The Dark Warden (Book 6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Come with me,” she said, her voice husky, and Gavin followed her.

  ###

  The carriage rattled to a stop, and Jager adjusted his fine cloak, the gleaming leather of his boots creaking, and descended. He reached up and held out a hand for Mara, and she descended after her him with a smile. The entire village of Caudea had turned out to see Jager home, and he strolled with his wife to his new domus, a fine house of white-painted stone with a roof of red tiles. It had once belonged to Sir Alan Tallmane and then his son Sir Paul, but Sir Alan had died and Sir Paul had paid the ultimate price for his crimes at the destruction of the Iron Tower.

  So Jager had bought the domus for himself.

  He could afford it. He could afford almost anything he wanted. After returning from the Gray Knight’s successful quest to stop the Frostborn, he had invested his money in various enterprises across the realm. His businesses had prospered, and he was possibly the richest man in the realm, richer than even the High King himself.

  His father and his sister awaited him at the front steps of the domus. Hilder had aged in the ten years since Jager had fled Caudea, his hair thinning, his face lined, though he still looked vigorous. Dagma stood next to him, smiling, her blond hair still hanging loose around her shoulders.

  “Father,” said Jager, a flicker of unease going through him. Hilder had wanted Jager to follow in his footsteps, to become the perfect halfling servant as Hilder had been. What would Hilder think of what Jager had become? “It has been a long time.”

  “It has, Jager,” said Hilder, and the old man smiled. “Time you put to good use. Look at what you have done. Look at all you have built. A halfling becoming the richest merchant in the High Kingdom? I never would have thought such a thing possible.” He beamed at Mara. “And you have brought home a beautiful wife.”

  Mara smiled. “You are too kind, sir.”

  “Come inside,” said Hilder. “Come home, Jager.”

  ###

  Arandar stepped onto the balcony.

  All of Tarlion spread below him, a hundred thousand people housed within its strong walls. The red dragon of the Pendragon banner flew from every tower and every parapet, and to the west the River Moradel gleamed in the afternoon sun, a thousand boats crowding its surface. Accolon and Nyvane stood with him. Accolon wore his finest clothes, looking as brave as a thirteen-year-old boy could manage, while Nyvane clutched her father’s hand, staring in fear at the old man standing at the railing.

  The High King turned as Arandar approached.

  He looked old and tired, for he had carried the weight of the realm for decades. Yet he still wore chain mail beneath his robes of black and gold, and the soulblade Excalibur, forged from the blade that Malahan Pendragon had carried from Old Earth, rested in the scabbard at his belt. His diadem glinted with jewels, and his dark eyes, still sharp and keen despite his age, looked over Arandar and Accolon and Nyvane.

  “My lord High King,” said Arandar with a deep bow, and his children followed suit.

  “Sir Arandar,” said Uthanaric Pendragon. He stood in silence for a while. “We have never spoken, have we?”

  “No, my King,” said Arandar. “I would never presume…”

  “I know,” said the High King. “You haven’t. You have never used your connection to me for advancement, Sir Arandar. In truth, it is hard for me to look at you…it is a reminder of a moment of weakness. If I could have gone my life without speaking to you, I would have done so.”

  Arandar said nothing. The words stung more than he expected.

  “But I was wrong,” said Uthanaric.

  “My lord High King?” said Arandar.

  “You went into Urd Morlemoch and came out alive again, bearing the soulblade Truthseeker,” said the High King. “You exposed Tarrabus Carhaine for the traitorous swine that he is. The knowledge you brought back allowed the realm to withstand the wrath of the Frostborn.” He shook his head. “I…was wrong, Sir Arandar. You are a knight and a Swordbearer any man should be proud to call his son. That I am proud to call my son.”

  “Father,” said Arandar, the word passing his lips for the first time. “I do not seek honors or lands or offices, only…”

  “Only acknowledgement that you are my son,” said Uthanaric Pendragon. “And you shall have it.” He hesitated. “I…have a favor to ask.”

  “Of course, my King,” said Arandar.

  “Would you introduce an old man to his grandchildren?” said the High King.

  Arandar smiled and led Accolon and Nyvane to greet their grandfather.

  ###

  Morigna yawned, stretched, and opened her eyes.

  She lay in her bed in Castra Arban, the ancient seat of the Duxarchate of Taliand, where the House of the Arbanii had ruled in the High King’s name for centuries. Morigna rose from the bed and wrapped a robe around herself, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet. Not that it troubled her. She had spent years living in the forest and sleeping in a cave, and the experience had made her strong. Little wonder she found it so easy to dominate these weak southern noblewomen. Most of them had never seen a pagan orc, let alone an urvaalg. One harsh look and they melted like icicles in sunshine. It made them easy to persuade, and they in turn persuaded their husbands to support her husband.

  Not that their husbands needed much persuasion. Ridmark Arban, Dux of Taliand, was the sort of man other men followed willingly, even gladly.

  She crossed to the window, walking carefully with the unaccustomed weight in her belly, and gazed at the fields beyond Castra Arban. Ridmark’s firm rule had brought order to Taliand, and with order came prosperity. After he had rooted out and destroyed the Enlightened of Incariel, executing those who resisted and exiling those who surrendered, he was the most powerful man in the realm behind the High King, respected by many and feared by all. Andomhaim was entering a age of order and prosperity, with the Mhorite orcs crushed and the other pagan tribes brought to heel. Not even the kobolds or the dvargir dared to raid the surface in fear of the Gray Knight’s wrath.

  Morigna had always known there was greatness in Ridmark, that he had the potential to become so much more.

  And he had risen high with her standing at his side.

  The door opened, and Morigna turned as Ridmark entered. He wore black trimmed with gold, the colors of the Arbanii, and the stark look suited him. He had gained a bit of weight since their days wandering the Wilderland in pursuit of the Frostborn, but he still moved with the same fluid grace and confidence of a deadly warrior.

  “You are not dressed, wife?” said Ridmark, taking her hands and kissing her. “We sail for Tarlion at noon.”

  “You have spoiled me,” said Morigna. “Too long sleeping in this soft bed.”

  “A few days upon the barge sailing south to Tarlion will cure that,” said Ridmark.

  She smiled back at him, feeling his hands against hers. Those hard hands had brought order and peace to Andomhaim.

  The child growing beneath her heart would never know the kind of fear and pain that she had.

  ###

  After so many years of wandering, Ridmark Arban returned to Castra Marcaine at last.

  Aelia was waiting, and her face lit up with joy at the sight of him. Ridmark crossed the great hall of Castra Marcaine, the tiles of black and white clicking beneath his boots. They had met in this hall, they had danced together for the first time here, and they had wed here. Something else had happened here, something terrible…

  No. A dark dream. Nothing more.

  Aelia came into his arms, and he kissed her, heedless of the breach of public decorum. Around them the knights and lords filling the great hall of Castra Marcaine cheered. Aelia broke away and grinned at him, and Ridmark smiled back.

  For a moment he thought her black eyes belonged to someone else. Another woman. Someone he had known and forgotten…

  “Ridmark?” said Aelia.

  He shook off the peculiar sensation. “I am fine.”

  Together they
turned to face the dais as Gareth Licinius, Dux of the Northerland, rose from his formal curule chair. Aelia’s father was still hale and strong, despite the gray in his black hair.

  “Ridmark Arban, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade,” said Gareth. “Again you have brought great honor to Castra Marcaine. You have succeeded in your quest, and prevented the return of the Frostborn. A grave peril has been ended.”

  “My lord Dux,” said Ridmark. “That is all I have ever desired. To serve your court with honor as a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade.” He also desired to be a good husband to Aelia and a good father to their children, though that was not the sort of thing one said in front of the court.

  “Then you have succeeded,” said Gareth. “It would please me to award you a benefice of land with a manor, so that you may support yourself, my daughter, and any children.” His stern face softened in a smile. “I do hope there are grandchildren soon, Sir Ridmark. I am not getting any younger, and it would please me to teach my grandson to hold a sword.”

  “We shall endeavor to fulfill that duty with all haste, Father,” said Aelia, and the court laughed.

  He smiled down at her, and for an instant, he saw another woman. A woman paler than Aelia, with long black hair and black eyes, a mouth that rose in a mocking grin. Then she became a third woman with long blond hair and blue eyes.

  Morigna and Calliande.

  For a moment those names hovered at the edge of his consciousness, along with a horrible feeling of dread. After a moment the feeling and the names faded. He had never met anyone named Morigna or Calliande. He was Ridmark Arban, a Swordbearer, the husband of Aelia.

  That was all he had ever wanted to be.

  “Let the feast begin,” said Gareth. His guests cheered, and Ridmark led his wife to the high table.

  ###

  Calliande awoke in pain, but not to darkness.

  She stood, finding herself in the strange place she visited in her dreams, the mist-choked gray plain where the Watcher spoke with her. She looked around, her heart racing, stabs of pain shooting up and down her legs and arms. Previously the gray mist had been lit by a dull glow, but now a harsh crimson glare blazed around her, arcs of snarling ruby lightning jumping through the mist. One of the bolts struck her. Calliande flinched, preparing a ward, but the bolt of lightning did not burn. Instead it coiled around her arm and sank into her.

  “What is this place?” said Calliande, looking around for any foes. “Where am I?”

  “At the end, I fear,” said a man’s voice, rough with sorrow.

  Calliande saw the Watcher appear out of the mist. He was an old man with a tangled gray beard and a mane of gray hair, and wore the white robe and a black sash of a Magistrius. Previously his eyes had been heavy with sadness. Now the spirit’s face was taut with horror, his eyes wide.

  “The end?” said Calliande. “No. The Warden wouldn’t have killed me. He needs my body…”

  “We are,” said the Watcher, “inside the empty soulstone.”

  “How?” said Calliande.

  “The Warden ripped your spirit from your flesh and imprisoned it within the stone,” said the Watcher. “He has achieved what Shadowbearer and Qazarl failed to do. His spirit inhabits your flesh, and even now is walking for the gates of Urd Morlemoch.”

  “Then…then we are trapped here?” said Calliande, horrified. She had slept for over two centuries below the Tower of Vigilance. But to be trapped in the misty void of the empty soulstone, conscious the entire time…how long would the Warden hold her imprisoned?

  “Yes,” said the Watcher. “But not for long. The Warden will use the soulstone as the crux of a spell to open a world gate.”

  “Similar to the one Shadowbearer created to summon the Frostborn here?” said Calliande. “The one he wanted to use me to create?”

  “You understand,” said the Watcher. “You know the truth now, and I can speak more of it. Shadowbearer sought to use your death and the empty soulstone to create a gate to the world of the Frostborn, allowing them to return. Now that power has fallen into the hands of the Warden. He will instead travel to Old Earth and conquer it, and use their engines of war to conquer world after world, building himself an endless empire.”

  “I know who I am now,” said Calliande. “The Keeper of Avalon.”

  “Aye,” said the Watcher, “but I fear it is far too late to make any difference.”

  “Why not?” said Calliande. “Ridmark will find a way. He…”

  “He is imprisoned in a spell along with all the others,” said the Watcher. “The Warden has trapped them in a dream of their greatest desires and losses. They will not wake. They will not want to wake, and will die of thirst within their sleep.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “Ridmark will…”

  “He will not,” said the Watcher. “You should not have trusted the Gray Knight. He has led you to your death. The Warden will take the soulstone and use it to open the gate to Old Earth. The power of his spell will destroy your spirit…and you will be dead at last, Calliande.” He shook his head, tears gleaming in his eyes. “We have failed. After so many years, after so many centuries, we have failed. Shadowbearer will find another soulstone and open the gate, and this time there will be no one to stop him. There will be no one to fight the Frostborn, for the only men and women who believed the threat are dead in Urd Morlemoch, and the High Kingdom has been hollowed out by the Enlightened of Incariel. God forgive us, but we have failed and doomed our world.” Tears trickled down his lined cheeks and into his beard. “I have failed you, my lady Keeper. Forgive me. If only I had advised you better. If…if only I had offered you better counsel, then perhaps we might not have come to this bitter end. Forgive me…”

  “No!” said Calliande, seizing his hands. “Do not say such things. You have done nothing to require forgiveness! You watched over me for centuries. Without your counsel, I would not have come this far…”

  “To your death,” said the Watcher.

  “I…” said Calliande.

  She saw no answer to his remorseless logic.

  They had gone to their deaths…and worse, they had failed utterly.

  Calliande closed her stinging eyes and waited for the end.

  Chapter 17 - The New Empire

  The Warden of Urd Morlemoch stood atop his citadel and rolled the shoulders of his new body.

  Human bodies were less durable than elven ones, less able to repair themselves. Human females had less muscle mass and weaker bones and suffered from the additional inconvenience of menstruation, which left the body vulnerable to any number of disorders. Neither would hinder the Warden. He would use magic, not crude material force, to conquer his foes, and taking as many human bodies as necessary would be a minor inconvenience. Even at peak health, the Keeper’s body would only last for another sixty years at the most. He would take a new host long before that.

  He looked down at the soulstone in Calliande’s right hand. It blazed with an inner crimson glow, the shadow of dark magic writhing around it. He felt the tremendous potency within the stone. The Keeper possessed immense magical power, power that the soulstone magnified exponentially. Of course, the Keeper possessed no means of accessing that power, not with her memory locked in Dragonfall. Had she possessed her full magic, the Warden might not have been able to overcome her so easily.

  She had been a fool to give up her power.

  One more item at Calliande’s belt held his attention. She carried a soulcatcher, a dark elven weapon of extreme potency, and he recognized the distinctive touch of the Matriarch’s magic. Likely the half-breed had stolen the weapon from the Matriarch when she had taken up with a halfling lover.

  That, too, pleased the Warden. He detested the Matriarch, and looked forward to leaving her behind for the Frostborn. A pity he would not get to hear her scream.

  Greater pleasures awaited him.

  He looked at his old body. It floated above the central altar, enmeshed in the intricate currents of the spell
that bound his flesh to Urd Morlemoch. An impenetrable sphere of force surrounded the body, manifesting as a globe of pale blue light. Ridmark Arban and seven of his companions stood pinned against the menhirs, bound in place by his spell. Even now they would be dreaming their sweet dreams, believing they had been granted their heart’s desires, thinking that the real world was a fading nightmare. Perhaps they would die of thirst in the grips of their dream. Or perhaps they would awaken in the moments before they died and realize the magnitude of their error.

  The Warden did not care. If any of them managed to awaken, the conquest of Old Earth would be well underway by then.

  He left the top of his tower, descending through the long winding stairs and galleries to the ruins below. He took the measure of his new body as he descended, gauging its balance and strength, and soon had full control. Generations of undead Devout stirred as he passed, following their master, and soon a column of undead servants trailed his passage through the tower.

  The Warden left the tower and made his way down the ramps, living warriors of the Devout falling in around him. The enhancements he had made to their eyes let them see the truth of their master, even in his new body, and they obeyed him without question. At last the Warden stood before the outer gates, and he gestured. The great doors of blue dark elven steel swung open.

  Without hesitation, the Warden strode through them.

  A surge of magical force snarled around him, and for the first time in fifteen thousand years, the Warden left the walls of Urd Morlemoch.

  He stopped for a moment to savor the triumph. The high elves had tried to defeat him. His fellow dark elves had tried to kill him. The full might of the urdmordar had tried to destroy him. Yet he had outlasted them all, and countless worlds were his for the taking.

  The Warden’s howl of laughter echoed off Urd Morlemoch’s outer wall, and the living Devout roared, brandishing their weapons in the air as they shared in their master’s triumph. And why should they not? He was their god, and he would lead them to new worlds to enslave and plunder.