Frostborn: The Iron Tower (37 page)

He stood apart from the others, watching the feast.

“You will not drink?”

He turned his head, saw Calliande approach with a cup of wine in her hand.

“No,” said Ridmark. “Someone needs to keep their wits about them if we are attacked.”

“Crowlacht did keep watchmen upon the walls,” said Calliande, “and the gate is shut.” 

“Even so,” said Ridmark. 

She smiled. “We did noble work here.”

“It was a close thing,” said Ridmark. “We could just have easily been slain.”

“I know,” said Calliande. “But it ended well.” She gestured at the feast. “This is why we are trying to stop the Frostborn, Ridmark. So people can live in peace, free from fear and terror. So they can marry, build lives, raise children, and make a home for themselves.”

“Given that Jager is a halfling and Mara only half-human,” said Ridmark, “it is unlikely they will raise children.”

“True.” Calliande took a sip of her wine. “But there are always orphans in need of a home.” 

Despite himself, Ridmark laughed. “That will be an interesting household. The master thief and the former sister of the Red Family. Their adopted orphans shall have a unique upbringing.”

“I suspect,” said Calliande, “that the children shall learn to be brave, to show kindness to those weaker to themselves.”

“And to always be polite,” said Ridmark.

“True,” said Calliande.

Ridmark watched Mara and Jager talk with Caius and Crowlacht, and felt a deep melancholy settle over him. The feast reminded him of his own wedding to Aelia in the great hall of Castra Marcaine nine and a half years ago, the same great hall where she would die thanks to Mhalek’s magic and Ridmark’s folly. 

He wondered what would happen if he succeeded, if he did in fact find a way to stop the Frostborn, if he helped Calliande locate her staff and her memory. If they were victorious, the others would go to their lives, or start new ones. But Ridmark…he was an exile, his face marked by the brand of cowardice. Stopping the return of the Frostborn had driven him since Aelia’s death, but if he succeeded, what would he do then? Wander the Wilderland alone until he died of old age, or until something killed him? 

But the odds against them were so high that it seemed an unlikely possibility. 

“I’ve upset you,” said Calliande.

“No,” said Ridmark. “You deserve credit for what happened here, not me. Without your magic the Artificer would have made short work of us, and many men would have perished if you had not been able to heal their wounds.”

“I only did what I could,” said Calliande. “I wish I could have done more, that I could have saved more men.” Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, and she pointed a finger at him. “And do not lecture me about not blaming myself, Ridmark Arban. If there were ever a starker example of the crow calling the raven black, I have not yet heard it.” 

He smiled. “Perhaps you are right. I am going to take a look around the walls.”

“Why?” said Calliande.

“For my own peace of mind,” said Ridmark, and it was only half a lie. He did not tell Calliande that watching the feast brought back memories he would rather not recall.

Likely she knew it already. 

“As you think best,” said Calliande. “I will have Crowlacht save some food for you.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, and he turned, took up his staff, and walked through the gate, leaving the wedding feast behind.

Chapter 24 - The Choice

Morigna glided through the trees, her staff slung over her back, her tattered cloak rippling around her. Her bow rested in her hands, an arrow waiting. She could raise the bow, draw it, and release in a heartbeat.

She suspected she would need to do so soon.

Morigna had left the feast soon after Caius had finished his interminable recitation. She rather liked Mara, though she still did not like Jager, and was pleased that Mara had overcome the cursed blood that threatened to twist her into a monster. But Morigna disliked crowds, and had no wish to watch Crowlacht and Otto and their men become roaring drunk. 

So she slipped off unseen into the woods for a walk, alone with her thoughts. 

Then she found someone moving with equal stealth through the trees. 

A scout, perhaps? One of the Enlightened who had escaped the Iron Tower? A raider from Vhaluusk? 

If there was a danger, Morigna would deal with it.

She stepped around a tree, her boots making no noise against the ground, and lifted her bow.

Ridmark Arban waited for her, his gray cloak fallen back from his shoulder, his staff in both hands.

Morigna let out a long breath, and they stared at each other for a moment.

“If you want to shoot me,” said Ridmark, “it would be more effective to do it from the back.”

“You surprised me,” said Morigna. “I spotted someone moving through the trees, and thought it might be a threat.”

“As did I,” said Ridmark, lowering his staff. “It appears that we were hunting each other.”

Morigna snorted. “After everything we have survived, would that not have been a fine ending? We accidentally kill each other.”

“Hardly a poetic ending,” said Ridmark. 

“No,” said Morigna. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to take a look around,” said Ridmark. “I did not want some enemy to take us unawares as we feasted. I assume you had the same thought.”

Morigna shrugged. “Close enough. I tired of the noise. And I thought you would be at the feast.”

“Why?” said Ridmark.

“You were its founder, after all,” said Morigna. “You saved Mara, and you slew the Artificer.”

“Mara saved herself,” said Ridmark, “and it was Calliande’s magic that let me strike the Artificer.” He gestured at her. “And your magic, as well. He had the upper hand throughout our fight. If you had not tripped him, I would not have been able to overcome him.”

“But you made it possible,” said Morigna, “by persuading Mara to live.” She shook her head. “I was so sure of it.”

“Of what?” said Ridmark.

Morigna pushed some loose hair away from her forehead. “That we had to kill her before she transformed. That leaving her alive was too great of a threat. I tried to get Calliande to change your mind, since I thought you would listen to her.” She stepped closer to him. “But I was wrong. As wrong as I ever have been about anything.”

Ridmark said nothing, looking down at her. 

“How did you know?” said Morigna.

“Know what?” said Ridmark.

“That she could do it,” said Morigna. “That she could survive the transformation and not become a monster.”

“I didn’t,” said Ridmark. 

Morigna let out a long breath. “You are…the strongest man I have ever met.”

“I don’t…”

She cut him off. “I would have killed Mara then and there, just on the chance she might become a threat. But you did not. That took great courage. More than I possess, truly.”

“I hardly…” said Ridmark.

“Stop,” said Morigna. “Just stop. I do not want to hear you denigrate yourself. I do not want to hear about how you deserve death, how you earned that brand upon your face. Because they are lies, every last word of them. Mara may have saved herself, yes, but she only had that chance because of you. The Iron Tower only fell because you fought Paul, because you convinced Crowlacht and Otto and Sir Marcast to work together. And you…you deserve better than what you think of yourself. I wish you could understand how I see you. I wish you could understand how much I admire you.” 

He turned his head and stared into the forest, and she saw a twitch of a muscle in his jaw. 

“You are too kind,” said Ridmark.

“Really,” said Morigna, taking another step towards him. They were only a pace apart now. “Kind? In the time that you have known me…do you truly think one could describe me as kind?”

He looked back at her, incredulous, and laughed.

“Blunt, certainly,” said Ridmark. 

“Then you know,” said Morigna, “that I am telling you the truth.” 

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps…if we live through this, perhaps it is time I should rethink some things.”

Morigna nodded, and they stared at each other in silence for a moment. She felt her heart drumming in her ears, felt a flicker of fear and anticipation, as she stared at the man who sought to stop the Frostborn. The Frostborn might have commanded the ice, but Ridmark Arban was the one who was frozen. His heart had turned to frozen grief years ago, and on his own he would never break free of it.

Unless he had some help. 

She came to a decision.

“Ridmark,” she said. “I…know you would not do this. So I shall simply have to do it myself before my courage abandons me.” 

Before she could change her mind, she leaned forward, caught him by the collar, and pulled down his face for a kiss. 

He could have stopped her. He was stronger and faster. But he did not stop her, though he flinched with surprise, and Morigna drew back a little, her hands still on his collar. His blue eyes bored into her, his breath hot against her face. 

He started to speak, fell silent. He was talking himself out of it.

One of her hands strayed to the side of his neck, the warmth of his skin soaking into her fingers. 

“When was the last time you have been touched?” she whispered.

“I’ve gotten hit in the face quite often,” said Ridmark.

She smiled at that. “Do you not miss it? Someone touching you? Wanting you?” Her other hand strayed down his chest. “Are you not tired of being alone?” 

His pulse throbbed beneath her hands, his eyes unblinking.

“I am tired of it,” said Morigna, still tasting him on her lips. “I…I think you are, too.” 

Still he said nothing, and a wave of embarrassed chagrin rolled through Morigna. Once again she had made a fool of herself. He would not shake off his grief, not for any reason, and…

Something cracked in his expression. Like a dam shattering.

He pulled her forward so forcefully that she lost her balance, his arms pressing her body tight against his, and kissed her long and hard upon the lips. She wrapped her arms around him, partly to keep her footing, but mostly because she wanted to feel him. On and on the kiss went, her fingers digging into his back, his arms like iron bands around her. 

At last the kiss ended, her chest heaving with her breath.

“We…” started Morigna.

He silenced her with another kiss. 

In short order they ended up on the ground together, their clothes spread beneath them to form a blanket. Morigna had been with a man before and knew what to expect, but even so the sensation thrilled her, overwhelmed her, his whole body pressed against hers, her limbs coiling around him, his strength holding her against the ground.

Toward the end she was loud enough that every creature for a mile would have heard her, but she did not care. 

After they finished, Morigna lay back and closed her eyes, her arms and legs still twitching, her breath slowing, a pleasant warmth radiating through her. 

She turned her head, pushed the sweaty hair from her face, and smiled at Ridmark, and he smiled back at her.

###

Ridmark gripped Morigna’s hand and pulled her closer, the sweat cooling upon his skin.

If he lived through his journey to Urd Morlemoch and the quest to stop the return of the Frostborn, if he survived, he did not know what he would do next.

But as he kissed Morigna, some ideas came to him. 

And for the first time in five years, Ridmark Arban started to hope that he would survive his quest.

Epilogue

In a land blasted by ancient sorcery and dark magic, a half-ruined fortress of white stone rose from the poisoned land like bones jutting from a rotting corpse. Urd Morlemoch spread over an entire hill, its slopes terraced, an elaborate maze of domes and towers and halls covering its slopes. A great tower of white stone rose from the hill’s crown, five hundred feet tall, stark against the eternal night overhead. Three ribbons of blue fire wound their way around the tower, lashing at the darkness. 

And atop the highest tower stood the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, the endless cold wind tugging at his black-trimmed blue coat. 

A ring of black standing stones crowned the highest tower, and the Warden stared into one of the stone arches. Light and shadow flickered within the arch, and through it the Warden gazed into the shadows of time itself.

Or, more specifically, the future.

For the past was like stone, frozen and unchangeable. The present was an inferno, forever changing and altering. But the future was the shadow cast by the fires of the present…and shadows could be steered. Altered. 

The Warden felt no joy at the visions he saw in the arch. He had left behind such petty emotions long, long ago.

But he did feel anticipation. 

Perhaps even glee. 

“Ah,” murmured the Warden.

With the choices he had made, Ridmark Arban had forever and irrevocably altered the future.

Just as the Warden had foreseen. 

For the shadows of Ridmark’s decisions would ensure the return of the Frostborn. It was now inevitable. The Frostborn would return, and this time they would not be repulsed. They would utterly destroy this world, and nothing could stop them.

But there were other worlds, countless other worlds scattered across the silent darkness of the cosmos.

And thanks to Ridmark Arban, the Warden would soon rule them. 

He strode into the dark heart of Urd Morlemoch. There were preparations to be made.

His guests would be arriving soon.

And the Warden’s laughter echoed over the walls at the thought of the welcome that he would give them.

THE END

Thank you for reading FROSTBORN: THE IRON TOWER. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. 

Ridmark Arban and his companions will return in 2014 in FROSTBORN: THE DARK WARDEN. To receive immediate notification of new releases, 
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