Frostborn: The Iron Tower (8 page)

“Doing what, exactly?”

“All of this,” said Morigna. “Trying to stop the return of the Frostborn. Trying to rescue an assassin of the Red Family from the Iron Tower. Trying to get back the soulstone and help Calliande find her memory and this Dragonfall of hers. Why do all of it?” 

He was silent. 

“You do not have to,” said Morigna. “Why are you fighting to save the realm from the Frostborn? The realm turned on you and cast you out.” 

“Because I deserved the banishment and more,” said Ridmark, “because I deserved death for what happened to…”

“You did not, you idiot,” said Morigna. “Mhalek killed your wife. Aye, and do not dare accuse me of not understanding. I saw Nathan Vorinus die, but the urvaalg killed him, not me. Mhalek killed your wife, you fool. He would have killed her regardless of what you did.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t…”

“I have gotten the entire story out of the others,” said Morigna. “If you had not been a Swordbearer, Mhalek would have outpaced you to Castra Marcaine and killed her, and you could have arrived to find her corpse.” A muscle twitched in Ridmark’s jaw. Part of Morigna’s mind noted that pushing him like this was probably a bad idea, but she was too angry to care. Ridmark Arban was the boldest warrior, the strongest man, that she had ever met, and the fact that he hated himself due to the calumnies of his inferiors infuriated her. “Do you think Mhalek wanted to escape? Or to bargain for his life? No, he knew he was finished. So he determined to make you suffer as much as possible. That was why he linked his blood to Aelia’s. Not to escape. To make you pay.”

“And how,” said Ridmark, his voice a soft rasp, “could you know that?”

Morigna shrugged. “Because if I was defeated, I would try to make my foes suffer as much as possible before I perished.” She poked him in the chest. She expected him to grab her arm and push her away, but he remained motionless. “So do not throw your life away for naught. Calliande might sing you sweet words about continuing to live, and one is sure Brother Caius could give you a sermon about the evils of suicide. But I will give you a harder truth, Ridmark Arban. Mhalek killed thousands of people and murdered your wife. Throw away your life to atone for imaginary mistakes, and you shall give Mhalek his final victory.” 

“Then what,” he said, “would you have me do, hmm? Turn my back on Jager and Mara and Calliande? Let Shadowbearer do what he wills with the soulstone? The Old Man was Shadowbearer’s servant. What he tried to do to you is what Shadowbearer will do on a larger scale to the whole world if he brings back the Frostborn.”

“I would have you take what is yours,” said Morigna. “You led the armies of Andomhaim. You defeated Mhalek and saved the realm, slew an urdmordar at eighteen, went to Urd Morlemoch and returned alive. You ought to be a lord of renown of Andomhaim. Laws are just words, meaningless, empty words. Only strength and power can make justice. Do you not see? If you but took the power that is yours by right, you could bring an army against the walls of the Iron Tower, free the prisoners, and reclaim the soulstone. You could cleanse the realm of the Enlightened of Incariel. You could bring Tarrabus to account for his crimes.”

He stood in silence for a long time.

“I failed my wife,” said Ridmark, and Morigna started to protest, but he cut her off. “Nothing you or Calliande can do or say will change that. But this is bigger than me. If Shadowbearer takes the soulstone, he will use it to bring back the Frostborn. The Frostborn almost destroyed the realm and froze the world the first time. There are thousands of men who love their wives as I loved Aelia, thousands of women who love their men as you loved Nathan. If we fail, if Shadowbearer restores the Frostborn…then they will all die, and tens of thousands more. You are right. Words and laws and oaths are only empty words. I am doing this because Shadowbearer must be stopped.”

Morigna sighed. “Ridmark Arban. If only you could see yourself as I see you.” 

He grunted. “Unshaven and in need of a bath?”

She barked a laugh despite herself. “You can stand downwind, then.”

He looked at her in silence for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “I do not agree with you, but your words cheer me.”

“I did not say it to cheer you,” said Morigna. “I said it because it is true.” 

“I wonder if Mara was the escaped prisoner,” said Ridmark. 

The sudden change of topic threw Morigna. “Why?”

“Because she would have the skills to do it,” said Ridmark, turning toward the Iron Tower. “The brothers and sisters of the Red Family are formidable.”

“You defeated them three times before,” said Morigna.

“Barely,” said Ridmark. “If Paul had not been rash, I would have died in Aranaeus. If I had not found that swamp gas near Moraime, we would all have died. And if Caius and Calliande had not brought aid to Tarrabus’s domus, Rotherius would have killed me there. If anyone could escape from the Iron Tower, it would be an assassin of the Red Family.”

“She would have been there three weeks or more,” said Morigna, “assuming Jager has not lied to us. Why wait until today?” 

“She may not have had a choice in the matter,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps it took that long to prepare an escape. Or maybe an opportunity fell into her lap and she took her chance. You saw how lax Sir Paul’s men are, and he likely took the best of them with him to Coldinium. I doubt those he left behind to garrison the Tower were any more vigilant.” He rolled the staff in his left hand. “Which reminds me. Tzoragar’s dvargir. Have you seen them?”

“Aye.” Morigna frowned. “Twenty short, cloaked figures with veils accompanied Sir Paul when he arrived.” 

“The dvargir are not fond of sunlight,” said Ridmark. “Did the ravens see where they went?” 

“Into one of the drum towers within the curtain wall,” said Morigna. “They have not come forth since.”

“Likely they guard the soulstone,” said Ridmark. “Tzoragar doesn’t care about Sir Paul or the prisoners. He will watch the soulstone until Shadowbearer arrives.”

“And given Sir Paul’s winning charm,” said Morigna, “he is likely more than happy to let Paul take the blame for any escaped prisoners.”

“Likely,” said Ridmark. “Between that, Sir Paul’s ineptitude, and the chaos of the escape, there are weaknesses we can exploit. Let us return to the camp and confer with the others. We must decide upon a course of action.”

“Then you still mean to get the soulstone back?” said Morigna.

“I thought we already had this conversation,” said Ridmark.  He beckoned with the staff. “Come. Sir Paul’s patrols might be inept, but there’s no reason to linger.”

“A moment,” said Morigna, closing her eyes and reaching along the link to her ravens. “Let me dismiss the birds and send a few of them to our camp. I might need them later.”

Her will flitted from raven to raven, breaking the link that bound them. As she did, she glimpsed the world through their eyes, the gray stone of the Iron Tower’s outer wall, the green of the forest, the rippling expanse of the Lake of Battles…

She frowned in surprise.

“What is it?” said Ridmark, his voice distorted as she concentrated. She focused upon the raven, commanding the bird to perch upon a branch and look down. 

The bird saw the horsemen gallop bellow, the dogs racing before them.

Hunting hounds.

###

“Dogs,” said Morigna. 

“Where?” said Ridmark, raising his staff. There were packs of wild dogs that wondered the Wilderland. They usually left humans alone, but if they were hungry or rabid…

“Not here,” said Morigna in the clipped tones she used while working magic. “Nearby. In the wood. Hunting hounds, a noble’s hounds. And horsemen in blue tabards.”

“Damn,” said Ridmark. If the hounds picked up their scent, they would have a devil of a time getting away. “We had best…”

“No,” said Morigna. “Not us. Heading in the wrong direction. Give me a moment to concentrate.” That arrogant smile flashed over her thin lips again. “I only make this look easy, Gray Knight.”

He nodded, realized that she could not see him, and waited.

His eyes rested upon the lines of her face, on her eyes as they darted back and forth behind closed lids. She was abrasive, arrogant, reckless, argumentative, and utterly certain of her own infallibility. She loved power entirely too much, and practiced a form of magic that had been forbidden within the High King’s realm. But she was also brave to the point of madness, and had stood with him against Rotherius and Mournacht. She had even been ready to sacrifice herself to stop the mzrokar in Thainkul Dural so that the others could escape. 

He gazed on her face, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she concentrated. 

And, he had to admit, he found her lovely to look upon. 

But that was madness, whether viewing either Morigna or Calliande in that light. He had been drawn to Calliande, true, but she did not know herself. She had slept for centuries in the darkness below the Tower of Vigilance, her memories lost, and it was possible that her husband and children waited in another hidden vault. Nonetheless, he had kissed her in a moment of weakness. That had been inexcusable. He had vowed to help Calliande find her lost staff and memory, had come to care for her a great deal, but to seduce her before she recovered her memory, her true self, would be wrong. 

Once she regained her memory, perhaps she would see Ridmark’s crimes with the disgust they deserved. 

But as he looked at Morigna, a small part of his mind, a small but strident part, pointed out that she already knew herself. She did not believe that Aelia’s death was his fault…but she understood that pain better than most, for she had lived through it. The brand upon his face drove away most people, but Morigna held it in contempt. She would never understand that Ridmark bore responsibility for what had happened to Aelia…but Aelia was dead. She had been dead for five years. Did Ridmark want to spend the rest of his life alone? He had been sure of that, once, but now…

Of course, he might well perish long before he even came close to stopping the return of the Frostborn.

But if he did survive…did he want to spend the rest of his life alone?

He knew that if he drew close to Morigna and kissed her, she would not push him away. She would welcome it. She would pull him closer. 

Ridmark rebuked himself for the thought.

Yet it refused to go away. 

Morigna’s black eyes popped open. She blinked several times, and then smirked at him.

“You were staring at me,” said Morigna.

“You were drooling,” said Ridmark. 

“I most certainly was not,” said Morigna. “And I believe you were right about the prisoner.”

“The hounds and the horsemen are pursuing him?” said Ridmark.

“Or her,” said Morigna, “if you are correct that they are pursuing Jager’s Mara. They are heading north, hot on someone’s trail. Six horsemen, and as many dogs.”

Ridmark nodded. Six against two were not odds he wished to face. 

Yet they had certain advantages.

“Dogs,” said Ridmark. “Can you control them?”

“But of course,” said Morigna. 

“How many at once?” said Ridmark.

“Five or six, I should think,” said Morigna. “If you want me to scare them off, that shall be simple enough.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Let’s see what our hunters are hunting, shall we? Which way?”

Morigna pointed, and they set off through the trees.

Chapter 5 - Half-Blooded

Mara’s plan almost worked.

As she fled into the forest, she realized that if the hounds picked up her scent, she could not possibly escape. Since she had not bathed in weeks, she had likely acquired an unpleasantly ripe odor. The hounds would have no trouble tracking her down. 

Fleeing would mean death.

So instead of running, she sought a hiding place. 

Her dark elven blood carried a heavy curse, but it also bestowed gifts, and one of those gifts was the ability to see in the dark. The Matriarch had been able to see in near-lightlessness. Mara’s eyes allowed her to navigate through the dark forest without losing her balance. 

And to find the plants she needed. 

Mara snatched them as she ran, grabbing a handful of flowers here, a fistful of berries there. She mashed them over her face, the juice trickling down her neck and chest, the pollen making her nose twitch. The smell was ghastly, but it would blend with the forest, making it harder for the dogs to find her.

Or so she hoped.

She ran for a mile or so, zigzagging back and forth to lay down a false trail, the barking of the hounds and the shouts of the hunters growing fainter. But they would not give up. The Constable of the Iron Tower was sworn to Tarrabus Carhaine, and the Dux of Caerdracon was not the sort of man to overlook failure in his underlings. 

The men would hunt until they found her.

But Mara could use that to her advantage.

They knew she would not head for the Lake of Battles. It was not as if she could swim her way to freedom. North and west lay nothing but howling, devil-haunted wilderness. Southeast was the road to Coldinium and the safety of the High King’s realm, and any fugitive with her wits would head southeast. 

So Mara went north.

She needed to hide. Sir Paul’s men would sweep the surrounding woods, but sooner or later they would conclude that she had fled toward Coldinium. Then the Constable would send his men along the road. 

And once the men-at-arms and hunters had moved off, Mara would slip away.

She had used such gambits to elude pursuit before, when she had still been committing murder at the Matriarch’s command. If it worked, Mara would only need to make her way to Coldinium and find a way to contact Jager. Of course, she would need to find water, food, shelter, supplies…

One problem at a time. 

First she had to find a damned hiding place. 

A promising tree caught her eye, a centuries-old oak with sprawling branches rising overhead. Yet many of the branches were low enough to the ground that she could reach them. It would be easy to clamber up and hide. Though the tree would make an obvious hiding place. Yet it was dark and the men-at-arms did not have her night vision.