The Dark Warden (Book 6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  She flung another lance of white flame, the power splashing and snarling across his wards. His defenses held, and Valakoth unleashed a stream of hissing blue flame and crackling shadows at her. Calliande redirected her strength into her ward, and barely managed to turn aside the attack.

  She did not have the brute power to hammer through Valakoth’s wards, nor the skill unravel them.

  If the others could reach Valakoth, they might cut him down, but there were far too many Devout warriors in the way. Could Mara use her power to transport herself to the hilltop and stab Valakoth from behind? No, if Mara could do that she would have done so already. Likely Valakoth’s wards prevented Mara from utilizing her power.

  Arandar and Heartwarden were their best chance. If Arandar could reach the orcish wizard, Heartwarden would rip through Valakoth’s wards with ease. With their leader dead, likely the rest of the Devout would flee.

  Another blast of dark power drilled into Calliande, and she gritted her teeth, straining to keep the malefic energy from reaching her flesh.

  Of course, to use Heartwarden against Valakoth, Arandar first had to reach the old wizard, and the warriors of the Devout were holding their own.

  ###

  Ridmark parried a sword blow on the flat of his axe blade and dodged another. The Devout orc facing him fought in silence, the muscles of his arm driving his sword with inhuman speed. His blows were powerful, and the effort of blocking them made Ridmark’s arms ache, but the orc’s moves were unskilled. The Devout warrior fell into a pattern, and Ridmark saw the opening. He ducked under the orc’s next strike and swung the axe with both hands, the dwarven blade sinking between the warrior’s ribs with a hideous cracking noise. Ridmark ripped the weapon free, the blade sheathed in blue-glowing blood, and turned in search of his next foe.

  There were simply too many Devout warriors. Ridmark wished he had kept his staff in hand. The longer weapon would have been useful against the large numbers of their foes. Well, it was too late to worry about it now.

  Arandar cut his way through the orcs, the pulse of Heartwarden’s fire matching the throbbing behind Ridmark’s eyes. Ridmark had seen better swordsmen, but Arandar used the enhanced speed and strength granted by Heartwarden well, cutting down the Devout left and right. Yet the warriors forced Arandar back step by step. Worse, groups of Devout were circling around the melee, moving towards the women. Morigna’s magic kept them at bay, but sooner or later they would overwhelm her and kill Calliande. Then Valakoth could bring his spells to bear against them, and the battle would be over in short order.

  Unless they killed Valakoth first. Arandar had the best chance of it. Heartwarden would make short work of the spells around an orcish wizard, no matter how powerful. Ridmark hewed his way through the battle and came to Arandar’s side, the light from Heartwarden stabbing into his eyes.

  “Valakoth!” he yelled, and Arandar glanced at him. “Get to Valakoth, and this ends!”

  Arandar offered a sharp nod and charged, cutting his way into the warriors, and Ridmark followed in the chaos, killing orcs with heavy blows of the dwarven axe.

  Blue and white fire struggled against each other overhead, every spell ringing with a mighty thunderclap.

  ###

  Morigna spun her free hand in a circle, a thin ring of flickering gray mist rising around her and Calliande. One of the warriors charged into it and collapsed as the sleeping mist shut off his mind. The other Devout orcs backed away, their glowing eyes shining through the mist. Morigna spun in a circle, sweat dripping down her face as she tried to keep all her enemies in sight at once. The sleeping mist took less power than the acidic fog, and she hoped to conserve her strength.

  The battle was not going well.

  Calliande’s teeth were bared in a snarl, her body rigid and her fingers hooked into claws. Bursts of magic volleyed back and forth between her and the orcish wizard, more power than Morigna could have summoned. Even in the fury of the battle, it made her uneasy. Morigna could do things that Calliande could not. But in terms of raw power and magical strength, Calliande was far stronger than Morigna, had grown even stronger in the last few weeks.

  The Old Man had taught her that power was the foundation of everything, that only strength was worthy of respect, and while he had been wrong about so much else, she had seen no proof he was wrong about this. Morigna needed to be stronger, needed more power. Else someday a man like Arandar would find her and kill her, or the Magistri of Andomhaim would force her into their order, or a creature like the Artificer would enslave her.

  She had to have more power.

  Of course, if Valakoth and the Devout killed her, then it wouldn’t matter in the slightest.

  More warriors charged at her, and Morigna cast another spell through her increasing weariness. The ground rippled at her command, flinging the Devout from their feet, and Morigna cast the sleeping mist over them. One of the orcs reached her, his face frozen in a silent snarl of fury. Morigna dodged, but his sword opened a cut on her arm. She hissed, using the pain to fuel another spell, and a sphere of acidic mist swirled around the Devout warrior’s head.

  The flesh melted from his face, leaving only a tusked skull perched atop of the smoking mess of his neck, and the orcish warrior fell dead at her feet.

  But still more attacked.

  ###

  Calliande flung another attack at Valakoth.

  Again the ancient orc blocked the spell, her power grounding out against the layers of wards surrounding him. Unlike Calliande, Valakoth showed no sign of exhaustion. The orcish wizard was simply too skilled for her to overcome. The Warden had likely taught him magic, and the Warden had practiced his art within the walls of Urd Morlemoch for fifteen thousand years, and centuries beyond count before that. Perhaps the Warden had given Valakoth spells that no other mortal wizard knew.

  Secrets that he now directed against her.

  She braced herself, pouring more power into her defenses, trying to hold on until Arandar and Ridmark reached Valakoth.

  A single glance at the hillside told her that Ridmark and Arandar would probably die before they came anywhere near Valakoth.

  ###

  Ridmark took the head from another orc, his arms aching, his headache thundering, the wounds upon his chest and legs burning. The orcs showed no fear, and seemed contemptuous of both injury and death. And why not? If they fell, their bodies would be taken to Urd Morlemoch and animated as the undead servants of their god. Step by step Ridmark and Arandar were forced back, closer to Calliande and Morigna. Ridmark managed to risk a glance over his shoulder and saw that the others were in retreat as well. Both Calliande and Morigna looked exhausted, and all the others had taken wounds of varying severity.

  It seemed Ridmark had led his companions to their deaths after all.

  If only he had been firm, if only he had been more persuasive, perhaps they might have stayed behind.

  He had failed to save Aelia, and he had led his friends to ruin.

  Ridmark killed another orc, his axe’s blade gleaming with blue blood.

  Perhaps he could yet redeem his mistake. If he charged at Valakoth, he might distract the wizard long enough for Calliande to land a telling blow. Either way, the loss of their leader would throw the Devout into disarray. Perhaps Calliande and the others could escape, and she could find a way to recover her staff and memory that did not involve challenging the Warden of Urd Morlemoch.

  Even as Ridmark tensed himself for the final charge, dark shapes moved around Valakoth, and the last ember of hope died within him.

  A dozen urvaalgs charged into the fray, followed by a score of larger shapes. These new creatures were the size of oxen, and looked like a deformed mixture of bear and ape, their twisted limbs heavy with muscle, their fangs like daggers, their greasy fur standing in ragged spikes.

  The creatures were ursaars, as fast as an urvaalg but ten times as strong. Defeating twelve urvaalgs would have been a challenge. Twelve ursaars gathered together were nearly
unconquerable. Combined with the fanatic courage of the Devout and the might of Valakoth’s sorcery, there was no hope of victory.

  The end had come at last, just as Ridmark had always known it would.

  Once he would have met with his own death with no regret, but now his eyes strayed to Calliande and Morigna.

  He took his axe in both hands and prepared to sell his life with as much blood as possible.

  ###

  Calliande’s legs trembled, her arms weak with exhaustion. Still Valakoth’s relentless assault continued, and the ancient orc showed no sign of wavering. Another few moments, and Valakoth’s spells would blast her to ashes. Or Morigna’s strength would fail, and the warriors of the Devout would tear them to pieces. Calliande risked a quick look across the hillside, hoping to spot Ridmark. If she could open a path for him, perhaps he could escape and continue the quest, could stop the Frostborn when she could not…

  Power surged around her. Was this the final spell? Valakoth’s killing blow?

  Calliande blinked, sweat stinging her eyes.

  It was not dark magic.

  “Morigna?” said Calliande, but the dark-haired woman looked equally puzzled.

  Valakoth flinched.

  An instant later blasts of white fire began raining down from the sky.

  ###

  One of the ursaars charged at Ridmark, its jaws yawning wide.

  He turned to face it, and a blast of white fire turned the ursaar’s head, forearms, and most of its chest to smoldering coals. A ripple of shock went through the Devout warriors, and Ridmark turned as more bursts of white flame fell from the sky, slamming into the urvaalgs and ursaars. Lightning ripped from the dark clouds overhead, scattering the orcish warriors like toys. Valakoth looked around, his blue-glowing eyes wide with shock and fear, and struck his staff against the earth.

  He vanished in a swirl of darkness and blue flame.

  Still the barrage of white fire continued, and within an instant all the urvaalgs and ursaars had been destroyed. Scores of the Devout orcs died within the space of a few moments, and the rest fled to the northwest.

  At last the magical attack faded away, and Ridmark and his companions stood alone on the hillside, surrounded by the dead.

  Ridmark limped down the hill, his wounds throbbing, his head filled with thunderous pain. All his companions had all taken wounds, and Kharlacht looked a heartbeat or two away from collapse, but they were still alive. He hurried towards Calliande and Morigna. Both women seemed exhausted, but they were alive.

  “What did you do?” said Ridmark.

  “I…I didn’t do anything,” said Calliande, blinking.

  “Look,” said Morigna.

  A pair of figures stood on a hill to the south, and one of them stepped forward. The figure wore a black-trimmed red coat, a black staff shining with white fire in his right hand.

  “Shadowbearer?” said Kharlacht in alarm.

  “No,” said Ridmark. He had last seen this man nine years ago, on the day he had escaped Urd Morlemoch with the high elven bladeweaver Rhyannis. “The last archmage of the high elves, the archmage who founded the Order of the Magistri and the Order of the Soulblade.”

  “Ardrhythain,” said Calliande.

  Chapter 8 - The Archmage

  “You know him?” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Calliande. “After the Challenge of Magistri in Coldinium. It…damaged the defenses around my mind, and Shadowbearer tried to destroy me. Ardrhythain drove him off. He knew me, and said we would meet again.”

  “Then he knows who you are?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Calliande.

  “And he hasn’t simply told you?”

  “No,” said Calliande. “Apparently I forbade him from telling me who I really am.”

  “Ah,” said Ridmark. There was a hint of humor in his tired voice. “How very thorough of you.”

  “Extremely,” said Calliande.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” said Ridmark.

  “Because I wasn’t sure if it was real or not,” said Calliande. “My mind was disordered for some time after the Challenge of Magistri. Perhaps I had simply dreamed it.”

  “Evidently not,” said Ridmark. Of all the others, Arandar seemed to have come through the battle with the least injury. Heartwarden would be healing his wounds even now, and the Swordbearer put one hand upon Kharlacht’s shoulder. White light pulsed around his fingers, and Kharlacht’s wounds started to shrink.

  “Hold still,” said Calliande. “I will heal your injuries.”

  Ridmark shook his head. “You should see to the others first…”

  She clapped her hands to the sides of his head. Magic flowed through her and into Ridmark, and he flinched as the healing power washed over him. An instant later it was Calliande’s turn to flinch as she felt the stabbing pain of his wounds flow into her. God and the saints, how was he still on his feet? He had been hit on the arms and chest and legs, to say nothing of the pain Heartwarden’s presence inflicted upon him. Calliande braced herself, letting the pain of the wounds fill her, and then the pain subsided as her magic healed the injuries.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark, taking a deep breath.

  “You’re welcome,” said Calliande.

  “You still should have healed the others first,” said Ridmark.

  “Someone has to talk to the archmage,” said Calliande. “I will join you in a moment.”

  Ridmark nodded, and Calliande went to work.

  ###

  Ridmark returned his axe to his belt, picked up his staff, and walked to meet Ardrhythain.

  A high elven woman waited at the archmage’s side, wearing armor of similar design to Kharlacht’s, overlapping plates of metal sheathing her torso and hanging to her knees. Unlike Kharlacht’s armor, her armor was wrought of golden metal, and she wore a helm with sweeping wings on the sides. Twin soulblades, thinner and lighter than the heavy longswords used by the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade, waited at her belt. She removed the helm as Ridmark approached, revealing features that were too angular and sharp to be human, her large eyes like shimmering golden coins. She was beautiful, but it was a terrible, alien beauty, like the beauty of the stars or a frozen stream in winter. A man could look upon the stars and admire their beauty, but he could not desire them.

  Ridmark bowed. “My lady Rhyannis.”

  “Ridmark Arban,” said Rhyannis, her voice more melodious than any human tone. “It is good to see you again. I owe you a great debt for bringing me out of Urd Morlemoch.”

  “It seems this time that it is you who saved me,” said Ridmark, “along with my companions.”

  “I fear that honor belongs to the archmage of Cathair Solas,” said Rhyannis

  Ridmark bowed in the archmage’s direction. “Lord archmage.”

  “Ridmark Arban,” said Ardrhythain as Ridmark straightened up. His voice was deep, far deeper than any human voice, yet as musical as Rhyannis’s. “It has not been long since we last met…but much has befallen you, I see.”

  For the first time in nine years, Ridmark looked upon Ardrhythain, the last archmage of the high elven kindred.

  Ardrhythain was tall, almost as tall as Kharlacht. His long red coat was open in front, the sleeves and hem and collar trimmed in black. Beneath it he wore a white tunic and black trousers tucked into black boots. In his right hand he carried a black staff carved with intricate designs, the symbols shining with the same pale light as a soulblade. His face was alien, thinner than a human’s, the ears long and pointed. An unruly shock of night-black hair topped his head, and his eyes were like disks of shining gold. The golden eyes considered Ridmark, and he was struck by a sense of weight, of heaviness. It was the same sense of vast age he had felt from Gothalinzur and Agrimnalazur, from the spirit of the Artificer. Ardrhythain was old, so old that Ridmark’s mind could scare grasp such an immense span of years. Malahan Pendragon and the survivors of Britain upon Old Earth had come to Tarlion a thousand
years ago, yet Ardrhythain had already walked this world then.

  A thousand years were but a drop in the ocean of the time he had seen.

  “Nine years is not such a short time,” said Ridmark.

  “A matter of perspective,” said Ardrhythain. He almost smiled. “When you are my age, you might feel differently on the matter.”

  “Thank you for our lives,” said Ridmark. “Valakoth and the Devout would have killed us all had you not intervened.

  “He attacked you too early,” said Ardrhythain. He pointed at a hill in the distance, its top crowned with yet another ring of dark elven standing stones. “Do you see that hill? It is where we met the last time you came to Urd Morlemoch. Those stones mark the beginning of the Warden’s influence.”

  “I remember,” said Ridmark.

  “Had the Warden’s servants ambushed you there,” said Ardrhythain, “I would not have been able to aid you. The Warden would have been aware of my presence, and within the circumference of his wards he unconquerable.”

  Ridmark felt a chill, realizing how close they had come to death. “Just as well Valakoth was impatient, then.”

  “Indeed,” said Ardrhythain. “I would speak to you and your companions before you proceed.”

  “We have many questions for you,” said Ridmark.

  “I shall answer what I can,” said Ardrhythain, “though I will not be able to answer all your questions. Some things I cannot tell you, for I am bound by the promise I made to Calliande centuries ago. And some things I cannot tell you, for they would give me power over you.”

  “Power?” said Ridmark. “I do not understand.”