The Elder Shamans

by Jonathan Moeller

  Again and again, Ridmark struck, leaving destroyed undead in his wake. The bones and armor and rusting swords piled up around him in a ring. Ansa shouted as she fought, wielding her short sword like a woodsman’s axe. Ridmark and Ansa were winning, but more undead swarmed towards them. He could not count how many. Dozens, surely.

  Ever since he had failed Aelia, Ridmark had courted death, and it looked as if it had found him at last.

  Ansa leveled the Gemstone of Fire. The soulstone spat a volley of fiery bolts, and a dozen undead caught fire and collapsed to the floor, but more rushed to take their place. Ansa yanked another crystal from her belt, and Ridmark saw the silvery glow of the Gemstone of Storms. He started to tell her not to use it, but Ridmark realized their situation was desperate enough that it did not matter.

  “Close your eyes!” shouted Ansa. “This will be bright!”

  Closing his eyes in the middle of a fight was madness, but Ridmark obeyed.

  A half-second later there was a brilliant flash, so loud he saw it even through his closed eyelids, and a titanic thunderclap and a blast of hot air. Ridmark opened his eyes and saw that the lightning stroke of the Gemstone of Storms had blasted through a score of the undead, scattering their blackened bones in all directions. Ansa stood staring at the destroyed undead with her jaw hanging open, shocked at the destruction that the soulstone had just unleashed.

  But more undead rushed them, filling the gap left by the lightning stroke, and Ridmark and Ansa fought for their lives.

  Then something metallic shot through the air overhead, flashing with red light.

  “Hai!” boomed a deep voice.

  A javelin landed among the charging undead, and then the javelin exploded. A bloom of flame washed out from the missile, rushing out and devouring dozens of the undead at once. The flame winked out, leaving the undead destroyed, though a few scattered creatures remained on their feet. Ridmark rushed forward, the ground smoking beneath his boots, and started smashing the remaining undead as fast as he could.

  A figure darted into sight, clad in leather and wool and wrapped in a tattered cloak. It was a halfling man, and beneath his cowl, his face was tight with rage and smeared with dirt. He snatched up the javelin from where it had landed and began striking with it, cutting down several more undead halflings.

  “Hai!” said the halfling again, stabbing his javelin into an undead creature. For some reason the creature caught fire at the javelin’s touch, the burning bones falling to the floor.

  “Marcomer!” said Ansa.

  The halfling man stopped and gaped at her. “Ansa?”

  She nodded.

  Marcomer said something to her in the fluid language of the Hidden People, and Ansa answered in the same tongue.

  “We must run!” said Ansa in orcish, looking to Ridmark.

  Ridmark nodded and followed the two halflings as they raced forward. Marcomer struck another undead with a flick of his javelin, and Ridmark saw that the blade of the weapon burned with flames. A Gemstone of Fire had been lashed to the javelin just above the head, and somehow the soulstone’s magic had transferred itself to the blade.

  Marcomer led them on a darting, weaving path through the crystals and the pools of molten stone. They ran for perhaps a half a mile, following the path of the cavern deeper into the bowels of the earth. At last they stopped near a cluster of crystals that gave off a pale white light. Marcomer drew back his cowl and looked at Ansa, saying something in the language of the Hidden People.

  “He says we should be safe here for now,” said Ansa, staring at her betrothed. “The undead, they do not come near the white crystals. We…”

  Marcomer grabbed her and gave her a long, hard kiss.

  Ansa didn’t need to translate that.

  When they at last broke apart, Marcomer looked at Ridmark, blinked, and asked Ansa a question in the language of the Hidden People.

  “His name is Ridmark Arban, my love,” said Ansa in orcish. “Let us speak in the orcish tongue, for Ridmark does not know the language of our people.”

  Marcomer sighed. “Marcomer does not like the orcish words, betrothed-Ansa.” His command of orcish was halting. “The language is uncouth.” He looked at Ridmark. His eyes were large and green, giving his face an oddly ethereal aspect, but most halflings looked that way. “What is this man?”

  “A valiant warrior,” said Ansa. “He helped me reach Urd Drysaar. The muridachs would have slain me in the forest of the bone orcs if not for his help.”

  “No, what is he?” said Marcomer. “He is not orcish. He is not big enough of shoulder or green enough for that.” Marcomer scratched his jaw, puzzled. “Is he a shaved tygrai? No, no tail.”

  “He is human, my love,” said Ansa. “Their kindred live far to the west, beyond the Qazaluuskan Forest, and are ruled by a High King and worship a god who was executed but came back to life.”

  Ridmark offered Marcomer a bow. “My name is Ridmark Arban. I am pleased to meet you, and I am even more pleased that you survived Urd Drysaar. Ansa thought you were still alive, but I confess I had my doubts.”

  “Ha!” said Ansa with a smile. “You did not understand a woman’s heart, human Ridmark! I would know at once if Marcomer was slain.”

  “Well, not-orc Ridmark,” said Marcomer. He offered a bow in return. “If you helped betrothed-Ansa, then Marcomer is glad to know you.” He looked at Ansa. “But what are you doing in Urd Drysaar? This is a bad place, and you should not have come here.”

  “I came to find you,” said Ansa. “I feared some ill had befallen you.”

  “Ill did indeed befall Marcomer,” said Marcomer. “Marcomer came to Urd Drysaar and entered using the hidden way. In the caves of crystal and liquid stone Marcomer harvested many Gemstones for the Ghost Path.” He opened a satchel that hung across his chest, and Ansa’s eyes widened again. Marcomer had nearly twenty Gemstones in his satchel. No doubt that would make him the most renowned warrior of the Ghost Path in generations. “Yet Marcomer was trapped. The wall of evil mist? It moves. The wall moved, and it blocked the secret path. Marcomer has hidden here ever since, hunting goats for food and hiding from the undead of the Elder Shamans.” He rapped the end of his javelin against the ground. “Fortunately, one of the Gemstones made my javelin burn like a forge! That was useful against the dead ones.”

  “I have brought a Gemstone of Mist, my love,” said Ansa. “With it, all three of us can bypass the poison mist and escape this evil place.”

  Ridmark hesitated. He was not ready to escape Urd Drysaar, not yet. Not until he had confronted the Elder Shamans and wrenched the truth from them.

  Marcomer noticed his hesitation. “Why did you come here? Do the hu…hue…” He stumbled over the strange word.

  “Humans,” said Ansa.

  “Do the not-orcs of your people harvest Gemstones as well, Ridmark Arban?” said Marcomer. “There are many here. If we hasten, we can take more Gemstones before we leave. If you helped betrothed-Ansa, dearer to me than water to a thirsty man, then Marcomer is glad to help you.”

  “I did not come to harvest Gemstones, Marcomer of the Ghost Path,” said Ridmark. “I came to speak to the Elder Shamans.”

  Marcomer blinked several times. “The Elder Shamans? That is…” He stopped to search for the right word. “That is very stupid.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Ridmark.

  “He is on a quest,” said Ansa. “His wife died, and he blames himself. To atone for her death, he is on a quest to learn the secret of the return of the Frostborn.”

  “The Frostborn?” said Marcomer. “That is an ill name. Macromer has heard the name spoken in his travels. Even the urdmordar and the dark elves fear the Frostborn, or so it is said.”

  “They are returning,” said Ridmark. “Both an urdmordar and a dark elven wizard spoke of their return to me. I must find the secret of their return so I can warn my kindred. For if they are not stopped, then perhaps all kindreds will die.”

  Marcomer considered this. �
��The thing you ask. It may be impossible. Three times bone shamans have come to Urd Drysaar while Marcomer has hidden here. The Elder Shamans, they live in the inner tower. Thrice the bone orc shamans went into the tower, and they never returned. Marcomer heard them scream, and saw the lights of magic, but the bone shamans never returned, and the undead swarmed out to kill their guards.”

  “I must risk it,” said Ridmark. “You should take Ansa and go from this place.”

  “No!” said Ansa, looking at Marcomer. “It would be an evil deed to abandon him here. He is a great warrior and helped me to find you here, even though he owed me nothing.”

  Marcomer considered this. “Then not-orc Ridmark is the fire, and betrothed-Ansa is the storm! But there is a middle way. The easiest path from Urd Drysaar leads past the courtyard before the gates of the Elder Shamans. From the rampart, it is easy to both take the simplest path from Urd Drysaar and to descend to the court of the Elder Shamans. Let us travel together there. Marcomer and betrothed-Ansa can watch Ridmark speak with the Elder Shamans while remaining hidden. If Ridmark is successful, we will all flee together. If Ridmark is slain, then it will be obvious, and Marcomer and Ansa can flee in haste.”

  He let out a long breath, tired by the effort of stringing so many words together in the orcish tongue.

  “This plan seems good to me,” said Ridmark.

  “But you will surely be killed,” said Ansa.

  “Maybe,” said Marcomer. “Perhaps that it was what his ancestors have decreed for him. But if it his will to defy the Elder Shamans, then Marcomer will not oppose it. Come! The path is this way.”

  Ridmark nodded. Ansa took a deep breath, casting a worried glance at Ridmark, and then turned back towards Marcomer. Ridmark was touched that the prospect of his death bothered Ansa so much, and he wished that Marcomer would have taken her from Urd Drysaar at once, leaving Ridmark here to deal with the Elder Shamans alone. But Marcomer’s plan had wisdom. If Ridmark survived his audience with the Elder Shamans, he would need to escape to warn the men of Andomhaim, and Ansa’s Gemstone of Mists provided his best option for a quick escape from Urd Drysaar.

  Marcomer’s plan had wisdom, and Ridmark saw how the warrior of the Ghost Path had managed to survive alone in Urd Drysaar for the last several months. Ridmark was glad for Ansa’s sake that he was still alive, glad that he was a skillful warrior, one worthy of becoming her husband. His own protectiveness towards Ansa surprised him, but perhaps it should not have. Over the past weeks, they had survived the bone orcs and the muridachs and the dvargir and the wyverns, and he had come to respect her. Ridmark wanted her to survive this, to return in triumph to the Ghost Path and live in peace with Marcomer.

  It was the sort of life he would never have, but she could still attain.

  Yet Marcomer and Ansa were lingering in Urd Drysaar to make sure he escaped.

  Troubled by this thought, he followed the two halflings through the gloom of the crystal cavern. They circled past another pool of molten rock, and Marcomer pointed out an archway of white stone built into the rough wall, leading to another narrow stairway that spiraled upward.

  “That way leads to the courtyard of the Elder Shamans,” said Marcomer. “Marcomer should go first. Sometimes undead are upon the stairs, and Marcomer’s javelin shall set them aflame.”

  “Lead on, then,” said Ridmark, and he followed Marcomer up the stairs, Ansa trailing after him, her bow in hand. Up and up the stairs went, and several times Marcomer stopped to listen. They kept going, and after a few hundred steps Ridmark saw the glimmer of daylight ahead.

  The stairs opened onto a rampart overlooking an inner courtyard, the massive central tower of Urd Drysaar rising high overhead. The tower’s angles looked even stranger and more alien from up close. Niches had been carved into the tower’s walls, holding statues of dark elven warriors in armor and wizards in elaborate robes with high collars. At the foot of the tower yawned a massive archway that led into darkness.

  “There,” said Marcomer in a whisper, dropping behind the battlements. “Beyond that archway is where the Elder Shamans reside. When the bone shamans come here, they pass beyond the arch to speak with the Elder Shamans.”

  “Have you been inside?” said Ridmark, dropping behind the battlements next to Marcomer. Ansa followed suit, her bow in hand.

  “Marcomer has not,” said Marcomer. “All who pass the arch meet their death.”

  “You should reconsider,” said Ansa. “There is no need to die here.”

  “I must continue,” said Ridmark, thinking of Aelia. “I have no choice. I…”

  Both Marcomer and Ansa looked to the right in unison, and Ridmark followed suit.

  He heard the sound of footsteps coming from that direction.

  “Remain still!” whispered Marcomer. “When you arrived, were there any living foes?”

  “A bone orc shaman and his attendants,” said Ridmark.

  “Ah,” said Marcomer. “Then we must remain still. They will not see us here.”

  Ridmark hesitated, but saw the sense in the halfling warrior’s suggestion, and nodded.

  A few moments later the first of the bone orcs spilled into the courtyard. They were the ones who had chased Ridmark and Ansa earlier, and more and more of the bone orcs emerged, staring up at the tower. Vhorlaskur himself followed them, the bloody fire blazing around his staff and upon his chest, the tusked skulls clattering with every step.

  As the bone orc warriors stepped back, Vhorlaskur stalked forward, stopping at the base of the broad white steps that led to the archway of the tower. The shaman drew himself up and began to shout in a thunderous voice.

  “Hear me!” he said. “I am Vhorlaskur of Qazhosk, a shaman of the great god Qazalask. Long have I studied the mysteries of life and death that Qazalask bestows upon his faithful! I have made the pilgrimage to the sacred ruins of Urd Drysaar to learn wisdom from the Elder Shamans. Come forth, elder ones, that I might learn from your wisdom!”

  The last word echoed away, and silence fell over the courtyard. Perhaps the shaman would have to enter dark archway. Maybe the Elder Shamans did not come forth in response to their petitioners and would make Vhorlaskur enter before they killed him.

  “Come forth, great ones!” called Vhorlaskur. “Let us hear the holy words of Qazalask. Let us…”

  Something stirred in the archway.

  Vhorlaskur fell silent, stepping forward in eagerness.

  A shape emerged from the dark archway, and Ridmark flinched in revulsion. Cries of fear and alarm came from the bone orcs. Vhorlaskur took a hasty step backward, raising his staff before him in guard.

  Ansa murmured something in the tongue of the Hidden People, her fear obvious.

  “Who are you?” shouted Vhorlaskur. “Name yourself!”

  A dark elf limped from the archway.

  He stood seven and a half feet tall, his hairless head the color of bleached bone. He reminded Ridmark a little of the Warden, but unlike the Warden, this dark elf looked twisted and misshapen. He moved with a heavy limp and leaned upon a staff of blue dark elven steel adorned with glowing soulstones. Strange growths sprouted from his face and head and arms, and his ornate robes had been adorned with more soulstones. His eyes were filled with shadows, twin pits into bottomless nothingness.

  The dark elf limped to the head of the stairs and stood there, leaning upon his staff.

  “Who are you?” said Vhorlaskur. “Where are the Elder Shamans?”

  “Do you not know, little orc?” said the dark elf, his voice deeper and more resonant than any human voice. “Has the truth not yet occurred to you?”

  “I do not understand,” said Vhorlaskur. He pointed his staff at the dark elf. “You will bring me to the Elder Shamans.”

  “The Elder Shamans?” said the dark elf. “Do you wish to know what happened to your precious Elder Shamans, little orc? Long ago, I ruled all these lands, and you and your cringing kindred worshiped me as your god. Then the urdmordar swept across the land an
d left me for dead in the ruins of my fortress.” He let out a laugh, the sound filled with madness. “But they did not kill me. For millennia orcish fools have come to Urd Drysaar, seeking power…and their strength has been devoured to sustain my life.”

  “You think to threaten me?” demanded Vhorlaskur.

  “I do not threaten,” said the dark elf. “For I am the Jeweler, and the Qazaluuskan Forest is mine, and you are mine.”

  He struck the end of his staff against the ground, and one of the soulstones along its length blazed to life. Vhorlaskur shouted and cast a spell, hurling a lance of blood-colored fire at the dark elf. It looked like a deadly spell, but the Jeweler made a negligent gesture with his free hand, and the bloody fire shattered into nothingness. He pointed his staff, the soulstone shining brighter.

  Something happened to Vhorlaskur.

  For a moment his form blurred as if something was being pulled out of him, and the shaman’s agonized screams filled the air. Then a ribbon of light ripped from Vhorlaskur’s chest and drained into the glowing staff, and the shaman collapsed dead to the ground. The Jeweler let out a groan of pleasure, shivering as he feasted upon whatever he had just taken from the dead shaman.

  “Take him!” roared one of the bone orcs, brandishing a sword.

  With a hoarse yell, the bone orcs charged at the Jeweler.

  The dark elven lord sneered and cast a series of spells. Fire ripped across the courtyard, accompanied by blasts of lightning and shadow. In the space of five seconds, the Jeweler slaughtered every single bone orc in the courtyard, their broken corpses falling like discarded toys to the ground. The Jeweler went motionless, leaning upon his staff and contemplating the dead orcs like an artist examining his work.

  Marcomer muttered something in his own tongue.

  “We must go,” said Ansa. “We must go at once. There never were any Elder Shamans, Ridmark, just the lures of this ancient monster. We must…no! Stop!”