The Dark Warden (Book 6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  There were not all that many left. The Swordbearer had fought well, and Mara and Jager had taken full advantage of Morigna’s spells. The remaining urhaalgars fled in all directions. The last of the sunlight had faded during the fighting, but since seven of the thirteen moons were out, it hardly seemed to matter. Their combined light made an eerie purplish glow, almost the color of a malignant bruise.

  “Is anyone wounded?” said Ridmark.

  “A few minor cuts,” said Calliande, white glimmering around her fingers as she strode towards Kharlacht. “Nothing major. The Lord was with us.”

  “Aye,” said Caius.

  “And you, sir knight?” said Ridmark, turning to the Swordbearer. “Are you wounded? Our Magistria can heal you. An urhaalgar’s poison is not a trifling matter.”

  The Swordbearer’s masked helm rotated back and forth, evaluating them as threats. Ridmark felt a stab of irritation compounded by the constant pulsing pain behind his eyes. They had just saved the man’s life. Yet Morigna was a wild sorceress, and Mara was a dark elven half-breed. They would have been regarded as dangerous in Andomhaim.

  “Ridmark Arban,” said the Swordbearer at last, his voice made hollow by his helm. “I never expected to see you alive again.”

  “Do we know each other, sir knight?” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said the Swordbearer, drawing off his helm with his left hand. The knight’s face was lean and weathered, the skin lined by wind and sun. His thick mane of black hair was streaked with gray, his brown eyes hard and fierce.

  “Sir Arandar?” said Ridmark, surprised.

  “You know this man?” said Morigna, gazing at the Swordbearer with suspicion.

  “Ridmark Arban have met many times, my lady,” said Arandar with bow, “though you and I have not, I fear.”

  “Arandar is a knight of the High King’s household,” said Ridmark. “Though you were. I did not know you had been made a Swordbearer.”

  “Aye,” said Arandar. “Five years ago.”

  “Five years ago?” said Calliande. “Does that mean…”

  Arandar turned his sword towards them as the blade’s white glow faded, and a shock of recognition went through Ridmark.

  Suddenly he knew what had caused his headache. Severing a Swordbearer from his soulblade caused all sorts of unpleasant physical side effects, including excruciating pain if the former Swordbearer ever drew near his former soulblade again.

  The soulblade Arandar carried was Heartwarden, Ridmark’s soulblade.

  Or, at least, the soulblade he had carried on the day he had failed to save Aelia.

  Chapter 6 - The Knight’s Quest

  “That it, isn’t it?” said Calliande, stunned. “Heartwarden.”

  Ridmark nodded, his expression distant.

  “If you do not mind,” said Ridmark, “you can sheathe your sword now, sir knight.” He blinked several times. “The foe has been defeated, and I confess the headache is…considerable.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the knight Ridmark had called Arandar. “I should have thought of it.”

  He sheathed his sword, Heartwarden’s glow winking out. Ridmark took a deep breath and swayed upon his feet for a moment, but recovered himself.

  “What is wrong with him?” hissed Morigna. “Has he exerted himself too far?”

  Calliande started to say that if Morigna was so concerned about Ridmark’s stamina, then she should not have lured him off into the hills for a tryst.

  “The soulblade,” she whispered back instead. “Ridmark used to be bonded to it. The bond was severed when he was cast out of the Order. Touching the soulblade again would cause him agony. Even being near it is painful. Have you not wondered why he never fights with a sword? It is not just regret. Simply the reminder of wielding a soulblade would cause him pain.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark.

  “No, thank you,” said Arandar, looking them over. His dark eyes, his gray-streaked hair, and his hooked nose made him look like a proud hunting hawk. “You, Ridmark, and your…eclectic band of companions.”

  “That’s us,” said Jager. “As eclectic as it gets.”

  “Indeed,” said Arandar, blinking. “I suspect there is quite a tale here.” He looked at Caius. “I…know you, Brother.”

  “I confess that you look familiar,” said Caius. “Did we meet in Tarlion?”

  “That is it,” said Arandar. “It was the day you preached before the gates of the Cathedral of Tarlion, commanding the lords and Magistri of Andomhaim to repent of their pride and licentiousness, petition the Dominus Christus for forgiveness, and lead sober and upright lives henceforth.”

  Morigna let out a nasty laugh. “One imagines that was not well-received.”

  “For once we are in agreement,” said Jager. “I cannot see the nobles of Tarlion repenting of anything.”

  Calliande watched Arandar, curious he would react to the mockery. The nobles of Andomhaim were a proud lot. And given how many of them seemed to have joined the Enlightened of Incariel, their pride might have been a mask for something worse.

  But Arandar only looked pained. “I am a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to defend the realm of Andomhaim from creatures of dark magic.” He hesitated. “What I happen to think of the lords and knights of the realm is of no importance.”

  Caius snorted. “Wisely spoken.”

  “Before we speak any further,” said Arandar, “I would simply like to thank you for my life. All of you.” His eyes swept over them. “I know not who you are or your purpose. But if you had not come along when you did, I would have been slain, and my quest would have been in vain.”

  “Quest?” said Gavin.

  “Before we trade tales,” said Ridmark, “I suggest we return to our camp. We are too exposed here, and God only knows what else is wandering the Torn Hills.”

  “I accept your hospitality,” said Arandar. “I had a horse with some supplies, but the urhaalgar tore it apart.”

  “We’ll retrieve the supplies,” said Ridmark, “and then be on our way.”

  He beckoned, and Arandar walked to his side. Again Calliande was amused. Arandar was a Knight of the Soulblade, and Ridmark had no authority over him. Yet Arandar was already doing what Ridmark told him to do.

  That was good. Given the dangers they faced, they needed all the help they could find.

  ###

  Ridmark’s headache dimmed by the time they returned to their camp. Whenever he looked in Arandar’s direction, he found his eyes straying to the scabbard at the knight’s belt, and the headache started to return.

  His right hand twitched as if it wanted to grasp a sword hilt.

  The last time he had held Heartwarden had been the day the High King had pronounced sentence on him at Castra Marcaine, the day Tarrabus Carhaine had influenced the High King and the Master of the Order to have Ridmark expelled from the Order and banished from Andomhaim. The pain of the severing had been excruciating, but Ridmark had hardly cared at the time.

  The loss of Aelia had been worse. His failure had been worse. He had hoped the High King would have him executed.

  He saw both Morigna and Calliande staring at him. They knew him well enough to guess what was going through his head. The only thing more annoying than their arguments were the rare occasions when the two of them actually managed to agree, usually about something they had decided that he needed to do.

  But he did not have the luxury of wallowing the past.

  They were in too much danger. Part of Ridmark wanted to send Arandar and Heartwarden away. The rest of him, the rational part, realized that the knight would be a powerful ally. Ridmark and his companions were going into deadly danger, and Arandar’s courage and Heartwarden’s power might turn the tide.

  Even if Ridmark could no longer wield Heartwarden himself.

  Another part of him wondered why Sir Arandar of Tarlion had come to the Torn Hills. Arandar was a bastard, and most of the knights of Andomhaim believed that Arandar’s father had
been a minor knight or Comes. Ridmark knew who Arandar’s father really was.

  So Ridmark could not imagine why Arandar’s father had sent him to the Torn Hills, or why Arandar might have come for his own reasons.

  “Thank you,” said Arandar, his voice grave, “for sharing your camp.” He had aged in the five years since Ridmark had seen him at Dun Licinia, fresh lines upon his face and more gray in his hair. Yet he was still hale. He had held his own against those urhaalgars.

  Ridmark nodded. “You remember Brother Caius.” He gestured at the others. “This is Calliande, a Magistri of the Order. Kharlacht, a baptized orc of Vhaluusk. Gavin, from Aranaeus, a village in the Wilderland. Morigna, a woman from Moraime in the Wilderland.”

  “You cast those spells, then?” said Arandar, frowning. “The rippling ground and the nets of roots?”

  “That I did,” said Morigna, eyeing him with a smirk.

  “You are not a Magistria,” said Arandar.

  “The Magistri,” said Morigna, “should be so fortunate.”

  “You travel with this woman, Ridmark?” said Arandar. “A wild sorceress?”

  “She is brave and skilled,” said Ridmark, “and has saved our lives more than once.”

  “Wizards outside of the Magistri inevitably turn to necromancy and dark magic,” said Arandar.

  “Oh, must they?” said Morigna. “It sounds tedious. Well, I shall see if I can fit it into my calendar.”

  “She has not worked any dark magic, Sir Arandar,” said Calliande. “I am sure of it.”

  “I do not require you to defend me,” said Morigna, “nor do I need to justify myself to this preening fool who wields a weapon which rightfully belongs to another man.”

  “I am the rightful and lawful bearer of Heartwarden,” said Arandar, though he glanced at Ridmark as he spoke.

  Morigna let out a nasty laugh. “A better man’s leavings are good enough for you, one supposes? Perhaps once you return to Tarlion, your lord will have tired of his mistress, and you can take her into your bed while he…”

  Arandar’s eyes flashed. Morigna didn’t know it, but she had hit upon his weak point.

  “Are you sure this woman is not a wielder of dark magic?” said Arandar, stepping towards her.

  Morigna raised her staff, purple fire crackling around the fingers of his free hand. “Is that a threat?”

  “You want to try me, witch?” said Arandar, his hand falling around Heartwarden’s hilt. A throb of pain went through Ridmark’s skull.

  “You think yourself so capable, then?” said Morigna. “Let us see if the fabled Swordbearers are as…”

  “Stop. Now,” said Ridmark, his headache adding bite to his words. “Morigna, he’s a Swordbearer. Heartwarden will protect him from any magic you throw at him, and unless you happen to shoot an arrow through his eye, he will kill you without much trouble.”

  Morigna glared at him.

  “And you,” said Ridmark, pointing at Arandar. “She saved your life. If her spells hadn’t thrown off the urhaalgars, they would have ripped you apart before we killed the urshanes. She is not a wielder of dark magic. If you do not believe me, believe Calliande.”

  “Very well,” said Arandar, and he offered a shallow bow to Morigna. “I apologize if I spoke too soon.”

  “Morigna,” said Ridmark.

  She rolled her eyes. “I apologize for threatening to defend myself from unjust accusations.”

  “Well,” said Jager, “isn’t this pleasant?”

  “And this,” said Ridmark, “is Jager and his wife Mara, both of Coldinium.”

  “Your servants?” said Arandar.

  Morigna laughed again.

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” said Jager. “Why, when his lordship Ridmark awakes, we bring him his porridge, his robe, and his razor, and…”

  “Jager,” said Mara.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Everyone here has chosen to follow me for reasons of their own.”

  “Where are you going?” said Arandar. “This has…something to do with the Frostborn, does it not?”

  “It does,” said Ridmark. “You saw the omen of blue fire?”

  “I did,” said Arandar. “I was on the road from Tarlion to Castra Arban when it happened. It caused a great deal of panic. Many claimed it was an omen of the end of the world. The Magistri said it was a magical side effect of the conjunction of the thirteen moons.”

  “Perhaps it is,” said Ridmark. Maybe the conjunction was somehow connected with the return of the Frostborn. “The Warden told me, years ago, that the omen of blue fire would be a herald of the return of the Frostborn. The urdmordar Gothalinzur told me that the Frostborn would return within my lifetime.”

  “Dubious sources both,” said Arandar. There was a touch of pity on his face. Like many in Andomhaim, no doubt he thought Ridmark mad, that the quest to stop the return of the Frostborn was the effort of a grief-maddened man to ease his guilt by declaring war upon phantoms.

  They were not entirely wrong, but the Frostborn were not phantoms.

  “After the day of the omen,” said Ridmark, “I set out for Urd Morlemoch, intending to wring the answer from the Warden. Along the way, I stopped in Aranaeus and fought an urdmordar named Agrimnalazur.”

  “You…overcame an urdmordar?” said Arandar. “Without a soulblade?”

  “The Gray Knight was valiant,” said Morigna.

  “He was,” said Gavin.

  “So were you,” said Ridmark. “And the Gray Knight was lucky. Agrimnalazur had been kidnapping the villagers of Aranaeus to use as a larder for the long winter to come. She, too, believed the Frostborn were returning. You know that the urdmordar only reveal themselves if they believe it necessary to their survival.” Arandar nodded. “She told me that the Frostborn would return within a year and a month of the great omen.”

  “That is indeed troubling,” said Arandar. “I will not lie to you. After Dun Licinia, when you went into the Wilderland, I thought you mad. That your reason had been overthrown by your grief. If just the Warden or one urdmordar had said this to you, I would believe they had lied. But for two urdmordar and the Warden to say the same thing, independently of each other…that is troubling indeed.”

  “It gets worse,” said Ridmark. “Calliande was abducted by a renegade high elven wizard known as Shadowbearer.” There was no need to tell Arandar about the Order of the Vigilant and Calliande’s missing memories, not yet. “It seems this Shadowbearer is the one attempting to bring back the Frostborn. Why or how, I do not know.”

  “But the Warden might know,” said Arandar, “and so you are going to Urd Morlemoch.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “There is one other matter. Have you heard of a secret society called the Enlightened of Incariel?”

  Arandar’s face went motionless.

  “Ah,” murmured Morigna. “I would say he has heard of them.”

  Ridmark wondered if he had miscalculated. He would not have thought Arandar capable of becoming one of the Enlightened. Of course, Ridmark had once thought the same of Tarrabus Carhaine and Paul Tallmane as well.

  “Is that what this is about?” said Arandar. His hand was on Heartwarden’s hilt again, and Ridmark’s headache intensified. “It was not enough that the Enlightened had to arrange my death and falsely accuse my son? The demon-worshipping scum had to send assassins to dispose of me? I had thought better of you, Ridmark Arban.”

  “We are not of the Enlightened,” said Ridmark. “They have tried to kill us repeatedly. You have heard of the fall of the Iron Tower?”

  “I have not,” said Arandar. “I came north through Durandis and then Rhaluusk. The Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk have been stirred up, and raid both Dux Kors of Durandis and the King of Rhaluusk. I fought in several skirmishes on my way here.”

  “Sir Paul Tallmane was one of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark. “He tried to kill me at Aranaeus and again at the Iron Tower.”

  “My mother and father,” said Morigna, “and the man I would
have wed were both murdered by an ally of the Enlightened. So you see, Sir Arandar of the Order of the Soulblade, I have more of a reason to oppose dark magic than most. Certainly more reason than a nobleman’s pampered son.”

  Arandar’s smile was thin. “My life, my lady sorceress, may have been less pampered than you think.”

  “I had thought Paul a traitor to his lord,” said Ridmark, “but Tarrabus Carhaine himself is one of the Enlightened.”

  “That…is a grave charge,” said Arandar, frowning.

  “Both grave and true,” said Ridmark. “He is either the chief of the Enlightened or one of their principal leaders. He is closely allied with Shadowbearer, and is working with him to bring about the return of the Frostborn.”

  “I can testify that the Gray Knight speaks the truth,” said Mara. “Dux Tarrabus kidnapped me and used my life as leverage to force my husband to act against the Gray Knight. It was only by the wisdom and valor of Ridmark Arban and his companions that we are still alive.”

  “You helped, too,” said Jager.

  “I see,” said Arandar. He began to pace, his armor clanking with his footsteps. Morigna started to speak, but Ridmark raised a hand, and she fell silent with a scowl. He waited as Arandar thought it over.

  “What do you think of our tale?” said Ridmark at last.

  “I think,” said Arandar, looking up, “that it explains a great deal of what I have seen in the last year.”

  “Then you have heard of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Calliande.

  “To my sorrow,” said Arandar. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

  “Say on,” said Ridmark.

  “You know who I am,” said Arandar, “but the others do not. I am the bastard son of a minor noble of Andomhaim.” Ridmark let that small lie pass. “My father never acknowledged me, so I took service as a man-at-arms of the High King. The High King often sends his knights and men-at-arms to aid in the defense of the frontiers, and I fought with the Dux of Durandis and the King of Rhaluusk, helping to keep the Mhorite orcs of Kothluusk at bay. After one such battle the Dux of Durandis knighted me. I found a wife, and she bore me a son and a daughter.” His face grew still. “I fear she died of plague six years past, a few months before word first came of the Mhalekites stirring in the north.”