The Dark Warden (Book 6) (24 page)

All save for Calliande.

Her eyes rolled back and forth in terror as she floated towards the central altar. At last she touched the enormous blue soulstone, and she went rigid with pain. The sight filled Ridmark with rage, and he heaved against the spell. 

Unless. He could not move even an inch. He could not even speak. 

“This world is doomed,” said the Warden. “Shadowbearer will not stop, and sooner or later he shall summon the Frostborn and they will destroy the world. The Frostborn are his dupes, of course, just as we were. But I shall leave this doomed world to its inevitable fate, and I will forge an empire to span the cosmos. And I could not have done it without you, Ridmark Arban. Without your boldness. Without your grief, your determination to do some great deed to atone for your wife’s death. Without your determination to overcome any obstacle and any foe in your path. Here you find the end of your quest at last, the fate that awaited you ever since you agreed to rescue Rhyannis from Urd Morlemoch.” He spread his arms, the blue coat rippling around him in the icy wind. “Do you find your atonement pleasing?”

Ridmark tried to move, but the spell held him as motionless as a statue, the menhir cold against his back.

The Warden turned and began a spell. 

###

Calliande screamed in the silence of her mind, the talons of the Warden’s spell digging deeper into her flesh.

Terror and fury warred within her. She had come so close! She knew how to retrieve her staff and memories, how to stop the Frostborn and defeat Shadowbearer. But she could not break free of the Warden’s grasp, and she felt his magic reaching into her mind. The sensation was familiar. Talvinius had tried to possess her body in the Deeps below Black Mountain. There her latent magic had risen up in a storm to repulse his attack and destroy him. 

Now her magic rose to defend her, but the Warden batted aside the attacks with ease. He was so strong that he made Talvinius seem as weak as a mewling kitten, so strong that her attacks were like jabbing pins into a boulders. She felt the talons of his magic closing around her mind, ripping her spirit from her flesh, and she screamed.

Fire erupted through her, and everything went black.

###

The Warden floated into the air, a sphere of blue light shimmering and pulsing around him. As he did, Calliande arched her back and shrieked, every muscle in her body going rigid at once, and blue fire burned around her. 

The fire faded away, and Calliande rolled to her feet and stepped away from the altar, even as the Warden’s body continued to float in the sphere of blue light.

Calliande’s eyes were…empty.

They had become bottomless pits into a black void, and ghostly blue fire and shadow flame coiled around her fingers. She looked back and forth between them, her face a cold, emotionless mask of arrogant contempt. Calliande had never worn an expression like that. 

But, Ridmark realized with sinking despair, that body no longer belonged to Calliande.

“This shall serve,” said Calliande, and the Warden’s inhumanly deep voice issued from her lips. “This body will last no more than another five or six decades. That is adequate time to complete the conquest of Old Earth and several other worlds. Suitable replacement vessels can be obtained in the interim.” Calliande’s hand dipped into her belt pouch and came out holding the empty soulstone.

It was empty no longer. 

The soulstone pulsed with an inner crimson fire, something like black smoke writhing around its facets. 

“The harvested power of the Keeper of Avalon,” said the Warden. “More than adequate to join the threshold of this world to the threshold of Old Earth and open a gate.” Calliande’s body stepped forward, her blond hair waving about her face in the wind. “Farewell, Ridmark Arban.”

Ridmark struggled again, hoping the transference had weakened the Warden’s magic, but still the spell held him motionless. 

“After fifteen thousand years, you have arranged my freedom,” said the Warden. “You are too dangerous to leave alive, of course, but there is no need for you to suffer. In gratitude, I shall kill you painlessly. Your bodies shall die of thirst while your minds remain locked in a pleasant dream. Of old we often granted this death to slaves who had served us well.” Calliande’s face twisted in a malignant smile. “You shall each receive your heart’s desire before you die. Falsely, of course, but I suppose an illusion is better than nothing.” 

Calliande’s left hand came up, the shadow fire darkening. That darkness fell over Ridmark’s eyes, and it pulled him into nothingness. 

Chapter 16 - Bliss

Kharlacht turned in surprise, blinking.

He was back in the foothills of the Vhaluuskan mountains, walking to his home in the village of his clan. 

For some reason that seemed odd. 

He climbed the path alongside the hill, making his way through the pine forests of the Vhaluuskan foothills, and gazed upon his village. For a moment confusion overwhelmed him. Did he not see this village every day? Had he not lived here his entire life?

Why did it seem as if he had not looked upon it for years?

Puzzled, Kharlacht climbed the path to his home just inside the village’s stockade. Inside the wall the orcs of the village went about their tasks, the men to their fields and pastures, the women to the well or their workshops. The men nodded to him as he passed. He knew them all, had helped repair their homes and harvest their crops, had gone hunting with them and taken up arms with them to defend the village from kobold raiders. The last of his blood kin had been wiped out when Qazarl and the remaining Mhalekites went on their fools’ quest in Andomhaim, but that was all right. Kharlacht had settled here, and…

He pushed open the door to his house and stared in surprise. 

His wife sat at the table, humming to herself as she stitched up a torn dress. Their daughter worked at her mother’s side, sorting needles and spools of thread, while their son lay in his basket, gurgling and waving his small arms. 

“Husband?” said Lujena, looking up from her work with concern. Her long black hair hung in a braid to her waist, and her skin was the color of the forest in summer. Her black eyes were wide with surprise, and her tan dress left most of her strong arms bare. “Is something wrong? Usually you are not back until sundown. Does…”

He did not remember crossing the room and seizing her in his arms, but suddenly she was there, warm and alive. 

“Husband?” said Lujena, laughing. “I am glad to see you, too…but are you sure everything is all right?”

“Yes,” said Kharlacht. “It is now.”

###

The man who had called himself Brother Caius of the mendicant order strode into the Stone Heart of Khald Tormen, his armor clanking with every step. 

The Stone Heart was a huge cylindrical chamber with a domed roof, so large that many villages and towns of Andomhaim would have fit within it. The Stone Heart marked the spot where the dwarven kindred, the khaldari, had first entered this world, where they had fought and defeated the dark elven wizards who had tried to enslave them. Unable to return home, the dwarves had instead founded their Nine Kingdoms, spreading through the Deeps. Nine massive corridors branched off from the great Stone Heart, leading to the nine kingdoms of the dwarves. Six of those kingdoms had been destroyed, but three remained.

A pool of molten stone dominated the center of the Stone Heart, filling the chamber with its harsh glow. A pedestal of harder stone rose from the molten rock, supporting the massive soulstone the dark elves had used to open their gate so long ago. Nine rivers of molten stone flowed from the pool and into the nine corridors. The liquid fire welled up from the heart of the world, but the engineering skill of the dwarves, unmatched by any other kindred, kept it controlled. 

Caius stopped and looked at the assembled nobles of Khald Tormen. Armored dwarves stood around the pools and streams of molten stone, the harsh glow reflecting in their bronze-colored armor. Balconies ringed the round walls, and more dwarves stood there, staring down at him. Traditionally the nobles and warriors of Khald Tormen gathered in the Stone Heart to hear the edicts of the king, or to listen to the stonescribes consult the records and pronounce upon matters of importance. 

Today they were here for another reason.

Caius found himself breaking into a run.

“Lord Taalkhan,” said some of the Taalmaks, the dwarven knights, as he ran past. “Lord Taalkhan, we…”

Caius ignored them all.

He stopped before the king’s throne, at the very edge of the molten pool. As ever, the king of Khald Tormen looked solemn and grim in his ornate robes and his crown of dwarven steel, the very image of sober control and stoic acceptance of death. Caius barely noticed. At the king’s side stood a young dwarven man of about fifty or sixty years, his armor dented and battered from combat.

“Nerazar?” said Caius, barely able to recognize his own voice.

“Father,” said the young man.

“No, no,” said Caius, “I saw you die, I was sure of it. I…” Yet the desperate hope flared anew in his heart. Often men made misjudgments in the fog of war. Perhaps Caius had been mistaken. Oh, God and the Dominus Christus, let him have been mistaken! 

“It was close,” said Nerazar, “but I managed to get away before the deep orcs sprang their ambush. I…”

The rest of the words were drowned out as Caius caught his son in a hug.

###

Gavin turned in a circle, marveling at the change. 

When he had departed Aranaeus, the village had been a smoldering ruin, the houses and the barns burned by Agrimnalazur’s arachar warriors. Now they had been rebuilt, taller and stronger than before. Father Martel’s church, previously half a ruin, was now twice the size, and filled with people come to hear mass now that the lies of Agrimnalazur’s cult had been exposed. 

He stopped for a moment at the place where the praefectus’s house had stood, now a stone cross carved with the names of those who had died fighting Agrimnalazur. What would his father think, he wondered, to look at Aranaeus now? Cornelius had lived in terror of Agrimnalazur his entire life, had even married a spiderling at his goddess’s command. At the final moment of his life he had found the courage to defy the urdmordar, and had lived just long enough to see Agrimnalazur defeated. 

What would he think of the things Gavin had done since? Would he be proud?

“Gavin?”

He turned and saw Rosanna staring at him. 

She looked as lovely as he remembered, her dark eyes sparkling, a wide smile spreading over her face. 

“You came back,” she said, stepping closer, her fingers tugging at the sides of her skirt. “I thought…I thought we would never see you again. That you would go off with the Gray Knight and his Magistria to have adventures in far lands.”

“I did,” said Gavin. “We did. We stopped the Frostborn and saved the realm, and I thought…well, I thought I would like to come home again. Just for a visit. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“We are doing well,” said Rosanna, pushing some hair away from her face. “We’ve rebuilt the village, and the harvests have been good.”

“How is Philip?” said Gavin.

“Well,” said Rosanna. “He is still praefectus, and the people respect him. He and his wife are expecting their second child.”

“His wife?” said Gavin, his eyes flicking to her belly and then back to her face. “Then you…”

“I didn’t marry Philip, Gavin,” she said, blinking tears from her eyes. “He wed the cobbler’s daughter instead. I…well, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every day I would look at the gate and…”

He pulled her close and kissed her long and hard upon the lips. The other villagers would see and gossip, but he did not care. She melted against him with a little moan, her fingers digging into his back. 

“Come with me,” she said, her voice husky, and Gavin followed her.

###

The carriage rattled to a stop, and Jager adjusted his fine cloak, the gleaming leather of his boots creaking, and descended. He reached up and held out a hand for Mara, and she descended after her him with a smile. The entire village of Caudea had turned out to see Jager home, and he strolled with his wife to his new domus, a fine house of white-painted stone with a roof of red tiles. It had once belonged to Sir Alan Tallmane and then his son Sir Paul, but Sir Alan had died and Sir Paul had paid the ultimate price for his crimes at the destruction of the Iron Tower.

So Jager had bought the domus for himself. 

He could afford it. He could afford almost anything he wanted. After returning from the Gray Knight’s successful quest to stop the Frostborn, he had invested his money in various enterprises across the realm. His businesses had prospered, and he was possibly the richest man in the realm, richer than even the High King himself. 

His father and his sister awaited him at the front steps of the domus. Hilder had aged in the ten years since Jager had fled Caudea, his hair thinning, his face lined, though he still looked vigorous. Dagma stood next to him, smiling, her blond hair still hanging loose around her shoulders. 

“Father,” said Jager, a flicker of unease going through him. Hilder had wanted Jager to follow in his footsteps, to become the perfect halfling servant as Hilder had been. What would Hilder think of what Jager had become? “It has been a long time.”

“It has, Jager,” said Hilder, and the old man smiled. “Time you put to good use. Look at what you have done. Look at all you have built. A halfling becoming the richest merchant in the High Kingdom? I never would have thought such a thing possible.” He beamed at Mara. “And you have brought home a beautiful wife.”

Mara smiled. “You are too kind, sir.”

“Come inside,” said Hilder. “Come home, Jager.”

###

Arandar stepped onto the balcony.

All of Tarlion spread below him, a hundred thousand people housed within its strong walls. The red dragon of the Pendragon banner flew from every tower and every parapet, and to the west the River Moradel gleamed in the afternoon sun, a thousand boats crowding its surface. Accolon and Nyvane stood with him. Accolon wore his finest clothes, looking as brave as a thirteen-year-old boy could manage, while Nyvane clutched her father’s hand, staring in fear at the old man standing at the railing.