The Dark Warden (Book 6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Perhaps Uthanaric Pendragon deserved to be overthrown. He had allowed Ridmark to be banished, and under his reign the cancer of the Enlightened of Incariel had spread through Andomhaim. Perhaps it was time for a stronger man to take his place.

  A man like Ridmark, for instance.

  Maybe she could convince him of that, convince him to reject the lords and nobles that had condemned him for a death that was not his responsibility.

  The thought of standing at his side for that, of sharing his life and his bed, was a pleasant one. It was a thought for another day, though. After she had fulfilled her promise to Ridmark, after they had returned from Urd Morlemoch and stopped the return of the Frostborn.

  Assuming, of course, that they survived.

  Morigna returned to the others. Ridmark had not yet returned from his scouting, and Kharlacht and Gavin had taken the lead, the orcish warrior and the boy speaking in low voices. Caius and Jager walked on either side of Calliande, all three of them talking, and Mara followed them. The short woman wore sturdy traveling clothes of wool and leather looted from the Iron Tower, and her only weapons were a pair of daggers sheathed at her belt.

  That was all she needed. With the power of her dark elven blood, Mara was as deadly with those blades as a Swordbearer armored in steel plate.

  “Anything interesting?” said Mara. The cold wind tugged at her pale hair, revealing the delicate elven point of one ear.

  “The hills are quite deserted,” said Morigna. “We are alone. For a place of legend and terror, the Torn Hills are empty. Perhaps the Warden’s fearsome reputation has driven off all the monsters.”

  Mara smiled. “Alas, I fear we are not so fortunate. From what I have seen of Ridmark’s band, I half-expect to find an army of Mhorite orcs led by an urdmordar and a dozen dark elven wizards over the next hill.”

  Morigna laughed. “You exaggerate. Though perhaps not by much.” To Morigna’s surprise, she liked the former assassin. Mara was so calm and patient, which Morigna supposed were useful qualities in an assassin. For that matter, Morigna had never had a female friend before. The women of Moraime had regarded her with fear and suspicion, and Morigna had no desire for their company.

  “We’re getting closer,” said Mara. She closed her eyes for a moment. “I can hear his song.”

  “The Warden’s?” said Morigna.

  “It’s so strong,” murmured Mara. She opened her eyes and looked north. “We’re about…six days away, I think. Maybe five.”

  “And you do not feel any urge to…do his bidding, shall we say?” said Morigna.

  Mara smiled. “No. Once, I would have had no choice. But I have my own song now. The Warden cannot compel me. Nor could my father, the Matriarch, or any other dark elven noble or wizard.”

  “One supposes they would just kill you now,” said Morigna.

  “That would be the rational decision,” said Mara. She adjusted her hair, arranging it to cover her ears. Likely it was an old habit. “Speaking of that, I need to ask you something.”

  “You may,” said Morigna.

  “What will you do if you become pregnant with Ridmark’s child?”

  Morigna opened her mouth, closed it again, looked around to see if anyone else had overheard.

  “Ah,” said Mara. “You’re not used to that. Usually you ask blunt questions that knock people off their guard. Not the other way around.”

  “How did you know?” said Morigna.

  “Given my previous occupation,” said Mara, “I have experience observing the people around me. You and the Gray Knight have spent a great deal of time scouting since we left the Iron Tower. You return looking quite satisfied with yourself. Ridmark…well, even Ridmark looks marginally less grim.”

  “You are a very dangerous little woman,” said Morigna.

  “I know,” said Mara.

  “What about you?” said Morigna. “You wed Jager. How will you keep from bearing a child?”

  “My mother was human and my father was a dark elf,” said Mara. “I am sterile. Like a mule.” She considered for a moment. “Which may not have been the most flattering way to put that.”

  “No,” said Morigna. “But one fails to see how this topic is any concern of yours.”

  “It isn’t,” said Mara. “I wondered if you had thought about it.”

  “The man who taught me magic,” said Morigna, “was one of the Eternalists. He wanted to transfer his spirit into my flesh to avoid his own death.”

  “Like the Artificer and Sir Paul,” said Mara.

  “Precisely,” said Morigna. “A pregnancy would have complicated his efforts, so he taught me a spell to filter my blood. The same one we used to keep your dark elven blood from overwhelming you. So long as I use it, I will not conceive a child.”

  “Do you want Ridmark’s child?” said Mara.

  Ridmark was a strong man. The thought of carrying his child was not a displeasing one.

  “Perhaps,” said Morigna. “I do not know. After we have been successful, after we have stopped the return of the Frostborn and I can turn Ridmark’s mind to other matters…why are we even talking about this?”

  “Because,” said Mara, “I owe you and Calliande and Ridmark much. Jager and I both do. We’re also about to go into danger, which is it not a time for quarrels amongst ourselves.”

  “Why should we quarrel?” said Morigna.

  Mara glanced at Calliande, and then back at Morigna.

  “What concern is it of hers?” said Morigna. “She does not even know herself, not truly.” She felt herself start to grow angry. “If she wanted Ridmark for herself, then perhaps she should have done something about it. Is that what you are going to say? That I should concern myself over what Calliande thinks? Or that I should stay away from Ridmark?”

  “Actually,” said Mara, “I was going to say that you and Ridmark can make each other happier. Or at least less grim. I suspect you have both lost a great deal.”

  “You suspect correctly,” said Morigna, some of her anger draining away as she thought of her mother and father and Nathan. In a twisted sort of way, she had also lost Coriolus, though she did not regret his death. He had betrayed her and used her, but he had still taught her a great deal. “Perhaps I am a fool, or Ridmark has made me into one.”

  “You both deserve some peace,” said Mara.

  “Ridmark is strong,” said Morigna, “but he could be so much stronger. Look at all of us. We follow him without question, even after he has tried to dissuade us again and again. Yet the nobles of Andomhaim cast him out. He could have power enough to purge the realm of the Enlightened of Incariel, to bring order and peace and…”

  “There is more to life than simply power,” said Mara.

  “No, there is not,” said Morigna. “It is the foundation of everything else. Without…”

  The grass rustled, and Ridmark walked towards them, his face set in a scowl. A flicker of unease went through Morigna. Had he overheard them? He likely would not approve of their discussion. Then Morigna’s brain caught up to her emotions. Ridmark never did anything without a reason, and if he looked alarmed…

  “Foes?” said Morigna.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “We’re here.”

  ###

  Ridmark led the way to the top of the hill, the others following him, and gestured with his staff.

  “The Torn Hills,” he said, his voice quiet.

  The land beyond did indeed look torn, countless rocky hills jutting from the diseased grasses, steep ravines lying between them. More poisonous bushes dotted the slopes, and thick patches of white mist swirled between some of the hills. Nearby Ridmark saw a wide valley, a stream tricking down its center, the ground on either side of the stream mottled white and yellow.

  “What an unwholesome looking place,” said Jager.

  “Few ever come here,” said Kharlacht.

  “For entirely good reasons, it seems,” said Jager.

  “Those white spots,” said Gavin, squinting into the
valley. “Are they…”

  “Bones,” said Ridmark. “Orcish bones, mostly. There was a battle here, long ago.”

  “Surely it was not that long ago,” said Morigna. “Else the bones would have crumbled to dust.”

  Ridmark shook his head. “Dead things do not always rot here.” He beckoned. “Stay watchful. Anything can be dangerous.”

  He led the way into the valley. The cold wind never stopped moaning, and the gray clouds writhed and danced. Ridmark scanned the valley and the surrounding slopes, watching for any threats. When he had last come to the Torn Hills nine years ago, he had reached Urd Morlemoch without much difficulty. But nine years ago, he had still been a Knight of the Soulblade, had still carried the Heartwarden into battle. Calliande’s magic, for all of its potency, was not as effective against creatures of dark magic as a soulblade. If a large enough pack of urvaalgs or stronger creatures found them, they might not be able to fight their way free.

  The grass rustled around his boots as they crossed the valley, the creek murmuring against its stony banks. Bones dotted the ground, along with rusting pieces of armor and old swords. Ridmark stepped around the tusked skull of a long-dead orc, the empty eyes staring at the bleak sky. He wondered who had fought here. Perhaps these orcs had fought the high elves. Or maybe they had been slaves of the urdmordar, sent to besiege Urd Morlemoch. It was also possible that any number of predators had killed the orcs and left the bones behind.

  As the thought crossed his mind, a thick white mist rose from the creek and began to swirl over the banks.

  “Back!” he said, thinking of Morigna’s acidic mist. The others obeyed, drawing weapons, and the mist over the creek started to glow with an eerie blue light.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “That’s a necromantic spell.”

  “Someone’s casting it?” said Ridmark, looking around.

  “No,” said Calliande with a shake of her head. “It’s…old. An echo of an old spell. I think…”

  The mist resolved itself into ghostly figures. Ridmark saw warriors clad in overlapping plates of blue steel, winged helms upon their heads and gleaming swords in their fists. Their faces were the color of bleached bone, and their eyes were black pits into nothingness, a void without limit or boundary.

  Dark elven warriors.

  “Slay them!” bellowed the shade with the most elaborate armor, a staff wrought of gold and ebony in his right hand. “Slay the high elven vermin! Kill them all, and show them the true might of Incariel!”

  “High elves?” said Kharlacht. “There are none here.”

  “It’s an echo of the spells they used,” said Calliande. “Shadows and nothing more.”

  That alarmed Ridmark.

  “Shadows,” he said, “can have power.”

  “I see the spell,” murmured Mara, her eyes wide. Her peculiar transformation at the Iron Tower had left Mara with the Sight, the ability to see magical auras. “She’s right. It’s…old, repeating itself over and over. Like a broken clock stuck in a single second.” She blinked. “We’d better go. I don’t think it’s…”

  “Rise up, my slaves!” bellowed the armored dark elf. “Rise and kill! Death does not release you from my service. Rise and kill in my name!”

  He thrust out his hand, the other shades dissolving into mist. Blue fire washed from his fingers and rolled across the ground, sinking into the scattered bones. The cold wind grew icier and stronger, and the bones rattled. The shade of the dark elven wizard vanished into the mist, but the blue fire around the bones brightened.

  Then the bones moved together.

  “Calliande!” Ridmark shouted.

  She was already moving, a burst of white fire erupting from her hands to sweep across the bones. Wherever the white flame touched the blue, the blue fire winked out, and the bones went motionless. Yet Calliande’s spell could not touch all the bones at once, and the skeletons reformed themselves before Ridmark’s eyes as the dark elf’s ancient spell took hold.

  The ground erupted in a score of places. Mummified orcish corpses rose from the earth, their green skin withered to pale yellow leather, ancient armor still clinging to their desiccated limbs. Blue flames burned in the black pits of their eye sockets, and the undead orcs still held rusted weapons.

  “Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, tossing aside his staff and drawing the dwarven war axe from his belt. Calliande began another spell and Morigna started one of her own, while Gavin fell back to shield Calliande.

  The undead rushed forward in a charge, and Ridmark raced to meet them, axe in both hands.

  The weapon had been a gift from the Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave in Coldinium, and the weapon had been enchanted, written with the magical glyphs of the dwarven stonescribes. It was not nearly as powerful as a soulblade, but it was nonetheless an effective weapon against undead and other creatures of dark magic.

  One of the orcish skeletons reached for him, and Ridmark whipped the axe around in a two-handed swing, driving the bronze-colored blade through the skull. The skull shattered into dust, the bones tumbling back to the ground. One of the mummified corpses attacked, swinging a rusted sword. Ridmark parried, catching the blow on the blade of his axe, and stumbled back from the force of the swing. The undead corpse was viciously strong, but it was not fast, and as the undead thing readied its weapon for another blow, Ridmark struck, his axe ripping across its neck. The undead corpse stumbled, and Ridmark took off its head with his next blow, the body collapsing at his feet.

  A half-dozen more skeletons closed around him, and Calliande finished her spell.

  White light burst from her fingers and jumped to the weapons of Ridmark and the others. The war axe thrummed in his hands, the white glow joining the sullen yellow-orange light of the dwarven glyphs upon the blade. Ridmark stepped back, caught his balance, and went on the offensive again, striking down skeletons right and left. The others charged into the fray, their weapons shining with the white light of Calliande’s magic. Kharlacht’s massive greatsword ripped one of the mummified corpses in half. Caius followed in his wake, exploiting the chaos created by the big orc’s charge and smashing skulls with his mace. One of the skeletons raced at Jager, who stood his ground, short sword and dagger ready in his hands. Blue fire flickered behind the skeleton, and Mara appeared out of nothingness, her eyes and veins glowing. She tripped the skeleton, and Jager dispatched it with a quick flourish of his sword and dagger. Gavin stood guard over Calliande, striking down any corpse that drew too close. Morigna stepped forward, sweeping her hand before her as purple fire snarled around her fingers. The ground rippled and folded, knocking a dozen of the mummified corpses from their feet, and Ridmark took the opportunity to strike, beheading three of them before they stood again, and took a fourth as it rose.

  His companions were holding their own against the undead. Yet there were so damned many of the things. Sooner or later they would be overwhelmed, or the fighting would draw the attention of a more powerful creature. Ridmark destroyed another skeleton, the bones bouncing across the floor of the valley. Nearly a hundred skeletons had closed around them, and a score of the mummified corpses had risen from the earth. They could not fight such numbers. He had to…

  Then, all at once, the battle was over.

  The blue flames winked out, and the skeletons collapsed into piles of dry bones. The mummified orcs sank into the ground, the earth closing around them. Ridmark turned, the axe trembling in his fist, but peace had fallen over the valley. The others lowered their weapons, looking around in bewilderment.

  “Is anyone wounded?” called Calliande.

  “Did you break the spell?” said Ridmark.

  Calliande shook her head. “I didn’t do anything. I was focused on holding the spell over the weapons. Morigna?”

  “I fear not,” said Morigna. “My magic gives me command over earth and beasts, not other spells.”

  “An echo,” said Mara, the blue fire fading from her eyes and skin.

  They looked at her.<
br />
  “The spell was an echo of something that happened here long ago,” said Mara. “And echoes fade. We…just reached the end of that particular echo.”

  “But echoes repeat,” said Gavin, wiping sweat from his forehead, “over and over again.”

  Ridmark looked at the stream and saw faint wisps of white mist gathering over the waters.

  The spell was repeating itself once more.

  “It’s starting again,” said Mara.

  “Run!” said Ridmark, snatching up his staff. “To the northern lip of the valley. Quickly!”

  They ran across the valley, kicking aside the bones. Ridmark raced over the stream, jumping from stone to stone, and the chill of the Torn Hills deepened. He wondered how many thousands of times those undead orcs had been raised by the ancient spell. He wondered how many victims they had claimed over the centuries.

  Best not to join their number.

  They reached the northern edge of the valley. Ridmark turned as the others joined him, staff in his left hand and axe in his right. He expected the shades of the long-dead dark elves to reappear, the undead to rise once more.

  But the mist faded away, and the undead did not rise again.

  “What happened?” said Kharlacht. “Why didn’t the undead attack?”

  Calliande frowned, one hand raised, a white gleam shining around her fingers.

  “I think,” said Calliande, “I think the echo only responds to a living mortal. It was dormant until we drew near.”

  “The other patches of mist,” said Caius, looking at the rocky hills to the north. “Are those further echoes?”

  “Maybe,” said Calliande. “Or they could just be mist.”

  “My Sight can give us some warning,” said Mara.

  “That will have to do,” said Ridmark. “We should keep moving. Stay on guard, all of you. It’s another five days to Urd Morlemoch, and it will only get more dangerous from here.”