Frostborn: The Iron Tower (27 page)

But as she did, her concentration wavered, and the wall of mist vanished.

A knight in gleaming steel plate rushed the door, sword aimed at her heart. 

###

Mara had been trained to kill in silence, to strike from the shadows and vanish back into them when the target was slain.

Yet she found herself yelling with the orcs as she ran for the Iron Tower’s gate. 

It was almost intoxicating. Terror pulsed through her, but a wild sort of excitement burned alongside it. She wanted to run away, yet kept sprinting forward with the others. 

The first orcs reached the gate and raced into the castra, and Mara heard the ring of steel on steel. Crowlacht roared a command and then a battle cry, and plunged through the gate himself, his massive hammer rising high over his head. A chorus of screams rang out, and a war horn wailed in the distance.

Then Calliande hurried through the gate, and Mara followed her into the courtyard of the Iron Tower. 

A knot of men-at-arms and knights stood below the gate, struggling against Crowlacht’s howling warriors. Crowlacht’s men were rested and ready, while Mara suspected that the men-at-arms had been roused from their beds. Many of them were only half-dressed. And the black eyes of Crowlacht’s men gleamed red as the battle fury of their orcish blood came upon them. The men-at-arms gave way, falling back beneath the assault. 

And Ridmark’s companions were formidable. 

Kharlacht waded through the melee, his massive sword of blue dark elven steel flashing, and he left a trail of severed heads and limbs in his wake. Gavin and Brother Caius fought back to back. Gavin covered the dwarven friar with his shield, and Caius struck with his heavy bronze-colored mace. Or Caius stunned their foes with blows of his mace, and Gavin’s sword darted home. 

Calliande trailed after them, tending to the wounded. Her eyes narrowed as she healed the wounds of those who had been injured. Mara knew that a Magistria had to endure the pain of the wound as it healed, that many Magistri could not cast healing spells because they could not handle the pain. Yet Calliande never flinched, white fire flaring around her hands as she healed wound after wound. The men-at-arms began to break, falling back towards the drum towers as more mercenaries poured through the opened gate. Mara risked a look up at the ramparts, saw knots of men struggling at the entrance to either of the gate towers.

Jager was up there. Possibly fighting for his life. 

“Calliande,” said Mara.

Calliande looked at the walls. “My lord headman!” Crowlacht glanced at her, the head of his hammer matted with pieces of someone’s head. “We need to secure the gate. If they get back into the gatehouse…”

Crowlacht bellowed a command, and several squads of mercenaries broke off from the melee, running for the stairs. 

###

The knight lunged at Morigna. 

He was too close to hit him with a spell of acidic or sleeping mist. She could command the stone beneath his feet to ripple, but the spell might accidentally bring the ceiling crashing down upon their heads. And because they were indoors, she could not summon any roots to entangle him. Nor did he bear any weapons made of wood. 

His scabbard, however, was made from polished wood and gleaming brass.

Morigna’s will flowed down her staff as the knight raised his sword for a killing blow. The scabbard shattered, and the knight stumbled, his eyes widening as he looked for the source of the sound. That gave Morigna the time she needed to take several steps back and unleash as much magic as she could muster. A wall of billowing white mist appeared before her and rolled to the west. The knight collapsed as the white mist filled his lungs, as did the men-at-arms who had followed him. Yet it was too much space for Morigna to fill, and the mist dissipated as her control wavered. 

The mist cleared away, leaving a half-dozen sleeping men in its wake, and revealing a score more waiting in the guardroom. 

###

Ridmark whirled, dodged, struck, and struck again, his blue tabard and armor speckled with blood. His arms and chest burned from the exertion of fighting, his breath coming in a short, steady rasp. He had held his own against the men-at-arms, but his endurance was flagging. Already he had been hit several times, and though the chain mail had turned aside the edge of the swords, the blows had still hurt. He had been forced to the levers that controlled the gate, and soon he would be back to back with Morigna, who flung spell after spell at the western door. Jager dared through the melee, bleeding from several cuts, his weapons wet with blood. 

They had fought well, but they were about to be overwhelmed.

Calliande had warned him over and over again about throwing his life away. It turned out that she had been right, though she would never get the satisfaction of telling him so. 

Another man-at-arms attacked, his flanged mace rising. Ridmark ducked and retreated, knowing better than to try and block the heavy weapon with his staff. The attack forced him towards the gears and chains upon the wall, leaving him with no room left to retreat. Ridmark jabbed with his staff, but the man-at-arms danced around the blow, bringing his mace back to strike.

Then Crowlacht appeared behind the man-at-arms, his steel plate spattered with blood, his hammer coming down. Ridmark had a brief glimpse of his opponent’s stunned face, and then his head vanished in a crimson spray between the wall and Crowlacht’s massive hammer. The headless corpse slid to the ground, blood and brains pooling upon the floor. 

“Good timing,” said Ridmark, catching his breath.

Crowlacht grinned, his red-gleaming eyes and tusks making it a terrifying sight. “Ha! A good fight. These men of Caerdracon, they run like whipped dogs!” 

Ridmark looked around, and Morigna and Jager joined him. Morigna took a deep breath, looked at him, and licked her lips. 

“That was,” she said, “even by your usual standards, quite mad.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark, looking at the carnage in his wake. At least sixteen men-at-arms lay dead or wounded upon the floor. But it had been necessary. Shadowbearer could not take the soulstone.

And the men had been trying to kill him.

“The men-at-arms and knights are falling back to the keeps,” said Crowlacht.

“We had best move, then,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want to give them time to fortify themselves.” Paul’s most logical course of action was to barricade himself in the keeps and wait for Shadowbearer to arrive. “Some of these men are only stunned. Have your warriors bind them, and then secure the war engines upon the curtain wall. If need be, we can turn them upon the keeps.”

“Your counsel is sound,” said Crowlacht. “It shall be done.”

“Come,” said Ridmark, and Jager and Morigna followed him from the lever room. They had to move quickly. The longer they waited, the more time Sir Paul would have to fortify himself in the keeps. If he dug in too deeply, they might never get him out.

To say nothing of what the dvargir might do.

###

“Do you not see?” said the Artificer’s hissing voice. “Did I not warn you?” 

As Paul Tallmane stood upon his balcony and looked at the chaos in the courtyard, he conceded that the Artificer had a point.

Somehow orcish warriors in chain mail and leather, accompanied by humans with the look of mercenaries, had gotten through the gate and into the castra. Paul saw his men falling back and retreating into the keeps. His sword hand tightened into a fist. How the devil had those orcish warriors gotten into the Iron Tower? Treachery, it had to be treachery. Perhaps that wretch Sir Marcast had even admitted them. 

And somehow, he knew, this had to be the work of Ridmark Arban. 

“You need my power,” said the Artificer. “Allow me into your mind, and I shall give you the power you need to prevail.”

Paul threw back his head and started to laugh.

He did not need the Artificer’s power. He had his own strength. He felt the freezing shadows of the Initiated filling him, giving him strength. With that strength, he feared nothing. With that strength, he would butcher the intruders. With that strength, he would kill Ridmark at last.

Paul drew his sword, shadows swirling around the blade. 

His balcony stood a hundred feet over the courtyard below, but he gripped the railing, vaulted over it, and jumped.

The freezing power of Incariel wrapped tight around him.

Chapter 18 - Shadows’ Fury

The fighting in the courtyard died away, and a tense hush fell over the Iron Tower.

Mara looked around. The men-at-arms and knights had fled into the keeps, leaving the orcish warriors and mercenaries with control of the gatehouse and the walls. Crowlacht’s warriors swept along the ramparts, making sure that no men-at-arms remained to turn the ballistae against them. Mara found herself eyeing the top of the keeps, the dark bulk of the tower of iron blotting out the stars overhead. The engines atop the keeps could easily fling bolts and burning barrels into the gathered warriors and mercenaries. 

Crowlacht saw the danger, too, as he returned from the gate towers. 

“Have the men disperse,” he told one of his lieutenants. “Loose formation. If any of those ballistae move, scatter and prepare for an attack. If the Constable wants to make trouble for us, he’ll open up with the engines and then charge at us from the great hall.” 

“That would be a foolish move,” said Kharlacht. The towering warrior remained impassive, though his black eyes glimmered with orcish battle rage. “Wiser to remain in his stronghold and wait for aid, force us to come to him.”

Calliande shook her head. “The Constable is not a wise man. But he is afraid of Ridmark, and will not face him unless he must. We will have to take the keeps by storm.”

“My thought as well,” said Crowlacht. “We’ll bombard the doors to the great hall with the captured engines and then charge. If we…”

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. 

Mara turned her head, relief flooding through her. Ridmark, Morigna, and Jager walked toward them, stained with sweat and blood. Jager had blood on him, but he did not look hurt, thank God. Mara hurried toward him and caught him in a hug.

“You’re not wounded,” she said.

“Well, they did scratch me a few times,” said Jager, “but it did more damage to my pride than to my flesh. I fear the Gray Knight did most of the work.”

“You are not injured?” said Calliande, touching Ridmark’s arm, and he shook his head.

Mara noted the relief that flashed over Calliande’s face, the brief glare Morigna shot the Magistria’s way when she touched Ridmark’s arm. 

“I am well,” said Ridmark, “but it was a close thing.” He turned toward Crowlacht as Calliande released his arm. “The engines are secured, and the curtain wall is ours.”

Crowlacht nodded, his massive hammer in one hand. “The best course is to bombard the doors to the great hall and storm it.”

“I concur,” said Ridmark, “though if the engines upon the keeps…”

“Headman!” shouted one of the warriors. “The doors to the great hall open. The enemy comes forth!” 

Crowlacht snarled a curse as a man in steel plate emerged from one of the keeps, flanked by a dozen men-at-arms. 

“Wait!” said Calliande. “He has a parley banner.”

The knight did indeed hold a white parley banner flying from an upraised spear. He was a handsome man in his early twenties, with curly black hair and a closed-cropped black beard. He stopped halfway between the great hall and the gathered mercenaries and began to shout.

“I am Sir Marcast Tetricus!” said the knight, his voice ringing over the courtyard. “I am a knight in service to the Constable of the Iron Tower. In the name of the High King of the realm of Andomhaim, I demand that the commander of the enemy force step forward and present his terms.”

“Where’s Paul?” murmured Calliande.

“I don’t know,” said Ridmark with a frown. “My lord headman, I suggest we have a guard upon the gate. I suspect Paul will try to escape with the soulstone.”

“Very well,” said Crowlacht. “You should talk to him, Gray Knight. This whole thing is your idea.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps I can convince him to see reason.”

“You’ll need this,” said Calliande, handing him a bundle, “if you are to be the Gray Knight.”

It was his gray elven cloak. During their travels, Mara had noticed that the thing never seemed to become dirty, never slowed or hindered him, and seemed to blend with his surroundings whenever he needed stealth. Quite a useful garment. Mara wondered where he had obtained it.

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, swirling the cloak around his shoulders. One of Crowlacht’s warriors produced a worn white peace banner. Ridmark tied it around the end of his staff, raised it over his head, and headed towards Sir Marcast. 

###

Ridmark stopped a dozen paces from Sir Marcast, the peace banner hanging over his head.

“Sir Marcast,” said Ridmark.

“Gray Knight,” said Marcast. “It has been a long time.”

“Aye, I remember,” said Ridmark. “When my father visited your father at his hold of Castra Tetricus. We played at swords in the courtyard while our fathers discussed matters of the realm.”

“Many things have happened since then,” said Marcast, his eyes lingering on Ridmark’s face and the brand of the broken sword there. 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Most of them ill.”

“I agree,” said Marcast. “Such as the youngest son of Dux Leogrance raising an army of brigands and mercenaries and assaulting a castra of the High King.” He shook his head. “Your father would be grieved to see how low you have fallen, Gray Knight.” 

“Undoubtedly,” said Ridmark. “He would be equally grieved to see a nest of evil in one of the High King’s strongholds.”

“Evil?” said Marcast with a frown. “What evil? To serve at the Iron Tower is a noble endeavor. We shield the realm from the evils of the Wilderland, and stand guard over the High King’s subjects.”

“You may not know of the evil,” said Ridmark, “but it is here nonetheless. Do you have complete confidence in the Constable?”