Frostborn: The Iron Tower (7 page)

Something within her whispered that if she embraced the darkness, let it transform her, she could kill the dogs with ease, along with every other living thing in the Iron Tower.

Mara ran as fast as she could and vanished into the forest. 

Chapter 4 - Unyielding

The sun set, and Ridmark looked at the walls of the Iron Tower. 

The Lake of Battles stretched to the south, a broad, blue-gray expanse, the waves rippling in the wind. The Iron Tower rose at the lake’s northernmost edge, its shadow falling long and dark to the east. Ridmark had seen stronger castras. The High King’s mighty citadel in Tarlion, or his father’s seat of Castra Arban. Or perhaps Castra Marcaine, where he had served as a Swordbearer in Dux Gareth’s court and had courted Aelia. 

But the Iron Tower was nonetheless a strong fortress.

A massive iron monolith rose from the castra’s heart, standing nearly five hundred feet tall. The thing had a rough, unfinished look, its surface rippled and jagged. According to some stories, it was a single solid piece of iron, while other tales claimed there were dozens of hidden chambers within the tower. A citadel of the dark elves had once stood there, destroyed in battle a millennia before Malahan Pendragon and his retainers had first come to this world, and the castra had been built over the ruins. Four strong drum towers rose around the iron monolith’s base. They barely reached a fifth of its height, but Ridmark saw catapults and ballistae waiting upon their parapets. A curtain wall, nearly thirty feet tall, encircled both the tower of iron and the drum towers. Octagonal watch towers rose from the wall, topped with more war engines. At the southern end of the fortress, a barbican jutted into the lake’s waters, providing a secure harbor where boats could dock to unload supplies and prisoners.

Ridmark stood motionless in the shadow of a tree, wrapped in his elven cloak, and watched the movement of the men upon the walls. 

The Iron Tower was the realm of Andomhaim’s northernmost outpost, the final fortress between the High King’s writ and the vast expanse of the Wilderland. The Dux of Caerdracon held the Iron Tower in the High King’s name, and traditionally appointed one of his vassals as the Constable of the Iron Tower. 

An office currently held by Sir Paul Tallmane.

Ridmark had thought Sir Paul a brute even before his banishment. Then he had learned that Paul was one of the Enlightened of Incariel. After that, Jager had told him of Paul’s crimes, how Paul had convinced Jager’s father to take the blame for murder. 

Now Paul was holding Jager’s lover Mara prisoner in the Tower.

And he had the soulstone, and Shadowbearer would come to claim it.

Ridmark had to act soon.

He did not know how much time they had before Shadowbearer arrived. Based on what Kharlacht had told him and what Morigna remembered from her final conversation with Coriolus, Shadowbearer was often absent from his minions for months at a time, his arrivals and departures erratic. They could have weeks before Shadowbearer arrived to take the soulstone.

Or Shadowbearer could be taking the soulstone even now.

But Ridmark did not think so.

Something was wrong in the Iron Tower.

He saw it in the posture of the guards. They seemed on edge, their eyes scanning the trees ceaselessly. The war engines were manned and ready to release. They looked like men expecting an attack. Twice he had seen bands of armed men ride from the gates, patrols sent to scout the countryside. Had they been attacked by orcs from the Wilderland, or perhaps by raiders from the Deeps? Or maybe Paul had simply roused the garrison and sent the patrols out to find Ridmark.

There was little chance of that. Calliande and Kharlacht and the others were hidden well, and if one of the patrols located them, the men-at-arms would find more trouble than they expected.

But the Tower seethed like an anthill. 

There was opportunity in that. Opportunity in chaos, as Jager liked to say.

Of course, Jager’s attempt to exploit chaos had gotten him imprisoned in the Iron Tower in the first place.

The men upon the walls were vigilant, but with so many patrols riding back and forth, perhaps Ridmark could disguise himself in a blue Carhaine tabard and sneak into the Tower. Or maybe he could gain entrance through the castra’s fortified dock.

Or maybe he could get himself killed. 

He rubbed his jaw for a moment, thinking. The beard stubble rasped beneath his palm, itching damnably. A shave would have been welcome, but there had not been time since pursuing Paul from Coldinium. 

Ridmark’s best chance was to overpower one of Paul’s men, disguise himself as a man-at-arms, and enter the castra. He could locate the soulstone and Mara, and then escape the Tower. It was a risk, but it could work. But he could never get the others to agree to it. Calliande had made him promise not to take futile risks, and Jager would insist upon entering the Iron Tower to rescue his lover. 

And Ridmark needed more information before deciding upon a course of action.

He knew just where to get it.

###

Morigna closed her eyes, feeling the mental link to the ravens.

She had bound a dozen of the birds and set them to spiraling over the Iron Tower and the surrounding forests. Her magic was strong enough to bind a score of the creatures, but she could not look through more than three or four sets of eyes at once. Any more than that and she developed a splitting headache and lost focus. So instead she cycled through them, looking through one set of eyes and then another. 

She did not like what she saw.

The Iron Tower was the strongest fortress she had ever seen. The monastery of St. Cassian had been well-fortified, and Smiling Otto’s stockade at Vulmhosk had been surprisingly formidable, but the Iron Tower was stronger than both. Her ravens saw no weakness anywhere in the walls. And even if a force besieged the castra from land, the Tower could be resupplied by sea. 

She opened her eyes and looked through the trees at the Iron Tower, at the huge iron monolith rising from the heart of the fortress.

The tower of iron was an ugly, rough thing, like a piece of iron that had not been finished. The apprentice smiths in the town of Moraime had produced better work than that. Morigna wondered who had made the tower. She had seen a dozen dark elven ruins, all of them more graceful by far, and even the blocky, grim work of the dwarves had better aesthetics. 

The ravens refused to go anywhere near the thing. Morigna wondered if the tower bore a magical aura, though she could not sense it from this distance. She wondered why the Swordbearers and the Magistri had allowed the construction of the Iron Tower around the strange iron menhir. 

Well. The Old Man had said the Magistri were fools. Perhaps he had not lied about that. 

She closed her eyes again, concentrated, and looked through the eyes of her bound ravens, noting the position of the men upon the walls. She scanned through the eyes of her ravens until her head started to ache, and then she opened her own eyes.

Ridmark stood nearby.

Morigna flinched in surprise, raising her staff before she recovered herself. 

“You surprised me,” she said, half-annoyed, half-amused.

A hint of chagrin went over his grim face. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”

“Do not rebuke yourself,” said Morigna. “Few people have ever managed to sneak up on me. Really, you ought to take it as a compliment.” 

He almost smiled. “I’ll do that.” 

For a moment she looked at him in silence, admiring how quietly he could walk. His movements reminded her of a wolf stalking its prey through the trees. His blue eyes were like disks of ice, and he…

She pushed such thoughts from her mind. This was not the time for them. 

“I assume,” said Morigna, “you want to know what I have seen?”

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

“I think,” said Morigna, “that someone has escaped from the Iron Tower.” 

Ridmark frowned. “Why is that?”

“One of my ravens watched Sir Paul for a while,” said Morigna. 

“You know him on sight, then?” said Ridmark.

“Alas, I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the illustrious Paul Tallmane,” said Morigna, “but it was obvious that he was in command. Tall blond man with a mustache?” Ridmark nodded. “He was already angry when he rode through the gate, likely from last night’s little adventure. Then he spoke with some men in the castra and grew even angrier. Right after that the first mounted patrol came out of the Iron Tower.”

Ridmark nodded. “Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No,” said Morigna. “Ravens have excellent hearing, but I could not force them close enough to that many men to listen. Even my magic can only override their instincts so far.”

Ridmark nodded, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. He often did while deep in thought. 

“Were you able to follow the patrols at all?” said Ridmark.

“Some,” said Morigna. “They went east and southeast, along the shore of the lake and the road to Coldinium.” 

“None of them went north or west?” said Ridmark. 

“I do not believe so,” said Morigna. “One would assume that any prisoner escaping from the Tower would make for Coldinium. Easier to vanish into the vast crowds there.”

Ridmark snorted. “Coldinium is not vast.” 

“It is the largest city I have ever seen,” said Morigna. She realized that how provincial that made her sound, and decided to change the subject. “More to the point, it is the logical destination for a fugitive. Shelter and supplies can be found there. In every other direction is the Wilderland, and only a fool would flee there.”

“Why not?” said Ridmark. “I wandered the Wilderland for five years, and you lived there for half your life.”

“That is because we are stronger than most,” said Morigna. “I have magic, and you have your skill at tracking and at arms. Some half-starved prisoner would likely not last long.” 

“No,” said Ridmark. “I suppose not. Are the others in any danger?”

“Not yet,” said Morigna. They had left their camp three miles north of the Tower, hidden in a ravine. “None of Paul’s patrols have gone in that direction. So unless an urvaalg comes across Kharlacht and Jager and the others, they should be safe.”

Ridmark made a dismissive gesture. “If an urvaalg finds them, Calliande’s magic can kill it.”

He rubbed his jaw again, his eyes distant.

Morigna frowned. She did not want to hear about Calliande. 

“The Iron Tower is rather an obvious name, is it not?” said Morigna.

Ridmark nodded, still thinking.

“Who built it?” said Morigna. “It seems rather ineffective as a fortification.” 

“The dark elves, I think,” said Ridmark. “There was a dark elven ruin here, destroyed before Malahan Pendragon came to Tarlion a thousand years past. After the Frostborn were defeated and Andomhaim recovered from the war, the High King built a castra over the ruins as the northwestern boundary of the realm, and gave it to the Dux of Caerdracon as a benefice. Ever since, the Duxi of Caerdracon have appointed the Constables of the Iron Tower.”

“Were your High Kings mad fools?” said Morigna. “To build over a dark elven ruin? Do they not know the creatures that lurk in such places?”

Ridmark shrugged. “Perhaps. In the south the dark elven ruins were made safe long ago. The Swordbearers and the Magistri destroyed the creatures that dwelled within. The ruins still have an evil reputation, but sometimes freeholders will use them to store crops and tools and even cattle.” He shook his head, eyes growing distant with memory. “Gothalinzur. The first urdmordar I killed, the one that first warned me the Frostborn were returning. She was preying upon the village of Victrix, and I thought she had laired within the dark elven ruin near the village. Instead the villagers used it to store seed.”

“Where was the urdmordar, then?” said Morigna. She had never seen one of the creatures, but Ridmark had faced and killed two of them.

“Disguised as an elderly woman among the villagers,” said Ridmark. “But we face no urdmordar here, thankfully. As to your question, I suspect the High King chose the ruin because it commands a strong view of the Lake of Battles. Doubtless the Magistri and the Swordbearers declared the ruin safe, and so the Iron Tower was built over it.”

She stepped closer to him. “The same Magistri who have the Enlightened of Incariel among their number?” 

He frowned. “I had not considered that. If the Enlightened had already infiltrated the Magistri at that time, perhaps they had another use for the fortress. Or the Eternalists, for that matter.” 

“Maybe that explains why Shadowbearer had Tarrabus send the soulstone here,” said Morigna. “Some property of the Iron Tower.” 

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “Or it was simply a convenient location.” He looked at her. “That tower of iron. Is it magical?”

“I cannot tell from here,” said Morigna. “But I will say this. None of my ravens will go anywhere near the thing, and they reacted much the same to the standing stones of the dark elves.” 

“I can hardly blame them,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want to go near the thing.” 

“Yet here we are,” said Morigna.

Ridmark nodded, his eyes turning back toward the Iron Tower.

“Why?” said Morigna. 

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Why are you doing this?” said Morigna. 

“I should think that obvious,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Morigna. “You owe me a straight answer.”

“Why?”

She smiled. “Because you have seen me naked.”

To her delight, that seemed to discomfort him. Even embarrass him. Perhaps he had liked what he had seen.

“In fairness,” said Ridmark, “you were covered with so much paint at the time that I barely saw anything.”

“So you were trying to see past the paint, then?” said Morigna. 

For a moment he met her eyes without blinking, and Morigna felt something electric shoot down her spine.

She had to look away first.

“As amusing as this discussion is,” said Ridmark, “we have more important matters at hand.”

“No, we do not,” said Morigna. “Why are you doing this?”