All the while the Scythe circled overhead, and Mhazhama threw her lightning blasts whenever an opening presented itself.
Ridmark leaped backward, the power of his jump carrying him to another tier of white stone. Mournacht stalked after him, but as Ridmark had hoped, the Scythe dived towards him, sword drawn back to stab, dark magic blazing around her left hand. Ridmark raised Oathshield and deflected the lance of dark magic, but left himself open.
As he expected, the Scythe seized the opening, driving her sword towards his chest. Ridmark accepted the blow, stepping into it. The armor of the Shield Knight deflected her sword, even though the force of the impact made his bones vibrate. Before she could recover, he slashed his soulblade at her right wing. The Scythe jerked to the side, so his swing struck her armored chest with a ringing clang. Her armor held, but the strike knocked her back.
She crashed right into Mournacht as the orcish warlord bounded after Ridmark, his axe drawn back to strike. The urdhracos was slender compared to Mournacht’s bulk, and he punched her out of the way with a snarl.
The Scythe hit the floor and rolled away, her wings whipping around her.
But the punch had left Mournacht off-balance for an instant.
Ridmark sprang at Mournacht, and the orc tried to get his axe up in time, but it was too late. He surged inside the shaman’s guard, inside the reach of that monstrous axe, and brought Oathshield down in a two-handed blow. The soulblade crunched into Mournacht’s forehead and sank into his brain, just as Ridmark had driven a dwarven axe into the real Mournacht’s skull all those years ago.
The orcish warlord bellowed, green blood flying from his lips, and collapsed to his knees. The bellow faded to a wheezing rasp, and Mournacht dissolved into nothingness, the mist hurtling back to whirl in a sphere before the Maledictus of Shadows.
A flicker of hope went through Ridmark. The Maledictus of Shadows seemed intent on digging through Ridmark’s memories and creating simulacrums of his old enemies. But Ridmark had already defeated those foes years ago, long before he had even known that Owyllain existed. If he could use the same tactics to defeat those foes as he had during the first battles, perhaps he could force his way through the phantasms and strike down the two Maledicti.
He headed towards the altar, wondering if he could cut down the Scythe while she was stunned, but she had already gotten back into the air, wings flapping as she hovered out of reach. The Maledictus of Shadow was casting another spell, and Mhazhama hurled a volley of lightning bolts at Ridmark.
The first bolt shattered against Oathshield, and Ridmark raced towards the altar. He deflected a second bolt, and then a third, and he used his forward momentum to knock the lightning bolts away from him. It was almost like that game Gareth and Joachim played where Joachim threw a ball and Gareth hit it with a stick.
Ridmark made it two-thirds of the way down the tiers to the altar when the sphere of mist swelled out, expanding as it did so. It hardened into something huge and crimson and…
A fresh surge of alarm went through him.
The mist had taken the shape of a female urdmordar, one of the great spider-devils who had nearly destroyed Andomhaim, and from whom Connmar Pendragon had fled to found Owyllain. The urdmordar was an armored spider the size of two oxen, its body covered in crimson chitin like armor plating. Eight knobbed legs arched from her flanks, each one as thick as Ridmark’s body and tipped with a claw the length of a sword, the edges gleaming with poison. The torso, arms, and head of a human woman of unearthly beauty rose from the front of the spider’s abdomen, covered in more plates of red chitin. Foot-long claws tipped the long, distended fingers, gleaming with more venom. Green fire blazed in her eyes, and six more eyes shone upon her forehead.
Ridmark had seen and fought this urdmordar before. Agrimnalazur had ruled the village of Aranaeus for generations, lurking unseen in the shadows and raising countless villagers to feed her hunger. She had tried her best to kill Ridmark and Calliande, but they had defeated her.
“The Gray Knight,” said Agrimnalazur, gliding forward, her speared legs somehow making no noise against the stone floor. “That was what the villagers called you. Now they call you the Shield Knight of Andomhaim. A pity you did not heed my offer when you had the chance. I would have made you immortal, and you would not be about to die here…”
Her hand shot up, shadow fire burning around her clawed fingers. Ridmark had expected her to spring upon him, to try to stab him with her legs or crush him beneath her armored bulk. But the urdmordar also wielded deadly dark magic, and it seemed the Maledictus’s phantasms could as well.
A snarling lance of shadow fire burst from her hand, and Ridmark just barely got Oathshield up in time to deflect it. Agrimnalazur skittered forward, hurling a steady stream of shadow fire at him, and Ridmark retreated, straining to hold Oathshield against her attack.
And as he did, Mhazhama hurled another lightning bolt at him.
Ridmark tried to block both attacks at once and failed. The blast of lightning rocked him and lowered his guard enough for Agrimnalazur’s shadow fire to drill into him. Ridmark landed hard on the floor, his armor clattering, his mind swimming, his body aching. He felt his grip on the power of the Shield Knight start to waver, and he held it as hard as he could. If he lost the power now, before he had defeated at least one of the Maledicti, he was going to die.
Agrimnalazur sprang forward, her legs raised to stab, and Ridmark realized that if he did not move right now, he was going to die before he lost his hold on the power of the Shield Knight.
He heaved himself to the side, using the armor’s magical strength to force his aching limbs to move, and Agrimnalazur landed with enough force to shatter several stone blocks. Ridmark leaped to his feet and charged, slashing with Oathshield, and Agrimnalazur dodged, moving with incredible speed despite her bulk.
But Ridmark kept attacking. The last time he had faced Agrimnalazur, he hadn’t had a soulblade, and Calliande hadn’t possessed her full powers. Calliande wasn’t here, but Oathshield was. Ridmark seized one of Agrimnalazur’s legs with his left hand and heaved himself onto her back. The urdmordar shrieked and went into a wild, bucking dance, trying to throw Ridmark off, but he drove Oathshield down. The soulblade stabbed through the crimson chitin covering her torso and burst from her chest, the white fire blazing hotter.
Agrimnalazur shrieked again and then dissolved into mist.
Ridmark landed, pain shooting up his legs, and charged towards the altar. He felt the exhaustion closing in on him, felt his hold on the power of the Shield Knight becoming looser. If he did not end this fight soon, the Maledicti were going to end it for him. The Scythe threw another blast of dark magic in his direction, and Ridmark dodged around it, forcing another burst of speed from his legs.
He leaped towards the altar, drawing back Oathshield to strike at the Maledictus of Air.
At the last moment, Mhazhama gestured, shadow and blue fire swirling around her. The Maledictus of Air disappeared an instant before Oathshield would have found her. Ridmark led the momentum of his jump carry him forward, running across the massive altar towards the Maledictus of Shadows and the swirling ball of mist.
The mist hardened into a man in elaborate steel plate armor, a jeweled sword in his hand. He had closed-cropped blond hair and icy blue eyes, and like Paul Tallmane, he wore a blue surcoat adorned with the sigil of a black dragon’s head. Shadows swirled around his sword, and Ridmark raced forward, hoping to reach the Maledictus of Shadows.
But Tarrabus Carhaine moved first.
The shadow-wreathed sword blurred out, and Ridmark had to parry it. Tarrabus snarled and went into a furious attack, his sword flickering and dancing like a tongue of flame. He had always been Ridmark’s equal as a swordsman, perhaps even a little better, and he was fresh and Ridmark was exhausted.
And Tarrabus had been the most powerful of the Enlightened of Incariel, able to draw upon Incariel’s shadow to make himself stronger and faster.
“I war
ned you,” spat Tarrabus, his sword clanging against Oathshield. “The Enlightened would have made mankind immortal and invincible. We would have ruled this world as the dark elves once did. Instead, you are going to die in this miserable ruin.”
Ridmark did not bother to reply, partly because he had nothing to say to the man who had tried to usurp the throne of Andomhaim, but mostly because he had no breath left to speak. He struck at Tarrabus three times in rapid succession, and then let himself fall sideways off the top of the altar. Tarrabus sprang after him, sword raised for the kill, and Ridmark stabbed up. Oathshield punched through Tarrabus’s armor and into his heart, and the usurper king screamed and dissolved into mist.
And the way was clear to the Maledictus of Shadow.
Ridmark leaped onto the altar, and Mhazhama and the Scythe both struck at once.
Mhazhama had transported herself to the opposite side of the arena, and the Scythe attacked from the other direction, so Ridmark had no chance to dodge. Both spells hit him, clawing at the armor of the Shield Knight, and again Ridmark felt his hold on the power waver. He kept his grip on it, but only barely. He felt like a man hanging from a cliff, watching slowly but inevitably as his strength failed and he started to slide towards the abyss.
Ridmark caught his balance and took a step towards the Maledictus of Shadows, and the sphere of mist hardened into yet another phantom from Ridmark’s past.
Again, he felt the surge of recognition, but this time fear accompanied it.
A tall, gaunt dark elven lord strode towards Ridmark, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves. The figure’s head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside the long, lean face, a diadem of blue dark elven steel encircling the brow. The eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than any night, colder and darker than the black places between the worlds. Rings of blue dark elven steel glittered upon the long, bony fingers, and the horrible dark gaze fell upon Ridmark like the blow of a hammer.
It was the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, the greatest wizard the dark elves had ever produced. The Warden of Urd Morlemoch, who had lured Ridmark and Calliande into a deadly trap they had barely escaped.
Ridmark tried to attack, but the Warden was faster.
A blast of blue fire struck Ridmark in the center of the chest. He flew backward off the altar and landed hard on the lowest tier of the temple, pain exploding through his body. Once again he almost lost his grip on the Shield Knight’s power, and he forced himself to his feet in time to block the Warden’s next spell with Oathshield.
“A Swordbearer again, I see,” said the Warden, his voice deeper and more melodious and more terrifying than any human voice. Shadow swirled behind him as Mhazhama transported herself back to the altar. “So you were when you first came to Urd Morlemoch twenty years ago, and so you are now. A fitting end to your life, I think, Ridmark of the Arbanii.”
Ridmark backed away, trying to think of a plan. The illusionary Warden had hit far harder than Agrimnalazur and Mournacht or any of the other phantasms. Even Mhazhama and the Maledictus of Shadows seemed taken aback by the thing they had just created. The Maledictus of Shadows had retreated to the edge of the altar, and Mhazhama’s gaze turned back and forth. The Scythe hovered overhead, gazing at the Warden with terror on her gaunt face.
Antenora had said that the Maledictus’s phantasms believed themselves to be real. If this thing believed itself to be the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, and if it had even a fraction of the power of the real Warden…
Did that mean it had a measure of the Warden’s colossal pride?
“Do you think to let a pair of undead orcs command you?” said Ridmark.
The Warden threw back his head and howled his mad laugh.
“As ever,” said Warden when the laughter faded, his terrible eyes falling upon Ridmark once more, “you fail to see beyond the boundaries of your own life. But it is a failing common to all humanity. Your lives are but the merest flickering instants against the cosmos, and you fail to see beyond their end. Every generation must learn anew the truths known by the former, and so often you fail.” A cruel smile went over that bloodless face. “However, here is a much more immediate truth for you to ponder, Shield Knight of Andomhaim. You should not have tried to delay.”
The last word passed from the Warden’s lips, and Ridmark lost his grip upon the power of the Shield Knight.
The blue armor dissolved back into white flame, and Ridmark staggered as a wave of exhaustion covered him. For an instant, he was sure that he would collapse, but Antenora’s bracer absorbed much of the fatigue, and Ridmark remained on his feet.
So, instead of collapsing into unconsciousness, Ridmark merely felt exhausted, battered, bruised, and he was bleeding from a half-dozen cuts.
The Warden, Mhazhama, and the Scythe all started casting spells at once.
Chapter 20: Prison of Dreams
Third took a cautious step forward, her eyes sweeping over the Chamber of Meditation.
She had never seen a place quite like this.
The room was cylindrical with a domed ceiling, but it wasn’t nearly as large as the temple where Ridmark now fought the Maledicti, nor even as large as the room with the pool where they had faced the Scythe and her urvaalgs. Yet the air crawled and seethed with the presence of potent magical force. Third was no wizard, but even she could feel the power snarling through the air. Tamara’s mismatched eyes were wide with fear, yet she did not hesitate as she followed Third and the others into the Chamber of Meditation.
A circle of standing stones took up the center of the floor, the circle perhaps twenty yards across. The dark elves had built countless rings of standing stones across Andomhaim, using those circles to channel and focus their malevolent powers. Those stones had been black, carved with scenes of the dark elves torturing and murdering their slaves. These menhirs were white and unmarked and each stood about eleven feet tall.
Thousands of golden veins crawled up their sides, shining with harsh light.
And there, in the center of the circle, floated Lord Amruthyr.
The golden veins reached from the menhirs, holding him suspended in place. It put Third in mind of an insect trapped within a spider’s web, or of a prisoner hanging from heavy chains. Kolmyrion had looked ancient. Lord Amruthyr looked older than the world itself, his skin almost translucent, his body withered to little more than a skeleton in an elaborate robe of red and black, a staff of golden metal clutched before him like a shield. His eyes were closed, darting back and forth behind their lids, and his face was a rictus of agony.
The veins pulsed with a thrumming noise like a heartbeat, and Third saw that they were indeed leeching away life and energy and strength from the ancient gray elf. Amruthyr must have been a wizard of surpassing might to have lasted for so long in the web of veins.
“Is that Lord Amruthyr?” said Tamara, her voice soft with horror.
“Yes,” said Kyralion. “He wears the robe of a wizard and a noble of my kindred. This was his citadel, and it was his spell the Maledicti twisted to attack Kalimnos.”
“And it is time for his torment to end,” said Third, lifting her swords.
She regretted the necessity of killing the ancient gray elf, but there was no other way. Not if she wanted to save her friends. And the Sovereign had killed Cathair Selenias and its lord a long, long time ago. Amruthyr had been denied release from his torments.
Third could give him that.
She took a step forward, and the ancient wizard’s eyes opened.
They were a shocking shade of vivid green, and the sheer power and weight of that gaze froze Third for an instant. A spasm went through the lined face, and Amruthyr let out a long groan.
“You,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant, a marked contrast with his wasted appearance. “The woman of blue flame. Then the hour of the doom of the Liberated has come at last. After so many years.”
“You are Lord Amruthyr?” said Third.
“Yes,”
said Amruthyr. “Or I was, long, long ago. I thought to save my people from the Sovereign, and in my pride and folly, I failed and doomed my knights and warriors to a long, slow death. Long have I been imprisoned within the web of my own dreams.” He sighed. “But, at last, release comes.”
“Is there a way to free you?” said Third. “Without killing you?”
“No,” said Amruthyr. “I have foreseen your coming, and I have seen how the Maledicti have further corrupted my work. My life is bound to the dream spell, and the dream spell is bound to my life. My death is the only way to end the spell. If it troubles your conscience, be at peace. I should have died a long time ago, and the Sovereign’s curse has kept me alive and in torment for thousands of years.” A shudder went through the wasted frame. “Long have I awaited this day.”
“Very well,” said Third, stepping closer. “I promise to make it quick…”
“Stop!” said Amruthyr. “If you step within the perimeter of the circle, the forces there will kill you.”
“Can an arrow slay you, sir?” said Magatai.
“No,” said Amruthyr. “The forces within the perimeter of the circle will deflect it.” His eyes turned back to Third. “You are the woman of the blue fire, whose coming I have foreseen. You will need to use your power to travel within the circle to free me.”
“I see,” said Third, concentrating. She didn’t feel the presence of a ward to block her ability to travel, the way she did when she stood within a hundred yards of one of the Seven Swords. Yet there was a strange, heavy force within the circle of white stones, a force that could deflect her ability to transport herself. She would only get one chance to do this right. “I need a moment to concentrate.”
“We must hurry,” said Tamara, her tension obvious.
Ridmark was fighting for his life against the Maledicti. He might already be dead.
“I know,” said Third, her voice calm as she cleared her mind and focused on the shape of the power in front of her.
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