The Dark Warden (Book 6) (3 page)

As the thought crossed his mind, a thick white mist rose from the creek and began to swirl over the banks. 

“Back!” he said, thinking of Morigna’s acidic mist. The others obeyed, drawing weapons, and the mist over the creek started to glow with an eerie blue light.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “That’s a necromantic spell.”

“Someone’s casting it?” said Ridmark, looking around.

“No,” said Calliande with a shake of her head. “It’s…old. An echo of an old spell. I think…”

The mist resolved itself into ghostly figures. Ridmark saw warriors clad in overlapping plates of blue steel, winged helms upon their heads and gleaming swords in their fists. Their faces were the color of bleached bone, and their eyes were black pits into nothingness, a void without limit or boundary.

Dark elven warriors.

“Slay them!” bellowed the shade with the most elaborate armor, a staff wrought of gold and ebony in his right hand. “Slay the high elven vermin! Kill them all, and show them the true might of Incariel!” 

“High elves?” said Kharlacht. “There are none here.”

“It’s an echo of the spells they used,” said Calliande. “Shadows and nothing more.”

That alarmed Ridmark.

“Shadows,” he said, “can have power.”

“I see the spell,” murmured Mara, her eyes wide. Her peculiar transformation at the Iron Tower had left Mara with the Sight, the ability to see magical auras. “She’s right. It’s…old, repeating itself over and over. Like a broken clock stuck in a single second.” She blinked. “We’d better go. I don’t think it’s…”

“Rise up, my slaves!” bellowed the armored dark elf. “Rise and kill! Death does not release you from my service. Rise and kill in my name!” 

He thrust out his hand, the other shades dissolving into mist. Blue fire washed from his fingers and rolled across the ground, sinking into the scattered bones. The cold wind grew icier and stronger, and the bones rattled. The shade of the dark elven wizard vanished into the mist, but the blue fire around the bones brightened. 

Then the bones moved together.

“Calliande!” Ridmark shouted.

She was already moving, a burst of white fire erupting from her hands to sweep across the bones. Wherever the white flame touched the blue, the blue fire winked out, and the bones went motionless. Yet Calliande’s spell could not touch all the bones at once, and the skeletons reformed themselves before Ridmark’s eyes as the dark elf’s ancient spell took hold.

The ground erupted in a score of places. Mummified orcish corpses rose from the earth, their green skin withered to pale yellow leather, ancient armor still clinging to their desiccated limbs. Blue flames burned in the black pits of their eye sockets, and the undead orcs still held rusted weapons. 

“Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, tossing aside his staff and drawing the dwarven war axe from his belt. Calliande began another spell and Morigna started one of her own, while Gavin fell back to shield Calliande.

The undead rushed forward in a charge, and Ridmark raced to meet them, axe in both hands.

The weapon had been a gift from the Taalkaz of the Dwarven Enclave in Coldinium, and the weapon had been enchanted, written with the magical glyphs of the dwarven stonescribes. It was not nearly as powerful as a soulblade, but it was nonetheless an effective weapon against undead and other creatures of dark magic. 

One of the orcish skeletons reached for him, and Ridmark whipped the axe around in a two-handed swing, driving the bronze-colored blade through the skull. The skull shattered into dust, the bones tumbling back to the ground. One of the mummified corpses attacked, swinging a rusted sword. Ridmark parried, catching the blow on the blade of his axe, and stumbled back from the force of the swing. The undead corpse was viciously strong, but it was not fast, and as the undead thing readied its weapon for another blow, Ridmark struck, his axe ripping across its neck. The undead corpse stumbled, and Ridmark took off its head with his next blow, the body collapsing at his feet.

A half-dozen more skeletons closed around him, and Calliande finished her spell.

White light burst from her fingers and jumped to the weapons of Ridmark and the others. The war axe thrummed in his hands, the white glow joining the sullen yellow-orange light of the dwarven glyphs upon the blade. Ridmark stepped back, caught his balance, and went on the offensive again, striking down skeletons right and left. The others charged into the fray, their weapons shining with the white light of Calliande’s magic. Kharlacht’s massive greatsword ripped one of the mummified corpses in half. Caius followed in his wake, exploiting the chaos created by the big orc’s charge and smashing skulls with his mace. One of the skeletons raced at Jager, who stood his ground, short sword and dagger ready in his hands. Blue fire flickered behind the skeleton, and Mara appeared out of nothingness, her eyes and veins glowing. She tripped the skeleton, and Jager dispatched it with a quick flourish of his sword and dagger. Gavin stood guard over Calliande, striking down any corpse that drew too close. Morigna stepped forward, sweeping her hand before her as purple fire snarled around her fingers. The ground rippled and folded, knocking a dozen of the mummified corpses from their feet, and Ridmark took the opportunity to strike, beheading three of them before they stood again, and took a fourth as it rose.

His companions were holding their own against the undead. Yet there were so damned many of the things. Sooner or later they would be overwhelmed, or the fighting would draw the attention of a more powerful creature. Ridmark destroyed another skeleton, the bones bouncing across the floor of the valley. Nearly a hundred skeletons had closed around them, and a score of the mummified corpses had risen from the earth. They could not fight such numbers. He had to…

Then, all at once, the battle was over.

The blue flames winked out, and the skeletons collapsed into piles of dry bones. The mummified orcs sank into the ground, the earth closing around them. Ridmark turned, the axe trembling in his fist, but peace had fallen over the valley. The others lowered their weapons, looking around in bewilderment. 

“Is anyone wounded?” called Calliande.

“Did you break the spell?” said Ridmark.

Calliande shook her head. “I didn’t do anything. I was focused on holding the spell over the weapons. Morigna?”

“I fear not,” said Morigna. “My magic gives me command over earth and beasts, not other spells.”

“An echo,” said Mara, the blue fire fading from her eyes and skin. 

They looked at her.

“The spell was an echo of something that happened here long ago,” said Mara. “And echoes fade. We…just reached the end of that particular echo.”

“But echoes repeat,” said Gavin, wiping sweat from his forehead, “over and over again.”

Ridmark looked at the stream and saw faint wisps of white mist gathering over the waters. 

The spell was repeating itself once more.

“It’s starting again,” said Mara. 

“Run!” said Ridmark, snatching up his staff. “To the northern lip of the valley. Quickly!” 

They ran across the valley, kicking aside the bones. Ridmark raced over the stream, jumping from stone to stone, and the chill of the Torn Hills deepened. He wondered how many thousands of times those undead orcs had been raised by the ancient spell. He wondered how many victims they had claimed over the centuries. 

Best not to join their number. 

They reached the northern edge of the valley. Ridmark turned as the others joined him, staff in his left hand and axe in his right. He expected the shades of the long-dead dark elves to reappear, the undead to rise once more. 

But the mist faded away, and the undead did not rise again. 

“What happened?” said Kharlacht. “Why didn’t the undead attack?”

Calliande frowned, one hand raised, a white gleam shining around her fingers.

“I think,” said Calliande, “I think the echo only responds to a living mortal. It was dormant until we drew near.”

“The other patches of mist,” said Caius, looking at the rocky hills to the north. “Are those further echoes?”

“Maybe,” said Calliande. “Or they could just be mist.”

“My Sight can give us some warning,” said Mara. 

“That will have to do,” said Ridmark. “We should keep moving. Stay on guard, all of you. It’s another five days to Urd Morlemoch, and it will only get more dangerous from here.” 

Of course, the dangers of the Torn Hills were nothing compared to the perils within the walls of Urd Morlemoch. 

Because the Warden waited within Urd Morlemoch.

Chapter 2 - The Sorceress and the Exile

They traveled another ten miles into the Torn Hills before Ridmark found a satisfactory campsite. 

The crumbled stump of a round tower filled the top of a rocky hill. The hill offered a commanding view of the nearby ravines, while the crumbled tower was a defensible location. Ridmark examined the base of the hill, but saw no tracks leading to or from the ruined tower. Calliande’s spells and Mara’s Sight detected no sign of any spells or magical echoes upon the ruins. 

It would be a safe place for a camp.

At least, as safe as anything could be this close to Urd Morlemoch. 

“We should do without a fire,” said Morigna, slipping off her pack and leaning it against the wall. “The light would be visible for miles.” 

“Alas, Gray Knight,” said Jager, “this is quite the unpleasant inn you have found for us. Surly barmaids,” he grinned at Morigna, who glared right back, “and I daresay the wine and the food are appalling.” 

“This isn’t the Inn of the Sheathed Sword back in Cintarra,” said Mara.

“Indeed,” said Jager. “More the pity.”

They shared a smile at that. A private joke, no doubt. 

“If the accommodations are not to your liking, master thief,” said Morigna with her usual acerbity, “then perhaps you can return to the valley of the bones. The skeletons, one is sure, would be happy to wait upon you hand and foot.”

The others entered the ruined tower, removing their packs and laying them against the walls. Calliande’s hand strayed to a leather pouch at her belt. That pouch held the empty soulstone Shadowbearer had intended to use upon her, the empty soulstone that Jager had stolen and given to Tarrabus Carhaine. 

The empty soulstone that Shadowbearer needed to restore the Frostborn, though Ridmark did not know why.

After everything they had been through to retrieve the soulstone, Calliande never let the thing out of her sight. 

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” said Calliande. 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Nine years ago. It was deserted then, too.”

She blinked. “You didn’t encounter the valley of bones?”

“I confess I took a different route here,” said Ridmark. 

Calliande laughed. “Plainly it was the better route.”

He felt himself smile. “Plainly.” 

A peculiar flicker of guilt went through him. He had kissed her once, just before the wyvern had attacked and poisoned Kharlacht. If not for the wyvern, they might have done more together. Instead they had gone to Coldinium and the Iron Tower, and Morigna had come to him. Calliande was a very different woman than Morigna, yet if Ridmark was honest with himself, he was drawn to her just as much as Morigna. 

His guilt curdled into self-contempt. Was this the kind of man he had become? Once he had been a Swordbearer of Dux Gareth Licinius’s court, the husband of Aelia. That man, if he could see himself now, would have been appalled.

A further unsettling thought came to Ridmark.

He had seen the future, hadn’t he? The Warden had shown it to him in a vision. Ridmark had denied it, had vowed to avert it, but it had come to pass anyway.

Did that mean the Warden had known Ridmark would return all along?

That was a tremendously disturbing thought. 

“Is everything all right?” said Calliande.

Ridmark realized that he had started scowling. He felt Morigna’s eyes on him. 

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Given that we are traveling though the Torn Hills on the way to Urd Morlemoch.”

Jager snorted as he rummaged through his pack. “How cheering.”

“I am going to have a look around,” said Ridmark. “I thought it odd that this tower was deserted nine years ago, and I still think it odd.” If there was danger nearby, some compelling reason the tower was deserted, he could find it.

It would also give him a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I will come with you,” said Morigna. “Going alone is too dangerous, and if you are attacked you may need aid.”

Ridmark hesitated, a dozen different responses going through his mind.

“Very well,” he said at last. 

###

Ridmark moved through the ravine, Morigna silent as his side. 

He enjoyed scouting with her. None of the others could keep up with him and move as quietly. Gavin and Kharlacht moved silently enough, but Morigna was a ghost next to them. Calliande knew about many things, but woodcraft was not one of them. Mara and Jager were both stealthy, but they were creatures of the city, and Jager looked at everything he encountered in the wilderness as if it might try to attack him. 

Which, in the Torn Hills, was not wrong. 

Yet Morigna moved through the wilds with the ease of someone who had grown up there. In some ways she was better than Ridmark. Certainly she was a better shot with a bow. Ridmark had spent the last five years wandering through the Wilderland in search of answers, but she had spent most of her childhood in the woods, with nothing to eat save what her bow could capture for her. 

Little wonder she had gotten so good at it.

They made their way past jagged hills and diseased trees, the cold wind whistling around them. Morigna came to a sudden halt, her bow coming up. Ridmark turned, raising his bow as well, but he saw no sign of any foes.

“What is it?” he said at last.

“There,” said Morigna, pointing. “To the north. That blue glow. What is it?”

To the north, as the gray sky faded to black, Ridmark could see the palest hint of a blue glow reflected against the clouds.