Chapter 10 - Past and Present
Mist and blue fire swallowed Ridmark. When they cleared he found himself walking a barren path through a dead, mist-choked forest. The trees were silent, the only sound the crunch of his boots against the earth. He felt the dampness of the mist against his face, the cold chill of the wind flickering through the dead trunks.
The forest vanished, the mist blurring through images and vistas of far-away places.
And Ridmark realized he was looking at the past.
A long line of men and women walked along a shore, the sea on their left, a forest on their right. The men wore worn armor and bore swords, while the women carried children in their arms. A procession of carts and cattle followed them, all the worldly goods of a people fleeing their home. One of the men at the head of the column carried a great banner showing a sigil of a massive red dragon, its claws and fangs bared in defiance.
The banner of the Pendragons, the High Kings of Andomhaim.
With a shock Ridmark realized he was looking at his ancestors, the followers of Malahan Pendragon who had traveled through the gate from Old Earth to a new world. He watched as Malahan led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm to the hill at the mouth of the River Moradel, to the high elven ruin that would become the High King’s citadel of Tarlion, the seat of the realm of Andomhaim.
The history of Andomhaim unrolled before Ridmark’s eyes like a scroll.
He saw Tarlion grow, saw the knights of Andomhaim wage war against the pagan orcs and the manetaurs, the dark elves and the dvargirs. He watched as his distant ancestor Sir Arban founded Taliand and became the first Dux sworn to the High King. Centuries flew before his eyes, and he saw missionaries going among the orcs of Khaluusk and Mhorluusk and Rhaluusk, their kings and tribes entering the church and swearing fealty to the High King. The last of the dark elven kings, the King of Shadows, rose against Andomhaim and was defeated. The realm spread north, growing stronger, and the urdmordar came south in a tide of blood and black sorcery, overthrowing the realm and laying siege to Tarlion. Ardrhythain appeared and gave magic to the Two Orders, and the urdmordar were defeated, their dark empire shattered. The realm flourished anew, growing stronger.
Then the Frostborn came out of the north.
The world froze in their wake, forests dying, lakes turning to glaciers. Ridmark saw them march south, pale figures with crystalline skin in armor the color of old ice, their eyes burning with blue flames. In their wake they left a frozen, dead world, their grim citadels of stone and ice rising from the ground like the fangs of a long-dead beast. Ridmark watched as they marched south, driving for Tarlion and the gathered armies of Andomhaim.
And then he saw one of the Frostborn looking up at him.
The world blurred, and Ridmark found himself standing on the frozen plain, the cold wind howling around him.
The Frostborn stepped closer. The creature stood at least eight feet tall, maybe nine, and wore gray steel armor adorned with elaborate reliefs. Blue eyes burned behind its spiked helm, glimmering in the angular, crystalline surface of its skin, and in its hands it carried a massive greatsword of the same gray steel. Waves of horrible cold radiated from it, colder than the coldest winter in the hills of the Northerland, and Ridmark began to shiver.
He raised Heartwarden and set himself.
“Submit,” said the Frostborn in Latin, its voice like rocks cracking together, “and take your proper place as a slave, and you shall be spared.”
“No,” said Ridmark.
“Then perish,” said the Frostborn with indifference, and it attacked.
The creature stepped forward, the massive greatsword sweeping for Ridmark’s head. He drew on Heartwarden’s power for speed and jumped back, avoiding the blade. The Frostborn recovered its balanced and struck again, and Ridmark dodged once more. The Frostborn was not fast. But it was tremendously strong, and its enormous weapon and long arms gave it a formidable reach. Even with his enhanced speed, Ridmark could not draw close enough to strike before the Frostborn cut him down.
He would freeze to death first.
The horrible cold radiating from the Frostborn sank into his bones. It was like standing naked in the blast of a winter wind. His arms and legs were trembling, his teeth chattering. Soon the shivering would grow severe enough that he could not control his blows, and then he would stumble and the Frostborn would take off his head.
The towering creature launched another swing, and Ridmark jumped back, just avoiding the razor-edged blade. If he did not think of something soon, he was going to die. He did not know if the Frostborn was real, if it was an illusion of the Warden’s magic.
Illusion or not, he was quite sure that it could kill him.
Ridmark backed away, and the horrible cold faded a little. The Frostborn pursued him, its armored boots pushing through the snow and ice with ease. The cold sharpened again, and Ridmark tried to stay ahead of the Frostborn’s gray sword. How could a creature become so cold and live? Was the Frostborn an undead thing? Or…
Or the cold was magical in nature.
If it was a magical attack, then Heartwarden might have the power to shield him from it.
Ridmark released his supernatural speed and called on Heartwarden to protect him from magical assaults.
At once the terrible cold vanished, as if he had stepped from a winter storm into a warm room.
Ridmark did not hesitate, but attacked at once, dodging the Frostborn’s thrust and swinging Heartwarden with both hands. The soulblade bit into the Frostborn’s arm, and the creature snarled in fury. The Frostborn raised its weapon for another swing, but Ridmark saw the move coming and got out of the way.
With Heartwarden shielding him from magic, he could not use the sword to enhance his strength and speed. But for all its strength, the Frostborn was slower than Ridmark.
And Ridmark knew how to use his weapon.
He dodged the heavy sword’s blows, landing hit after minor hit in the gaps between the Frostborn’s armor. At last Heartwarden crunched into the Frostborn’s knee, and the creature stumbled with a below of fury, its sword digging a furrow in the icy ground.
Ridmark chopped Heartwarden into the Frostborn’s neck, once, twice, three times, and severed the head. The spiked-crowned helmet rolled a way, a freezing white mist rising from the stump of the neck. The armored body fell to the icy ground with a clang and did not move again.
Ridmark let out a long breath.
“Well done.”
The Warden’s deep voice came from nowhere and everywhere.
“You have faced the past,” said the Warden. “Now can you prevail against the present?”
The world fell away around Ridmark, and again he saw the entire realm spinning before him, saw the High King and the Dragon Knight and the Keeper wipe out the Frostborn. Andomhaim grew and became prosperous, people filling its lands and building villages and farms in lands left empty by the Frostborn and the urdmordar.
A cancer gnawed at the realm, a growing darkness.
Ridmark saw the order of the Eternalists arise, rebel Magistri who sought to use their magic to attain immortality and rule over men as gods. They were defeated, but only after a bloody war. The High King died, and his five sons split the realm in civil war for fifty years until a victor claimed the throne.
A darkness spread through Andomhaim, gathering in secret corners and dungeons, a darkness led by a laughing shadow.
The world blurred around Ridmark again, and he found himself standing in the great hall of Castra Marcaine.
He turned, his boots clicking against the black and white tiles. The hall was deserted, pale moonlight leaking through the high windows, tangled shadows thrown across the floor.
No. Not deserted. A man in armor strode from the dais, a sword in his hand.
Tarrabus Carhaine.
“Sir Tarrabus?” said Ridmark. “What is this?”
“Inevitable,” said Tarrabus in his mocking voice, his eyes as cold as the Frostborn
as he lifted his sword.
“We are both knights of Andomhaim, baptized sons of the church,” said Ridmark. “Why are you fighting me?”
“Because you are a weak fool,” said Tarrabus. “I have seen the truth. The strong rule. The strong survive. The weak suffer and perish. I am stronger than you. And I shall be stronger yet.”
“This is madness,” said Ridmark.
“And Aelia,” said Tarrabus, pointing his sword at him, “shall be mine.”
“No,” said Ridmark.
“Then kill me and take her for yourself,” said Tarrabus.
Ridmark hesitated. “No. We are not pagan orcs, we are not dark elven princes butchering each other for power and prestige. We…”
“Silence,” said Tarrabus. “Either fight me, or lie down and die.”
He ran at Ridmark, his sword a steely blur.
Ridmark raised Heartwarden, caught Tarrabus’s first thrust, sidestepped around the second, and took two quick steps back, keeping his sword raised in guard. Tarrabus stalked after him, moving with the slow, steady grace of a predator. Ridmark hesitated, trying to think of a plan. He had killed men in battle before, pagan orc raiders and human bandits, and had no qualms about defending himself. But he was a Swordbearer, a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to defend the realm from the powers of dark magic.
A Swordbearer’s purpose was to defend, not to kill.
Certainly not to kill a man who had gone mad. He did not like Tarrabus, but Ridmark would not kill him out of hand.
Tarrabus growled and lunged at Ridmark.
“Tarrabus!” said Ridmark, parrying the thrust. “This is madness! We are both knights of Andomhaim, we…”
Tarrabus laughed. “Knights? What a fool you are. The Orders, the church, our vows of knighthood…it’s a lie, all of it, a false and pretty lie to lull us to sleep, to blind us to the truth of the world.”
He struck again, and Ridmark blocked.
“What truth is that?” Ridmark said.
“That there are only predators and prey,” said Tarrabus. “The lies of the church only make us weaker, Ridmark. They make us into prey.” His face twisted with contempt. “And you have embraced those lies. You could have been a wolf, but instead you have chosen to make yourself into a sheep.”
“Mercy is not a weakness,” said Ridmark.
“You shall soon see otherwise,” said Tarrabus.
He attacked again.
Ridmark drew upon the power of Heartwarden, using the sword’s magic to make himself faster and stronger. Tarrabus was a supremely gifted swordsman, but he was not a Swordbearer. In a straight fight, sooner or later Ridmark could overpower him. He blocked one more thrust, then went on the attack, launching a flurry of blows at Tarrabus’s chest and arms. Tarrabus cursed and retreated, his sword clanging as he deflected Ridmark’s attacks.
“Fool!” he shouted. “Do you not understand? The world is changing…and you have no place in it!”
He stepped out of Ridmark’s reach…and shadows gathered around him. They flowed over Tarrabus, armoring him in darkness, sheathing his sword in swirling shadow. Ridmark took a cautious step back. He had never seen magic like this, if it was magic.
“The darkness will elevate us,” spat Tarrabus, “make us into living gods. And you are too weak to see it!”
He charged at Ridmark, moving with supernatural strength and speed. Ridmark got Heartwarden up in time to block a slash that would have taken off his head. He and Tarrabus spun around each other, trading blows, their swords clanging. Heartwarden shone with white light, but Tarrabus’s blade crawled with darkness.
They were too evenly matched. The strange shadows gave Tarrabus the strength and speed to match Heartwarden’s magic. The first man to make a mistake in their duel would die, unless Ridmark thought of something clever. He parried another slash, and Tarrabus jerked to the side, dodging past Ridmark’s countering blow.
And as he did, Ridmark saw the cord.
A cord of shadows seemed to rise from Tarrabus’s back, stretching off into the distance. It pulsed and throbbed like a vein, pouring fresh power into the shadows armoring Tarrabus. Ridmark blocked Tarrabus’s next swing and shoved with all his strength. Tarrabus stumbled, and Ridmark sidestepped and swung Heartwarden.
Tarrabus raised his blade to block, but Ridmark had not been aiming for him.
Heartwarden sheared through the cord of shadows, and Tarrabus screamed in agony. The shadows pulled back from him, and he stumbled to his knees. Ridmark drew back Heartwarden to strike, but stayed his hand. Tarrabus fell upon the black and white tiles, his eyes empty and staring.
The loss of the shadows had slain him.
Ridmark looked up and saw the shadows slithering into the darkness. He felt them staring at him, as if marking him for the future.
“Well done!” The Warden’s voice thundered out of the walls and floor. “You have proved capable of facing the present, even if you do not understand what is happening. But are you strong enough to endure the shadows of your future? Let us find out.”
Gray mist exploded through the hall and swallowed Ridmark.
***