Frostborn: The False King (3 page)

Ridmark pushed aside the thoughts. 

The medvarth column moved into the defile, the narrow space forcing them to go only four abreast. Ridmark set an arrow to his bowstring in silence. This would have to be timed perfectly. Too soon and the medvarth could recover. Too late, and the medvarth would have moved up the hillside, giving them the high ground. 

He waited, his heart thundering in his ears, watching as the medvarth climbed the road, gauging their numbers in his head…

The moment had come.

“Now!” roared Ridmark at the top his lungs, shooting to his feet. 

He raised his bow and released, sending an arrow into one of the medvarth warriors. The shaft hit the creature in the shoulder, and it staggered back with a snarl, glaring up at him. As one every single medvarth looked up at him. 

At the same time, the Anathgrimm surged to their feet, drew back their arms, and flung their javelins in a high arc. The soldiers of the Empire of the Romans upon Old Earth had used a similar tactic, throwing heavy iron javelins to disable the shields of their foes. Ridmark had never found out if the Traveler had copied the tactic and instructed the Anathgrimm in its use, or if it had originated during the long wars between the high elves and the dark elves and the urdmordar. 

Whatever its origin, the tactic proved brutally effective.

A rain of two hundred heavy javelins fell into the medvarth warriors, and the tight-packed medvarth had no chance to dodge. Scores of the warriors perished as the iron javelins punched through their armor and into their torsos, the heavy bladed heads driving through armor and flesh. Scores more were wounded. The Anathgrimm flung another volley of javelins, sending a rain of iron into the medvarth. This time, the enemy was prepared and managed to get their shields up, though more medvarth were killed and wounded.

“Go!” shouted Ridmark, but the Anathgrimm knew their business. The warriors behind him split into two groups, one group heading towards the base of the hill, the others running towards the end of the defile further up the slope. The medvarth were trapped in the defile, and if all went well, the Anathgrimm could encircle them, driving the medvarth to enraged fury, causing the creatures to turn upon each other in their frenzy.

Or they would charge through the Anathgrimm and break free. 

Ridmark dropped his bow, drawing his staff from over his shoulder. The length of black wood could do little permanent harm to a medvarth warrior, but it proved an excellent tool for stunning and hindering the medvarth, allowing the Anathgrimm to strike with their heavy swords and axes. Kharlacht and Caius ran close behind him, Kharlacht with his dark elven greatsword, Caius with his mace of dwarven steel. 

They reached the road just as the first of the medvarth warriors ripped free, roaring in fury and raising their weapons.

One of the medvarth came at Ridmark, a javelin jutting from the side of its chest. The creature howled in rage and swung an axe in Ridmark’s direction, and he ducked, the heavy steel blade missing him by inches. He twisted, snapping the staff around to hit the medvarth’s left knee, and the creature stumbled. As it did, Ridmark swung his staff up, striking the shaft of the javelin. The impact drove the iron head deeper into the medvarth’s flesh, and the creature stumbled with a gurgling roar.

Kharlacht’s greatsword sank into the side of its neck, hot red blood spurting over the blue blade. Ridmark kept going as the medvarth collapsed to the ground, and engaged another medvarth warrior. This one was uninjured, and it cast aside its shield, a javelin jutting from the reinforced wood. The medvarth came at Ridmark with a yawning roar, a sword in its right hand, slashing with the razor-edged claws of its left hand. Ridmark retreated, whipping his staff back and forth to deflect the claws. The medvarth lumbered after him, its furious yellow eyes fixed upon him.

So the creature didn’t see Caius dart behind it and swing his mace. The weapon of dwarven steel hit the back of the medvarth’s right knee, and even over the roar of the battle, Ridmark heard the crack of shattering bone. The medvarth stumbled as its wounded leg collapsed, its howl of rage turning to a shriek of pain, and Ridmark brought his staff down upon the crown of the medvarth’s head with three rapid blows. Even the medvarth’s thick skull could not withstand that kind of battering, and the creature collapsed, blood leaking from its nostrils and jaws. 

Ridmark looked around for more foes, but for a moment the area around him was clear. The Anathgrimm drove into the stunned and wounded medvarth, cutting them down one after another. Ridmark saw wounded and slain Anathgrimm upon the ground, but far more dead medvarth. They were winning the battle, step by bloody step…

Then a thunderclap rang out from the midst of the melee, and a dozen Anathgrimm hurtled through the air. They hit the ground with a clang of armor, and Ridmark looked for what had attacked them.

Two cogitaers glided from the midst of the fight, their gray robes swirling around them. 

The creatures were another kindred that the Frostborn had enslaved and added to their armies. The medvarth were fierce, the locusari relentless, and the khaldjari diligent, but the cogitaers were powerful with magic. Each one stood barely five feet tall, their features thin and delicate, their skin a pale blue color, silvery hair stirring about their heads. They floated a few inches above the ground, and as Ridmark watched they began to gesture, silvery light glowing around their fingers and their eyes as they gathered power for another spell. The cogitaers looked frail, but their spells could decide the course of a battle.

And the battle hung in the balance. 

Ridmark sprinted forward, and the silver-glowing eyes shifted to him. The cogitaers remained calm but increased the speed of their spell, the silver light brightening. At the last minute, Ridmark threw himself forward, hitting the ground, and the cogitaers flung their hands in his direction. He felt some invisible clip the side of his torso. It was like taking a glancing hit from a medvarth’s fist, and the impact of it flung Ridmark backward. He managed to stop himself and rolled to one knee, his chest and left shoulder aching, and the cogitaers turned to face him with a serene calm. 

Blue fire swirled behind them, and Third stepped out of nothingness, dark elven steel flashing in her hands. Before the cogitaers could react, she struck the creature on Ridmark’s left, and the cogitaer’s calm dissolved into a shriek of pain as a sword blade erupted from its chest. The remaining cogitaer whirled, bringing its hands up for a spell, but Ridmark heaved himself from the ground, snatching his dwarven axe from his belt.

He buried the blade in the back of the cogitaer’s skull. The creature shuddered, then collapsed to the ground, its odd silvery blood seeping into the dirt. 

“Thanks,” said Ridmark, wrenching his axe free.

“The Queen commanded that you were to be kept safe,” said Third, and she vanished again in a swirl of blue light. 

Ridmark retrieved his staff and joined the fight.

###

A short time later they were victorious, the surviving medvarth fleeing into the pine trees and the hills.

“We fared better than I expected,” said Qhazulak. “Thirteen dead, and a score wounded, in exchange for one two and sixty-seven slain Anathgrimm.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark, looking over the dead. More Anathgrimm had been killed than he would have liked, but he had been in enough battles to know that they always carried a cost. Camorak moved among the wounded Anathgrimm, his face a tight grimace, white light flaring around his fingers as he drew upon the magic of the Well to heal the wounds. Camorak drank too much and talked too much, but he was one of the best healers Ridmark had ever met, and for all the lives that he saved, Ridmark would forgive the man a great deal. In fact, the only better healer he had ever met was the Keeper herself…

A jumble of guilt and regret went through his head at the memory of Calliande, and he pushed the thought out of his head. 

“As soon as the Magistrius has finished healing the wounded, we should be gone from here,” said Caius. “This is the seventh group we’ve hit in the last month. The Frostborn are bound to react sooner rather than later.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark, glancing at the sky. The fighting had felt as if it had taken days, but barely an hour had passed since the Anathgrimm had set their ambush upon the slopes. He thought they had a good four or five hours yet until sundown, but the Anathgrimm had seen a great deal of hard fighting recently, and even they needed to rest from time to time. “Tomorrow at first light. We’ll camp in the ruins of Liavatum, help ourselves to the supplies of the medvarth, and the continue on our way tomorrow.”

“Towards Castra Marcaine?” said Kharlacht. “Or back to Nightmane Forest?”

“Towards Castra Marcaine,” said Qhazulak at once. “We have shown the enemy the hard hand of war. Let us continue to do so.”

“Retreating to Nightmane Forest seems wiser,” said Caius. “We have wiped out seven groups of enemy soldiers in the last month. Sooner or later we shall draw a strong reaction. The Frostborn cannot lay siege to Castra Marcaine if we continually disrupt their lines and harass their forces. Eventually they will hunt us down.” 

Unfortunately, both Caius and Qhazulak were right. Ridmark’s warband had hit the Frostborn seven times in the last four weeks, and there were other Anathgrimm warbands rampaging through the Northerland. His warriors were a serious irritation to the Frostborn, and he knew their attacks had hindered the Frostborn siege of Castra Marcaine. Too much more and the Frostborn would devote their full attention to driving back the Anathgrimm, or even finding a way to batter through the ancient wards around Nightmane Forest. Or they would seize Castra Marcaine, sweep through the Northerland, and crush the loyalist army against the walls of Castra Carhaine to the south. 

The path ahead was unclear, and every choice carried potentially disastrous consequences.

“Castra Marcaine,” said Ridmark. “We’ll head towards Castra Marcaine and seek new foes. The longer we keep the Frostborn bottled up in the Northerland, the longer Prince Regent Arandar has to defeat Tarrabus and reunify the realm. Without the full might of Andomhaim, we won’t be able to drive the Frostborn…”

“Magister,” said Third, gazing at the sky.

Ridmark looked up and saw the frost drake flying high overhead.

The creature was about the size of a wyvern, its muscled body covered in grayish-blue scales, its wings spread like sails. On its back, he glimpsed a massive figure in gray armor the color of ice in the heart of winter. One of the Frostborn themselves, deadly in battle and capable of potent magic, and Ridmark braced himself. A single frost drake was a fierce opponent, and with the power of Frostborn magic to back it up…

Yet the Frostborn warrior was not interested in a battle. The frost drake banked in silence, flying away to the north. 

“It seems,” said Kharlacht, “that the scout has flown to report our presence to Lord Commander Kajaldrakthor.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “The governance of ten cities, was it not? What the Frostborn promised for my death?” 

“They will return with a strong force,” said Third. “Perhaps it is time we returned to Nightmane Forest. Nearly all the other warbands you dispatched would have withdrawn by now.”

“I dislike showing our back to the foe,” said Qhazulak.

“If the Frostborn come for us in force we are finished,” said Caius. “Better to retreat to Nightmane Forest and prepare a new campaign.”

“We have slowed their siege of Castra Marcaine by months,” said Kharlacht. “That will give us time to act.” 

All that was true. Yet there was one factor they had overlooked. Ridmark looked to where Accolon followed Camorak, helping with the wounded Anathgrimm. Accolon was the heir to the throne of Andomhaim, assuming Arandar could wrest it from Tarrabus. If Ridmark and the others were all killed, that was bad enough. If Accolon was killed, that was much worse. 

“We will return to Nightmane Forest,” said Ridmark, “as soon as the wounded are strong enough to walk.”

###

An hour later they headed west through the pine forests, leaving the dead medvarth to rot. The medvarth warriors had carried a lot of supplies, jerky and the strange thick bread the armies of the Frostborn used. None of it tasted very good, but it was edible, and it seemed impervious to mold and rot. 

At the speed the Anathgrimm marched, Ridmark thought they could cross the River Moradel and return to Nightmane Forest within three to four days.

And then?

He didn’t know what they would do then. 

They had followed the strategy that Ridmark and Mara had agreed upon with Prince Arandar after the battle of Dun Calpurnia. The Anathgrimm would hold the Frostborn in the Northerland, delaying and harassing them. Meanwhile, the armies of Prince Arandar and the loyalists would seize Caerdracon and Castra Carhaine, preparing to strike at Tarrabus as he laid siege to Tarlion. 

The Anathgrimm had tied up the Frostborn in the Northerland for nearly a year…but elsewhere, the war had ground to a bloody stalemate. Tarrabus had besieged Tarlion for months to no effect. The army of the loyalists had been bogged down in Caerdracon, fighting its slow way south to the walls of Castra Carhaine itself. 

Meanwhile, the Anathgrimm had been unable to attack the citadels the Frostborn had raised around their gate. So long as those citadels stood, eventual victory would come to the Frostborn. Ridmark could terrorize the medvarth all he wished, and Tarrabus and Arandar could battle until every fighting man in Andomhaim was dead. As they did, the Frostborn could slowly and patiently build their strength in the valley of Dun Licinia, and when they were ready, they would burst forth and conquer Andomhaim in a year. 

Unless the world gate was closed, Ridmark knew, the Frostborn would prevail in this war…and he saw no way to close the gate.

But he would not stop fighting. Not for any reason. If the Frostborn wanted to conquer Andomhaim, they would pay for it in an ocean of blood.