The Dark Warden (Book 6) (12 page)

“This is not a negotiation,” said Valakoth. He lifted his staff, and blue fire blazed down its length, shining in the empty eyes of the yellowed skulls. “Surrender the artifacts. Or perish and we shall take them from your corpses.” 

“No,” said Ridmark, tossing aside his staff and drawing his dwarven war axe. Behind them the others lifted their weapons. A pulse of pain went through Ridmark’s head as Heartwarden’s fire blazed brighter, and both Calliande and Morigna held spells ready. “You will allow us to pass, or we shall fight you. You might have magic…but so do we, and we have a soulblade, too.”

Valakoth’s lined face twisted into a sneer. “The feeble magic of the high elves. The master of Urd Morlemoch fought the high elves long before any of your kindreds came to this word. He is our lord and god, and his blessings are of power. Behold!” 

He slammed the end of his staff against the earth. A pulse of blue fire rolled from the staff, and the air over the slope of the hill below the standing stones rippled and roiled. The distortion cleared, and suddenly dozens of white-haired Devout orcs stood there, clad in chain mail, swords and maces and bows ready in their hands. They stood larger and stronger than normal orcs, their arms and necks corded with muscle, their veins shining with blue fire. Ridmark realized that the orcs had been there the entire time, concealed by Valakoth’s magic. 

“Kill them!” commanded Valakoth, and the archers drew back their bows. 

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Morigna waved her staff before her, its sigils flaring with purple flame. 

Her thoughts reached through the staff, its magic projecting to the orcish archers standing upon the hill. Through the staff she felt the wood of their bows, felt their grain and heft and weight, felt them strain as the archers drew back the strings. 

The wood responded to her command and shattered. The archers staggered, their weapons breaking apart. The rest of the Devout charged down the hill in eerie silence, their veins shining with blue fire. Valakoth turned to face Morigna, and she felt the weight of the ancient orc’s gaze strike her like a physical blow. The wizard pointed his staff at her, blue fire snarling around its length. 

Morigna didn’t recognize the spell, but she was entirely certain that she did not want to find out what it would do to her. 

Ridmark and the others charged. He crashed into the first wave of the Devout, blue-glowing blood flying from his axe blade. Kharlacht and Caius fought side-by-side as they often did, the dwarven friar stunning foes with his mace, giving Kharlacht the opening to land devastating blows with his greatsword. Gavin dashed into the fray, bashing with his shield, while Mara and Jager darted around him. Arandar was a whirlwind of death, Heartwarden writing lines of white fire into the air. The soulblade’s magic made him faster and stronger, and Morigna wondered again what a terror Ridmark must have been with Heartwarden in hand. 

The blue fire around Valakoth’s staff brightened, and Morigna cast another spell. 

A pillar of acidic mist swirled around the orcish wizard, the grass sizzling and burning. Yet the mist did not touch Valakoth. A faint blue glow shone around him, and she realized that the orcish wizard had wards strong enough to blunt her attack. She began another spell, drawing even more power, but realized she could not finish before Valakoth struck.

White fire snapped across the battle, hammering into the orcish wizard. This time he staggered back, leaning upon his grotesque staff for balance. Calliande moved next to Morigna, sheathed in pulsing white light, fire dancing around her fingers. 

“Morigna,” she said. “Keep the Devout off me. I will try to deal with Valakoth.”

She began another spell, as did Valakoth. Blue fire and shadow struggled against the white flame of the Well’s magic. A band of Devout warriors charged towards them in silence, weapons raised, their eyes shining with the blue fire of their veins. 

Morigna whipped her staff before her and drew upon the tainted power of the earth beneath her boots. The ground rippled, throwing the charging orcs from their feet. Roots burst from the earth, wrapping around the orcs’ limbs like cords. A third spell, and she sent acid mist rolling over them, their flesh sizzling and blistering and steaming. The Devout trapped her in spells began to scream, screams that ended when the acid air choked off their breath entirely. 

Spells snarled between Valakoth and Calliande, while Ridmark and the others fought their way through the Devout. 

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Magic burned through Calliande, and she summoned more power. She had indeed grown stronger since she had left Dun Licinia in pursuit of Ridmark. The Devout, despite their magical augmentation, were still creatures of flesh and blood, and weapons of steel could wound them. That left Calliande free to direct all of her newfound strength at Valakoth.

It was barely enough. 

The orcish wizard’s spells struck her wards with tremendous force. Valakoth was strong, and would have been a match for Coriolus and a challenge for the Artificer. Worse, the old orc was experienced. He was stronger than Calliande, yet did not need to use his whole strength to produce powerful effects. Calliande had to draw upon her full power to match him. 

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.

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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.

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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…