“Splendid,” said Jager. “Kharlacht, please hold the rope, as you are the largest and the strongest of us and I really don’t want to fall.”
“Sound logic,” said Kharlacht, taking the rope and pulling it taut.
“Be careful, my love,” said Mara, kissing her husband.
Jager grinned. “I am always careful.”
“You are as a bad a liar as the Gray Knight,” said Mara.
“Now that was an insult!” said Jager. “Though I’m not sure to which of us.”
He grabbed the rope and clambered up hand-over-hand, his legs coiling around the rope for support. The halfling kindred were not as strong as humans or orcs or dwarves, but they were far more agile, and Jager scaled the rope with the ease of a cat prowling along a rooftop. Ridmark watched, hoping the rope would remain in place. It would have been a cruel fate for Jager and Mara to escape the Iron Tower only for Mara to see her new husband burn to death in a pool of acid.
Yet Jager retained his grip, and rolled over the railing and onto the balcony.
“I see the lever!” he shouted down.
“Pull it!” said Ridmark.
Jager did not answer. A moment later Ridmark heard a loud click, followed by a series of clanks and clangs. The walkway began to tremble beneath his boots.
“I don’t think that did anything,” said Jager.
Two more clangs came from behind the wall, and then a pair of trapdoors opened in the recessed floor. The flow of acid from the holes shut off, and the acid pools poured into the trapdoors. A fresh plume of white smoke rose from the trapdoors, and the slabs sealing the doorways rose with rasping groans.
“Jager, get back here,” said Ridmark as a fresh wave of acrid stink rolled through the gallery. “Those fumes…”
Jager was already hurrying down the rope. He jumped the last few feet and landed on the walkway, and Mara caught him in a hug.
“Celebrate later,” said Ridmark. “Go.”
He urged the others to the far archway. Gavin and Caius were both coughing, and Arandar was rubbing the side of his chest. Ridmark did not know how long it would be before the trap reset, but he wanted to be out of the gallery before then. They hurried through the archway, and Ridmark saw another set of steps leading up. That was good. The higher they went, the closer they came to the surface…
A loud click echoed through the trapped gallery.
“Go!” said Ridmark, shoving Morigna and Calliande through the arch.
An instant later he heard another click, and a massive thud as the stone slab slammed shut again behind him, landing only a few inches from his boots. Ridmark looked around, afraid that someone had been trapped behind the door, but everyone had gotten through.
“Disappointing,” said Jager.
“I fail to see how,” said Kharlacht, “since we are still alive.”
“I really liked that grapnel,” said Jager.
“God and St. Michael and all the apostles!” said Arandar. “If we live to reach Tarlion, I shall buy you a dozen grapnels from the best smiths in the city! A thief you may have been, but not many men would have the nerve to climb over a pool of acid.”
Jager offered a bow. “Thank you, sir knight. I confess I have never received praise from a Swordbearer before.”
“To be fair, you’ve never saved a Swordbearer’s life before,” said Mara.
“Well, yes, that.”
“Let me heal each of you,” said Calliande, summoning her magic in a pulse of white light. “Those fumes would have damaged your lungs and airways, and perhaps your eyes as well.” Ridmark’s chest did hurt. “We need to be uninjured for what is to come.”
Calliande moved to each of them, healing the damage from the fumes.
Once she was done, they took the stairs, climbing higher into Urd Morlemoch.
Chapter 12 - Guests
Morigna sniffed at the air.
“I think,” she said, “I smell sea air.”
It was a relief. She had seen dark magic, had seen the power Coriolus wielded, had seen the might of the Artificer’s sorcery.
They were as nothing against the dark majesty of Urd Morlemoch. She could not imagine the scale of the power that had raised the wards around the citadel, the skill with dark magic that had gone into their creation. It horrified her.
It also fascinated her. Such power…what could it do in the proper hands? Such as hers, for instance?
A small part of her admitted that Calliande and Ardrhythain were right, that she was vulnerable to this kind of temptation.
At the moment it did not matter. Even if she possessed ten times her current power, the creator of those wards could still have crushed her like an insect. The briny smell of the sea was a reminder of the world that existed outside of this maze of dark magic.
“Good,” said Ridmark. “We must be drawing near to the surface.”
After leaving the chamber of acid, the stairs had ended in a series of linked galleries of white stone, all lit by more red-gleaming crystals. Some rooms were carpeted in bones, ancient armor and weapons lying scattered about the floor. Others held statues upon plinths, showing dark elven warriors and wizards in armor and robes, some holding swords, others brandishing staffs. Fortunately, none of the statues concealed any undead creatures.
Twice they were attacked by packs of urvaalgs, and once by a pair of urshanes. Calliande’s magic and Arandar’s soulblade, coupled with the skill of Ridmark and the others, made short work of the creatures. The Old Man had spoken sneeringly of the Swordbearers, calling them fools wielding weapons they could not possibly understand. Yet after seeing Arandar in action, Morigna could not entirely agree. Arandar was a stubborn, rigid-minded fool, though she sympathized for his son’s plight at the hands of Tarrabus Carhaine. But with Heartwarden in his hand, Arandar was a terror. Little wonder the High Kingdom of Andomhaim had stood fast against the pagan orcs and the dark elves and the urdmordar and the Frostborn, if warriors like Arandar defended the realm.
Though by rights Heartwarden belonged to Ridmark. Andomhaim had mighty warriors in its service, but the Enlightened of Incariel were eating the realm from the inside out.
Blue light caught Morigna’s eye. Most of the light down here was red, but blue light shone from an archway in the gallery ahead. She realized that the archway opened to a flight of stairs leading to the surface, that the blue light came from the ribbons of fire dancing around the Warden’s tower. Relief flooded through her, followed by grim alarm. They had finally found their way out of the catacombs, but other dangers awaited them within the walls of Urd Morlemoch.
“Splendid,” said Jager. “I have had enough of mucking around in underground mazes.”
Caius snorted. “You should have seen some of the places we visited before we met you.”
“The ones I have seen since,” said Jager, “are quite enough.”
Morigna followed as Ridmark crossed the gallery. The archway opened into a stairwell, and at the top of the broad stairs she glimpsed the black nothingness of the sky and the ribbons of coruscating blue flame. No guards stood there, whether Devout orcs or undead corpses or urvaalgs or worse things. Morigna cast a quick spell, seeking for unseen guards, but she felt nothing.
“The way is clear,” said Morigna.
Ridmark nodded. “Be on your guard.”
“If I see someone named Lancelus, I shall promptly cut his throat,” said Jager.
“I doubt he will use the same ruse twice,” said Ridmark. “So remain watchful.”
He led the way up the stairs, and Morigna followed with the others. The black archway ahead grew wider, and Morigna felt the potent dark magic radiating from the stone around her. The archway opened into a wide courtyard of gleaming white stone, a cold wind blowing around them. Ahead the tiers of the half-ruined city climbed up the sides of the hill, the Warden’s massive tower and the ribbons of blue fire stabbing into the sky. Morigna and Ridmark and the others stood in the courtyard of a half-ruined mansion, its roof collapsed inward. Someth
ing about its design, its angles and corners, filled her with unease. A ring of the black standing stones occupied the center of the courtyard, their sides inscribed with ominous sigils. More of the sigils marked the sides of the ruined mansion, and Morigna felt the latent dark magic waiting within the symbols.
“Don’t touch those stones,” said Mara, her voice hoarse. “Bad things will happen.”
“There is quite a lot of power within them,” said Calliande.
“They look weathered,” said Ridmark. “Not new, then.”
“No,” said Mara. “But the spells within them…I think they’re linked to the ones upon the standing stones we saw in the catacombs.”
“She’s right,” said Calliande. “There is power flowing between them. But to what purpose, I cannot guess.”
“You said the first ring of stones seemed like a valve,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps it is trying to draw down power from something else.”
“Not yet, though,” said Mara. “I see only the power of the channeling spells themselves. Nothing else.”
“Maybe the Warden is waiting for something,” said Morigna. “Or maybe we have caught him in the middle of a project.”
“Waiting for something,” murmured Ridmark. “For what?”
Morigna knew that look. Something was starting to bother Ridmark, some realization scratching at the back of his mind. If something was troubling him more than simply standing within the walls of Urd Morlemoch, that was a bad sign.
“I think,” said Ridmark, “that we should…”
A roar of rage rang over the courtyard, a voice shouting commands in the orcish tongue.
A dozen Devout orcs burst from the inside of the ruined mansion, swords and axes in hand.
###
Ridmark spun to face the charging orcs, his staff in both hands.
The enchanted axe the dwarves of Coldinium had given him was a powerful weapon, but its reach was shorter and it was slow. His staff was a more versatile weapon. He could wield it one-handed or two-handed, could use it to attack from any angle.
And it was also far quicker.
The first Devout orc came at him, a broadsword in hand. Ridmark jabbed with the end of his staff, and the butt of the weapon slammed into the wrist of the orc’s sword hand. The warrior bellowed the bones of his wrist shattered, the blue fire in his black eyes burning brighter, and Ridmark whipped his staff around. The heavy length of the weapon slammed into the orc’s skull, splitting bone, and the Devout warrior collapsed to the ground. A second warrior came at Ridmark, with a two-handed axe. Ridmark dodged around the heavy blow, his staff spinning, and knocked the weapon from his foe’s hands. The orc jumped back, reaching for a dagger, but Ridmark was faster. His staff crushed the orc’s windpipe, and the Devout warrior fell to the ground.
The rest of the orcs charged at him.
But by then the others reached the fray. Arandar attacked, Heartwarden’s blaze of white fire matching the pain behind Ridmark’s eyes, striking down warriors with every blow. Kharlacht and Caius fought side by side as they often did, leaving dead enemies in their wake. Jager, Mara, and Gavin hung back to guard Morigna and Calliande. Morigna cast her spells, and the white flagstones beneath the orcs’ boots turned mushy, hindering them long enough for Ridmark and the others to land killing blows.
More Devout warriors emerged from the ruined mansion, but Ridmark and the others drove them back. Without the aid of a powerful wizard like Valakoth, the orcs fell beneath the skill and valor of his companions. Ridmark struck down another warrior, his mind racing. He had not encountered any living orcs within Urd Morlemoch the last time, and he wondered what these ones were doing here. Perhaps they were a burial party, come to inter their dead comrades in their sacred site. Perhaps they were here to bury the orcs that had died in the fighting against Valakoth…
Blue fire and darkness writhed atop the ruined mansion.
Ridmark looked up, fearing that Valakoth himself had returned. An orc in a robe of ragged black leather stood at the edge of the ruined mansion’s crumbled roof, blue fire blazing in his hands, shadow rippling around him. He was younger than Valakoth, and had only one bulbous, glowing tumor bulging from his temple.
Yet his magic seemed just as deadly.
He pointed at Ridmark, the blue fire brightening.
###
Calliande felt the spike of dark magic as the orcish wizard cast a spell. The wizard was not nearly as powerful as Valakoth, yet his spell had enough power to kill Ridmark and anyone else caught in its path.
She acted first.
White fire burst from her hands and struck the wizard. Her magic could not harm any living mortal, but it could wound creatures of dark magic, and the Devout wizard had voluntarily brought dark magic into his flesh. Her spell burned into him, and the wizard stumbled with a scream of pain. Shadows rose around him, a ward to blunt her attack, and the white fire faded away. Yet she had dealt some injury to him, and more importantly, his attention was turned from Ridmark and the others.
The wizard screamed a command, and a group of warriors charged at Calliande. Gavin jumped to meet them, catching the blow of an axe on his shield and striking with his orcish sword. Jager and Mara circled around the melee, slashing with their daggers. The wizard atop the ruined mansion began another spell, and Calliande summoned her power, preparing a ward to deflect his next attack.
Then the stone upon which the wizard stood seemed to ripple and fold, almost like a sponge wrung out over a sink. The orcish wizard toppled over the edge and fell into the courtyard.
His head made a loud cracking noise as it bounced off the flagstones.
Calliande looked at Morigna, who lowered her hand.
“It seemed simpler,” said Morigna.
“Truly,” said Calliande. With the wizard dead, she could use her magic to aid the others, and she started another spell.
###
Ridmark wheeled, ducked the blow of an axe, and lashed out his staff. The heavy weapon bounced off the Devout orc’s knee, and the warrior stumbled with a grunt of pain. That gave him an opening to reverse the weapon and swing again, bringing the staff down upon the crown of the warrior’s head.
The warrior fell to his knees, and Ridmark finished him off.
He looked around, seeking a new foe, but the fighting was over. The Devout orcs lay slain across the courtyard. Kharlacht and Arandar and the others lowered their weapons, breathing hard. Ridmark turned towards the mansion, but no other warriors emerged from within.
“I think we won,” said Gavin.
“This skirmish, anyway,” said Arandar.
“Aye,” said Ridmark, nudging one of the dead warriors with his staff. “I think these orcs came here to bury their dead. They just had the misfortune to run into us instead.”
“Which way now?” said Arandar.
“To the street,” said Ridmark, and the others headed for the gate at the other end of the courtyard. “We’re not far from a ramp leading to the upper tiers of the citadel, and then to the plaza below the Warden’s tower itself.”
“Can you guess where we shall find the Warden?” said Calliande.
“His library, most likely,” said Ridmark. “Or the standing stones at the top of the tower itself.” He thought it more likely that the Warden would find them first. “This way.”
He stepped through the gate and into the narrow street of white stone. Ruined mansions rose on either side of the street, adorned with statues of dark elves in armor. The road curved away around the side of the hill, making for the ramp to the higher tiers.
As Ridmark looked around the curve, he saw dark shapes coming towards them. Devout orcs, dozens of them, all armored in chain mail and armed with swords and spears. The leader of the orcs spotted Ridmark and let out a shout, gesturing with his sword as his black eyes flared with blue fire.
“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande.
Ridmark turned and saw the corpses in the courtyard starting to rise, blue light washing down their limb
s. He had assumed that the Warden personally raised the corpses of the Devout as his undead servants, but perhaps the dark magic cloaking Urd Morlemoch raised them without any effort from the Warden. Between the Devout charging down the street and the undead rising behind them, Ridmark and the others could find themselves trapped and encircled.
They would not last long.
“Run!” said Ridmark, and he broke into a sprint. The Devout shouted challenges and came after them, while the undead rose in silence. Ridmark raced forward, following the curve of the hill, the ruined mansions and towers stark around him. Soon the ramp leading to the second tier came into sight, and Ridmark urged the others onto it. They reached the second terrace of the hill, more of the half-ruined mansions and towers rising over them, and Ridmark risked a look back down the ramp. The Devout warriors pursued them, while Ridmark saw more groups of orcs emerging from the ruins in pursuit.
“Morigna,” said Ridmark. “A wall of acidic mist.” He waved his hand over the top of the ramp.
“It will not slow them for long,” said Morigna, though she began the spell anyway. “The living Devout can send their undead through the wall, and they only need wait until enough undead pass through the mist to collapse my spell.”
She gestured, and a thick curtain of white mist rose across the top of the ramp.
“Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “They will have to wait. That will let us get to the Warden’s tower. I doubt they will be brave enough to follow us in there…or the Warden himself will come to greet us.”
And then the real challenge could begin.
“We had best move,” said Morigna. “My spell will not hold for long.”
They ran for the next ramp, and the next. Finally they came to the apex of Urd Morlemoch’s hill, to a vast plaza at the foot of the Warden’s tower. The mansions here seemed in better condition, ringing the plaza in a wall of gleaming white stone. The bulk of the tower rose high overhead, its sides studded with buttresses and columns and turrets. Statues of dark elves and urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things stood in niches along the tower’s side. The three ribbons of fire revolved slowly around the tower’s length, throwing a flickering blue glow over everything.
The Dark Warden (Book 6) Page 15
