The Dark Warden (Book 6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  The ruins of Urd Morlemoch filled the hill.

  “God and his saints,” said Caius, crossing himself. “I have never seen a dark elven ruin that size.”

  “Urd Arowyn could fit in there,” said Gavin. “Easily.”

  “A dozen times over,” said Kharlacht. Even the usually taciturn orc seemed shaken.

  “The spells,” said Mara, her voice dazed. Her right hand flailed out and seized Jager’s. “I can…I can see the spells binding the fortress. My God. They’re not just powerful. They’re…complex. The Traveler couldn’t do anything like this. The Matriarch couldn’t do anything like this. The Artificer…the Artificer was a fool if he thought he could challenge the Warden.” She looked at Ridmark, her green eyes wide. “If the Warden wasn’t trapped with Urd Morlemoch, he could shatter the Magistri and conquer Andomhaim with ease.”

  “The dark magic in the citadel is very great,” said Arandar, face grim.

  Neither Morigna nor Calliande said anything. Likely they could feel the dark power around Urd Morlemoch without utilizing any spells.

  Ridmark stared at the citadel.

  Urd Morlemoch had been built of gleaming white stone, and was at least as large as Coldinium, its ruins covering the entire hill. A wall, reinforced with bastions and ramparts, encircled the hill’s base. The hill had been cut into terraces, and crumbling mansions and towers covered their sides. A massive white tower, rising nearly five hundred feet tall, rose from the hill’s crest. Even in their half-ruined state, the walls of Urd Morlemoch could have repulsed a mighty army.

  Looking at the ruins gave Ridmark a headache.

  The angles were...wrong, the layout strange. The dark elves had a sense of aesthetics foreign to human eyes, and the ruins of Urd Morlemoch proved it. They looked alien and cold, as if constructed by a mind incomprehensible to human thought. Or as if the Warden had constructed his stronghold out of gleaming, polished bone.

  Three ribbons of cold blue fire flickered and danced around the high tower, spreading like crooked fingers across the sky. They were a central part of the mighty spells binding Urd Morlemoch and holding the Warden imprisoned within, though Ridmark could not fathom their function. Perhaps no one other than the Warden himself understood how the spells worked.

  “How,” said Gavin, “how are we ever going to get into that place?”

  “The gates are shut,” said Kharlacht. “Though I can see no watchers upon the outer walls.”

  “Oh, there will be watchers,” said Ridmark. Calliande flinched at that for some reason. “Just because we cannot see them doesn’t mean they are not there. If we try the main gate, we’ll likely have to fight a horde of undead or a thousand urvaalgs. For that matter, I’m sure the Warden’s wards will alert him if we approach the main gates.”

  “That does not answer the question,” said Arandar. His hand was clenched tight around Heartwarden’s hilt, which did not help Ridmark’s headache.

  “We shall enter Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark, “the same way we entered Urd Arowyn.”

  “How did you enter Urd Arowyn?” said Morigna.

  “Through the hidden tunnel behind the waterfall,” said Gavin, and then he laughed. “That’s how you knew dark elven ruins always had a bolt hole. From Urd Morlemoch.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, pointing with his staff. “You see that stream running below the southern wall?” It flowed between Urd Morlemoch and the surrounding hills until it reached the cliff and fell in a spectacular arc to the ocean below. “It conceals a hidden entrance to the catacombs below Urd Morlemoch.”

  “This is the entrance you used the last time?” said Arandar.

  “It is,” said Ridmark.

  “Will not the Warden have sealed it?” said Arandar.

  “I doubt he cares,” said Ridmark. “No one who comes here can harm him. Likely the purpose of the traps and guardians is to make sure that any intruders who reach him are not boring.”

  “Then let us make sure,” said Gavin, “that the Warden finds us more interesting than he would like.”

  “Well spoken,” said Kharlacht.

  “Be on your guard, all of you,” said Ridmark. He had told them all of this already, but it was wise to repeat it. None of them had ever gone into a place like Urd Morlemoch before. Perhaps Calliande had, but if she had the memory was of no use to her at the moment. “When we encounter the Warden, do not cast any spells at him. Any hostile magic directed at him rebounds to its caster. Be wary of everything we see. When last I came here, the Warden disguised himself as a Swordbearer named Sir Lancelus. He aided me against many of the creatures within the walls, no doubt in order to better observe me.”

  “The Sight will allow me to pierce any illusions,” said Mara. “Though perhaps the Warden has the power to work illusions of sufficient potency that I cannot pierce them.”

  Jager offered a florid shrug. “Really, this is no different than breaking into the domus of any other rich man.”

  “You were a thief?” said Arandar.

  “A thief?” said Jager. “I take umbrage at that, sir knight. I was a master thief! The best there ever was.”

  “Pride is a sin,” said Caius.

  “So is theft,” said Jager. “But confession is good for the soul, or so my village priest always said. So by boasting about my thefts, I am actually confessing them, which is itself meritorious, which means I should boast about my thefts whenever possible.”

  “Perhaps you should boast of your exploits to the Warden,” said Morigna. “No doubt he shall be so overawed that he will surrender and offer to tell us whatever we wish. Or he will blast you to dust and spare us your insufferable monologues.”

  Jager made his florid shrug again. “Well. I would not want to overwhelm the poor man. It seems only fair to give him a sporting chance, wouldn’t you say, Sir Arandar?”

  “You are utterly mad,” said Arandar.

  “Almost certainly,” said Jager. “But consider, Sir Arandar. You were willing to walk into Urd Morlemoch alone before you had met any of us.”

  “You…may have a point,” said Arandar.

  Ridmark let them bicker for a little longer. It was no different than men exchanging barbs to vent tension before walking into battle. Urd Morlemoch and its dark master were more dangerous than any battlefield. In a battle, a man could be slain, but his soul would be free to join the Dominus Christus in paradise.

  The Warden could inflict far, far worse fates than death.

  “This way,” said Ridmark. “Remain watchful, all of you.”

  He led the way towards the stream, the gleaming ruins of Urd Morlemoch rising above them like a silent fist of bone. Nothing stirred upon the outer wall or the bastions save for the ribbons of blue flame writhing around the massive central tower. Ridmark reached the stream and turned west, following its course until it fell arcing into the bay far below.

  He stopped at the edge of the cliff and looked down, the others fanning out behind him. It was a long way down, at least a thousand feet of grim, weather-beaten rock. The water of the stream fell in a widening white spray until it struck the heaped boulders far below. By then the waterfall was little more than a gentle fall of mist.

  The cavern entrance yawned behind the waterfall, a darker hole in the dark rock of the cliff.

  “There,” said Ridmark, pointing with his staff. A set of narrow stone stairs had been hewn from the rock, descending to the cavern entrance. “Be careful. The stairs are slick, and it is a long way down to the ocean.”

  “It need not be so,” said Morigna, and she gestured, purple light glimmering around her hand. The light shone around the stairs for a moment, seeming to sink into them, and vanished.

  “What did you do?” said Calliande.

  “I commanded the rock to grip us,” said Morigna. “One suspects it would be most anticlimactic to have come all this way only to slip and fall a thousand feet to one’s death.”

  “One would, indeed,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

&nb
sp; For a moment the hardness of her face faded in a brilliant smile. She smiled like that so infrequently, and it always surprised him when she did. Perhaps he could coax more of those smiles from her in the future.

  If they lived through this.

  “You know,” said Gavin, “I’ve never seen the ocean before.” He shook his head. “It’s so…big.”

  “How profound,” said Morigna.

  “The western sea is grim and storm-ridden,” said Arandar. “The southern sea is calmer by far. Perhaps if we live through this, you should come to Tarlion. I would be proud to sponsor you as a man-at-arms in the High King’s service, or even entry to the Order of the Soulblade, if the Master found you worthy.”

  “Truly?” said Gavin. “Thank you. I have given little thought to the future of late.”

  “Come,” said Ridmark. “If we do this, if we enter Urd Morlemoch and return, you will have done a greater deed than many living Swordbearers.”

  He picked his way down the steps. Morigna’s magic proved effective. The rough-hewn stairs looked wet and slick, yet the stone gripped his boots. At last he reached the cavern entrance, the spray damp against his face, and pulled himself into the cave, the sandy floor gritting beneath his boots. One by one the others joined him, and Ridmark helped pull them from the stairs and into the cavern.

  “Ah,” said Jager, brushing a bit of dust from his vest. “Cozy place.”

  “Were those bones here the last time you visited?” said Arandar. Bones lay scattered across the floor. A heap of tusked orcish skulls lay near an archway of white stone on the far wall, a flight of stairs rising beyond. Red crystals gleamed in the apex of the arch, throwing off a pale, blood-colored glow.

  “No,” said Ridmark, tapping one of the skulls with the end of his staff. “But there were urvaalgs in the caverns. Maybe other things, as well. Ardrhythain said the caverns below Urd Morlemoch join with the Deeps, so God only knows what could have wandered up from below. The caves open into Urd Morlemoch’s catacombs, and from there we can make our way to the surface and then the Warden’s tower. Follow me, and remain quiet unless absolutely necessary. There is no telling what we might encounter.”

  He crossed the cave and reached the stairs, climbing them in silence. The others followed, weapons in hand. Arandar’s soulblade gave off a steady, pale white gleam as Heartwarden reacted to the dark magic saturating Urd Morlemoch. The glow of the weapon might draw attention, but Ridmark doubted they could sneak past any guardians. Easier to kill them with Heartwarden and Calliande’s magic than to avoid them.

  It was possible the Warden already knew that they were here.

  Beyond the stairs, Ridmark remembered, they would find a series of large natural caverns dotted with clusters of glowing ghost mushrooms, the floor carpeted with bones. A pack of urvaalgs had lurked in the caverns, killing any intruders. Ridmark had killed the urvaalgs with Heartwarden during his last visit, but the Warden would have replaced the guardians by now, perhaps with something fiercer. He turned the last twist in the spiraling stair, staff ready…

  He came to a confused halt, blinking.

  “Gray Knight?” said Caius. “What is it?”

  Ridmark stepped away from the archway so the others could enter, his boots clicking against the smooth, gleaming white stone of the floor.

  A floor completely different than the rough cavern he had seen nine years ago.

  Instead of a natural cave, he stood in a massive hall of worked stone, the ceiling rising to a high arch far overhead. Slender columns rose along the walls, adorned with the grisly reliefs the dark elves preferred in their architecture. In the center of the vast hall stood a double ring of black standing stones, similar to the ones upon the hills outside, their flanks covered with more reliefs. Blue fire danced around the menhirs, throwing flickering shadows across the walls. Ridmark stared at the stones for a moment, something scratching at his mind. They looked similar to the countless other dark elven standing stones he had seen throughout the Wilderland, yet there was something different about them…

  “They’re new,” said Ridmark.

  “What is new?” said Caius.

  “I thought you said those stairs opened into a natural cavern,” said Arandar, Heartwarden burning in his hand as the soulblade responded to the dark magic within the menhirs.

  “Clearly the Warden redecorated,” said Jager. “His taste leaves much to be desired.”

  “The standing stones,” said Ridmark. “Look at them. They’re freshly carved. We’ve all seen stones like this before. But they were old, millennia old, and weathered. These are newly cut.”

  Both Calliande and Morigna whispered the spell to sense the presence of magic.

  “You’re right,” said Calliande. “All the spells upon Urd Morlemoch are ancient. These are new. No more than a few months old, I would guess.”

  “A trap?” said Ridmark. “A defensive ward?”

  “I…don’t think so,” said Calliande. “It’s more like a…a channel, I think.”

  “A pipe would be more accurate,” said Morigna.

  “A valve,” said Mara, the blue fire reflecting in her green eyes.

  Calliande and Morigna both looked at her. Mara was probably the only person who could make Calliande and Morigna stop arguing long enough to listen.

  “It looks like a valve,” said Mara. “I see the spells in the stones, and it looks like they were made to…channel and focus power.” She hesitated. “A lot of power.”

  “Are we in any danger from them?” said Ridmark.

  “So long as you don’t enter the circles,” said Mara. “Then I think you would be…um, melted. Maybe. Whatever happens wouldn’t be pleasant.”

  “Then by all means,” said Jager, “let us leave the Warden’s little light show undisturbed.”

  Ridmark led the others across the hall, making sure to stay well away from the stone circles. Why had the Warden built the things? Some magical spell? Some research he pursued? The Warden had been trapped with Urd Morlemoch for millennia, and no doubt had turned to all sorts of diversions to keep his mind occupied.

  Another archway opened in the far wall, opening into a second hall, larger than the first. The central quarter or so of the floor was taken up by a still, square pool, clumps of red-glowing ghost mushrooms growing at its edges. The ceiling rose high overhead, so high that Ridmark could barely see it in the gloom. Hundreds of plinths of white stone stood in neat rows across the floor, each one supporting a statue of a dark elven warrior carved from white stone. The warriors wore carved armor, swords thrust towards the ceiling.

  “Ridmark,” said Mara. “There are spells on each of the statues. I can’t tell what kind.”

  “Calliande?” said Ridmark.

  She gave a sharp shake of her head. “I cannot discern their nature. They’re not wards, though. Something else.”

  “I suppose if we walk into the hall,” said Gavin, “the statues will come to life and attack us? It sounds implausible, but we have seen stranger things in the dark elven ruins.”

  “I think this used to be one of the natural caverns,” said Ridmark. “The Warden must have rebuilt it. There were urvaalgs here. Morigna.”

  She closed her eyes and gestured, casting the spell that allowed her to sense the presence of anyone standing upon the ground.

  “Nothing,” she said, opening her eyes. “No urvaalgs. But…there are blank spots upon the plinths.”

  “Blank spots?” said Ridmark.

  Morigna grimaced. “It is hard to explain. It feels like there should be something standing there. Yet I can sense nothing.”

  “The statues, perhaps?” said Calliande.

  For once Morigna did not have a biting rejoinder. “I do not think so. The spell would detect the statues as part of the ground.”

  “There is another arch on the far end of the hall,” said Ridmark. “Keep your eyes open and your weapons ready. If this is a trap or a guardian of some kind, we will have to fight our way free.”


  He started forward, making his way between the rows of silent statues. The plinths came to his waist, and the statues seemed to look down upon him. He glanced up, wondering if the statues were actually looking at him, but they remained motionless. Soon they reached the pool at the center of the chamber. Halfway across, and nothing had happened.

  A bolt of pain went through Ridmark’s head. He turned and saw Heartwarden blazing in Arandar’s fist. The sword was reacting to a sudden surge of dark magic around them.

  “I don’t see anything,” said Arandar. “There’s not…”

  “Ridmark!” said Mara. “The statues! They’re not really statues. They…”

  Every single statue in the hall rippled and vanished.

  In their place stood undead Devout orcs. Most still had their flesh, while some had decayed to skeletons. Yet all had the blue fire pulsing in their dead veins and dancing in their empty eye sockets.

  “Illusions,” finished Mara, her voice a croak.

  “Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, raising his staff.

  In identical motions the undead jumped, raising swords of dark elven steel in their hands. One of the undead flung itself at Ridmark, and he swung his staff with both hands, catching the creature in its chest and throwing it to the smooth stone floor. The creature surged back to its feet, raising its sword, and Ridmark cast aside his staff and seized the axe from his belt, dodging the corpse’s blow. He whipped the axe around, driving the heavy blade through the withered thing’s neck. Dust flew and bone shattered, and the corpse collapsed motionless to the white floor.

  Dozens more rushed to take its place.

  Ridmark saw Calliande fall beneath the weight of two skeletal corpses and ran to aid her. A blast of white flame erupted from Calliande, throwing the undead from her and spreading in a ring through the nearby plinths. A dozen undead fell, the dark magic upon them ripped apart by the force of Calliande’s magic. Mara helped Calliande to her feet, and the Magistria cast another spell. A second wave of white fire rolled out from her, and this time the fire wrapped around their weapons, the axe’s haft trembling in Ridmark’s grasp.