Frostborn: The False King by Jonathan Moeller Page B

may eat our fill.” 
     
    ###
     
    Later that night, hundreds of Anathgrimm feasted in the Eastern Court, listening as Caius recounted the tales of their battles in the Northerland. Neither Kharlacht nor Qhazulak were particularly eloquent, but Caius made up for it, and Ridmark had to admit Caius made the warband’s victories sound better than they had been. All Ridmark remembered was the blood and the screaming and the rage that never left him. From time to time Jager interspersed with comments that elicited roars of laughter from the Anathgrimm. 
    “That is a sound,” said Mara in a soft voice, “that I thought I would never hear in this place.” 
    “Perhaps it never was heard here before this year,” said Ridmark. 
    He walked alone with the Queen at the edge of the Eastern Court. Night had fallen, and the blue glow of Nightmane Forest had dimmed somewhat, though the motes of blue light still danced from branch to branch. The sight was eerie and alien, but it was nonetheless beautiful. The Traveler had been insane and cruel and twisted, but in his own way he had been brilliant, even if his gifts had been twisted in the service of his selfish evil. 
    “No,” said Mara. She looked up at him. “What do you think?”
    He looked back at her. Ridmark had never had a sister, but if he had, he imagined he would have felt about her the way he felt about Mara. He had refused to kill her at the Iron Tower, she had saved their lives at Urd Morlemoch, and she had given him some good advice when he needed to hear it. Though Ridmark was not sure if he was the protective older brother, or if she was the wiser older sister.
    Maybe they were both.
    “I think,” said Ridmark, “that we will draw a response from the Frostborn sooner rather than later.”
    “You are right,” said Mara. “While you were gone, they launched an attack on the northeastern border of the Forest, trying to break through the wards.”
    “Did they succeed?” said Ridmark.
    “No. Not even close,” said Mara, a dark satisfaction in her voice. “My father was a monster, but his warding spells were potent. Only the Warden’s warding spells were greater.”
    “Perhaps the Traveler’s skill at wards were greater than the Warden’s,” said Ridmark, “given that he could leave Nightmane Forest and the Warden can never leave Urd Morlemoch.”
    “Let us be grateful for small favors,” said Mara. “The magical attack upon the wards failed, so the Frostborn have turned to a different tactic. Zhorlacht’s scouts have seen bands of medvarth led by khaldjari building fortifications along the eastern bank of the Moradel. They are constructing small forts – little more than a tower, a ditch, and an earthwork wall, but forts nonetheless.” 
    “A sentry line,” said Ridmark. “Our raids have hurt them, so they are digging in along the Moradel, building a line of fortifications to stop and track our warbands.” 
    Mara nodded. “That was Zhorlacht’s thought. It seems we have indeed gained Andomhaim some time. Given the resources it will take the Frostborn to build that line, they will have to abandon their attack upon Castra Marcaine for another year.”
    “We’ve gained time, but nothing else,” said Ridmark. “The forces Dux Gareth left at Castra Marcaine aren’t strong enough to do anything but hold the castra. And unless Arandar claims the realm soon, next year enough Frostborn reinforcements will come through the world gate that the Frostborn will be able to keep us bottled up in Nightmane Forest while they conquer the Northerland.”
    “Yes,” said Mara. “We will not be completely trapped. There are exits from Nightmane Forest through the tunnels of the Deeps, and we can leave through the southern and western borders of the Forest.”
    Ridmark nodded. “But our effectiveness will be reduced.”
    “I fear so,” said Mara. She sighed. “The Anathgrimm are the deadliest warriors in this world…but even they cannot fight this