Frostborn: The False King by Jonathan Moeller Page A

standing next to the Queen’s throne. He was thin and lean and muscled, his voice surprisingly deep despite his size. Unlike his wife, he had not changed his usual style of clothing and wore black boots, black trousers, and a black leather vest over a crisp white shirt, a sword and a dagger at his belt. “Or with a pile of dead medvarth behind you.” 
    “As much as we might have wished to drag a pile of dead medvarth into Nightmane Forest,” said Caius, “I fear we would not wish to offend your wife the Queen.”
    “A sensible policy,” said Jager, smiling as he brushed some dust from his sleeve. 
    “I have always thought so,” said Mara, rising from the throne. She had a soft voice, but when she spoke in Nightmane Forest, people listened. “Welcome home, my friends.”
    Home? Had Nightmane Forest become Ridmark’s home? He didn’t know the answer to that. Castra Arban had once been his home, and then Castra Marcaine, but both places were lost to him. Perhaps a man like the Gray Knight would never have a home.
    “Thank you,” said Ridmark, “my Queen.” 
    Mara smiled at him, took Jager’s hand, and walked forward. Others followed the Queen and Prince Consort of Nightmane Forest. There were a half a dozen Anathgrimm of the Queen’s Guard, the oldest and most vicious fighters of the Anathgrimm. Zhorlacht walked with the Queen’s Guard, wearing armor over his black robe. Once he had been a priest of the Traveler, wielding dark magic in the dark elven prince’s name. After accepting baptism and ordination from Caius, he had become Father Zhorlacht, one of the first the priests of the Dominus Christus among the Anathgrimm. If they lived long enough, Ridmark thought, Zhorlacht would likely become the first bishop of Nightmane Forest since the Anathgrimm would prefer priests from their own kindred. 
    They preferred priests of their own kindred, but they would accept no one else but Mara as their ruler. 
    One other walked behind Mara, a human girl of about ten years, wearing a blue dress, her resemblance to Accolon and Arandar obvious. Nyvane’s expression was grave, as she took her duties as the Queen’s handmaiden seriously, but she kept wanting to smile as she looked at her brother. 
    “We return with victory,” said Qhazulak. “Seven times we faced the foe, and seven times we were victorious.”
    “I doubted it not, my Champion,” said Mara. She looked at Ridmark. “All fourteen of the warbands we sent returned. All have taken losses, yes, but all return with victories.”
    “The souls of our brothers shall reside with Dominus Christus for eternity,” said Zhorlacht. “Nor were their deaths in vain, though all Anathgrimm desire a glorious death in battle surrounded by the corpses of our enemies. From what the other warbands have reported, we doubt the Frostborn will be able to assail Castra Marcaine this year.”
    “They will bring reinforcements eventually,” said Ridmark.
    Zhorlacht smiled behind his black tusks. Smiling only made the Anathgrimm look more ferocious. “Eventually. But not this year.”
    “Which will give Prince Arandar the time he needs to claim the High King’s throne and bring a unified Andomhaim to our aid,” said Mara. 
    “We need to rethink our strategy,” said Ridmark. “Our successes will draw the notice of our enemies.”
    “Undoubtedly,” said Mara with a sigh. “Such is the nature of war.” She looked at Third. “And you, sister? Are you well?” 
    Third stared at Mara for a moment.
    “No,” said Third at last, “but I am no worse than when I left and better than I have been for centuries. Therefore, I have no cause for complaint. I have done as you have commanded, and kept the Gray Knight safe.”
    “Thank you,” said Mara. “We shall plan a new strategy tomorrow. Tonight, we shall feast in the Eastern Court, to celebrate our victories. The young Anathgrimm have brought food out of the storehouses without falling prey to the death spells so we