The Dark Warden (Book 6) (21 page)

“All men die,” growled Kharlacht, a glimmer of red coming into his eyes. 

“So they do,” said the Warden. “You shall die forgotten, with no wives to weep over your pyre, no children to carry on your blood. A futile and meaningless death, as futile and meaningless as your life.” 

Kharlacht said nothing.

“And you,” said the Warden, pointing at Caius. “I know of you.”

“Alas,” said Caius, “I fear rumor of you has reached my ears as well.” 

“The dwarven apostate,” said the Warden. “The first dwarf to forsake the gods of stone and silence and follow the path of the Dominus Christus. Tell me, dwarf. Did it bring you peace?”

“The Dominus Christus offers salvation to allow who follow him,” said Caius. “Perhaps even you, Warden, should you repent of your sins.” 

“A long-dead desert prophet from a world you have never visited nor will ever visit,” said the Warden. “Do you think he can save you? That his forgiveness will save you?”

“Yes,” said Caius. 

The Warden smiled. “Would it make any difference? I’ve heard what you did. Perhaps the Dominus Christus really is God as you believe. Perhaps he can forgive you.” He leaned closer. “But do you really think it will matter? Even if God himself descends from the heavens to forgive you…will it change anything?”

Caius said nothing, a muscle working in his jaw behind his beard. 

“I thought not,” said the Warden, turning to Gavin. “The boy with a sword.”

“No,” said Gavin. “No, I don’t want to hear it. Agrimnalazur tried the same sort of stupid speech,” the Warden’s void-filled eyes narrowed, “and Coriolus and the Artificer.”

“What sort of speech is that?” said the Warden.

Gavin made a disgusted sound. “The ‘I am a mad wizard who will rule the world’ speech. I’ve heard them before, and I’m not interested in hearing it from you, even if you’re a hundred thousand years old.” 

“Well spoken,” said the Warden. “You have defied powerful foes, boy, and lived to tell the tale. If you lived, perhaps you would have become a great warrior. But what has your defiance earned you? What as all your suffering and bloodshed gained you?”

“We saved the people of Aranaeus…” said Gavin. 

“You are not among them now,” said the Warden. “You have no home. Like the orc, you have no family. Another broken wanderer following the broken Gray Fool. If you are victorious…do you think you will find a home? No. You will wander the world alone and lost until death takes you at last. By then, I think, you shall find it a mercy.” 

“No,” said Gavin, but there was a brittleness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“So we come to the halfling,” said the Warden. “The Master Thief of Cintarra.” He towered over Jager like a white shadow. 

“Now you are going to taunt me?” said Jager. “Will you start with jokes about my height? After rotting away inside these walls for fifteen thousand years, I think you could do better.”

“Why make jokes?” said the Warden. “I will merely observe that you are a failure.” 

Jager laughed. “A failure at what?” 

“At your purpose,” said the Warden. “The halfling kindred were made to be servants, to be slaves to those stronger and wiser. Just as birds were made to fly and fish were made to swim, halflings were made to serve. Even in Andomhaim, with the nobles claiming to respect the teachings of the Dominus Christus, your kind are still servants.”

Jager sneered. “You think to taunt me with that? My father was a servant to an unworthy master, and it brought him to his death.”

“So you struck out on your own, because you were so much stronger and wiser,” said the Warden. “Did you become a great warrior? A powerful lord? A learned scholar? A wealthy merchant? No. You are a thief. A parasite. A leech that feeds upon the wealth of his superiors. Boast all you like, halfling. In the end, we both know that your words are hollow. Your jokes are nothing but a mask to hide that you are simply a parasite that feeds upon stronger men.” 

“Am I supposed to weep over that?” said Jager. 

“No,” said the Warden. “Simply consider what your father would think of the man you have become.”

Jager had no answer for that.

“And your wife,” said the Warden, his gaze falling upon Mara. She flinched a little. “The bastard spawn of a dark elven noble and some human slave? You are one of the Traveler’s, are you not?” 

“Yes,” said Mara, her voice little more than a whisper. 

“Do you know what will happen to you?” said the Warden. “I can see it within you. The darkness is overwhelming you. Already your transformation is underway. Soon the power will manifest and you will become an urdhracos, a slave to whatever dark elven noble commands you first.” 

Mara said nothing, and Ridmark blinked in surprise. The Warden was wrong. Mara had already completed her transformation. The Warden had missed it. Perhaps that would give them an advantage against his dark magic. 

“When you change, when you lose yourself, you will do whatever I command,” said the Warden. “You would kill your husband joyfully if I asked it of you.” He smiled at Jager. “Would that not be a fitting fate for the master thief? Have you nothing to say?”

Mara shook her head, blond hair sliding before her green eyes. 

“A slave to the end,” said the Warden. “A tool of stronger men.” He stepped before Arandar, who still held Heartwarden, the blade pulsing with white flames. “Just as you are. The bastard son of Uthanaric Pendragon, are you not?”

“I am, sorcerer,” said Arandar, his voice hard and deadly. 

“The blood of royalty,” said the Warden, turning away from him, “and it matters not at all.” He stopped at a stone table outside of the circle of menhirs, a table covered by a black cloth. “Or perhaps it does matter. All your life you have been an outsider, an outcast. You have struggled for everything you have in your life, fought with every bit of your strength to claim it. And it matters not at all. Your royal blood will doom you, like an anchor tied around your neck while you struggle to swim. Tarrabus Carhaine sent you to your death and will find a way to murder your children because your blood is one more obstacle between him and the throne of Andomhaim.”

“He is a traitor, then?” said Arandar.

“He is a fool,” said the Warden, “playing with the same powers that destroyed my kindred. Yet do you know the cruelest part of the joke, Sir Arandar? You would have died anyway.” He yanked the cloth from the table and tossed it aside. Upon the table lay a sheathed soulblade and a yellowed human skull. “Behold the soulblade Truthseeker, and the last mortal remains of its former bearer, Sir Judicaeus Carhaine.”

“That…is it, then?” said Arandar. “The soulblade?”

“Had you arrived at any other time, I simply would have let you take the weapon and leave,” said the Warden. “I have no use for the blade, and even magic as potent as a soulblade cannot harm me within Urd Morlemoch. It would have annoyed Tarrabus Carhaine, and annoying the servants of Shadowbearer is always an amusing pastime. But do you not understand, my bastard knight? You were never meant to succeed. You were meant to die here. And even if you were to leave and present Truthseeker to Tarrabus beneath the throne of your father, it would mean nothing. Tarrabus would still contrive your death because you are an obstacle. That is all you are, Sir Arandar. You and your family shall be murdered because no matter what you do, no matter what great deeds you accomplish, you are still the High King’s bastard, and that is all you shall ever be.” 

Arandar said nothing, his fingers tight against Heartwarden’s hilt. The Warden ignored him and stepped closer to Morigna.

“And what cutting words shall you have for me, then?” said Morigna, attempting her usual acerbic manner and not quite reaching it. “Shall you talk of my parents’ death, or the Old Man’s deceits?”

“I shall merely remind you of things you already know,” said the Warden. “You could not save your parents. You could not save your lover. You were a dupe of that petty Eternalist for years, never realizing the truth until it was almost too late. Did you not vow to acquire enough power to save those you love? Yet you have failed utterly. You are going to die here, and so is Ridmark. What a broken thing you are. The shattered child desiring security and love and possessing neither.”

“Such brave words,” spat Morigna. “Let us see you put them into action.”

“In due time,” said the Warden. “We have things to do.” He turned once more and faced Ridmark again. “You have questions you want answered, no?” 

“I do,” said Ridmark.

“How the Frostborn will return, is that it?” said the Warden. 

“Yes,” said Ridmark. 

“Why?”

Ridmark frowned. “Because they almost destroyed the realm the last time. Because they killed tens of thousands of innocent people, and will do worse if they return.”

“That does not answer the question,” said the Warden. “Why you, Ridmark Arban? Why not the Swordbearers? Why not the Magistri? Why not the High King and his nobles? Why are they not laboring to defend their realm? Why are they not here instead of you?”

“They do not see the threat,” said Ridmark. “They have not seen what I have seen.”

“Indeed not,” said the Warden. “They are cowards and fools and traitors…but you are not. You are merely a failure. I know why you are here. I have foreseen it. Your wife perished because of your folly. You failed to save her, and it broke you. So now you are here to save your corrupt and tottering realm.”

“Believe what you like,” said Ridmark.

“Belief is not required when one already knows the truth,” said the Warden. “You are a broken fool, and you have gathered other broken fools around you. The orc without a family. The dwarf without his gods. The boy without his village. The halfling without his master. The half-breed dark elf about to become a monster. The bastard knight and the sorceress without the strength to protect those they love. You have thrown yourself headlong into destruction, Ridmark Arban, and they have followed you here. For that is all that awaits you in my walls. Your deaths.” 

Silence answered his pronouncement.

“I noticed,” said Calliande, “that your litany of miserable half-truths and outright lies did not mention me, Warden. Perhaps you do not know who I am after all.”

“I know exactly who you are,” said the Warden. “You’re the one who vowed to stop the return of the Frostborn. A futile goal. The Frostborn shall return regardless of what you do.” He smiled, cold and cruel and mocking. “Would you like to know how they shall return? How Shadowbearer shall bring them back?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark.

“Then come,” said the Warden, beckoning, “and see the truth at last.” 

Chapter 14 - The Frostborn

The Warden led them into the circle of black stones and stopped between the altar with the massive soulstone and one of the arches. Gray mist flickered and swirled within the arch, punctuated by occasional flashes of silver light. Nine years ago, the Warden had shown Ridmark visions through that arch and had sent him to face the past and the present and the future. 

All of the visions had come true, one way or another. He had seen himself as he was now, a grim exile with a coward’s brand upon his face. He had seen Tarrabus wreathed in shadows, one of the Enlightened of Incariel, though Ridmark had not known the name back then. And he had seen a vision of a Frostborn, the creature strong and dark and terrible.

Was that vision about to come true?

The Warden stopped before the stone arch and gestured, the gray mist rippling. 

“The Frostborn,” murmured the Warden. “Tell me. What do you know of the nature of this world?” He gestured at the black sky. “Of the nature of its thirteen moons?”

“What do you mean?” said Ridmark.

“Perhaps the question was imprecise,” said the Warden. “This world’s inhabitants. What do you know of them?”

Ridmark shrugged. “There are many. The high elves. The dark elves. The dwarves. Orcs. Halflings. Dvargir. Lupivirii. Kobolds. Many others.”

“I applaud your grasp of the obvious,” said the Warden. “The high elves and the dark elves. Two sides of a sundered kindred, yet we are different from all the others. What makes us different?” 

“You are the oldest kindred upon this world,” said Ridmark. 

“Not quite,” said the Warden. “The dragons were older, but they are extinct. Let us say instead that the dark elves and the high elves are the oldest kindred remaining on this world. You touch upon the difference, but you do not yet grasp it.” 

“Native,” said Calliande. 

They looked at her.

“The elves are native to this world,” said Calliande. “All the other kindreds were summoned here.”

“Very good,” said the Warden. “I was there when we discovered the secret. The war between the dark elves and the high elves had been locked in stalemate for millennia. We sought additional weapons, powerful slaves to wield against our foes. The bearer of the shadow of Incariel taught us many secrets of dark magic and necromancy, but we required more. Are you familiar with the concept of the threshold?” 

“The shadow of this world,” said Calliande, “cast into the spirit realm. An echo, a reflection of the real world.”

“Correct, if simplistic,” said the Warden. “Our researches revealed that every world possesses a threshold, a shadow in the spirit world, and that with the proper spells those shadows could be made to overlap. The physical distance between two worlds is so great that the distance, expressed in numbers, would be utterly incomprehensible to your minds. Yet a spell of great power can join the thresholds of the two worlds together, creating a gate that allows passage between the worlds with a single stride.”

“So you opened gates to other worlds and summoned other kindreds to make into your slaves,” said Ridmark. 

“Precisely,” said the Warden. “Would you like to see those other worlds?” 

A strange chill went through Ridmark. “What do you mean?” 

“The omen of blue fire,” said the Warden. “What do you think that was? Simply an omen? No. It was a conjunction of the thirteen moons. The position of this world’s moons strongly influences the operation of certain spells. Including…”