Frostborn: The Iron Tower (24 page)

And her kiss had been like fire against his mouth and lightning down his veins, and it had taken every last shred of self-control he possessed to keep from taking her right there next to the bath.

Her black eyes met his, and he felt an echo of that fire. 

“We ought to remain out of sight for now,” said Ridmark, gesturing toward the rear of the hold. “We’ll dock at the Iron Tower within a few moments. Then Otto will unload his goods and gouge Sir Paul for every penny.”

“A waste of time,” said Jager, checking one last dagger and sliding it into its sheath. “He can steal all the money once the Tower falls.”

Morigna scowled. “Likely he wishes to ensure that he comes out of this with some profit if we fail.”

“A sensible attitude,” said Ridmark. “The men-at-arms will unload the boat, and then Otto will head to the open lake. We will have to be within the Iron Tower by then.”  

“And how shall we accomplish that?” said Jager.

“With disguises,” said Ridmark, reaching into one of the bundles of cargo. 

He drew out a chain mail hauberk, removed his leather jerkin, and donned the armor and the quilted gambeson beneath it. Then he pulled on a blue tabard adorned with the black dragon sigil of Caerdracon. 

“A disguise,” said Jager. “Clever enough. I suppose Morigna and I shall be your prisoners?” 

“Not quite,” said Ridmark, handing Morigna a coat of leather armor. She removed her tattered cloak and donned the coat, its steel studs glinting in the dim light, its edge hanging to her knees. Heavy leather bracers went on her forearms, and she donned a blue tabard with Tarrabus’s sigil. With the addition of a cloak and a quiver at her belt, her black hair pulled back into a tail, she could pass as a short man. If one did not look too closely. 

“That will never work,” said Jager. “You obviously walk like a woman.”

“A cloak will help with that, one suspects,” said Morigna, hanging a green cloak from her shoulders. With the leather armor, she looked like a scout returned from the forest. Hopefully no one would question why a scout was aboard Otto’s boat. 

“And I am too short to pass as a man-at-arms,” said Jager. “Or a woman-at-arms, if anyone looks at Morigna too closely.” 

“No,” said Ridmark, producing a tarp and looping his staff around it. “You will not disguise yourself as a man-at-arms, but as cargo.”

Jager looked at the tarp and sighed. “Truly?” 

“Unless you can think of a better way to get into the Iron Tower,” said Ridmark. 

“Unfortunately not,” said Jager. He sighed and lay down upon the tarp. “Truly, we do mad things for love. Mad, mad things.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. 

“One thing,” said Morigna. “That tower of iron? Do not touch it. I worked the spell to sense magic earlier, and it is radiating dark magic like heat from a forge.”

Ridmark frowned. “Was it doing that the day we found Mara?”

“No,” said Morigna. “I would have felt it otherwise. Which makes me wonder what has changed.”

Ridmark nodded. It was another danger. But so long as the Artificer remained a disembodied spirit, hopefully he could not work any harm. 

They waited as the boat came to a stop, and Ridmark heard the faint thump as it bounced off the quay. Men shouted as the lines were tied, and the deck shuddered as men strode aboard. Shadows appeared at the stairs leading up to the deck, and men-at-arms in blue Carhaine tabards descended, hauling bundles of cargo up to the deck.

“Now,” said Ridmark.

Jager went rigid, and Ridmark wrapped him in the tarp, threading his staff through the heavy canvas cloth, and Morigna followed suit with her staff. He waited, watching as four men-at-arms began wrestling a barrel up the stairs to the deck, and then nodded to Morigna. She took one end of the staves, and Ridmark the other, and they lifted Jager in the tarp. To anyone watching, it would look as if they were carrying a bundle of cargo.

Morigna grunted. “What did you eat for breakfast, master thief? A bucket of mud?”

“If you were not so weak and feeble,” said Jager, “then…”

“For God’s sake, be quiet,” said Ridmark, and he started forward, Jager swinging in his tarp. “And hold still.” 

He made his way across the hold and followed the men to the deck, Jager swaying back and forth behind him in the tarp. The sun stabbed into Ridmark’s eyes, and he saw that the boat had pulled within the Iron Tower’s lakeside barbican, bobbing next to a stone quay. A flight of broad stairs led to a gate in the curtain wall, and groups of men-at-arms moved up the steps, carrying barrels and bundles. 

Ridmark pulled up the cowl of his cloak, hoping it would conceal the brand upon his face. 

Otto stood on the quay, speaking with a stout, florid-faced man in the gleaming steel plate and blue surcoat of a knight. The knight’s eyes turned towards Ridmark, his jowly face darkening with a scowl. Ridmark tensed. Did the knight recognize him? 

“Eh?” said the knight. “What’s this? An extra bundle?”

Otto clapped the knight on the shoulder, which required him to strain on his tiptoes. “Good news for you, sir. Cured wyvern meat. A fortunate hunter managed to take down one of the beasts.”

The knight grinned behind his bushy mustache. “Any leather, then? There is nothing tougher than leather made from a wyvern’s scales.”

“I fear not, sir,” said Otto. “The hunter kept it all for himself, the selfish bastard. But wyvern meat is something of a delicacy, so I had some it cured in hopes of presenting it you in gratitude for all of your…discretion.”

“Yes, I see,” said the knight. “Very well. You two, take that bundle up to the kitchens. Tell the cooks to prepare it for my evening meal.”

“As you say, sir knight,” said Ridmark, bowing his head, and walked with Morigna toward the stairs. They climbed alongside the other men-at-arms, ignoring their grumbles and complaints, and passed through the gate and into the inner courtyard. The massive tower of iron rose in front of them, dark and scarred and grim. Four drum towers sat clustered at the base of the iron monolith, and its bulk made the drum towers look like a child’s toy. Ridmark’s eyes flicked over the towers, nothing the details. The one on the left would hold the armory. The one on the right likely held the quarters for the Constable and the other high officers. The great hall faced the northern gate, and the kitchens would likely be near it. Ridmark circled around the base of the towers, and Morigna followed him, wincing a bit as she shifted Jager’s weight upon the staves. 

Ridmark circled to the northern half of the courtyard, sweat trickling beneath his shoulder blades. More men-at-arms went about their tasks, and others stood upon the wall, keeping watch to the north. None of them bothered to look into the courtyard, but there was a good chance at least some of the men had been at Dun Licinia during Mhalek’s attack, or had accompanied Tarrabus Carhaine to Coldinium.

If any of them recognized Ridmark, they would have to fight their way out. That would likely end in their deaths.

He saw the great hall jutting from the base of the tower of iron, a long rectangle of mortared stone with a tiled roof. Six men-at-arms stood on guard before the doors, hands resting upon their sword hilts. That was peculiar – usually a castra’s great hall stood open during the day. 

Perhaps Paul had the soulstone secured within the great hall. Which meant that Tzoragar and his dvargir warriors were likely within. 

Ridmark spotted the kitchens, a long, low building standing near the great hall. A small courtyard stood between two of the drum towers, and the kitchens filled most of the space. Chickens pecked at the hard-packed earth, and barrels stood stacked against the brick wall. Ridmark led Morigna around the barrels, out of sight of the main courtyard. 

“Here,” said Ridmark, lowering his end of the staves. Morigna nodded and stooped, letting the staves fall the rest of the way to the earth, and Jager emitted a quiet yelp. A moment later he emerged from the tarp, scowling at Morigna.

“Did you drop me on purpose?” he said, getting to his feet.

“Are you so heavy on purpose?” said Morigna.

“Enough,” said Ridmark, picking up his staff and the tarp. Leaving it abandoned in the courtyard might draw suspicion. Morigna plucked up her staff and examined it for damage. “We need a hiding place. This way.”

He hurried across the narrow courtyard to one of the drum towers. A narrow, iron-bound wooden door stood in the tower’s base, the wood splintered and old. Ridmark tried the handle, but the door was locked.

“Jager,” he said.

“Child’s play,” said Jager, producing a lockpick with a flourish. He went to work, poking and prodding his tools into the keyhole. “Damned rust.” Ridmark shot a glance over his shoulder. No one had noticed them yet, but if anyone emerged from the kitchens, or if the florid-faced knight came looking for his wyvern meat…

A metallic click came to his ears. 

“There,” said Jager with satisfaction. The door swung open, flakes of rust falling from its hinges. Ridmark pushed Jager through the door, and then went through with Morigna, swinging the door shut behind him and securing the lock. A gloomy staircase descended into a dank cellar, the ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. A few pale rays of sunlight leaked through a pair of high, narrow windows. The cellar held a miscellaneous array of supplies – moldering bundles of hay, empty barrels, rusting gears for the catapults and ballistae. To judge from the dust, no one had been down here for some time. 

“This should make a satisfactory hiding place,” said Jager. “How did you know to come down here?”

“The dirt below the door,” said Ridmark. “It hadn’t been opened in a while. Morigna.”

She nodded and cast a spell, whispering under her breath, her eyelids fluttering.

“Nothing,” she said. “No dvargir here. It is safe to wait.”

“Well,” said Jager, settling down against the wall. “Whatever shall we talk about?”

“Nothing,” said Ridmark. “Noise might draw attention. We shall wait until midnight and make our way to the gatehouse.”

“And if someone comes down to the cellar?” said Jager. “It would be just our luck that somebody happens to need a bundle of moldering straw.”

“Then we overpower him and secure him here,” said Ridmark. He paced to the stairs and tossed the tarp into a corner, his staff ready in his hand. “Meanwhile, we wait.”

Jager sighed. “I always seem to get carried into the Iron Tower. So undignified.”

“If all goes well,” said Ridmark, “you’ll leave with Mara’s bracelet.”

“Ridmark,” said Morigna. 

He turned to look at her.

“If it comes to a fight,” said Morigna, “we will have to kill our foes.”

“Just as you were so eager to kill Mara?” said Jager. 

“And are you so eager to show these men mercy?” said Morigna. “You remember what they did to you. And Mara was hardly in the best of health when she came to us. But perhaps you have taken the church’s teachings of forgiveness to heart, and when you see Sir Paul Tallmane you will beg his pardon for burning his domus to the ground.” 

“Quiet,” said Ridmark. “You can argue later, when we are not surrounded by hundreds of foes that mean to kill us. If we are discovered, we shall have to fight. So we shall do our utmost not be discovered.”

He turned back to the stairs, gripped his staff with both hands, and waited.

###

Paul Tallmane sat alone in his chambers atop the drum tower.

He was cold, so cold…but that did not trouble him in the slightest.

In fact, the cold made him feel stronger than he had ever been in his life. 

The Constable’s apartments were the most comfortable chambers in this entire dismal heap of stone and iron, but Paul was used to the more luxurious accommodations he had enjoyed back in Castra Marcaine. Still, the chamber had a balcony and its own fireplace, a desk, a set of cushioned chairs, and a bed large enough for three.

Not that Paul had ever been able to enjoy female company in this godforsaken wilderness. If he wanted a woman, he had to travel to Coldinium and visit the brothel there. He would have enjoyed Jager’s whore, but the Dux had commanded that she was to be left unharmed until he gave instructions otherwise, and that under no circumstances was anyone to remove that green bracelet of hers.

Well, she had escaped. Paul ought to have disobeyed the Dux and had her brought to his bed. On the plus side, sitting alone in his bedchamber had its advantages. He could drink in peace without that damnable fool Marcast Tetricus hovering over his shoulder and asking questions and making suggestions and putting his nose where it did not belong. Really, Paul only had two pleasures as the Constable of the Iron Tower. One was hunting. The other was locking himself in his bedchamber and drinking until he passed out. Which gave Paul an excellent chance to listen to the marvelous voice inside of his head, the voice that called itself the Artificer.

It should have concerned him. Hearing voices was a sign of madness, and at first he had wondered if becoming an Initiated of the Third Circle had damaged his mind. Certainly some of the other Initiated he had met did not seem particularly stable. But the voice claimed to belong to the spirit of a millennia-dead wizard of the dark elves, and Paul was sure he would not have hallucinated the voice of a dead dark elf. 

And for some reason listening to the voice pleased him. 

“Then you were a prisoner here,” said Paul, taking another long drink of wine. He had not bothered to mix it, and the undiluted wine burned down his throat.

“I was betrayed,” said the Artificer’s deep whisper, “and left to slumber through the long millennia as the urdmordar dominated this world. When the half-breed crossed the portal and entered the ruins of Urd Mazekathar, I was awakened.”

“Ah,” said Paul. “I knew I should have killed her.” 

“I could not speak to you earlier,” said the Artificer. “But then the bearer of shadow bestowed power upon you, giving your soul a channel to the great void…and I could access your thoughts.”

“So now here you are,” said Paul, “promising me the world and all the kingdoms thereof.” 

He did like the thought of that.