The Dark Warden (Book 6) (13 page)

Power surged around her. Was this the final spell? Valakoth’s killing blow?

Calliande blinked, sweat stinging her eyes.

It was not dark magic.

“Morigna?” said Calliande, but the dark-haired woman looked equally puzzled. 

Valakoth flinched.

An instant later blasts of white fire began raining down from the sky.

###

One of the ursaars charged at Ridmark, its jaws yawning wide.

He turned to face it, and a blast of white fire turned the ursaar’s head, forearms, and most of its chest to smoldering coals. A ripple of shock went through the Devout warriors, and Ridmark turned as more bursts of white flame fell from the sky, slamming into the urvaalgs and ursaars. Lightning ripped from the dark clouds overhead, scattering the orcish warriors like toys. Valakoth looked around, his blue-glowing eyes wide with shock and fear, and struck his staff against the earth.

He vanished in a swirl of darkness and blue flame.

Still the barrage of white fire continued, and within an instant all the urvaalgs and ursaars had been destroyed. Scores of the Devout orcs died within the space of a few moments, and the rest fled to the northwest. 

At last the magical attack faded away, and Ridmark and his companions stood alone on the hillside, surrounded by the dead.

Ridmark limped down the hill, his wounds throbbing, his head filled with thunderous pain. All his companions had all taken wounds, and Kharlacht looked a heartbeat or two away from collapse, but they were still alive. He hurried towards Calliande and Morigna. Both women seemed exhausted, but they were alive.

“What did you do?” said Ridmark.

“I…I didn’t do anything,” said Calliande, blinking. 

“Look,” said Morigna.

A pair of figures stood on a hill to the south, and one of them stepped forward. The figure wore a black-trimmed red coat, a black staff shining with white fire in his right hand. 

“Shadowbearer?” said Kharlacht in alarm.

“No,” said Ridmark. He had last seen this man nine years ago, on the day he had escaped Urd Morlemoch with the high elven bladeweaver Rhyannis. “The last archmage of the high elves, the archmage who founded the Order of the Magistri and the Order of the Soulblade.”

“Ardrhythain,” said Calliande.

Chapter 8 - The Archmage

“You know him?” said Ridmark. 

“Aye,” said Calliande. “After the Challenge of Magistri in Coldinium. It…damaged the defenses around my mind, and Shadowbearer tried to destroy me. Ardrhythain drove him off. He knew me, and said we would meet again.”

“Then he knows who you are?” said Ridmark. 

“Yes,” said Calliande. 

“And he hasn’t simply told you?”

“No,” said Calliande. “Apparently I forbade him from telling me who I really am.”

“Ah,” said Ridmark. There was a hint of humor in his tired voice. “How very thorough of you.”

“Extremely,” said Calliande.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” said Ridmark.

“Because I wasn’t sure if it was real or not,” said Calliande. “My mind was disordered for some time after the Challenge of Magistri. Perhaps I had simply dreamed it.” 

“Evidently not,” said Ridmark. Of all the others, Arandar seemed to have come through the battle with the least injury. Heartwarden would be healing his wounds even now, and the Swordbearer put one hand upon Kharlacht’s shoulder. White light pulsed around his fingers, and Kharlacht’s wounds started to shrink.

“Hold still,” said Calliande. “I will heal your injuries.”

Ridmark shook his head. “You should see to the others first…” 

She clapped her hands to the sides of his head. Magic flowed through her and into Ridmark, and he flinched as the healing power washed over him. An instant later it was Calliande’s turn to flinch as she felt the stabbing pain of his wounds flow into her. God and the saints, how was he still on his feet? He had been hit on the arms and chest and legs, to say nothing of the pain Heartwarden’s presence inflicted upon him. Calliande braced herself, letting the pain of the wounds fill her, and then the pain subsided as her magic healed the injuries.

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, taking a deep breath. 

“You’re welcome,” said Calliande. 

“You still should have healed the others first,” said Ridmark.

“Someone has to talk to the archmage,” said Calliande. “I will join you in a moment.”

Ridmark nodded, and Calliande went to work.

###

Ridmark returned his axe to his belt, picked up his staff, and walked to meet Ardrhythain. 

A high elven woman waited at the archmage’s side, wearing armor of similar design to Kharlacht’s, overlapping plates of metal sheathing her torso and hanging to her knees. Unlike Kharlacht’s armor, her armor was wrought of golden metal, and she wore a helm with sweeping wings on the sides. Twin soulblades, thinner and lighter than the heavy longswords used by the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade, waited at her belt. She removed the helm as Ridmark approached, revealing features that were too angular and sharp to be human, her large eyes like shimmering golden coins. She was beautiful, but it was a terrible, alien beauty, like the beauty of the stars or a frozen stream in winter. A man could look upon the stars and admire their beauty, but he could not desire them. 

Ridmark bowed. “My lady Rhyannis.” 

“Ridmark Arban,” said Rhyannis, her voice more melodious than any human tone. “It is good to see you again. I owe you a great debt for bringing me out of Urd Morlemoch.”

“It seems this time that it is you who saved me,” said Ridmark, “along with my companions.” 

“I fear that honor belongs to the archmage of Cathair Solas,” said Rhyannis 

Ridmark bowed in the archmage’s direction. “Lord archmage.”

“Ridmark Arban,” said Ardrhythain as Ridmark straightened up. His voice was deep, far deeper than any human voice, yet as musical as Rhyannis’s. “It has not been long since we last met…but much has befallen you, I see.”

For the first time in nine years, Ridmark looked upon Ardrhythain, the last archmage of the high elven kindred. 

Ardrhythain was tall, almost as tall as Kharlacht. His long red coat was open in front, the sleeves and hem and collar trimmed in black. Beneath it he wore a white tunic and black trousers tucked into black boots. In his right hand he carried a black staff carved with intricate designs, the symbols shining with the same pale light as a soulblade. His face was alien, thinner than a human’s, the ears long and pointed. An unruly shock of night-black hair topped his head, and his eyes were like disks of shining gold. The golden eyes considered Ridmark, and he was struck by a sense of weight, of heaviness. It was the same sense of vast age he had felt from Gothalinzur and Agrimnalazur, from the spirit of the Artificer. Ardrhythain was old, so old that Ridmark’s mind could scare grasp such an immense span of years. Malahan Pendragon and the survivors of Britain upon Old Earth had come to Tarlion a thousand years ago, yet Ardrhythain had already walked this world then. 

A thousand years were but a drop in the ocean of the time he had seen. 

“Nine years is not such a short time,” said Ridmark. 

“A matter of perspective,” said Ardrhythain. He almost smiled. “When you are my age, you might feel differently on the matter.” 

“Thank you for our lives,” said Ridmark. “Valakoth and the Devout would have killed us all had you not intervened. 

“He attacked you too early,” said Ardrhythain. He pointed at a hill in the distance, its top crowned with yet another ring of dark elven standing stones. “Do you see that hill? It is where we met the last time you came to Urd Morlemoch. Those stones mark the beginning of the Warden’s influence.” 

“I remember,” said Ridmark.

“Had the Warden’s servants ambushed you there,” said Ardrhythain, “I would not have been able to aid you. The Warden would have been aware of my presence, and within the circumference of his wards he unconquerable.”

Ridmark felt a chill, realizing how close they had come to death. “Just as well Valakoth was impatient, then.”

“Indeed,” said Ardrhythain. “I would speak to you and your companions before you proceed.”

“We have many questions for you,” said Ridmark. 

“I shall answer what I can,” said Ardrhythain, “though I will not be able to answer all your questions. Some things I cannot tell you, for I am bound by the promise I made to Calliande centuries ago. And some things I cannot tell you, for they would give me power over you.”

“Power?” said Ridmark. “I do not understand.”

“Three laws bind the high elves,” said Ardrhythain. “One of them forbids us from seeking power or dominion over the other kindreds upon this world. That was one of the errors of our brothers, those who became the dark elves. During our long war, they summoned other kindreds to this world as slaves and soldiers.”

“Until they summoned the urdmordar,” said Rhyannis, “and so wrought the destruction of both the high elven and the dark elven kingdoms.”

“But you founded the Magistri and the Swordbearers,” said Ridmark. “You taught the Magistri their magic, and you forged the soulblades and wrote the Pact of the Two Orders.”

“This is true,” said Ardrhythain. “There was much debate about the decision among the mages of Cathair Solas.” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the black staff. “In the end, we decided to unlock the power of the Well in Tarlion’s heart and forge the soulblades, giving them to your High King without any conditions, save that we could request the aid of a Swordbearer in an emergency. Without the soulblades and the Magistri, the urdmordar would have destroyed most of your kindred and enslaved the rest. We gave you the weapons and the magic to resist them, to use as you saw fit without governance from us…whether for good or for evil. The consequences were both good and evil. The urdmordar were defeated at last…”

“But the magic proved too much of a temptation,” said Ridmark as understanding came to him, “and the Eternalists and the Enlightened of Incariel arose.” 

“As did the Frostborn,” said Ardrhythain. “You understand.” 

Ridmark frowned. “The Frostborn? The…Frostborn were a consequence of the Two Orders?” 

“In a way,” said Ardrhythain. “If you reach the Warden, you may find the truth. Come. Time is fleeting, and we must speak with Calliande and your other friends.” 

Ridmark led the way back to the others as Calliande and Arandar finished healing them. He watched their reactions to the archmage. Arandar and Caius looked reverent, while Morigna and Jager were suspicious. Gavin seemed downright awed, while Mara simply appeared curious. 

Calliande spoke first. “Lord Ardrhythain. Thank you for your assistance. Yet again.”

“It is…good to see you again, Calliande,” said Ardrhythain. “It is also strange. I last saw you in the flesh over two hundred and twenty years ago. Not often do as I see a living human across such a span of time.” 

“I suppose you cannot tell me why I did this to myself?” said Calliande. “Nor who I really am?”

“I cannot,” said Ardrhythain. “I am prohibited by my promise to you.” 

Morigna snorted. “For a woman who is so desperately keen to discover the truth of her past, you went to great lengths to conceal it from yourself. One suspects you could have simply saved yourself the effort and left a detailed note.”

Ardrhythain looked at her. The archmage said nothing, and there was nothing threatening in his expression or stance. Yet Morigna took an alarmed step back nonetheless, her hand coming up. 

“My companions,” said Ridmark before Morigna could do something rash. “Kharlacht of Vhaluusk.”

“A baptized orc of Vhaluusk,” said Ardrhythain. “A rare sight.” 

“My mother instructed me in the faith before she died,” said Kharlacht.

“It is well that she did,” said Ardrhythain. “Of old the orcs worshipped the dark elves and the urdmordar as gods, much as the Devout do today. Your Dominus Christus is a kinder master by far.”

“This is Brother Caius, once of Khald Tormen, now a brother of the mendicant order,” said Ridmark. 

Caius bowed. “An honor to meet you, lord archmage. My kindred have been on this world for long millennia, so it is rare to meet someone who has been here longer yet.” 

“I have heard of you in my travels,” said Ardrhythain. “The dwarven noble who renounced the gods of stone and silence and joined the church. The first one to ever do so, to my knowledge.”

“It is neither wise nor safe to ignore the demands of conscience,” said Caius, “and once a man knows the truth, he has an obligation to act upon it.” 

“This is so,” said Ardrhythain. “You may well have a chance to live that lesson again soon.” 

“Gavin of Aranaeus,” said Ridmark, and Gavin bowed. 

“I see the marks of the urdmordar upon you,” said Ardrhythain. 

Gavin hesitated. “My…village, Aranaeus. An urdmordar ruled it. I grew up there, and did not realize it until she tried to kill us all.”

“You never worshipped her,” said Ardrhythain.

“No.”

“And you stood against her when the truth was known,” said Ardrhythain. “That was a brave act. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.”

Gavin shrugged, embarrassed. For a moment some of his newfound hardness fell away, and he looked very young. “I…did what seemed right at the time.”

“What was the urdmordar’s name?” said Ardrhythain.

“Agrimnalazur,” said Gavin. 

“I faced her once, long ago,” said Ardrhythain. “She was a terrible foe, and slew many high elves. You did a great deed to strike her down.”

Gavin got a little redder and said nothing. 

“This is Jager of Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and his wife Mara.”

Jager offered a grand, flourishing bow. “Welcome, master archmage. It is very rare that one has the chance to meet a figure of history. Tell me, is it true that you can summon storms of flame and command the mountains themselves to obey you?”

“Jager,” Mara sighed.

Ardrhythain raised an eyebrow. “A storm of fire would be bad for the crops, and the mountains are not inclined to listen to me.” He considered the halfling for a moment. “I see the marks of dark magic upon you. In the past you have borne a weapon of the dark elves.”