The Dark Warden (Book 6) (20 page)

They were surrounded by hundreds of foes. Perhaps even thousands. The silence of Urd Morlemoch shattered with the snarls of the urvaalgs and the growls and shouted taunts of the Devout. There was no possible way Ridmark and his friends could fight their way through such a vast horde. 

But they could not win by fighting. There was only one way to prevail. 

“The Warden,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at Valakoth. “You will summon the Warden. Your master’s greatest foe is boredom, and he will be wroth if you deny him the pleasure of killing us.”

A different voice answered. 

“There is no need to summon him, Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii. He is already here.”

The voice was deep and inhuman, yet more melodious than any human voice. It sounded a great deal like Ardrhythain. Yet the archmage’s voice had been calm and patient, even when answering Morigna’s taunts. A current of cold, alien malice ran through this voice, a malevolent contempt so deep that Ridmark could scarcely comprehend it. 

He knew that voice.

Ridmark turned and saw the Warden of Urd Morlemoch step from the ring of orcish warriors. 

The Warden was tall and gaunt, taller than even Kharlacht, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves over black trousers and a tunic. His head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside his long, lean face, a diadem of blue steel encircling his brow. His eyes were utterly black and empty, colder than the blue fire wrapping around the great tower and darker than the eyes of the urdhracosi. Even without Heartwarden, Ridmark felt the tremendous dark magic wrapped around the Warden’s undead form.

“And he has been watching you,” said the Warden, “for a very long time.”

Calliande and Morigna both started spells. The others raised their weapons, and Arandar charged with a shout, Heartwarden shining like a bolt of frozen lightning in his fist.

The Warden crooked a single finger. 

A pulse of shadow washed out from him, and Calliande’s and Morigna’s spells collapsed, both women stumbling. Unseen force seized Arandar and threw him to the ground. Heartwarden blazed as the soulblade fought the dark magic, but the Warden’s will was stronger, and his spell held the Swordbearer prone. 

The Warden threw back his head and howled with laughter. It was a booming, deep laugh, filled with amusement and madness. The Devout laughed with him, and even Valakoth managed a brief chuckle. The Warden fell silent, and the Devout followed suit, the echoes fading away.

“Such a greeting for an old acquaintance, Ridmark of the Arbanii?” said the Warden. “To think the men of Andomhaim pride themselves on their knightly courtesy. Though you are not a knight any longer, Ridmark.” The bottomless black eyes dug into him. “Just as you foresaw, no?” 

“That is him?” said Morigna. “That is the Warden?”

The dark elven wizard looked at her, and Morigna flinched from the force of his gaze. “She is clever. Though she doesn’t know what to do with her wits, alas, which might have proved a problem. But she is most unimportant in the larger view.” His black eyes turned to Calliande, who met his gaze with defiance. “This one is far more important. I am pleased that you brought her to me unharmed, Ridmark of the Arbanii. I confess you worried me. But if anyone could do it, you could.” 

“Warden,” said Ridmark. “Let us play a game. The stakes are questions we wish to ask you.”

“Oh?” said the Warden. “And what questions are those?”

“You warned me about the omen of blue fire,” said Ridmark. “I know the Frostborn are returning within a year and a month of that omen. How are they returning?”

“And one other question,” said Calliande.

“You want to know,” murmured the Warden, “who you really are. You want to know where to find Dragonfall. You want to know how to recover your staff.”

“Yes,” said Calliande. 

“I have come,” rasped Arandar, regaining his feet, “to claim the soulblade Truthseeker, which was once wielded by the Swordbearer Judicaeus Carhaine.”

“That is of no importance,” said the Warden, “but I will permit you to learn Sir Judicaeus’s fate.” 

“A game, then,” said Ridmark. “One of your choosing, with our lives as the stakes. If we win, you shall answer our questions and allow us to depart in peace. If you win, we die.”

Valakoth chuckled again, a quiver going through his gaunt frame. 

“Amusement is most rare here,” said the Warden, “and your offer is a compelling one. But, no.” 

For a moment the word did not quite register. In all Ridmark’s planning, in all his contemplations of what might happen if he reached Urd Morlemoch once more, Ridmark had never considered that the Warden might refuse to play a game. 

“No?” said Ridmark. “Why not? Are you so glutted with amusements?”

“Because one does not start a second game until the first is complete,” said the Warden. “Our game is just about finished. We started nine years ago…and now I have won.”

Chapter 13 - To Your Deaths

“Explain,” said Ridmark. “What game?”

The Warden looked at Valakoth. “Are you ready?”

Valakoth bowed deep, leaning on his staff for support. “All is in readiness, great master.”

“Good,” said the Warden. “Dispatch the acolytes to the circles of power and await my coming.”

“It shall be a glorious day, master,” said Valakoth. “The dawn of a new age.”

“More than you can imagine,” said the Warden. “Go.”

Valakoth bowed again and hobbled towards the waiting Devout. 

“What was that about?” said Ridmark. “Are you going to answer our questions, or are you simply going to kill us?”

“So impatient,” said the Warden, turning back to Ridmark. “These things must be done properly. Still, it is logical. You have such short lifespans. Seventy years, or eighty if you have the strength, do not your own scriptures make that claim? Even you, dwarf.” He waved a hand at Caius. “Three hundred years or five hundred, and then your bones shall turn to stone in the endless darkness of the Deeps. Or they would have, had you not come here.”

“And you, Warden?” said Caius, looking at the dark elf without flinching. “Has fifteen thousand years within the walls of Urd Morlemoch taught you wisdom?”

“A form of it,” said the Warden. 

“You want something from us,” said Ridmark.

The Warden said nothing, his black eyes stark against the bone-white pallor of his face.

“Else you would have killed us already,” said Ridmark, “or you would have let the Devout and your pet urvaalgs slay us.”

“Still clever,” said the Warden. “But not quite clever enough, alas.” He looked at Morigna. “Perhaps your ancient philosophers were right, and sins of the flesh do weaken the will and corrupt the intellect. Sir Ridmark, Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, might have been able to realize the truth. Ridmark Arban, branded exile and the lover of a renegade sorceress, did not realize the truth in time. A pity for him.” 

“And what truth is that?” said Ridmark.

“Did you ever wonder, my lady Calliande,” said the Warden, “why you were walking into Urd Morlemoch with an empty soulstone?” 

Calliande shrugged. “A wizard of your power…what use would you have for a soulstone?”

“That is the wrong question,” said the Warden. 

“If you kill us here,” said Calliande, “then Shadowbearer will not be able to use the soulstone to restore the Frostborn.”

Again the Warden threw back his head and howled his insane laughter.

“No,” said the Warden when he calmed down. “No, he will not. But there is one more question you must ask yourself, for I know the answers to your questions. The truths you have sought for so very long. Are you sure you want to know the answers? For once you know them, you can never forget them…and you might very much desire to forget.”

“We’ve come this far for the truth,” said Ridmark. Yet the feeling of impending disaster that had come upon him in the ruined mansion grew stronger. 

Had he been wrong the entire time? Had he led his friends to their deaths? He had warned them of it, but knowing it would happen and seeing it happen were different things entirely. 

“Bold words,” said the Warden. “Let us see if you can still speak them in an hour. You wish to know how the Frostborn will return? You desire to know who you truly are, Calliande of Tarlion?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande. 

“Very well,” said the Warden. “I have no reason to withhold the truth from you. As you have said, boredom was my greatest foe…and your reaction to the truth shall be most amusing. Shall we begin, then?”

He snapped his fingers, and black fire engulfed Ridmark. Agony erupted through him, as if his body was being torn into a thousand bloody shreds. He recognized the sensation. The Warden was using magic to transport him somewhere else.

Ridmark fought to remain conscious, but the black fire devoured him, and he knew no more.

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When he awoke, Ridmark saw the ribbons of blue fire dancing across the black sky, felt cold stone beneath his back. The icy wind blew around him, moaning and whispering. After a while Ridmark’s thoughts jolted back into focus, and he made himself sit up. 

He was sitting upon the roof of the world.

More precisely, he was atop the Warden’s tower, the highest tower of Urd Morlemoch itself. From here he could see Urd Morlemoch in all its ruined, malevolent splendor, the rippling gray sea to the west, the mountains of Kothluusk to the south, and the mist-shrouded Torn Hills surrounding the citadel. Points of blue fire flared in the mists, burning within the various rings of standing stones scattered around the ruins and the hills. 

“You see it, then?” said the Warden. “But you do not understand. Not yet.” 

Ridmark turned his head. 

The same ring of black standing stones he had seen during his last visit filled most of the space atop the tower. Some of the menhirs had lintels over the top to create crude stone doorways. An altar waited in the center of the circle, holding a massive soulstone than shone with ghostly blue light. Smaller altars stood against each of the menhirs, each altar holding a soulstone the size of Ridmark’s fist. His companions lay sprawled upon the floor in various states of consciousness. Mara was fully awake, and already on her feet. Calliande and Morigna were unconscious. Jager was crawling inch by inch towards the Warden, his dwarven dagger in his hand…

“No, do not bother,” said the Warden without turning towards Jager. “It would be a pity indeed if I had to kill you in front of your wife. Though it would be a fitting end for the Master Thief of Cintarra, would it not?” 

“You…know who I am?” said Jager. He looked at Mara, shrugged, and got to his feet. “So my fame has extended even to the halls of Urd Morlemoch?”

The Warden turned from the parapet, and Jager flinched as the full weight of the undead wizard’s gaze fell upon him. 

“That…that is quite the trick,” said Jager, talking faster as he did when nervous. “The thing with the eyes. Does it work on everyone?” 

“How droll,” said the Warden. “I remember when we opened the doors between the worlds and summoned your first ancestors here. They fell upon their knees and wept, begging for mercy. A simple demonstration of elementary magic, and they worshipped us as gods. Your ancestors were useless as soldiers, but they made excellent slaves. They even thanked us when we gave them to our orcish slaves as drudges. You remind me of them.” 

Jager’s free hand curled into a fist and he opened his mouth.

“Jager,” said Mara, her voice tight. “Don’t.”

He scowled at the Warden, but remained silent. 

“Why have you brought us here?” said Ridmark, stooping to help Morigna sit up. She gave him a nod and got to her feet. He helped Calliande to stand, and by then the others had recovered.

“The final move in our game,” said the Warden.

“I thought you said I had already lost,” said Ridmark.

“You have,” said the Warden, nodding towards the ring of standing stones. “My lady Calliande. Tell me. What do you think of my circle?” 

“Why would you want my opinion?” said Calliande. 

“Amuse me,” said the Warden. 

Calliande whispered a spell and waved her hand. “You’ve…bound spells in each of the soulstones, the smaller ones. The large one,” her blue eyes widened, “the large one is the apex. The focus point of the spells upon the citadel.”

“Very good,” said the Warden. “I am impressed. It seems you didn’t completely excise your skill with your memories.”

“Who am I?” said Calliande, a few strands of blond hair blowing around her face. 

“The spells upon the lesser stones,” said the Warden. “Do you know what they do?”

Calliande shook her head. 

“Pity,” said the Warden. “Well, we shall come to that soon enough. Gray Knight! You have changed since your last visit. No brand upon your cheek then. You came here to win enough renown to wed your beloved Aelia. Did you?”

“I did,” said Ridmark. He did not want to speak of Aelia to him.

“What happened to her?” said the Warden.

“She died,” said Ridmark, his hand tightening against his staff. 

“Just as you foresaw,” said the Warden. He stepped forward, his black-trimmed blue coat blowing around him in the cold wind, the ribbons of flame painting his skull-like face with pale light. “A pity you did nothing to avert her death. But you saw another catastrophe coming, didn’t you? The advent of the Frostborn. Gothalinzur warned you. I warned you. Others have likely warned you since. And so you have returned to me at last.” His black, bottomless gaze swept over them. “Quite the collection of companions you have gathered, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Broken fools following a broken fool.”

“Does this speech have a point?” said Ridmark. 

“It does,” said the Warden. “The final move of the game.” He pointed at Kharlacht. “You, for instance.”

“If you have things to say to me,” rumbled Kharlacht, “spare your breath.” 

“The broken orc,” said the Warden. “Of Vhaluusk, correct? The Vhaluuskan orcs place such great emphasis upon their kin, upon their blood. You have no kin left, do you? No father, no mother, no brothers, no sisters, no cousins. No children, either? No woman to bear your progeny? The last of your blood, and you shall die here.”