. Jager likes to tell people what to do.”

Ridmark snorted. “The Queen has a gift for understatement.”

“As I said, I do not like to talk,” said Mara, and Ridmark laughed a little. 

“We are talking now,” said Ridmark. 

“That is different,” said Mara. “And the Anathgrimm…oh, God, Ridmark. Those poor men and women. The Anathgrimm need someone to tell them what to do.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Because of what the Traveler did to them,” said Ridmark.

“He ruined them,” said Mara. “He made them the finest soldiers the world has ever seen, but he hollowed them out to do it. They are devoted to war and nothing else. An Anathgrimm man’s highest ambition is to die gloriously in battle. An Anathgrimm woman’s highest hope is to bear sons who will die gloriously in battle.” She shook her head. “That, alone, could be cured in time…but they cannot think for themselves, Ridmark. They simply cannot. My father bred that into them, damn him. If I were not here, if Jager were not here…they would kill themselves. Or boil out of Nightmane Forest on a rampage and attack and attack until they were overwhelmed and slain. I want them to be free…but because of my father, they cannot be free.”

She sighed and fell silent. 

“You did get what you wanted,” said Ridmark.

Mara blinked. “What?”

“A chance to undo some of your father’s evil work,” said Ridmark. “The Traveler would have slain the Anathgrimm all out of spite if he could have worked it. Or someone like the Matriarch would have made them slaves. You have made them as free as they can be, and if you had not, the Frostborn would have conquered Andomhaim and Tarrabus would be the undisputed High King of the realm.”

They stood in silence for a while.

“You always have a way,” said Mara, “of putting things into perspective.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. 

“I only wish you could do the same for yourself,” said Mara. 

“What do you mean?” he said, and then he grimaced. “Ah. The usual lecture. That I blame myself for Morigna as I blamed myself for Aelia? No. I could not have saved Morigna. Nothing I might have done would have made a difference.”

“I know,” said Mara. “We were blindsided, all of us. I only mean…you have come to think like the Anathgrimm.”

Ridmark blinked. “I don’t understand.” 

“They live to fight,” said Mara. “You live for revenge.”

The anger rolled through him, but it wasn’t aimed at her. 

She wasn’t wrong, after all, and the anger had been a constant part of him ever since the fall of Dun Licinia. 

“What else is there?” said Ridmark in a quiet voice. “I would never tell anyone else this, but you know as well as I do that we do not have much chance of winning this war.”

“I know,” said Mara. “We tried to stop it. You tried to stop it from happening, but it came anyway.”

Actually, they had stopped it…until Imaria Licinius had taken the mantle of Shadowbearer for herself.

For a brief, searing moment, he saw himself with his hands around her lying, treacherous throat, squeezing the breath from her as she tried to scream. As a young man, as a new-made Swordbearer, the thought of raising a hand against a woman would have horrified him.

Now, though…sometimes all he could think about was killing Imaria Licinius Shadowbearer. 

“We tried, and we failed,” said Ridmark. “If we’re going to lose…then what is left but to take as many of them with us as possible?”

“I hope,” said Mara, “that you remember there is more than that.”

“Maybe,” said Ridmark, but he doubted it.

###

“Burn with me.”

Again Ridmark stood in that hall of glowing white stone, the woman robed in fire standing before him. Fire sheathed the curves of her body, blazed in her eyes, flowed down her hair. She stared at him, and he felt an overwhelming desire to go to her.

“Burn with me,” whispered the woman.

“She’s calling to you, boy,” said the gray-bearded old warrior upon the throne at the end of the hall. The hard eyes in his scarred, weathered face regarded Ridmark. “You’ll find the way to her soon. And then…well, we’ll see if she consumes you or not.”

“Burn with me,” said the woman, and flames exploded to fill the hall.

Ridmark jerked awake, his breath coming hard and fast.

For a moment, he did not remember where he was and how he had gotten there.

Then memory returned, followed by a crushing headache. 

Ridmark leaned against the base of the tree and rubbed his temples, squinting into the blue-lit gloom of the Forest. For an instant, an echo of the nightmare lingered in his mind. A hall of white stone? An old man? Maybe he had been dreaming of Urd Arowyn, where Agrimnalazur had made her lair, or perhaps of Urd Morlemoch.

Yet the shards of the dream faded, as they always did.

God and the saints, he had a headache. 

He looked around, pushing back his gray cloak. It was still a few hours until dawn, but after one of those nightmares, he could never get back to sleep. Ridmark pushed to his feet with a grunt, collecting his staff and belt and boots from where he had put them next to the tree. Sleeping on the ground in Nightmane Forest wasn’t terribly uncomfortable, so long he wrapped up to ward off the chill.