The Elder Shamans

by Jonathan Moeller

  So together they climbed to the gates of Urd Drysaar.

  Once the gates had been sealed with towering doors of blue dark elven steel, but the gates had long ago been torn down and lay in twisted ruin. Beyond stretched a wide courtyard paved in white flagstones. Countless bones and broken weapons and armor lay scattered across the ground.

  “It looks like a boneyard,” said Ridmark.

  “At least it is easy enough to see the path the orcs took,” said Ansa, pointing her bow. Ridmark saw the path of crushed bones and scattered armor easily enough. The bone orcs had not bothered to conceal their path.

  “The Elder Shamans are likely in the largest tower,” said Ridmark. “But we should try to find Marcomer first.” There was every possibility Ridmark would not walk away from his encounter with the Elder Shamans, and he wanted to make sure Ansa was far away from Urd Drysaar when that happened. “Where would he have gone from here? Ansa?”

  He looked back and saw that she had rushed to the side of the gate, going to one knee next to a pile of bones. Had she found Marcomer’s corpse? No, she was looking at a rusted cuirass. The cuirass had lain in the elements for so long that it had transformed into an orange sheet of rust. Yet someone had scratched a swirling symbol into the metal.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “That mark,” said Ansa. “That is Marcomer’s mark. All the hunters of the Hidden People have their own symbols they use to mark trails and hazards. This is Marcomer’s mark.”

  “Does it say where he went?” said Ridmark. The symbol on the ruined breastplate looked only like random scratching to him. Yet Ansa was certain. Given the emphasis the Hidden People placed upon remaining concealed from their enemies, it made sense that they would find a way to leave secret communications in plain sight.

  “No,” said Ansa. “But we have a code for how the mark is placed. Depending on how the mark is written, it can mean different things.”

  “So what does that mean?” said Ridmark.

  She frowned at the breastplate for a little longer, and then turned and pointed a finger at one of the smaller towers. “I think he went in there.” She blinked a few times. “He might have made a refuge there if he found himself trapped within Urd Drysaar.”

  “Let’s hope he found something to eat, then,” said Ridmark. He had seen a few wild goats in the foothills, but he doubted they came up this high. Even if they did, the wall of poisonous mist would have killed them first.

  “If anyone could have done so, it would have been Marcomer,” said Ansa. “He was always adept at surviving in the wilderness.”

  This wasn’t the wilderness, not quite, but Ridmark did not argue. “Follow me, then. We’ll need to be quiet.”

  Ansa nodded, and they picked their way across the courtyard, taking care not to disturb the bones or the rusting armor. In this empty courtyard, Ridmark did not know how far the sound of clattering armor would carry, and he did not want to find out.

  They were halfway across the courtyard when he found out anyway.

  Metal clattered and bones rattled, and Ridmark shot a look to the left. Ansa went motionless, her bow snapping up. The sound came from around the curve of the towers. Someone was approaching. To judge from the sound, a lot of people were coming. Ridmark also heard the clang of steel against steel, and there was a sudden harsh flash of red light that threw black shadows across the white courtyard.

  “A battle,” said Ansa.

  “We’ll have to run for the tower,” said Ridmark.

  “Will not the noise draw attention?”

  “Not over that racket,” said Ridmark. “Go!”

  She nodded and followed Ridmark as he ran across the courtyard. Ridmark winced as Ansa kicked aside a tusked orcish skull and as his own boot connected with a rusted iron gauntlet. Yet his guess had been right. The sound of the fighting drowned out their own noise. If they reached the tower entrance before the combatants came into sight, they could conceal themselves within the tower and let the battle pass.

  It was a good plan, and it almost worked.

  They had covered half the distance to the tower when the battle burst over them.

  Bone orcs raced around the curve of the tower, struggling against undead orcs. At first Ridmark thought the undead slaves of the bone orcs had turned against them, but the undead of the followers of Qazalask were always fleshy and covered with stitches and scars, their flesh preserved by both necromancy and the vile elixirs of the shamans. These undead orcs were skeletal, pale blue light gleaming within their skulls. They wore armor and helmets of ancient design and carried both axes and swords.

  Perhaps the Elder Shamans had sent their servants to repulse the intruders.

  The living orcs were winning against the undead ones. The bone orcs took losses, falling to the ancient swords and axes of the undead orcs, but the living orcs struck down the skeletons with brute strength. A dozen more undead rushed towards the living orcs, and then a blast of blood-colored fire washed over the skeletal orcs, shattering the necromantic magic upon them and sending their bones bouncing and clattering across the courtyard.

  A bone orc shaman stalked forward, flanked by a half-dozen hulking warriors in chain mail. The shaman was gaunt and withered, his body adorned with white and black paint. A staff topped with three orcish skulls rattled as strode forward, and blood-colored fire blazed around his free hand. Symbols of bloody flame burned upon his arms and chest, magical wards to shield himself from attacks both physical and magical. Only a shaman of considerable power could cast wards like that.

  The shaman’s gaze fell upon Ridmark, and his black eyes widened in anger.

  “You!” roared the shaman, pointing his skull-topped staff at Ridmark.

  With a flash of alarm, Ridmark recognized the shaman.

  He was Vhorlaskur, the ruler of the village of Qazhosk in the Qazaluuskan Forest. Ridmark had walked into the war between Vhorlaskur and the kobolds of the Dagger Jaws, and when Ridmark had escaped from the Dagger Jaws, the kobolds and the bone orcs had resumed their war.

  Evidently, Vhorlaskur had prevailed against his kobold foes.

  “The gray warrior!” boomed Vhorlaskur, casting a spell. “The dog of the kobolds! Perish!”

  He leveled his staff, the skulls bouncing against each other, and bloody fire blazed along the twisted length of the staff. Ridmark turned, urging Ansa toward the tower, hoping they could reach cover before Vhorlaskur’s dark magic struck them down. But Ansa stood her ground, yanking one of the Gemstones from its pouch and lifting it high.

  A burst of fire shot from the Gemstone of Fire and hurtled across the courtyard. It struck Vhorlaskur and shattered against the shaman’s wards, though Vhorlaskur staggered.

  “Go!” shouted Ansa.

  “Take them!” roared Vhorlaskur, waving his staff. “Take them!”

  Ridmark did not look back but followed Ansa as they sprinted for the slender tower. A mob of bone orcs charged after them, howling battle cries and brandishing their weapons. A javelin missed Ridmark by a few inches and struck the flagstones, bouncing away.

  A few moments later they reached the narrow archway that led into the slender tower. Within was an empty, circular room, the walls and floor and ceiling fashioned of the same gleaming white stone. The stairway leading up into the tower had been sealed off by the collapse of the upper levels. Marcomer had not gone that way, and Ridmark and Ansa could not escape up the stairs. But another stairwell descended into the ground, spiraling into the earth.

  “Marcomer’s mark!” shouted Ansa, pointing at the wall. Ridmark only saw some scratches, but he would not doubt her.

  "I'll take the lead," said Ridmark, and Ansa nodded. He stepped past her and rushed down the stairs, Ansa trailing him. The stairs wound down into the darkness, and soon Ridmark could barely see anything in the light filtering from above.

  But a strange multicolored glow glimmered in the darkness below. Something about that glow filled Ridmark with unease, but he could hear the bon
e orcs descending from above, so he kept running, praying that he would not trip and crack his skull on the steps. Behind him, he heard the harsh rasp of Ansa’s breathing, the clatter of the orcs’ weapons as they struck the walls in the haste of their pursuit.

  The stairs ended, and Ridmark stumbled into a vast cave, the air hot and dry against his face.

  But it was unlike any cave he had ever seen before.

  It was the size of one of the great cathedrals in Tarlion or Cintarra. It ought to have been dark, but it was dimly lit. The first source of light was the pools of molten stone scattered across the cavern floor. They gave off a harsh, fiery glow, and their heat made the air in the cavern dry and hot.

  The second source came from the hundreds of clusters of multicolored crystals clinging to the walls and ceilings and floor.

  Some of the crystals were red, others blue, others green or purple and a score of other colors. They ranged from irregular lumps the size of Ridmark’s thumb to angular spears of crystal long enough to serve as a knight’s lance. He stared at the sight in wonder, and next to him he glimpsed Ansa gaping in amazement.

  “Spirits of the ancestors,” she whispered. “Gemstones. I’ve never seen so many Gemstones.”

  Ridmark wondered how much magical power was down here. Before coming to the Qazaluuskan Forest and meeting Ansa, the only soulstones he had seen had been wrought into the blades of the Swordbearers’ soulblades, and soulblades were weapons of surpassing power, precious beyond all measure. The soulstones Ardrhythain used to create the soulblades might have been of higher quality than those grown by the Hidden People or found down here, but Ridmark was still stunned by the thought of all the power in the soulstones clinging to the cavern.

  Then he heard the harsh voices of the Qazaluuskan orcs descending the stairs, and that jolted Ridmark out of his daze.

  “We must move,” said Ridmark. “The bone orcs are coming.”

  Ansa turned, lifting her bow again. “The stairs narrow as they enter the cavern. It makes a good bottleneck.”

  That wasn’t a bad idea. Yet Ridmark wasn’t sure how many orcs were after them. It depended on how much Vhorlaskur wanted him dead for what had happened at Qazhosk. He looked around the cavern, and another idea came to him. The cavern was huge and extended in either direction farther than he could see.

  And the combination of the molten pools and the glowing soulstones threw thick shadows everywhere.

  “Follow me,” said Ridmark. “We’ll hide and ambush them, or wait until they give up.”

  Ansa hesitated, then nodded as she saw the wisdom in his plan. Ridmark led the way, racing past pools of molten stone and clusters of glowing crystals. Near one of the pools, he saw a massive boulder that must have fallen from the ceiling during some long-ago earthquake. It was far enough away from both the molten pool and the glowing crystals that little light reached it.

  “There,” said Ridmark, and he ducked behind the boulder, Ansa following suit. The hot air from the pool of liquid stone rolled over him, and he felt the sweat drip down his face and back. Any closer, and he supposed they might have been in danger of catching fire.

  A moment later a half-dozen bone orcs emerged from the stairs, weapons in hand.

  They came to an abrupt halt as they saw the glowing crystals and the burning pools. The orcs stared at the cavern and then conferred among themselves. Ridmark couldn’t hear them, but it looked like they were having an argument. Likely the orcs did not like the thought of proceeding through the shadows of the eerie cavern, leaving themselves open to ambush from every possible direction.

  Ridmark waited, and the Qazaluuskan orcs retreated up the stairs.

  “Wait a moment,” murmured Ansa. “They might be retreating to lure us into the open.”

  Ridmark nodded. “Or Vhorlaskur will send them right back down after us.”

  They waited, but the bone orcs did not return.

  “Perhaps it is safe now,” said Ansa.

  “As safe as we can be, anyway,” said Ridmark, straightening up and stepping past the boulder. Anyone watching from the stairs would have a clear view of him, but no enemies appeared. Ansa stepped after him, gazing in wonder as the crystal formations.

  “So many,” she murmured. “I never dreamed there would be so many Gemstones in a single place.”

  “Could all these soulstones serve as Gemstones?” said Ridmark.

  Ansa hesitated. “Some. Not all, but many. It is like a fruit tree, I suppose. Some of the fruits are malformed, some do not grow, and some fall rotten to the ground. But many others are healthy.” She touched one of the purple-glowing crystals. Ridmark started to warn her against it, but the crystal only glowed brighter at her touch. “If Marcomer brought back even one powerful Gemstone, he would gain enough renown for us to wed. If he brought back a dozen of these, he would be the most honored warrior in the Ghost Path tribe.”

  “He could have hidden down here for months,” said Ridmark, looking at the shadows. “Assuming the Elder Shamans did not bother to send their undead down here to find him.” He looked at Ansa. “You saw his mark above the stairs?”

  “Yes,” said Ansa. “From its placement, he would have gone down here.” She pointed. “There, at the far wall of the cavern, opposite the stairs. If he made another mark, it would be there.”

  “Then let’s have a look,” said Ridmark.

  Ansa nodded, and they crossed the cavern, making for the rough wall opposite the entrance to the stairwell. They passed more molten pools and crystal clusters, and Ridmark kept a wary eye on the tangled shadows, his staff ready in his hand. The silence down here troubled him. The Elder Shamans had to know the power of their own soulstones. Why were such treasures not guarded more closely? For that matter, once the bone orcs returned to Vhorlaskur and reported, he might realize what they had found and come in person to claim the soulstones for himself.

  Then Ansa gave a sharp cry and hurried forward. Ridmark cursed to himself, fearing that she had found Marcomer’s bones lying on the ground. He knew that pain and would not have wished that on anyone.

  But Ansa went to one knee next to a cluster of glowing silver crystals. She reached into their midst and tugged, and Ridmark heard a faint snap. Silver light welled from her fingers, and Ridmark saw that she held a silver crystal about half the size of her hand.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark.

  “A Gemstone of Storms,” said Ansa, her voice awed as she lifted the crystal. “And a powerful one. I’ve only seen a few of them. There are only two or three among the Hidden People of the Ghost Path.”

  “What does it do?” said Ridmark. “Summon a rainstorm?”

  Ansa shook her head. “It can call forth a powerful sheet of lightning to strike down our foes.”

  “I can see how that would be useful,” said Ridmark.

  Ansa concentrated and lifted the crystal.

  “We probably shouldn’t test it here,” said Ridmark. “Lightning makes thunder, and that much noise would draw attention.”

  Ansa blinked, a look of chagrin going over her face. “Yes. Yes, you are right, human Ridmark. We must keep moving and find Marcomer.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “And find the Elder Shamans…if you are insistent upon speaking with them.”

  “I am,” said Ridmark. “If anyone can tell me how the Frostborn will return, they can.”

  “But is that wise?” said Ansa. “This is a place of death. Can…”

  Something moved in the shadows around them.

  Ridmark whirled, bringing up his staff, and Ansa stepped next to him. He saw scuttling shapes moving through the gloom, their feet making no sound against the ground. Then he saw the pale flicker of blue fire in the shadows, and he knew that more undead had come for them.

  “Get ready to run,” said Ridmark. They were in the open, so the undead could not trap them here. But if the undead had enough numbers, they could encircle Ridmark and Ansa, and that could be fatal.

  Then the first of the undead came int
o sight, and Ansa let out a gasp.

  It was an undead halfling, a skeletal creature wearing the ragged remnants of leather and fur garments similar to Ansa’s own. In its bony fist, the creature carried a rusted short sword, and more undead halflings emerged from the shadows. Ansa loosed an arrow, and it punched through the chest of the nearest undead, but the creature did not slow.

  Many halflings of the Hidden People had come to Urd Drysaar over the centuries in search of renown and glory. Some of them had not returned…and Ridmark now knew what had become of those who had remained behind in the stronghold of the Elder Shamans.

  “I think we’ll have to take their heads,” said Ridmark, gripping his staff. “Stay close to me. Don’t let them surround you if you can avoid it.”

  Ansa nodded, slinging her bow over her shoulder and drawing her short sword, taking the Gemstone of Fire in her left hand.

  The undead halflings paused, watching them. Ridmark wondered if they had any memories of their former lives, or if they recognized Ansa as a kinswoman. Possibly Ansa had been descended from one of the undead that now regarded them.

  In eerie silence, the undead halflings charged, swords raised to strike.

  Ridmark met their attack, his staff snapping back and forth to deflect their blows. In this kind of fight, he had the advantage. He was a good two feet taller than most of the undead halflings, which gave him a massive advantage with reach. His staff was longer than the halflings were tall, and Ridmark kept them from drawing near, beating aside their attacks and knocking their skulls from their spines with hammer blows from his staff. When he took off their heads, that broke the necromantic spells driving them forward, and the undead halflings collapsed in piles of bones and ragged garments.

  Ansa fought alongside him, though far less effectively. Her short sword was not as useful against the undead as a blunt weapon like the staff, and she had to wield it two-handed to generate enough force to knock the heads from the undead halflings. Ridmark wondered if Marcomer would be among their number, if Ansa would have to fight the undead corpse of her betrothed. He hoped not. Seeing Aelia die in front of him had been bad enough. Having her corpse rise as an undead puppet would have been far worse.