The Dark Warden (Book 6) (4 page)

“Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark.

Morigna blinked. “It glows?” 

“Constantly,” said Ridmark. “I don’t know why. Something to do with the spell holding the Warden there, I expect.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you or Calliande or Mara will be able to tell us more when we arrive.” 

“Perhaps.” She looked at him for a moment. “Ridmark.”

He nodded, waiting. He expected something like this. Perhaps she had changed her mind about him. 

“Do you think the Warden knows that you are coming?” she said. 

“I don’t think so,” said Ridmark. “Certainly he had no reason to believe that I would ever return. Few people ever escape from Urd Morlemoch the first time. Only a complete madman would return a second time.” 

She almost smiled at that. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” said Ridmark. “The Warden showed me a vision of the future the last time. I saw myself, as I am now.” He shook his head. “I thought it was a trick, a lie of the Warden’s. Yet the vision came true, did it not?”

“Do not start that again,” said Morigna, “blaming yourself for things beyond your control…”

“No,” said Ridmark. “No, I think we have something larger to worry about than the past.”

It was her turn to frown. “The Warden?”  

“If the vision he showed me was true, then he might have known I would return,” said Ridmark. “Why would he want me to come back? What would he possibly gain from it?”

“Perhaps it is one of his games?” said Morigna. “From what you have described, the Warden seems the sort of creature to enjoy such manipulations. Though it seems a waste of effort.”

“He’s been trapped in Urd Morlemoch for thousands of years,” said Ridmark. “It’s only been nine years since I left. To the Warden, nine years must seem like an idle afternoon. Perhaps he simply is bored. Yet…” He gazed at the blue glow. “Yet it seems a peculiar sort of a game. He must want something. But what?”

“I do not know,” said Morigna. “But we shall find out soon enough.” 

“You’re right,” said Ridmark. “Come. We have more immediate concerns. I want to make sure we shall not be eaten in our sleep.” 

She laughed. “A lofty ambition.” 

Ridmark led the way around another hill. His eyes scanned the countryside, but still he saw no sign of any foes. Even during his last visit nine years ago, the Torn Hills had not been so deserted. Perhaps the denizens of the Torn Hill avoided this region for fear of the stream and the undead caught in the ancient spell. 

Then Ridmark saw the tracks upon a trail, and he and Morigna came to a stop at the same time.

“You see it, too?” said Ridmark.

“Even Jager would not be blind enough to miss it,” said Morigna, pointing at the trail winding between two hills.

“Jager’s not blind,” said Ridmark.

“He thought he could steal from a man like Tarrabus Carhaine without consequence,” said Morigna. 

“That’s stupid, not blind,” said Ridmark, looking over the trail. “Someone’s passed this way recently.” He scrutinized the ground. “Just…one man, I think. Boots. Carrying a pack, or something heavy.” 

“Shall we?” said Morigna.

Ridmark nodded and followed the tracks, Morigna trailing a half-step behind him with her bow ready. The trail led into a hollow nestled in one of the hills, and Ridmark saw the signs of a recent camp. Ashes lay in a ring of stones, and he saw evidence that many men had camped here. The grass had been trampled flat, and he saw the impressions of tents. Ridmark squatted near the campfire and stirred the ashes. 

“A small fire,” he said. “Within the last day, I think. Just one man. He camped here, and then he left.”

“Look at this,” said Morigna, picking something up. She held three long, coarse white hairs. 

“Orcish hair,” said Ridmark.

“But they’re all white,” said Morigna. “All of them. There is orcish hair all over this clearing, and I cannot find a single black one. Are all the orcs of the Torn Hills elderly? One suppose they would not make a formidable force.”

“Not elderly,” said Ridmark. “Mutated.”

“Mutated?” said Morigna.

“The Old Man probably told you that the orcs are vulnerable to magical alteration,” said Ridmark. “A tribe of mutated orcs lives near Urd Morlemoch. The Warden’s magic has made them larger and stronger and faster, and some of them have the ability to cast spells. The mutations,” he gestured at his head, “make their hair fall out or turn snow-white. They worship the Warden as a god, and when they die they consider it an honor to have their corpses buried in Urd Morlemoch and raised as the Warden’s undead servants. Like a wealthy man making a gift to the bishop to have his bones interred beneath the cathedral.”

“As little as I think of the church of Andomhaim,” said Morigna, “I am reasonably certain there is not a single bishop or abbot who animates the dead in his graveyards.” 

“I hope not, anyway,” said Ridmark.

Morigna let the white hairs fall from her hand. “What does the Warden want with a tribe of mutated orcs? Pets, one assumes?” 

“Not quite,” said Ridmark. “He uses them for errands. To kidnap people or to steal things or books he finds interesting. He told me that he read all the books of Old Earth, the Scriptures and the histories of the Romans and the Greeks.”

“He must truly be bored, then,” said Morigna. 

Ridmark shook his head. “I didn’t think the Warden’s orcs came this far south. Not unless they had a special task from the Warden.”

“Well,” said Morigna, “they have been gone for weeks, I think. This lone traveler whose tracks we saw? Likely an overbold trapper chasing game. Or an adventurer thinking to loot Urd Morlemoch.”

“Then the Warden will soon have another undead servant,” said Ridmark. He looked at the darkening sky. “We should return. One lone wanderer won’t pose a problem, if we keep a watch, and the orcs left weeks ago. We should be safe enough.” He considered that. “As safe as anyone can be in the Torn Hills.”

Morigna hesitated. “Then you want to go back so soon?”

Ridmark wondered what she meant. Then he saw the way she was looking at him, and he understood what she wanted. He wondered how she could possibly think that was a good idea right now. 

A harsh cry rang out, echoing over the hillside. 

Morigna flinched and whirled, bringing up her bow, and Ridmark followed suit. The bow creaked in his hand, and he looked over the pale grasses of the hillside, seeking for the source of the cry…

A raven flapped overhead, and flew away to the north. 

“Damned ravens,” muttered Morigna.

“Perhaps it wanted to frighten you,” said Ridmark, “given how often you have used ravens to scout.”

“That,” said Morigna, “is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, Gray Knight.”

She looked at him, and her indignant expression melted into laughter, and Ridmark felt himself laughing back. 

“Why is this funny?” said Ridmark. “This isn’t funny.”

She stepped closer, putting one hand upon his chest as she looked up at him. “You looked so solemn. So serious. But you always do.”

“And you find that amusing?” said Ridmark.

She grinned. “Yes, I do. So you ought to thank me. Apparently you allow yourself one moment of levity a day, and I help you to find it.” She tapped his chest with her other hand. “But why were you laughing at me?” 

“Perhaps I was startled,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps it is good to see you laugh, because Morigna the Witch of the Hills is just as grim as Ridmark the Gray Knight.” 

“The Gray Knight and the Witch of the Hills,” said Morigna. “It sounds like a dismal poem.”

“Is that what you want?” said Ridmark. “For me to recite poetry at you?”

There was something stronger than amusement in her black eyes. “What do you think?”

He drew her close and kissed her. It was a damned foolish thing to do, here in the Torn Hills, but at the moment he did not care. She shivered and melted into him, kissing him with vigor. 

Hunting and scouting were not the only areas where she could keep up with him. 

A short time later they took shelter in the hollow of the hill, Ridmark’s cloak spread beneath them. That, too, was a damned foolish idea, but again he did not care. Morigna had been right. It had been a long time he had touched a woman. When he was with her, when he felt her shivering beneath him, he did not care that they were unwed, did not care about the consequences, and he forgot his sorrows and guilt and regret beneath the fire of her kisses and the heat her body against his. 

He had heard the tale of David and Bathsheba from the book of the Kings of Israel, had read the history of Caesar and Anthony and Cleopatra of the Empire of the Romans, and he had always wondered how such powerful and honorable warriors had been foolish enough to risk everything to slake a moment’s lust.

Now, after meeting Morigna, he knew.

Though it was not as if he had much left to lose. 

When they finished Ridmark rolled onto his back, breathing hard.

“Gray Knight,” whispered Morigna when she caught her breath, “few men would have the vigor to walk all day, fight a battle, and then please a woman at the end, but you excel them all.”

He laughed a little, sat up, and pulled his clothing back into place.

She raised an eyebrow. “You have had your way with the Witch of the Hills and then you take your leave? Is that it?” 

“We,” said Ridmark, “should not linger here.” 

She sighed and stretched, arching her back, which held the entirety of Ridmark’s attention for a moment. “True enough.” She sat up and retrieved her clothing. “I suppose there will not be opportunity for this as we draw closer to Urd Morlemoch.”

“No,” said Ridmark.

Morigna considered him. “You seem…grim again. At least more solemn than a man should be, considering what you have just done.” 

“Should I?” said Ridmark. “I take this seriously. This is not a casual affair, at least not for me. I am not a man to take a lover lightly.”

“Given how much effort it took to persuade you,” said Morigna, a hint of her usual acerbity in her voice, “that is hardly a surprising pronouncement.”

Ridmark stared at her.

Morigna sighed. “Nor am I the sort of woman to casually take a man into my bed. You are only the second one, you know.” The hard edge drained from her voice, and for a moment she looked sad. “I would have been content if Nathan had been the only one. He would have been the only one, if not for the Old Man and that damned urvaalg.” 

“I would have spent the rest of my life with Aelia,” said Ridmark. To his annoyance, his voice caught a bit over her name, and he forced himself back to calm. “I was a knight of Andomhaim and a Swordbearer. I never thought there would be anyone else, or that my life might have any other purpose. And now…”

Her thin fingers closed around his hand. “Now there is. Now we seek to stop the return of the Frostborn, and you have someone else.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “You were right, you know.”

“I am always right,” said Morigna. “Though if you could remind of which particular instance, that would be helpful.” 

“I did need this,” said Ridmark. “More than I knew. Yet I am not…sure that this is wise.”

He expected anger or pain, but her fingers tightened against his. “I know. And I know why.”

“Do you?” said Ridmark.

“It is hard to speak of the future,” said Morigna, “when the Warden and his servants might kill us all in the next five days.”

“There is that,” said Ridmark. 

“Then let us not think of it,” said Morigna. “Not yet, anyway. We sit upon the edge of ruin, and we take a little joy in each other. Once we prevail, once we stop the return of the Frostborn, then we can speak of the future…and what we might do with it.” 

“You seem so certain of that,” said Ridmark. 

“Who can see the future?” said Morigna. “But I know you, Ridmark Arban, and if there is any man who can find a way into Urd Morlemoch and come out alive again, it is you.”

“Perhaps you have too much confidence in me,” said Ridmark.

She scoffed. “Perhaps you have too little in yourself.”

He stared at her, a tangled mass of memories and emotions churning through his mind. 

“I suppose we shall put it to the test, will we not?” said Ridmark. 

“That is so,” said Morigna.

He pulled her close and kissed her again. 

“As pleasant as this is,” said Morigna when they broke apart, “you were correct earlier. We should return soon. One suspects that wandering the Torn Hills alone at night is rather unwise.”

“One would suspect correctly,” said Ridmark, adjusting his cloak. In truth, they had already lingered too long. Morigna extended a hand, and Ridmark took it. “Let us…”

A ripple behind Morigna caught his eye. It was a peculiar sort of ripple, like the heat rising from a slab of hot stone under the summer sun. Yet it was too cold for that here. 

The ripple shot forward, and Ridmark’s brain caught up with his eyes.

Fool, fool, fool.

He shoved Morigna to the side, which meant that the urvaalg slammed into him and drove him backwards, its slavering jaws yawning wide to rip out his throat.

Chapter 3 - Things To Lose

Morigna hit the ground, rolled, and came to one knee, fury and pain roiling in her mind. For a mad instant, she thought that Ridmark had rejected her, that he had simply thrown her to the ground. 

Then she saw the hulking thing atop Ridmark. The beast looked like a ghastly hybrid of ape and wolf, long limbs heavy with ropy muscle, greasy black fur hanging from its rangy form in lank ropes. Dagger-like talons jutted from its paws, and its eyes burned like dying coals in a blacksmith’s forge. Its misshapen muzzle yawned wide, jagged fangs reaching to crush Ridmark’s head in one bite.

It was an urvaalg, one of the ancient war beasts of the dark elves, a creature immune to steel and all but the most powerful magic. 

An urvaalg had killed Nathan Vorinus on the very day that Morigna had decided to depart with him. The urvaalg had ripped out his throat, and now it seemed that Ridmark was going to die in the same way. 

Sheer dread flooded Morigna, followed by molten fury.