The ranks of the Devout parted, and Valakoth approached, leaning upon his staff of bone.
“Master,” said Valakoth. Even the withered orcish wizard seemed awed. “It is as you have said. The great day has come at last.”
“Indeed,” said the Warden. “Let us proceed at once. The acolytes are ready?”
“All is as you have commanded, great master,” said Valakoth. “The acolytes are in the stone circles around Urd Morlemoch. Already they begin the spells of summoning. By the time you reach the grand circle, they shall be ready, and will await your command.”
“Good,” said the Warden. “Bid the Devout to stand guard at the base of the hill below the grand circle. I have commanded the urvaalgs to heed you. Watch for intruders. If anyone attempts to interrupt the spell, kill them without hesitation.”
“It shall be as you wish,” said Valakoth.
“Excellent,” said the Warden, and set off from the gate of Urd Morlemoch, making his way to the grand circle east of the citadel. There was no time to waste.
Because, in truth, he was vulnerable until the gate was open.
The nature of the spells binding his previous body to Urd Morlemoch meant that the Warden had left a great deal of his power in the citadel. He was still mighty, but not invincible as he had been within Urd Morlemoch. A concerted attack could kill him. In this fragile body, even simple mischance might kill him. If that happened, his spirit would simply return to his original body. But he would be trapped once more, and he would have to devise a new stratagem to escape this world before the return of the Frostborn.
In his current condition, both Ardrhythain and Shadowbearer would have been strong enough to defeat him. Fortunately, Shadowbearer and Ardrhythain were locked in their endless duel. Both archmages would have tried to stop him, had they known what he was about to attempt. But by the time they sensed the presence of the mighty forces he was about to summon, the spell would be complete, and the Warden would have opened the gate and traveled to Old Earth.
Once he reached Old Earth, his full powers would return, and the conquest of his new empire would begin. He would start with the dominions of the Americans and the Russians and the Chinese. All three nations possessed potent militaries, countless engines of war, and foolish leaders. Once he had enslaved and suborned those empires’ leaders, it would be a simple matter to force the lesser nations to heel…
The Warden dismissed the thought. First he had to open the gate.
He walked through the Torn Hills, the Devout, the undead, and packs of urvaalgs flanking him. Circles of standing stones stood on the crests of the nearby hills, and even with his weak human eyes he saw the robed figures of the Devout wizards within, arms waving as they worked their spells. Fires of blue and green burned atop the altars within the circles, and the Warden felt magic stirring in response, like the earth tensing in the instant before a quake.
He came to a large hill a few miles east of Urd Morlemoch. Three massive, concentric circles of black menhirs crowned the top of the hill, each consecutive circle rising higher than the last. Within the central circle stood a mound crowned with a jagged black altar. Behind the altar rose a pair of towering menhirs topped by a lintel, its entire surface carved with intricate glyphs of summoning, opening, and binding. The other circles surrounding and within Urd Morlemoch focused the entirety of their power here, upon the great stone arch.
Within that stone arch, the Warden would open the door to Old Earth.
His guardians moved to encircle the hill, and the Warden ascended alone with Valakoth to the top of the hill. The sigils upon the menhirs began glowing as he passed, tracing twisted designs across the stone. He had spent centuries building the stone circles around Urd Morlemoch, carving the glyphs and charging them with arcane power, instructing the Devout exactly where to place them.
Now he was ready to rip his way free from the confines of this world.
He held up the soulstone as it blazed brighter, so bright than he saw the bones of Calliande’s fingers where they rested against the stone. The Warden placed the soulstone upon the altar, and a deep, resonant thrum went through the menhirs, a thrumming noise echoed through the dozens of other circles ringing Urd Morlemoch.
Almost as an afterthought, he drew the Matriarch’s soulcatcher, whispered a spell, and sank the blade into the black stone of the altar. The three yellow soulstones flickered and turned a deep crimson as they responded to the magic of the greater soulstone. That was an unexpected bonus. The soulcatcher’s power was not necessary to open the gate, but the Warden would not turn away its aid.
He cleared his mind and began summoning power, moving Calliande’s hands through intricate gestures, her lips and tongue through the words of power. The light from the menhirs pulsed and throbbed, matching the cadence and rhythm of his words. The thrumming noise became a steady groan, punctuated with a moaning hum like the pulse of a heartbeat. Rings of fire erupted from the glyphs upon the menhirs, linking them together in chains of arcane flame. The bloody light from the soulstone spread, seeming to sheath the black altar in a shell of crimson light.
And still the Warden’s spell continued.
At last he stopped speaking, the ground beneath Calliande’s boots vibrating with the gathered arcane forces.
“Valakoth,” said the Warden. “Now.”
The withered orc drew forth a war horn and lifted it to his lips. Despite his age, he blew a mighty blast upon the horn, the note ringing over the Torn Hills. It was a long moment until the echoes faded away.
The horn was answered by a second, a third, a fourth, until a cacophony of droning notes rang over the hills. An instant later a pillar of blue-green fire erupted from the nearest circle as the acolytes within it activated their spells, followed by a second pillar from another circle, and then a third, until dozens of burning pillars stabbed into the endless black night.
“Go!” said the Warden. “Guard the approach. I shall open the way.”
Valakoth bowed. “Soon, great master, the glorious conquest shall begin!” The orcish wizard hurried away, and the Warden bent all his power upon the soulstone, beginning another spell. The ground began to shake, and behind him the pillars of fire flickered and writhed.
He gestured, beckoning, and the pillars curved. The Warden floated a few feet off the ground, suspended in the power of the mighty spells, Calliande’s hands hooked into claws. Another gesture, and the pillars of fire bent further, reaching down to touch the earth.
Specifically, the other circles of standing stones.
Thunder roared through the Torn Hills, and in that instant a ring of blue-green fire surrounded Urd Morlemoch, leaping from circle to circle. The apex of the ring closed upon the grand standing circle around the Warden. He had spent centuries designing and constructing it, and the power flowed exactly where he desired. The grand circle activated around him, torrents of magic pouring into the soulstone.
Which, in turn, focused it open the great archway.
Gray mist swirled and writhed within the arch, the beginnings of the gate.
The first step was complete. The thresholds of Old Earth and this world were beginning to touch. Soon a portion of each threshold would merge entirely, and then he could punch through and open the gate.
Then he would walk upon the face of Old Earth in the flesh, and teach its humans to obey.
“At last,” he murmured.
He began the final sequence of spells, shaping the awesome powers he had summoned.
Chapter 18 - Power at a Price
Mara did not dare open her eyes.
Opening them would be a considerable effort, given how the Warden’s spell held her pinned against the menhir. Yet the spell felt…wrong, somehow. Like trying to force a square peg into a round hole, or a key into the wrong lock. The sensation was distinctly uncomfortable and accompanied by an increasing amount of pain, but it gave Mara hope.
Ridmark had been right, and the Warden had been wrong.
The Warden
had thought that she was on the verge of transformation, and had failed to realize that she had already transformed into something new. Consequently, his spell was not affecting her the way he had intended. Or, at least, Mara didn’t think so. The Warden had spoken of imprisoning them within pleasant dreams, but Mara felt nothing like that. A peculiar vision flickered through her mind, an image of a reunion with her mother, but the thought was ridiculous. Mara had loved her mother, but she had been dead for years, and Mara would not see her again until they were rejoined with the Dominus Christus in paradise.
Likely the spell was touching the human half of her mind, while the dark elven half was immune. Or she had enough dark elven blood to resist the spell. Mara kept her eyes closed, her breathing slow and deep. If the Warden realized the spell hadn’t affected her properly, he would simply kill her.
So she waited, despite the increasing pain in her chest and head. After a moment she heard the click of Calliande’s boots against the floor, and then the sound of someone descending the stairs.
Mara counted to one hundred, and then forced her eyes open.
That hurt, and it took more effort than it should have, but she did it.
She was pinned to one of the menhirs. Calliande’s body was gone, as was the soulstone. The Warden floated in a globe of blue light over the altar and the enormous azure soulstone. Or, rather, the Warden’s body, given that his spirit had taken over Calliande’s flesh. Mara saw Jager pinned to the menhir next to her, his eyes closed, his expression peaceful. Ridmark and Morigna and all the others were held in similar positions, all of them unconscious.
Magic lashed and writhed before Mara’s Sight.
She felt her eyes widen.
A lot of magic.
Vast oceans of magical power stirred, spinning around Urd Morlemoch like an invisible vortex. Blue-green fire flared in the hills, rising from the stone circles. The Warden was gathering power to open his gate, and once he did, Calliande would perish forever, and Jager and Ridmark would die of thirst in their dream while the Warden conquered Old Earth. Unless Mara did something clever. Now she just had to figure out what that was…
Something wet hit her lip as her headache increased, and Mara tasted blood upon her tongue.
Her nose was bleeding. Maybe her dark elven blood wasn’t resisting the spell. Perhaps it was more like trying to drive a wagon with the brakes on. Sooner or later the axle would snap. Mara was not sure how that metaphor applied to her mind, but she really didn’t want to find out.
She tried to push away from the menhir and the spell, and managed to kick her legs and flail her arms a bit before the effort became too much. Mara closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind. Her head felt as if she had an icepick between her eyes, and similar pains were flaring in her chest and shoulders. She did not think she could muster the strength to push away from the menhir.
Fortunately, she had other means of travel…but she did not know what would happen if she used it while that damned spell was drilling into her.
Mara had no choice but to find out.
She reached for the fire within her, the furious song of her dark elven blood, and forced the power to envelop her. Pain exploded through her, and Mara screamed as blue fire consumed her.
The fire cleared, and Mara found herself standing outside the ring of standing stones.
The pain was gone.
She sighed, took a step forward, and passed out.
###
Mara awoke.
Fear jolted her to her feet, and she looked around, her heart hammering. There was no sign of the Warden, Calliande, or any of the Warden’s creatures. Jager and Ridmark and the others were still pinned to the menhirs. Mara staggered forward, her head swimming, and reached for the nearest menhir to support herself…
She stopped herself.
The power of the Warden’s dream spell surged through the menhirs, channeled through the soulstones on their small altars. If Mara had touched it, the power would have redirected into her.
More light burned in the dark hills outside of Urd Morlemoch. With the Sight, Mara saw the titanic spell coming together, like watching a great cathedral assemble itself in mere moments instead of decades. She did not know how long it would take the Warden to open his gate. A few hours, perhaps? Maybe half a day? Even a wizard as powerful as the Warden needed time to work such a tremendous spell.
If they acted at once, perhaps they could stop him and save Calliande, but Mara could not face him alone.
And she had no idea how to awaken the others.
She considered the intricate network of spells upon the menhirs, more complex than she could understand. Perhaps Calliande could have dispelled them, but Calliande’s spirit was imprisoned in the soulstone and her body was occupied by the Warden’s malevolent spirit. Mara suspected that removing the smaller soulstones from their altars would break the spell, but moving the stones could trigger a backlash of misdirected magic that would kill her and everyone else atop the tower. She had to find a way to break the others free of the spell.
But how?
Perhaps her power could move them. Mara had wondered if she could transport others with her when she used her power to move from place to place, though she had never been desperate enough to risk it. Well, she was desperate enough to try it now.
Her first impulse was to free Jager. She wanted to save her husband, but Mara doubted she had the strength to break more than one or two of the others free. Whoever she freed would have to help her undo the spell around the others. Arandar, maybe? A soulblade gave its bearer the power to dispel hostile magic. Yet Heartwarden’s power had not been enough to protect Arandar from the Warden.
That left Morigna. The wild sorceress did not have Calliande’s power or skill, but she could do things the Magistria could not. Perhaps she could figure out how to undo the spell.
At least, Mara hoped so.
She stepped back into the ring and gazed up at Morigna. Like the others, the sorceress was pressed against the menhir, her arms spread as if she had been crucified. Her eyes were closed, her expression serene. Mara wondered what filled her dreams.
“I’m sorry about this,” whispered Mara.
She took several deep breaths, drawing on the song of her blood. Her head spun, and her body ached. The timing would have be just right.
The blue fire rose to swallow her, but in the instant before it did, Mara grabbed Morigna’s shoulders and pulled her along. The snarling dark magic of the menhir closed around Mara, pain erupting through her skull, but the blue fire swallowed her.
She reappeared a few yards away and fell to her knees, coughing and gasping.
Morigna sprawled motionless to the floor.
###
Black fire screamed through Morigna’s mind.
She lay stunned upon the cold stone, her mind paralyzed by two competing sets of memories. In one she was a sorceress of the Wilderland, living alone in the woods. In another she was the wife of Ridmark Arban, Dux of Taliand, standing at his side as he brought order and prosperity to the High Kingdom…
Which set of memories was real? She could not tell.
Then the sound of coughing filled her ears, and the false dream vanished, and Morigna realized just how much danger they faced.
She sat up, summoning power for a spell. She was still at the top of the Warden’s tower. The Warden’s body floated in a sphere of blue light over the central altar, and there was no sign of Calliande or the soulstone. Mara knelt a few paces away, coughing and thumping on her chest with a fist. The blue-green fire blazing outside the walls of Urd Morlemoch made her face look ghostly.
It took Morigna a moment to find her voice.
“We are not dead?” she said at last.
“Not yet,” said Mara, wiping blood from her nose. She sniffled, spat, and cleared her throat. “But we are in a lot of trouble.”
“Plainly,” said Morigna. “What happened? How long was I unconscious?”
“
Not long,” said Mara, wobbling to her feet. “A few moments. The Warden moved his spirit into Calliande’s body, and bound hers within that empty soulstone. He’s going to use it to open a gate to Old Earth. He trapped the rest of us in that enchanted sleep, and then left with the soulstone.”
“How are you still awake?” said Morigna.
Mara grinned. “The Warden doesn’t know what I really am. So he didn’t use the proper spell on me. His magic didn’t knock me out.”
“The dream was so real,” murmured Morigna. She remembered the taste of Ridmark’s lips on hers as they lay together in Castra Arban, the feel of his child growing beneath her heart. That solidified her resolve. She had been trapped in a dream, but Ridmark was real. She would kiss him again, if they did not die here.
Though that seemed unlikely at the moment.
“Aye,” said Mara. “The Traveler used to do it to slaves. He would bind them in an enchanted sleep, a dream that fulfilled their every desire. Except he would let them awake in the final moment before they died of thirst and hunger, so they would realize that the dream had been false in the instant before death.”
“I do not care for the dark elves,” said Morigna.
“I don’t think they even liked themselves,” said Mara.
“How did you break the spell and wake me up?” said Morigna.
“I didn’t,” said Mara. “I grabbed you and transported you a short distance.”
Morigna frowned. “I thought Calliande said that transporting a human through magic almost always causes insanity.”
“She did,” said Mara. “But she also said the likelihood increases with further distance, and we only went a few yards. Given the alternatives, it seemed the best risk available.”
“It would seem so,” said Morigna. “Can you do it again?”
Mara shook her head. She looked exhausted, paler than usual, her eyes ringed with dark circles. The blue fire had not yet faded from her veins as it usually did after she used her power. “I doubt it. Not without killing myself in the process. I hoped you have a spell or two to use.”
The Dark Warden (Book 6) Page 21