The Dark Warden (Book 6) Page 9

  “Assuming that Sir Arandar and I do not kill each other first, you mean?” said Morigna, her usual acerbic manner returning.

  “It would be best if you avoid that,” said Ridmark.

  “I do not like him,” said Morigna. “He is pompous and too certain of himself. You said I believed the worst about the Swordbearers, thanks to the Old Man. Sir Arandar of Tarlion makes me believe that Coriolus may not have been wrong about everything.”

  “Arandar is an honorable man,” said Ridmark. “He will not raise his hand against you unless you attack him first.”

  “Fear not, Gray Knight,” said Morigna. “I will not start anything with him. We might need that soulblade before the end.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark.

  “I will just have Mara do it.”

  “What?” said Morigna.

  “She was an assassin of the Red Family for years,” said Morigna, “so one assumes that she is most practiced in making deaths look accidental. If I ask nicely she may even do it for free.”

  Ridmark stared at her.

  “That was a joke,” said Morigna.

  “Not entirely, was it?” said Ridmark.

  “I shall let you ponder on that,” said Morigna.

  Ridmark sighed and kept walking.

  ###

  The next day Calliande saw the first of the menhirs standing atop the hills.

  “Not far now,” said Ridmark, looking at the grim standing stones. “A half-day to Urd Morlemoch at the most.”

  Kharlacht grunted. “If we are not attacked first.”

  Calliande said nothing, her eyes upon the menhirs. Those stones brought back dark memories. She had almost died upon an altar within a stone circle like that, bound and helpless as Vlazar raised his knife. Strange, alien designs covered the surfaces of the stones, sigils that blazed with ghostly light when their power activated. From time to time the misshapen ravens of the Torn Hills perched upon the stones, cawing and muttering to each other.

  “Wretched things,” muttered Morigna.

  It seemed she was not the only one with dark memories.

  “There are countless stones like that within the Nightmane Forest,” said Mara, her voice quiet. “The Traveler inscribes his spells of warding and protection upon them.”

  Arandar glanced at her. “You’ve been to Nightmane Forest?”

  Calliande hesitated. Mara had successfully concealed her dark elven heritage from Arandar. She did not know how the Swordbearer would react to the truth.

  Mara only shrugged. “I’ve traveled quite a lot.”

  “There was one of those stone circles near Moraime,” said Morigna, her voice cold.

  “Many in Vhaluusk,” said Kharlacht.

  “And in Kothluusk,” said Arandar. “Save for the shamans, the Mhorites hold them in dread and avoid them.”

  “They should,” said Ridmark. “The dark elves of old used those stone circles to work terrible sorcery, and the power lingers.”

  “So do their creatures,” said Morigna.

  “Why are there so many near Urd Morlemoch?” said Gavin.

  “I do not know,” said Ridmark. The clouds were almost black now, and from time to time lightning leapt between them, a distant rumble of thunder rolling over the Torn Hills.

  “I suspect I do,” said Calliande, a flicker of forgotten knowledge coming to the forefront of her thoughts. “They were part of the spell the Warden used to shield himself in Urd Morlemoch. There must be hundreds of stone circles ringing the citadel, and he used all of them to summon the power he needed.”

  “Too much power, apparently,” said Morigna, “if he trapped himself within Urd Morlemoch.” She was staring at the ground, frowning.

  “As far as I am concerned,” said Jager, “any sensible man will stay far away from those stone circles.”

  “A good attitude,” said Ridmark, “but I suspect it is not one the Warden’s servants share.” He gestured with the staff in his right hand.

  “What are you looking at?” said Arandar.

  “Tracks,” said Morigna, “and quite a lot of them. A great many armed men passed this way recently.”

  Calliande looked at the sickly grasses. She did not have Ridmark’s or Morigna’s skill at tracking, but once it had been pointed out the signs were obvious. The grass had been trampled and crushed by the tread of armored boots, and she saw the marks from the butts of spears and the scabbards of swords.

  “At least a hundred of them,” said Morigna.

  “What fools would come so close to Urd Morlemoch?” said Arandar.

  “Other than us, you mean?” said Jager.

  “Precisely,” said Arandar. “Fools we may be, but at least we are desperate. Why would anyone else come here?”

  “I think,” said Ridmark, “these were the Warden’s servants. A tribe of mutated orcs lives near Urd Morlemoch, and the Warden has trained them to revere him as a god. Likely they were going about his business.”

  “Looking for us, perhaps?” said Calliande. That was a disturbing thought. If the Warden knew that they were coming, what chance did they have against him? Of course, he had known that Ridmark was coming the time nine years ago. Perhaps it was part of his game.

  Though if his servants and his creatures killed them first, it wouldn’t matter whether the Warden knew about them or not.

  “How long ago did these orcs pass by?” said Arandar, one hand resting on Heartwarden’s hilt. Calliande wished he wouldn’t do that. Just touching the weapon increased the amount of pain Ridmark felt in its presence.

  “A day,” said Ridmark. “Maybe longer.”

  “They are likely still nearby,” said Kharlacht.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. He looked to the northwest, to where a ring of grim black menhirs covered in disturbing sigils rose from a hill. “We are a half-day from Urd Morlemoch at most. Our best chance is to reach it as quickly as possible. Another mile or two at most, and we’ll be within the Warden’s influence.”

  “Influence?” said Morigna.

  “The high elven archmage Ardrhythain sent me on the quest to Urd Morlemoch the first time,” said Ridmark. “He waited for me at the edge of the Warden’s influence. He could go no further. If he went any closer to Urd Morlemoch, he would fall within reach of the Warden’s warding spells, and would not be able to fight off the Warden’s magic.”

  Jager snorted. “So instead we are marching into that influence?”

  “It makes sense,” said Calliande. “The spell that imprisoned the Warden within Urd Morlemoch also made him unconquerable. He can’t leave, but he cannot be defeated either. Likely the effect of the spell extends for some distance around Urd Morlemoch.” She began casting a spell, seeking the presence of magic.

  She almost wished she hadn’t.

  Urd Morlemoch was about ten miles away, but even from this distance she felt the mighty dark magic radiating from the citadel. The magic was hideously powerful, stronger than anything she had ever sensed. She had faced an urdmordar and Shadowbearer, had faced the wrath of the Artificer in the burning ruins of the Iron Tower.

  The power blazing from Urd Morlemoch was stronger than all of them put together.

  She also sensed the powerful dark magic within the circle of menhirs upon the hill, old and malicious and latent.

  “Are you all right?” Ridmark’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  She blinked and saw that the others were staring at her.

  “I’m…I’m fine,” she said, releasing the spell. “I cast the spell to sense the presence of magic. You’re right about the Warden’s influence. I can see why the archmage didn’t want to go any closer.”

  Ridmark nodded. “Mara.”

  “Yes?” said Mara, blinking her green eyes.

  “I need to discuss something with you before we go any further,” said Ridmark. “We…”

  “Gray Knight,” said Jager, pointing. “Should those birds be doing that?”

  Calliande saw dozens of the deformed rave
ns flying overhead, spiraling around the ring of stones atop the hill. Even as she looked, more flocks of the dark birds rose from the ground.

  “No,” said Calliande. “They shouldn’t.”

  “They are bound in a spell,” said Morigna, purple flame curling around her hands. “Dark magic. I can’t see who’s casting it.”

  A figure stepped from the stone circle, limping towards them.

  It was an old, old orcish man, so old that his skin had faded to a sallow, sickly green, his face scored with a thousand lines, his tusks chipped, his hair a scraggly mass of white strands. He wore a ragged robe of black leather, the pieces stitched together, and leaned upon a staff. The staff looked had been made from femur bones, bolted together with rusted nails, and a trio of tusked orcish skulls swung from the top of the staff.

  He was…glowing.

  Something like a tumor grew from his right temple, and a slightly larger one from his left. The misshapen lumps glowed with a pale blue light, much like the light that shone around Mara when she used her power. The veins beneath the wrinkled skin of the orc’s face shone with that pale light, as did the blood vessels in his hands.

  Dark magic hung around him like a cloak, and Calliande realized the orc was a wizard of considerable power.

  The others raised their weapons, and Arandar drew Heartwarden. The soulblade shone with white fire as it reacted to the dark magic around the orc.

  For a moment no one moved.

  ###

  Ridmark stared at the orc wizard.

  He had fought such a wizard before, years ago, when he had approached Urd Morlemoch. It had been a close fight, but Ridmark had prevailed. Nine years ago, though, he had still carried Heartwarden.

  And he suspected that this wizard was far stronger.

  “Intruders,” said the orc at last in flawless Latin, his voice a thick, phlegmy rasp. “Intruders in the master’s domain.”

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark.

  He did not expect an answer, but the orc responded nonetheless. “I am Valakoth, the First of the Devout.”

  “The Devout?” said Ridmark.

  “We are the servants of the master of Urd Morlemoch,” said Valakoth. “He is the lord of Urd Morlemoch and god over us. He has bestowed us with the blessings of his power,” the tumors on his temples pulsed, “and raised us above other mortals. Soon he shall be the god of every world, and we shall rule at his right hand.”

  “Blasphemy,” said Arandar.

  “I urge you to turn aside from the Warden's lies, repent, and accept the faith of the Dominus Christus,” said Caius. “He offers salvation to all who follow him freely.”

  “A superstition of the humans,” said Valakoth. “What power have your priests? Our master’s magic is unconquerable, and the Devout are raised as undead within Urd Morlemoch, to attend to the master’s service forevermore.” He pointed the bone staff at Ridmark, the skulls clacking against each other. “I know who you are, Ridmark Arban.”

  “Do you?” said Ridmark. That wasn’t good.

  “Nine years ago you came here and challenged the master to a game,” said Valakoth, “to rescue the high elven bladeweaver Rhyannis from her doom. The master permitted you to depart, but…what do those Scriptures you love so much say? As a dog returns to its vomit, so returns a fool to his folly? Nine years ago you were a Swordbearer, wielding a sword imbued with the resonance of a warrior of skill. Now you are less than you were, scarred and weaker, and a lesser man bears your sword. You were a fool to return.”

  “Probably,” said Ridmark. “Does this monologue have a point? If you wish to practice your Latin oratory, I can refer you to some capable tutors in Tarlion.”

  “This is not an oration,” said Valakoth. “This is a demand.” He pointed a bony finger at Calliande. “The wielder of the Well’s magic carries two artifacts of power. She will surrender them to me, and in return I shall permit you to leave the Torn Hills with your lives.”

  “Artifacts?” said Calliande.

  “An empty soulstone,” said Valakoth. “You also carry a weapon of the dark elves. A…soulcatcher, I believe, to judge from the aura. You will surrender it as well.”

  “A soulcatcher?” said Arandar. “What are you doing with such an evil weapon?”

  Mara spoke before Calliande could answer. “She is keeping it safe. It once belonged to the Matriarch of the Red Family.”

  “How do you know that?” said Arandar.

  Mara shrugged. “I stole it from her.”

  “This discussion is irrelevant,” said Valakoth. “You will surrender your artifacts to the Devout, and then you shall be permitted to leave.”

  “Will not the Warden be wroth with you?” said Ridmark. “If you are stealing magical artifacts?”

  “We shall surrender the relics to the master,” said Valakoth. “Often he sends the Devout to obtain items and artifacts of interest to him. The master will find the soulstone and the soulcatcher of interest. Therefore you shall give them to me.”

  “Why don’t you escort us to Urd Morlemoch?” said Ridmark. “Then we can give the artifacts to the Warden in person.” If Valakoth agreed, the Devout would escort them to the gates of Urd Morlemoch. They could avoid further attacks from the urvaalgs and the undead, and any attacks from the Devout themselves.

  “This is not a negotiation,” said Valakoth. He lifted his staff, and blue fire blazed down its length, shining in the empty eyes of the yellowed skulls. “Surrender the artifacts. Or perish and we shall take them from your corpses.”

  “No,” said Ridmark, tossing aside his staff and drawing his dwarven war axe. Behind them the others lifted their weapons. A pulse of pain went through Ridmark’s head as Heartwarden’s fire blazed brighter, and both Calliande and Morigna held spells ready. “You will allow us to pass, or we shall fight you. You might have magic…but so do we, and we have a soulblade, too.”

  Valakoth’s lined face twisted into a sneer. “The feeble magic of the high elves. The master of Urd Morlemoch fought the high elves long before any of your kindreds came to this word. He is our lord and god, and his blessings are of power. Behold!”

  He slammed the end of his staff against the earth. A pulse of blue fire rolled from the staff, and the air over the slope of the hill below the standing stones rippled and roiled. The distortion cleared, and suddenly dozens of white-haired Devout orcs stood there, clad in chain mail, swords and maces and bows ready in their hands. They stood larger and stronger than normal orcs, their arms and necks corded with muscle, their veins shining with blue fire. Ridmark realized that the orcs had been there the entire time, concealed by Valakoth’s magic.

  “Kill them!” commanded Valakoth, and the archers drew back their bows.

  ###

  Morigna waved her staff before her, its sigils flaring with purple flame.

  Her thoughts reached through the staff, its magic projecting to the orcish archers standing upon the hill. Through the staff she felt the wood of their bows, felt their grain and heft and weight, felt them strain as the archers drew back the strings.

  The wood responded to her command and shattered. The archers staggered, their weapons breaking apart. The rest of the Devout charged down the hill in eerie silence, their veins shining with blue fire. Valakoth turned to face Morigna, and she felt the weight of the ancient orc’s gaze strike her like a physical blow. The wizard pointed his staff at her, blue fire snarling around its length.

  Morigna didn’t recognize the spell, but she was entirely certain that she did not want to find out what it would do to her.

  Ridmark and the others charged. He crashed into the first wave of the Devout, blue-glowing blood flying from his axe blade. Kharlacht and Caius fought side-by-side as they often did, the dwarven friar stunning foes with his mace, giving Kharlacht the opening to land devastating blows with his greatsword. Gavin dashed into the fray, bashing with his shield, while Mara and Jager darted around him. Arandar was a whirlwind of death, Heartwarden writing lines of white f
ire into the air. The soulblade’s magic made him faster and stronger, and Morigna wondered again what a terror Ridmark must have been with Heartwarden in hand.

  The blue fire around Valakoth’s staff brightened, and Morigna cast another spell.

  A pillar of acidic mist swirled around the orcish wizard, the grass sizzling and burning. Yet the mist did not touch Valakoth. A faint blue glow shone around him, and she realized that the orcish wizard had wards strong enough to blunt her attack. She began another spell, drawing even more power, but realized she could not finish before Valakoth struck.

  White fire snapped across the battle, hammering into the orcish wizard. This time he staggered back, leaning upon his grotesque staff for balance. Calliande moved next to Morigna, sheathed in pulsing white light, fire dancing around her fingers.

  “Morigna,” she said. “Keep the Devout off me. I will try to deal with Valakoth.”

  She began another spell, as did Valakoth. Blue fire and shadow struggled against the white flame of the Well’s magic. A band of Devout warriors charged towards them in silence, weapons raised, their eyes shining with the blue fire of their veins.

  Morigna whipped her staff before her and drew upon the tainted power of the earth beneath her boots. The ground rippled, throwing the charging orcs from their feet. Roots burst from the earth, wrapping around the orcs’ limbs like cords. A third spell, and she sent acid mist rolling over them, their flesh sizzling and blistering and steaming. The Devout trapped her in spells began to scream, screams that ended when the acid air choked off their breath entirely.

  Spells snarled between Valakoth and Calliande, while Ridmark and the others fought their way through the Devout.

  ###

  Magic burned through Calliande, and she summoned more power. She had indeed grown stronger since she had left Dun Licinia in pursuit of Ridmark. The Devout, despite their magical augmentation, were still creatures of flesh and blood, and weapons of steel could wound them. That left Calliande free to direct all of her newfound strength at Valakoth.

  It was barely enough.

  The orcish wizard’s spells struck her wards with tremendous force. Valakoth was strong, and would have been a match for Coriolus and a challenge for the Artificer. Worse, the old orc was experienced. He was stronger than Calliande, yet did not need to use his whole strength to produce powerful effects. Calliande had to draw upon her full power to match him.