The Final Waystone Read online

  THE FINAL WAYSTONE

  Jonathan Moeller

  ***

  Description

  The ruins of the lizardmen hold death for the unwary.

  Niara is one of the First Magistri, the most powerful wizards of Andomhaim. She has pursued the spider-devil Xothalaxiar far to the north of her homeland.

  But to catch Xothalaxiar at last, Niara must pass one of the grim ruins of the ancient lizardmen.

  A ruin that might hold her death...

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  The Final Waystone

  Copyright 2023 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Smashwords Edition.

  Cover design by Jonathan Moeller.

  Ebook edition published January 2023.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

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  The Final Waystone

  I wasn’t lost, not precisely, but neither was I entirely sure where I was.

  My name is Niara of Andomhaim, and I was a long, long way from home.

  Or at least the places I had lived.

  Home had been the small village where I had grown up with my widowed father, the village’s blacksmith.

  A village that the urdmordar Xothalaxiar’s arachar soldiers had burned, striking down my father for daring to resist them.

  The urdmordar were defeated now, their threat driven back, the realm of Andomhaim made safe by the power of the Magistri and the valor of the Swordbearers. The High King’s realm was at peace.

  But not me.

  I would never have peace.

  Not until I found and slain Xothalaxiar for what she had done.

  But, of course, if I didn’t figure out where I was, then I would never find Xothalaxiar. I didn’t mind if I fell in battle fighting Xothalaxiar, so long as the urdmordar died with me. I didn’t want to die wandering in this pine forest, trying to find a way through the mountains to the north, while Xothalaxiar seized the Dragonskull and built a new empire of her own.

  I knew I was close.

  The xortami ruins proved it.

  I don’t think any man or woman of Andomhaim had ever visited this land or given it a name. It must have had a name, given that I knew the high elves had once lived here. And if the high elves had been here, so had the dark elves, the orcs, and many others. No doubt they had each given their own name to this land, but I was reasonably sure that I was the first human to ever walk here.

  Lonely feeling, that.

  But I hadn’t seen another human face since I had left Andomhaim.

  I walked alone through the pine forest, my bronze staff in hand, my pack thumping against my armor with every step. I had lost my pack horses on the southern bank of the river, where I had been attacked by two of the rock drakes that hunted this land. The rock drakes were no more, but they had taken down my horses before I could kill them. My remaining supplies and provisions were in my rucksack, which was damned heavy, but I was used to burdens and ignored the discomfort. Besides, I wasn’t in any danger of going hungry. One of the unexpected benefits of wielding fire magic is that it’s very easy to bring down game animals, and a surprising number of edible plants grew here.

  The fertile soil ensured that.

  I suspected this land had burned beneath layers of molten stone and volcanic ash many times before. It would get cold here in winter, very cold, but the soil was fertile enough from the volcanic ash that a farmer could grow a rich crop.

  The fire mountains were only sleeping, and their rest was an unquiet one. I passed vents in the ground, fumes rising from within their depths. I made sure to stay well away from those since the gases were poisonous, and I sometimes saw dead animals lying near the fissures. Other times I saw ponds that seethed and steamed, their shore ringed in mineral deposits like half-melted candles. It was easy to see that vast quantities of molten stone flowed beneath the ground, heating the waters and issuing fumes that vented from the fissures.

  Perhaps that was the reason the only inhabitants in this land were orcish nomads who would dwell here for a season and then move on.

  Well, the orcish nomads, and the halflings who called themselves the Hidden People. But they had kept out of my way so far, and I hoped that would continue.

  I passed a crumbling stone wall. Weathered carvings marked its sides, showing lizardmen priests and warriors lording over captive orcs and halflings. The reliefs lacked the gloating malice and cruelty of dark elven art, but neither were they pleasant to view. They were blunt, brutal proclamations of power and domination.

  Also inaccurate, given what the xortami had done to themselves with the Dragonskull.

  The ruins proved that I was somewhere in the southern march of what had once been their empire. They all had the look of long-weathered fortifications, once held by soldiers patrolling the frontiers of the lizardmen’s domain. The Dragonskull would be somewhere north, beyond the mountains, in what had once been the xortami capital city of Takaris.

  The fiery mountains? I wasn’t certain, but I didn’t think they had ever erupted until the xortami had created the Dragonskull and tried to tap its power.

  That was why I couldn’t let Xothalaxiar find the thing. Think of what an urdmordar could do with a relic of such strength.

  But that wasn’t the real reason I had chased her across so many lands.

  I remembered again my father lying dead in the street as our village burned around us.

  I couldn’t stop. Not yet.

  Not until I avenged my father.

  Then I could rest. Or die.

  Maybe that would be a kind of rest.

  I had taken another step, and I heard the metallic snarl of a hunting urvaalg echo through the pine trees.

  I came to a stop, calling my magic and preparing to shape the power into spells. I didn’t care if I lived or died so long as I slew Xothalaxiar…but I didn’t want to die fighting an urvaalg in this empty, ruin-haunted land.

  A deep voice shouted a battle cry, and the urvaalg snarled.

  I also didn’t want to see anyone ripped apart by urvaalgs. It had happened far too often during the war to drive the urdmordar back from Tarlion. The urdmordar were fountains of dark magic, and their presence drew urvaalgs and other creatures of dark magic like flies to carrion. In the battles against the arachar soldiers of the urdmordar, there had been many wounded and sick men in the aftermath of the fighting, and the urvaalgs had lurked behind the army, watching for prey.

  I had killed a lot of urvaalgs, and I was about to kill some more.

  The pine needles rustled beneath my boots as I hurried forward. Their smell filled my nose, but new odors came to my nostrils. A rotten egg smell – I was probably approaching one of the hot springs. And a foul, greasy, rotting stink, like carrion but somehow worse.

  The stench of an urvaalg.

  I came to a clearing with a large pool. It seethed and stirred, bubbles sometimes forming, and steam rose from the waters. Grayish-white mineral growths rose from the edges of the water. They reminded me a bit of a chandler’s workshop I had once visited, where I had seen a row of misshapen and unsightly candles produced by his new apprentices.

  A battle was underway at the edge of the hot spring.

  Two urvaalgs stalked forward. They were gruesome, misshapen hybrids of apes and wolves created by the sorcery of the dark elves, their stringy black fur hanging from their grayish hides. You would think that such a warped thing couldn’t move so swiftly.

  But they could, and their claws could rend steel and flesh with equal ease.

  An orcish warrior faced them.

  He was one of the Rhal-worshipping orcish nomads who moved through this land every season. Swirling blue tattoos marked the green skin of his face, a mark commonly born by pagan orcs who worshipped the blood god Rhal. The orc wore a leather cuirass and boots with ragged trousers. He wielded a steel-headed war axe, his black eyes glimmering with orcish blood rage.

  One of the urvaalgs bounded towards him as I summoned my magic. The orcish warrior bellowed and swung his war axe to intercept the urvaalg.

  That was the end of the orcish warrior, I thought. Normal weapons of steel would not hurt an urvaalg. The axe would irritate the creature but do it no serious harm, and the urvaalg would bear the warrior to the ground and rip out his throat.

  So I was quite surprised when the axe sank halfway into the urvaalg’s neck.

  The orcish warrior ripped the weapon free, and the urvaalg fell dead at his boots. The gray flesh around the wound in the creature’s neck had frozen, covered with a rime of frost. The axe was a magical weapon, and it was enspelled with the power of elemental ice.

  I summoned my power and focused my will.

  A shaft of white flame lanced from my hand and slashed across the flank of the remaining urvaalg. The magic of the Well of Tarlion burned into the urvaalg’s dark magic-infused flesh. The creature rocked back with a growl of fury, and both its burning gaze and the dark eyes of the orcish warrior fel
l on me.

  I killed the urvaalg with a burst of elemental flame that scoured the flesh from its skull.

  The Rhalite orc eyed me warily. He didn’t exactly raise his weapon, but it was ready in his right hand, and he was fast enough to cover the distance between us in the blink of an eye. Not fast enough to stop me from casting a spell, though.

  The axe was…strange. I had never seen a weapon quite like it before. The haft was a steel shaft with leather wrapped around it. The blade was crescent-shaped since that was the most efficient way to shape an axe blade, but strange blocky symbols had been cut into the side of the head and down the part of the shaft that I could see. I didn’t recognize the design, but I did recognize the symbols.

  It was a xortami weapon.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” I said, using the orcish tongue. “If you wish to fight, then we shall. But the urvaalgs are an abomination, and I would not leave anyone to be slain by them.”

  The orcish warrior considered me. He was a follower of Rhal, the orcish blood god of war and honorable battle. A follower of Mhor, the god of slaughter and murder, would have stabbed me when my back was turned. A follower of Qazalask, the god of necromancy and undeath, would have killed me and raised my corpse as an undead thrall. A devotee of Rhal would challenge me to open battle without skullduggery or trickery.

  Of course, just because a man followed a god didn’t mean he would always keep to his faith’s creed.

  But the orcish warrior finally offered a stiff bow.

  “I thank you for your aid in battle,” said the warrior, his voice deep and rough. “I fear no foe or creature. But, in truth, I was not sure I could overcome two urvaalgs at once.”

  “They are dangerous foes,” I said. “I would say you could bring back their claws and fangs as trophies, but they are foul.”

  “They are,” agreed the warrior. “I am Kharrhal of the Tribe of the Blood-Washed Swords. You are strange to my eyes. Not an elf, I deem, and you are too large to be a halfling.”

  I suppressed a smile. Tell a human woman she’s too large, and it will most likely be a deadly insult. Tell an orcish woman she’s large, and she will consider it a compliment, for both orcish men and women regarded strength and size as desirable attributes in a mate, making it all the more likely they would have large, strong children who would be adept at violence.

  “I am Niara of Andomhaim,” I answered. “I am passing through this land in pursuit of a foe.”

  “Ah! An honorable quest,” said Kharrhal. “What manner of foe do you pursue?”

  “A female urdmordar.”

  Kharrhal blinked at that. “You hunt dangerous prey, warrior.” My wariness eased a little as he said that. The specific word for ‘warrior’ he used referred to a dangerous peer, one to be treated with cautious respect. Then again, he might be trying to put me off my guard. “Swift death comes to those who face the spider-devils.” He glanced at the urvaalg I had slain, smoke still rising from its charred skull. “Though you may have more of a chance than most.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. An orcish proverb passed through my mind. “Who can say how the blood shall flow once the sword has been drawn?” Kharrhal nodded as if I had said something profound, but then he was part of a tribe called the Blood-Washed Swords. Probably they quoted things like that to each other all the time. “Your tribe is part of the faithful of Rhal?”

  “Yes,” said Kharrhal. “The Blood-Washed Swords spend summer in this land. Come winter, the wind is bitter, and the snows are heavy, and we migrate southwest to the mountains there and shelter in the hills.” His eyes narrowed. “You seem to know something of our ways already, Niara of Andomhaim.”

  Maybe he was worried I was a spy.

  “I have traveled to many lands and spoken with many different tribes and nations,” I said. “I have met tribes faithful to Rhal before. But I am neither elf nor halfling, but human.”

  “Human?” said Rhal, speaking the strange word. I had used the Latin word for humanity, since I didn’t think there was a native orcish term for us. If I was the first human to ever walk this land, then probably no one in the Blood-Washed Swords had ever seen one of us before. “I am unfamiliar with…humans.”

  “Our realm is called Andomhaim, and we live far to the south of here,” I said. “If a human has ever come here before, our lore does not tell of it. A few years ago, we drove back the urdmordar, slaying many of them. I pursue one of them who fled to this land.”

  “Why?” said Kharrhal.

  “Vengeance,” I said, choosing the reason he would understand. “The soldiers of that urdmordar slew my father. I shall follow her to the ends of the earth to repay that blood.”

  Kharrhal nodded with approval. “A noble quest. What is the name of the urdmordar?”

  “Xothalaxiar,” I said.

  “This name is not known to me,” said Kharrhal. “This Xothalaxiar, does she go north?”

  “She does.”

  “Hmm,” said Kharrhal.

  I let him think. I suspected he was the sort of man who did not speak much and preferred to think before he did.

  “That may be ill news,” said Kharrhal. “Much evil lies to the north.”

  “What manner of evil?” I said, though I had a good idea of it.

  “The xortami lizardmen,” said Kharrhal. “They have the shape of orcs, or…humans, as you say, but their bodies are covered in scales, and they have the heads of great lizards. Once they ruled a mighty empire. Mayhap you have seen some of their ruins.” I nodded. “Their empire fell long ago, and now only squabbling tribes remain. They war endlessly upon each other, but they attack the Blood-Washed Swords when they can, for they both try to take us as slaves and to feast upon our flesh.”

  “They sound like poor neighbors.”

  Kharrhal grunted. “Battle is the way of the world. Rhal sends foes to keep us strong.” He grimaced behind his tusks. “And the xortami often try to keep us strong when the Blood-Washed Sword sojourn in this land.”

  “Speaking of that,” I said, “why are you here alone? This land is dangerous for even a skilled warrior to travel without companions.”

  “I am on the blood quest to become a headman,” said Kharrhal.

  The blood quest was a custom shared by many orcish tribes. A shaman of the tribe laid the quest upon an orcish man who wished to become a full warrior with the right to stand in the tribe’s assembly, or gave a blood quest a full warrior who wanted to become a headman. Usually, the blood quest involved some deed of daring or slaying a dangerous beast and bringing back a trophy.

  “What charge has the shaman of the tribe laid upon you?” I said.

  “You do know something of our ways,” said Kharrhal. “To the north, there is a pass through the mountains guarded by ruined xortami citadels at either end.”

  That caught my attention. I had been looking for a way through those mountains for some time.

  Kharrhal continued. “Once those citadels were held by the xortami, but now they are haunts for creatures from the Deeps and whatever brigands manage to claim them. In the northern citadel is an ancient relic once held by our tribe, the Sword of Mzarhask. Should I return from the citadel with the Sword, I shall become a headman of the Blood-Washed Swords.”

  “You know the way to this citadel?” I said, though I was more interested in the pass that it guarded.

  “I do,” said Kharrhal. “I have hunted there before.”

  “Perhaps we can reach an accord,” I said. “I need to know the way through the mountains. If you show me the way to the pass, I will help you deal with whatever is in the citadel.”

  I watched him consider the offer. He knew I would be helpful – he had seen me kill that urvaalg with little effort. Of course, he had no reason to trust me, though if I had wanted him dead, I could have let the urvaalgs kill him and not lifted a finger to help him.

  “Unless, of course,” I said, “this would offend Rhal and cause your blood quest to fail.”

  “Rhal offers victory to those who take it,” said Kharrhal, “and to those who raise the weapons at hand.” He thought about it some more. “Very well. I will show you the way to the pass, and you shall help me claim the Sword of Mzarhask. You can have anything else hidden within the citadel, but the Sword must be mine.”