Frostborn: The False King by Jonathan Moeller Read Free Book Online

layer of soot on the ceiling above a fire pit. Calliande had no doubt that Incariel had been worshiped here for a long time, that the Enlightened had met here in secret for decades, leaving the taint of their shadow over the fortress. 
    Perhaps Calliande would have a chance to drive away that shadow.
    A clang echoed from the curtain wall, and she drew herself up, releasing the Sight.
    “The gate,” said Prince Arandar. “It is opening.”
    Arandar Pendragon, she reflected, had settled well into his new role as Prince Regent and future High King of Andomhaim. He sat atop his destrier with calm ease, his dark eyes fixed on Castra Carhaine, his gray-shot black hair stirring in the cool breeze rising from the Moradel. Arandar disdained the ornate armor favored by his late father Uthanaric for the simple plate and chain mail he had worn as a Swordbearer. Around him waited the chief lords and knights who had remained loyal when Tarrabus Carhaine had turned to the Enlightened – stern Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland, fierce Dux Kors Durius of Durandis, the young Dux Sebastian Aurelius of Caertigris, the calm Prince Cadwall Gwyrdragon of Cintarra, the regal Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand, the battle-thirsty orcish kings of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk, the Masters of the Orders of the Soulblade and the Magistri, and numerous others. They were all hard men, accustomed to command and having their orders obeyed, yet Arandar had mastered them.
    So far, anyway. 
    If they failed to take Castra Carhaine, after the campaign in Caerdracon had taken so long, some of the lords might come to doubt their Prince Regent.
    But the gate was opening. The plan was working. 
    “Aye, my lord Prince,” said Gareth, squinting into the red-lit gloom. “It has opened!”
    “Then we must act at once,” said Arandar with iron calm. “Master Marhand, headman Crowlacht.” 
    Master Marhand turned his horse, his soulblade Torchbrand already in his fist. The hard-bitten old man was lean as a horsewhip, yet tough as an old oak club. He had come through the battle of Dun Calpurnia unscathed, killing three Frostborn in single combat, and had fought in the hottest battles of the campaign through Caerdracon. Around him waited another fifty Swordbearers, soulblades in hand, and behind them came fifty warriors of the orcish kingdom of Rhaluusk, grumbling as they steered their horses. The orcs of Rhaluusk preferred to fight on their own feet. A paunchy orc of middle years led the Rhaluuskan warriors, his yellowed tusks rising from a gray beard, but Crowlacht carried his huge steel war hammer with ease, and Calliande had seen him wield the weapon with the vigor of an orcish man half his age.
    “We are ready, lord Prince,” said Marhand. 
    “Aye!” said Crowlacht, his black eyes beginning to glimmer with the red light of orcish battle rage. “Let us teach these dogs the price of betraying the High King!”
    Calliande pulled herself into the saddle of her horse, laying the staff of the Keeper flat before her.
    “My lady Keeper,” said Arandar. “Once again, are you sure you must go?”
    “I must,” said Calliande. “If there are powerful Enlightened within the castra, the Swordbearers will need my aid.” The Constable that Tarrabus had left in command of Castra Carhaine, Sir Claudius Agrell, was likely high within the circles of the Enlightened. It was also possible that Tarrabus might have sent the Weaver or Imaria Shadowbearer to defend his ancestral seat. 
    If they showed themselves…Calliande had business with them both. 
    “Then may God be with us all, and guide your sword arm,” said Arandar, raising his voice to address the men. “Go!”
    “Ride!” shouted Marhand, pointing Torchbrand towards the curtain walls. The Swordbearers and the orcish warriors surged forward with a shout, galloping toward Castra Carhaine, and Calliande rode in their midst. As they galloped, she drew upon the power of the Well at Tarlion’s heart,