Soul of Swords (Book 7) (46 page)

Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: THE GRAY KNIGHT

A letter to the surviving kings, counts, and knights of Britain:

I am Malahan Pendragon, the bastard son of Mordred, himself the bastard son of Arthur Pendragon, the High King of all Britain.

You know the grievous disasters that have befallen our fair isle. My father betrayed my grandfather, and perished upon the bloody field of Camlann, alongside many of the mightiest knights and kings of Britain. Before that came the war of Sir Lancelot’s treachery and the High Queen’s adultery, a war that slew many noble and valiant knights.

Now there is no High King in Britain, Camelot lies waste, and the pagan Saxons ravage our shores. Every day the Saxons advance further and further, laying waste to our fields and flocks, butchering our fighting men, making slaves of our womenfolk, and desecrating holy churches and monasteries. Soon all of Britain shall lie under their tyranny, just as the barbarians overthrew the Emperor of Rome.

My lords, I write not to claim the High Kingship of Britain – for Britain is lost to the Saxons – but to offer hope. My grandfather the High King is slain, and his true heir Galahad fell seeking the grail, so therefore this burden has fallen to me, for there is no one else to bear it. 

Britain is lost, but we may yet escape with our lives.

For I have spoken with the last Keepers of Avalon, and by their secret arts they have fashioned a gate wrought of magic leading to a far distant realm beyond the circles of this world, certainly beyond the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here we may settle anew, and build homes and lives free from the specter of war.

I urge you to gather all your people, and join me at the stronghold of Caerleon. We shall celebrate the feast of Easter one final time, and then march to the plain of Salisbury, to the standing stones raised by the wizard Merlin. 

The gate awaits, and from there we shall march to a new home.

Sealed in the name of Malahan Pendragon, in the Year of Our Lord 538.

###

The day it all began, the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when the blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban returned to the town of Dun Licinia.

He gazed at the town huddled behind its walls of gray stone, his left hand gripped tight around a long wooden staff. He had not been here in over five years, not since the great battle against Mhalek and his horde of orcs, and then Dun Licinia had been little more than a square keep ringed by a wooden wall, an outpost named in honor of the Dux of the Northerland. 

Now it was a prosperous town of four thousand people, fortified by a wall of stone. Ridmark saw the towers of a small keep within the town, alongside the twin bell towers of a stone church and the round tower of a Magistrius. Cultivated fields and pastures ringed the town on three sides, and the River Marcaine flowed south past its western wall, making its way through the wooded hills of the Northerland to the River Moradel in the south. 

Ridmark’s father had always said there was good mining and logging to be had on the edges of the Northerland, if men were bold enough to live within reach of the orc tribes and dark creatures that lurked in the Wilderland.

And in the shadow of the black mountain that rose behind Ridmark. 

He walked for the town’s northern gate, swinging his staff in his left hand, his gray cloak hanging loose around him. When he had last stood in this valley, the slain orcs of Mhalek’s horde had carpeted the ground as far as he could see, the stench of blood and death filling his nostrils. It pleased him to see that something had grown here, a place of prosperity and plenty. 

Perhaps no one would recognize him. 

Freeholders and the freeholders’ sons toiled in the fields, breaking up the soil in preparation for the spring planting. The men cast him wary looks, looks that lingered long after he had passed. He could not blame them. A man wrapped in a gray cloak and hood, a wooden staff in his left hand and a bow slung over his shoulder, made for a dangerous-looking figure. 

Especially since he kept his hood up. 

But if he kept his hood up, they would not see the brand that marred the left side of his face.

He came to Dun Licinia’s northern gate. The wall itself stood fifteen feet high, and two octagonal towers of thirty feet stood on either side of the gate itself. A pair of men-at-arms in chain mail stood at the gate, keeping watch on the road and the wooded hills ringing the valley. He recognized the colors upon their tabards. They belonged to Sir Joram Agramore, a knight Ridmark had known. They had been friends, once.

Before Mhalek and his horde.

“Hold,” said one of the men-at-arms, a middle-aged man with the hard-bitten look of a veteran. “State your business.”

Ridmark met the man’s gaze. “I wish to enter the town, purchase supplies, and depart before sundown.”

“Aye?” said the man-at-arms, eyes narrowing. “Sleep in the hills, do you?”

“I do,” said Ridmark. “It’s comfortable, if you know how.” 

“Who are you, then?” said the man-at-arms. He jerked his head at the other soldier, and the man disappeared into the gatehouse. “Robber? Outlaw?”

“Perhaps I’m an anchorite,” said Ridmark.

The man-at-arms snorted. “Holy hermits don’t carry weapons. They trust in the Dominus Christus to protect them from harm. You look like the sort to place his trust in steel.”

He wasn’t wrong about that.

Ridmark spread his arms. “Upon my oath, I simply wish to purchase supplies and leave without causing any harm. I will swear this upon the name of God and whatever saints you wish to invoke.” 

Three more men-at-arms emerged from the gatehouse. 

“What’s your name?” said the first man-at-arms.

“Some call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark.

The first man frowned, but the youngest of the men-at-arms stepped forward.

“I’ve heard of you!” said the younger man. “When my mother journeyed south on pilgrimage to Tarlion, beastmen attacked her caravan. You drove them off! I…”

“Hold,” said the first man, scowling. “Show your face. Honest men have no reason to hide their faces.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He would not lie. Not even about this.

He drew back his cowl, exposing the brand of the broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw.

A ripple of surprise went through the men.

“You’re…” said the first man. He lifted his spear. “What is your name?”

“My name,” said Ridmark, “is Ridmark Arban.”

The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village, rather than coming to Dun Licinia. 

But he had not expected the town to grow so large. 

“Ridmark Arban,” said the older man-at-arms. He looked at one of the other men. “You. Go to the castle, and find Sir Joram.” One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the sunlight. 

“Are you arresting me?” said Ridmark. Perhaps it would be better to simply leave.

The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.

“You think he made the friar disappear?” said the younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. “But he’s the Gray Knight! They…”

“The Gray Knight is a legend,” said the first man, “and you, Sir…” He scowled and started over. “And you, Ridmark Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is that.”

“So be it,” said Ridmark.

A dark thought flitted across his mind. If he attacked them, he might well overpower them. Their comrades would pursue him. Perhaps they would kill him.

And he could rest at last…

Ridmark shook off the notion and waited. 

A short time later two men approached and spoke in low voices to the first man-at-arms. 

“You will accompany us,” he said.

Ridmark nodded and walked through the gates of Dun Licinia, the men-at-arms escorting him. Most of the houses were built of brick, roofed with sturdy clay tiles, making it harder for an attacker to set the town ablaze. Ridmark saw men at work in their shops, making shoes and hats and aprons to sell to the nearby freeholders. 

A memory shivered through him. The last time he had stood here, he had been wearing plate and chain mail, the sword Heartwarden blazing with white fire in his fist, the ground carpeted with slain men and orcs and halflings and manetaurs. 

He pushed aside the memory and kept walking, his staff tapping against the cobblestones. 

The men-at-arms led him to the main square, fronted on either side by the sturdy stone church and the small castle. They walked through the castle’s gates, across the dusty courtyard, and into the keep’s great hall. It had changed little since his last visit five years ago.

Though this time dying and wounded men did not lie on rows upon the flagstones of the floor.

The men-at-arms instructed him to wait and left. 

Ridmark rolled his shoulders and walked towards the dais, his staff a comfortable, familiar weight in his left hand. A few motes of dust danced in the beams of light leaking through the windows. Tapestries on the wall showed scenes from the court of the first High King on Old Earth, of Lancelot and Galahad questing for the cup that had held the Dominus Christus’s blood. Others showed more recent wars, the High King Arthurain fighting against the urdmordar, or the Dragon Knight leading the armies of the High King against the Frostborn.

Idly Ridmark wondered what would happen if he simply tried to walk out of the keep.

Perhaps the men-at-arms would kill him. 

The doors opened, and Sir Joram Agramore entered the hall. 

He had always been heavyset, but now he verged towards the plump. Peace, it seemed, agreed with him. He had curly red hair and bright green eyes, and wore a long tunic and a mantle, a sword and dagger at his belt. 

He stared at Ridmark in silence for a moment.

“Ridmark Arban,” he said at last. “God and all his saints. I was sure you had died five years ago.” 

Ridmark shrugged. “Perhaps God still has work for me.”

“He must,” said Joram. “But I was sure…the Magistri always say that Swordbearer severed from his Soulblade wastes away. Or kills himself. It just…”

“If grief,” said Ridmark, “could kill a man, I would have died long ago.”

His left hand tightened against his staff, and he glanced at his hand before he could stop himself. A ring glinted on his finger, the gold still bright despite the five years he had spent wandering the Wilderland. Memories burned through him at the sight of it, good memories, happy memories.

But those memories ended in death. 

“Indeed,” said Joram. “Forgive me, I did not mean to…I wish…” He sighed and shook his head. “I am not sure what to say to you.” 

“A knight strives to be courteous to all men,” said Ridmark, “and there is no protocol for greeting a disowned exile and former Swordbearer.”

“Alas,” said Joram, “no.” 

Ridmark felt a twinge of pity for his old friend. Joram had always been a solid knight, but not man to take the lead in a crisis. “Then tell me of yourself. You are the Comes of Dun Licinia now?”

“No, just a caretaker, I fear,” said Joram. “The old Comes died in the winter without any heirs, and the Dux sent me north to oversee the comarchate until he appoints a new man.” He shrugged. “It is quiet enough. The occasional band of pagan orcs or beastmen, but nothing like the days of Mhalek.” 

“You are wed?” said Ridmark. He did not want to talk about Mhalek.

Joram grinned. “How did you…oh, yes, the ring. Yes, four years. You remember Lady Lydia?”

Ridmark laughed. “You talked her around at last?”

“Well, I imagine my new lands helped sway her father, at least,” said Joram. “But, aye, we are happy. Two children, so far. God, but they can fill a castle with their wailing!”

Ridmark nodded.

Joram took a deep breath. “If you will allow me to say so…I am glad to see you, Ridmark. What happened to you was unjust, and I think Tarrabus Carhaine forced the Master to expel you from the Order. It was unjust, especially after what happened to Aelia…” 

“What is done is done,” said Ridmark. He did not wish to discuss Aelia, either. 

“Indeed,” said Joram. “Ridmark, I must ask. Why have you come here? You were disowned and banished from the Order, not exiled from the High King’s realm…but you must know that the Dux Tarrabus still has a price on your head.” 

“Only the High King,” said Ridmark, “can pronounce a sentence of death.”

“I think Dux Tarrabus disagrees,” said Joram.

“He can think whatever he likes,” said Ridmark. “I simply wish to purchase supplies and be on my way.”

“Back into the Wilderland?” said Joram.

Ridmark nodded. 

A hint of pity went over Joram’s face. “Still seeking prophecies of the Frostborn?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

“Well,” said Joram, “at least let me resupply you from my own pantry.”

Ridmark lifted an eyebrow. “Dux Licinius might not approve.”

“He has forgiven you,” said Joram. “He never blamed you for what happened to Aelia.”

Ridmark said nothing.

“And if you like,” said Joram, “think of it as repayment. For not beating me black and blue when we were squires, the way Tarrabus and his lot used to do.”

Ridmark bowed. “If you must.”

“I insist,” said Joram, clapping his hands. The servants’ door by the dais opened, and a pair of halfling women wearing Joram’s colors entered the hall, carrying a tray of food and drink. They set the tray on the table and bowed. One of the halfling women glanced at Ridmark for a moment, her eyes like disks of amber in her face, and then left with the other servant. He was always struck by how alien and ethereal the halflings looked. 

“Please,” said Joram, “sit, sit. You’re as lean as a starving wolf.” He grinned. “Though I fear I indulge too much at the table, and must confess to gluttony every week.” 

“There are worse things,” said Ridmark, sitting across from Joram, “than gluttony. One never knows if there will be food tomorrow.” 

“A wise man,” said Joram. 

Ridmark ate. Joram did set a good table. There was bread with honey, dried fruit, and even a few pieces of leathery ham. He listened to Joram discuss his children and the various problems of governing Dun Licinia.