The Dark Warden (Book 6) (2 page)

“The other way around concerns me,” said Ridmark, and he tossed the stone into the bush.

For a moment nothing happened, and then the plant went into a frenzy. The vines whipped back and forth, the thorns digging furrows into the ground, and the swollen berries rolled back and forth like eyes seeking for prey. The others stepped back in alarm, and white light flared around Calliande’s fingers as she summoned power, while purple flames danced around Morigna’s hands. 

At last the bush stilled, the vines coming to rest.

“You know,” said Jager, “you could have just warned us about the bush.”

“A demonstration would be more effective,” said Ridmark. 

Calliande shook her head. “You have a knack, Ridmark, for dramatic gestures.” 

“I believe that is an understatement, my lady Magistria,” said Jager. 

“The thorns are poisonous,” said Ridmark before Jager attempted another witticism. “A paralytic. The vines drag the victim close to the bush, where the roots sink in and digest the flesh. There are many such plants in the Torn Hills, and the animals are more vicious and aggressive as well. There are also urvaalgs and undead left from the battles.”

“We shall indeed have to keep watch,” said Kharlacht.

“Aye,” said Morigna, “but there is no reason to tolerate this vile thing.”

She swept her hand before her, and a pillar of white mist swirled around the barbed bush. It began to sizzle and smoke and hiss, the acidic mist eating into the plant. A shudder went through the bush, its vines lashing at the air like the fingers of a dying man. Morigna released the mist, and the bush burst into flame, the smoke rising into the air.

“That,” said Jager, “is a most powerfully unpleasant smell.” 

“Given that we have been travelling for weeks,” said Caius, “I think we have become accustomed to unpleasant smells.”

“Not like this,” said Jager with a frown. 

“I will take the lead,” said Ridmark. “I’ve been here before, and I know the dangers. Morigna.” Her black eyes shifted to him. “I don’t know if you will be able to bind the animals of the Torn Hills or not. If you can, use them as scouts.”

“If not,” said Morigna, “I can scout quite capably on my own.”

“The rest of you,” said Ridmark, “stay with Calliande and keep watch over her.” The Magistria smiled at him. “If the beasts of the dark elves or undead attack us, her magic is our only chance of stopping them.”

“I fear the more intelligent beasts or powerful undead,” said Caius, “would be clever enough to attack her first.”

“Which is why,” said Ridmark, “we shall guard her.” He beckoned with his staff. “Come. I would like to be within the Torn Hills by nightfall.”

The others adjusted their weapons and packs, and Ridmark started up the hill once more, leaving the smoldering remnants of the bush behind. Every step took him closer to Urd Morlemoch.

Every step took him closer to the Warden, who knew the secret of the omen of the blue fire, who knew how the Frostborn would return. Ridmark would pry that secret from the Warden.

Or the Warden would simply kill them all.

###

Morigna walked through the hills like a ghost. 

The diseased grasses came to the middle of her thighs, but she moved through them without a whisper of sound. She had spent years living alone in the woods near Moraime, and moving silently came to her naturally now. In fact, she would have had to concentrate to make noise.

Which was just as well, because she did not like these hills. 

The forests of the Wilderland were a dangerous place, raided by tribes of pagan orcs and kobolds and dvargir and other things. Yet they were simply forests. These hills…something about them seemed tainted. Morigna sensed no magic in the earth itself, yet she did not doubt Ridmark’s assertion that the land itself had been poisoned by millennia of dark spells. 

That turned her thoughts to Ridmark, which in turn summoned a welter of emotions. 

Was she in love with him? She did not know. Morigna had been in love with Nathan Vorinus, had planned to spend the rest of her life with him, but Coriolus had murdered him. Ever since she had been a child, Morigna had wanted to become strong, strong enough that no one could ever harm her as her parents had been killed, and Nathan’s death had only redoubled that determination. 

Yet Morigna had made herself vulnerable to Ridmark. Though without his help, Coriolus would have killed her. And Ridmark’s mind and heart were wounded, blaming himself for the death of his wife.

That sent a flicker of anger through Morigna. The lords of Andomhaim had been fools to strip Ridmark of his soulblade and banish him. He was a valiant warrior and a capable leader, and he had the potential within him to become more. He ought to have been a powerful Dux, Morigna thought. If he had wished it, he could have raised an army, overthrown the High King, and claimed the ancient crown of the Pendragons for himself. 

Perhaps Uthanaric Pendragon deserved to be overthrown. He had allowed Ridmark to be banished, and under his reign the cancer of the Enlightened of Incariel had spread through Andomhaim. Perhaps it was time for a stronger man to take his place.

A man like Ridmark, for instance. 

Maybe she could convince him of that, convince him to reject the lords and nobles that had condemned him for a death that was not his responsibility. 

The thought of standing at his side for that, of sharing his life and his bed, was a pleasant one. It was a thought for another day, though. After she had fulfilled her promise to Ridmark, after they had returned from Urd Morlemoch and stopped the return of the Frostborn. 

Assuming, of course, that they survived.

Morigna returned to the others. Ridmark had not yet returned from his scouting, and Kharlacht and Gavin had taken the lead, the orcish warrior and the boy speaking in low voices. Caius and Jager walked on either side of Calliande, all three of them talking, and Mara followed them. The short woman wore sturdy traveling clothes of wool and leather looted from the Iron Tower, and her only weapons were a pair of daggers sheathed at her belt. 

That was all she needed. With the power of her dark elven blood, Mara was as deadly with those blades as a Swordbearer armored in steel plate. 

“Anything interesting?” said Mara. The cold wind tugged at her pale hair, revealing the delicate elven point of one ear. 

“The hills are quite deserted,” said Morigna. “We are alone. For a place of legend and terror, the Torn Hills are empty. Perhaps the Warden’s fearsome reputation has driven off all the monsters.”

Mara smiled. “Alas, I fear we are not so fortunate. From what I have seen of Ridmark’s band, I half-expect to find an army of Mhorite orcs led by an urdmordar and a dozen dark elven wizards over the next hill.”

Morigna laughed. “You exaggerate. Though perhaps not by much.” To Morigna’s surprise, she liked the former assassin. Mara was so calm and patient, which Morigna supposed were useful qualities in an assassin. For that matter, Morigna had never had a female friend before. The women of Moraime had regarded her with fear and suspicion, and Morigna had no desire for their company. 

“We’re getting closer,” said Mara. She closed her eyes for a moment. “I can hear his song.” 

“The Warden’s?” said Morigna. 

“It’s so strong,” murmured Mara. She opened her eyes and looked north. “We’re about…six days away, I think. Maybe five.”

“And you do not feel any urge to…do his bidding, shall we say?” said Morigna. 

Mara smiled. “No. Once, I would have had no choice. But I have my own song now. The Warden cannot compel me. Nor could my father, the Matriarch, or any other dark elven noble or wizard.” 

“One supposes they would just kill you now,” said Morigna. 

“That would be the rational decision,” said Mara. She adjusted her hair, arranging it to cover her ears. Likely it was an old habit. “Speaking of that, I need to ask you something.”

“You may,” said Morigna.

“What will you do if you become pregnant with Ridmark’s child?” 

Morigna opened her mouth, closed it again, looked around to see if anyone else had overheard. 

“Ah,” said Mara. “You’re not used to that. Usually you ask blunt questions that knock people off their guard. Not the other way around.” 

“How did you know?” said Morigna. 

“Given my previous occupation,” said Mara, “I have experience observing the people around me. You and the Gray Knight have spent a great deal of time scouting since we left the Iron Tower. You return looking quite satisfied with yourself. Ridmark…well, even Ridmark looks marginally less grim.” 

“You are a very dangerous little woman,” said Morigna.

“I know,” said Mara. 

“What about you?” said Morigna. “You wed Jager. How will you keep from bearing a child?”

“My mother was human and my father was a dark elf,” said Mara. “I am sterile. Like a mule.” She considered for a moment. “Which may not have been the most flattering way to put that.”

“No,” said Morigna. “But one fails to see how this topic is any concern of yours.”

“It isn’t,” said Mara. “I wondered if you had thought about it.”

“The man who taught me magic,” said Morigna, “was one of the Eternalists. He wanted to transfer his spirit into my flesh to avoid his own death.”

“Like the Artificer and Sir Paul,” said Mara.

“Precisely,” said Morigna. “A pregnancy would have complicated his efforts, so he taught me a spell to filter my blood. The same one we used to keep your dark elven blood from overwhelming you. So long as I use it, I will not conceive a child.” 

“Do you want Ridmark’s child?” said Mara.

Ridmark was a strong man. The thought of carrying his child was not a displeasing one.

“Perhaps,” said Morigna. “I do not know. After we have been successful, after we have stopped the return of the Frostborn and I can turn Ridmark’s mind to other matters…why are we even talking about this?”

“Because,” said Mara, “I owe you and Calliande and Ridmark much. Jager and I both do. We’re also about to go into danger, which is it not a time for quarrels amongst ourselves.”

“Why should we quarrel?” said Morigna. 

Mara glanced at Calliande, and then back at Morigna.

“What concern is it of hers?” said Morigna. “She does not even know herself, not truly.” She felt herself start to grow angry. “If she wanted Ridmark for herself, then perhaps she should have done something about it. Is that what you are going to say? That I should concern myself over what Calliande thinks? Or that I should stay away from Ridmark?”

“Actually,” said Mara, “I was going to say that you and Ridmark can make each other happier. Or at least less grim. I suspect you have both lost a great deal.”

“You suspect correctly,” said Morigna, some of her anger draining away as she thought of her mother and father and Nathan. In a twisted sort of way, she had also lost Coriolus, though she did not regret his death. He had betrayed her and used her, but he had still taught her a great deal. “Perhaps I am a fool, or Ridmark has made me into one.”

“You both deserve some peace,” said Mara.

“Ridmark is strong,” said Morigna, “but he could be so much stronger. Look at all of us. We follow him without question, even after he has tried to dissuade us again and again. Yet the nobles of Andomhaim cast him out. He could have power enough to purge the realm of the Enlightened of Incariel, to bring order and peace and…”

“There is more to life than simply power,” said Mara.

“No, there is not,” said Morigna. “It is the foundation of everything else. Without…”

The grass rustled, and Ridmark walked towards them, his face set in a scowl. A flicker of unease went through Morigna. Had he overheard them? He likely would not approve of their discussion. Then Morigna’s brain caught up to her emotions. Ridmark never did anything without a reason, and if he looked alarmed…

“Foes?” said Morigna. 

“No,” said Ridmark. “We’re here.”

###

Ridmark led the way to the top of the hill, the others following him, and gestured with his staff.

“The Torn Hills,” he said, his voice quiet.

The land beyond did indeed look torn, countless rocky hills jutting from the diseased grasses, steep ravines lying between them. More poisonous bushes dotted the slopes, and thick patches of white mist swirled between some of the hills. Nearby Ridmark saw a wide valley, a stream tricking down its center, the ground on either side of the stream mottled white and yellow. 

“What an unwholesome looking place,” said Jager. 

“Few ever come here,” said Kharlacht. 

“For entirely good reasons, it seems,” said Jager.

“Those white spots,” said Gavin, squinting into the valley. “Are they…”

“Bones,” said Ridmark. “Orcish bones, mostly. There was a battle here, long ago.”

“Surely it was not that long ago,” said Morigna. “Else the bones would have crumbled to dust.”

Ridmark shook his head. “Dead things do not always rot here.” He beckoned. “Stay watchful. Anything can be dangerous.”

He led the way into the valley. The cold wind never stopped moaning, and the gray clouds writhed and danced. Ridmark scanned the valley and the surrounding slopes, watching for any threats. When he had last come to the Torn Hills nine years ago, he had reached Urd Morlemoch without much difficulty. But nine years ago, he had still been a Knight of the Soulblade, had still carried the Heartwarden into battle. Calliande’s magic, for all of its potency, was not as effective against creatures of dark magic as a soulblade. If a large enough pack of urvaalgs or stronger creatures found them, they might not be able to fight their way free. 

The grass rustled around his boots as they crossed the valley, the creek murmuring against its stony banks. Bones dotted the ground, along with rusting pieces of armor and old swords. Ridmark stepped around the tusked skull of a long-dead orc, the empty eyes staring at the bleak sky. He wondered who had fought here. Perhaps these orcs had fought the high elves. Or maybe they had been slaves of the urdmordar, sent to besiege Urd Morlemoch. It was also possible that any number of predators had killed the orcs and left the bones behind.