Frostborn: The Iron Tower (28 page)

Marcast hesitated for just a moment. “The Constable was appointed by the Dux of Caerdracon, to whom the High King has entrusted this fortress.”

“Paul Tallmane is one of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark, “and he has stolen an empty soulstone in service of Shadowbearer.”

A ripple went through the men-at-arms. At least some of them had heard the names. Ridmark wondered how many of them were members of the Enlightened. But Marcast seemed only confused. 

“Incariel? Shadowbearer?” said Marcast. “Those are names of legend…”

“But you’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?” said Ridmark, remembering the things Crowlacht and Otto had told him. “Of a society that moves in the shadows and kills any in its path? The Enlightened worship Incariel, their name for the great void of the dark elves. Both Sir Paul and Dux Tarrabus are among their number. Tarrabus stole the stone at the command of Shadowbearer, and sent Paul to secure it here. If Shadowbearer takes the stone, he will use it to unleash the Frostborn upon the realm once more.”

“That is a fanciful tale,” said Marcast, but Ridmark heard the doubt in his voice.

“You know there is something wrong here, do you not?” said Ridmark, taking a guess. “The Constable keeps more secrets than he should. Strange people come and go. So many prisoners held in the dungeons. You know there is something wrong in the Iron Tower.”

Marcast said nothing, his face grim. 

“No one else need die tonight,” said Ridmark. “Surrender the Iron Tower to us, and we will allow you to depart in peace.”

“Would you have us abandon a charge of honor based upon your word alone?” said Marcast.

“No,” said Ridmark. “Question my companions. The Magistria who saw Shadowbearer with the soulstone. The thief the Dux hired to steal the stone. The woman he held hostage to ensure the thief’s obedience. All will tell you the same tale.”

Marcast hesitated, and for a moment, Ridmark thought him convinced.

Then a scream of fury rang out from one of the keeps, and every eye in the courtyard looked up.

Sir Paul Tallmane stood upon the balcony, clad in his steel plate armor and blue Caerdracon surcoat, a sword in his hand. 

And then in one smooth motion, Paul gripped the stone railing, vaulted over it, and plummeted to the courtyard.

Ridmark stared in astonishment. It was a hundred feet from the balcony to the ground. The impact would kill him instantly. Had Paul succumbed to despair and decided to kill himself?

The shadows seemed to wrap around Paul, billowing around him like a cloak of darkness. 

“Oh, no,” said Calliande. “No, no, no.” 

Paul landed in the courtyard, his legs flexing beneath him to absorb the impact. Cracks spread across the flagstones beneath his boots, the echo of his impact booming against the curtain walls. Paul straightened up, grinning at Ridmark. 

He looked…different. Stronger, somehow, a wild, manic gleam in his black eyes. 

And even in the gloomy courtyard, his shadow billowed long and black behind him.

Pointing in the wrong direction. 

“What the hell?” said Jager. “His shadow, it’s…”

“He’s changed,” said Calliande. “He’s one of the Initiated of the Enlightened now.”

Ridmark mouthed a silent curse. Jonas Vorinus, an Initiated of the Second Circle, had almost killed them all at the Old Man’s circle of standing stones. 

And Jonas had never performed a physical feat like surviving a hundred-foot fall.

The men-at-arms gazed at Paul in terror, and Marcast’s hand twitched towards his sheathed sword. 

“My lord Constable?” said Marcast. “How…how…”

“Ridmark Arban,” said Paul, his voice full of glee. “Oh, but I have been looking forward to this.”

“As I recall,” said Ridmark, “when we last met, I defeated you and promised to kill you if we ever met again.” 

“And Jager and his little whore,” said Paul, his black eyes shifting to Mara and Jager. “I was disappointed that the Dux did not let me kill you. But I suppose all things come to those who wait.”

Jager offered the knight a defiant sneer. “I burned down your father’s domus. Maybe I’ll get to burn down the Iron Tower now.”

“No,” said Paul, his black eyes turning back to Ridmark. They seemed harder and colder now. “Instead, I’m going to kill you all. You first, Ridmark Arban. Then I will break that pet Magistria of yours.” He laughed and pointed his sword. “And then I think I’ll kill your whore in front of you, little thief. I’ll make you watch. And only then will I let you die.”

“Lord Constable,” said Marcast. “What is this? How did you survive that jump?”

“You talk too much,” said Paul. “Do you want the truth, fool? I am an Initiated of the Third Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel.” 

“What?” said Marcast, and some of the men-at-arms drew their weapons. “Then…you have forsaken the truth of the church, the…”

“The truth?” said Paul. “The truth is that the strong rule and the weak suffer. The new order will arise when I present the soulstone to Shadowbearer. Dux Tarrabus shall become the new High King, and the Enlightened shall rule this world as living gods forever.”

“You speak treason and blasphemy,” said Marcast. 

Ridmark looked back and forth between Marcast and Paul. Paul might have become one of the Initiated, might have gained the same sort of shadow-powers that Jonas Vorinus had wielded at Moraime, but he still could not believe that Paul would recklessly confront so many foes at once. 

Unless…

Ridmark kept his expression calm.

Tzoragar and his dvargir warriors would be able to move unseen, especially at night.

“Morigna! Calliande!” he shouted. “Thainkul Dural.”

Morigna frowned, and then her eyes widened in understanding. Both Morigna and Calliande began casting spells. They had fought dvargir in Thainkul Dural, and Morigna had been able to detect the presence of the dvargir while Calliande had been able to dispel their shadow-granted invisibility. 

“I speak the truth,” said Paul with a confident sneer. “I reject your church and your High King, Marcast Tetricus. The future belongs to the Enlightened of Incariel.”

“God and the saints,” said Marcast. “You were telling the truth, Gray Knight.” He threw aside the peace banner, drew his sword, and pointed it at Paul Tallmane. “In the name of the High King, I charge you with treason and command you to lay down your weapons and surrender yourself to my custody.”

Paul laughed. “Are you so sure the men will obey you? Many of them have sworn to Incariel.”

Some of the men-at-arms moved to Paul’s side, while others stayed with Marcast.

Morigna cast a spell, purple fire flickering around her fingers. She pointed in several places, and Calliande summoned her own magic. Ridmark pulled the peace banner from his staff and readied the weapon, taking deep breaths.

“I will give you one chance,” said Paul, pointing his sword at Marcast. “Surrender and swear yourselves to the Enlightened of Incariel. Or I’ll kill you all where you stand.”

“You will try, traitor,” said Marcast.

“Oh,” said Paul, “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

Calliande clapped her hands, and a pulse of white light erupted from her and washed across the courtyard. Columns of shadow swirled behind the men-at-arms, and a score of black-armored dvargir warriors appeared, their swords and axes ready. Tzoragar stood at their head, his sword drawn back to strike. 

“You collude with the enemies of the realm?” said Marcast. “Is there no end to your treachery?”

“Kill them!” said Paul. “Kill them all!”

“Take them!” said Crowlacht, his voice booming like a thunderclap.

The courtyard dissolved into screaming chaos. Tzoragar and the dvargir charged at Marcast and his men, who lifted their shields to defend themselves. Crowlacht and the orcish warriors rushed at both Paul and the dvargir, while the men-at-arms loyal to the Enlightened hurried to attack Marcast and his followers. Morigna and Calliande both began new spells, and Kharlacht and Caius ran into the fray, while Gavin moved to shield Calliande and Jager stood before Mara, sword and dagger in hand. 

Ridmark sprinted at Sir Paul, his staff coming around to strike.

But Paul moved first.

He moved inhumanly fast, as fast as a Swordbearer drawing upon the power of a soulblade. Shadows wreathed his sword like a cloak of freezing smoke, and Paul leapt at him, sword coming down for Ridmark’s head. At the last instant Ridmark managed to get his staff up to block, and Paul’s sword struck like a thunderbolt. 

The force of the impact knocked Ridmark from his feet and threw him to the ground, the breath exploding from his lungs, the shock of the landing throwing pain through his bones.

Paul raced after him, sword drawing back for the kill as his shadow billowed around him. 

###

The dvargir, the men-at-arms, the orcish warriors, and the mercenaries came together in a confused melee, sword and axes and maces rising and falling, men and orcs and dvargir shouting and screaming and dying. 

The dvargir were by far the most dangerous, so Morigna focused upon them.

She drew on her magic and cast a spell, focusing her will upon the ground. The earth rippled and wavered, and the shock wave knocked a half-dozen dvargir from their feet. Kharlacht, familiar with her tactics, charged into the opening, and killed two dvargir before they could regain their balance. The rest surged to their feet, and Kharlacht retreated, Caius swinging around to cover him. Morigna looked around, trying to find a target for her next attack. Their allies and their foes were tangled together, and her spells were not precise enough. If she unleashed her magic, she risked killing her allies alongside their enemies. 

Then she saw Ridmark topple backwards, knocked from his feet by Paul. The Initiated of Incariel stalked after him, his shadow-wreathed sword drawn back for the kill. Morigna cursed and flung her power at him, conjuring a column of acidic mist. Yet the shadows around Paul darkened and absorbed Morigna’s magic, unraveling the spell.

He thrust a hand at her, and a column of darkness burst from his fingers and slammed into Morigna’s chest. She stumbled back with a scream, icy cold flooding through her and disrupting her magic. It was the same attack Jonas Vorinus had used against her in Moraime, and Morigna had no defense against it. She gritted her teeth and growled, trying to fight off the cold shadow-magic.

But it was no use. For most of her life she had sought to find enough power that no one could ever hurt her again, but the Initiated had strength that she could not resist. 

A shaft of dazzling white flame shot past Morigna, so bright that for an instant it seemed like the noon sun had risen. Calliande’s spell drilled into Paul, and the Constable staggered with a surprised shout, his eyes going wide with pain. The column of shadow unraveled into nothingness, the terrible chill leaving Morigna. She caught her breath, leaning on her staff for balance. Paul snarled in fury and pointed his sword at them, the shadows darkening.

Ridmark attacked first.

###

Ridmark whipped his staff around, driving its length for the side of Paul Tallmane’s head.

Paul’s sword snapped up with superhuman speed, deflecting the strike. Paul turned to face him, but Ridmark did not slow. He drove forward with all the speed he could muster, swinging and jabbing, and Paul retreated toward the doors of the great hall. Even with his superhuman speed, Paul could not recover the initiative. It was harder to land a killing strike with the staff than with a sword, but the weapon’s greater reach gave him an advantage over the Constable of the Iron Tower. Paul’s stumbled against the doors to the great hall, and Ridmark drove his staff towards the knight’s head. 

Paul’s free hand caught the staff and shoved it aside, and Ridmark’s blow bounced harmlessly off the doors. He tried to retract the staff, but Paul held it fast. Ridmark grabbed the staff with both hands, but the weapon did not slip from Paul’s grasp.

The shadows had given him inhuman strength. 

Paul shoved away from the wall, thrusting the staff at Ridmark, and he topped backward to land on the ground again. The breath exploded from his lungs, and Paul charged towards him, sword drawn back for the kill.

Another gout of white flame struck Paul, knocking him back for a half-second. That gave Ridmark the time he needed to regain his feet, his back and chest throbbing with pain, and recover his balance. Paul raced down the stairs, his sword swirling with shadows, and Ridmark ran to meet his attack.

###

“We have to help him,” said Mara. 

“Calliande told you not to fight,” said Jager.

Before them the melee screamed, the orcish warriors and Otto’s mercenaries struggling against the men-at-arms and the dvargir. Yet Sir Marcast and his followers had thrown in with Crowlacht’s warriors, and Sir Paul’s men and the dvargir were falling back. The battle was going their way.

Except, of course, for Paul Tallmane’s duel with Ridmark Arban.

Paul had always been strong, but the shadows of Incariel had made him inhumanly potent. He moved with hideous speed, his sword writing a veil of darkness before him. Calliande struck him with blasts of white fire, and Morigna conjured bursts of acidic mist, but none of it seemed to slow him. Ridmark was holding his own against the furious assault, but Mara could see that he was overmatched. Sooner or later Paul’s attacks were going to kill him.

Unless he had more help. 

“He saved us,” said Mara. “I won’t let him die. And I certainly won’t let him die at the hands of Paul Tallmane. Not after all the pain he has caused you.”

“It will cause me even more pain if he kills you,” said Jager.

“And if Paul kills Ridmark when you could have helped,” said Mara, “could you live with that pain?”

Jager hesitated, looked at the furious duel, and sighed.

“You were always persuasive,” said Jager.

“You distract him,” said Mara. “Hold his attention. I will strike while you do.”

Jager nodded, and ran to the left while she ran to the right. Chaos ruled in the courtyard, but as Jager always said, in chaos lay opportunity. Mara dashed through the melee, dodging and weaving through the fighters. Some of the enemy saw her, but she was too quick and too small to catch. She saw Kharlacht kill the Dzark, his massive blade splitting the dvargir’s skull in twain. Crowlacht and a knot his of his warriors drove towards the doors of the great hall, the enormous hammer whirling over his head as if it weighed no more than a light branch.