Frostborn: The First Quest (9 page)

“No,” said Ridmark. “But there’s something wrong. And I shall find out what it is.”

He drew on Heartwarden’s power, intending to use the sword’s magic to break a spell with a touch. The sword flared with white light, and he started towards Rhyannis, planning to tap her with the sword and break whatever spell was upon her.

But before he could reach the top of the dais, she and the throne vanished.

In her place stood a pedestal of white stone, a fist-sized sphere of yellow crystal sitting upon it. The sphere had a black center, and it looked like a baleful eye.

“What is that?” said Ridmark.

“That,” said Lancelus, “is the eye of a basilisk. A close relative to the sthanos. They came from the same world, I believe, though I cannot say for certain. The bite of a sthanos turns its victim to stone. The basilisk, I fear, is rather more potent. Merely looking into its eyes is enough. Fortunately for you, the effect is less potent when the basilisk is dead. Then you would have to physically touch the eye to fall under its power.”

Ridmark turned, Heartwarden still in his fist. 

Lancelus stood watching him, a faint smile on his face.

“How do you know that?” said Ridmark.

“Had you touched the illusion of Rhyannis covering the eye,” said Lancelus, “we would not be having this conversation.”

“How,” said Ridmark, pointing his sword at the older knight, “how do you know all this?”

Lancelus smiled. “What do you think, Sir Ridmark of the Order of the Soulblade?”

“I think the reason you survived,” said Ridmark, “when all the other Swordbearers perished is that you made a pact with the Warden. I think you have been working with him. I think this is all part of the Warden’s games. Your life in exchange for…this.”

“Well,” said Lancelus. “You are half-right. I am afraid I have lied to you, Sir Ridmark. There were no other Swordbearers.” 

“Just you, then?” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Lancelus. “You were the only one Ardrhythain sent. I must say I was impressed. I did not think Ardrhythain would find a warrior of such quality among the humans.”

“If you are not a Swordbearer,” said Ridmark, his mouth dry, “then who are you?”

“Why, you have not figured it out already?” said Lancelus. “No? Let me enlighten you.”

He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

In his place stood a tall, gaunt figure, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves over black trousers and a tunic. The figure’s head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside the long, lean face, a diadem of blue steel encircling the brow. The eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than the eyes of the urdhracos. Rings of blue dark elven steel glittered upon the long, bony fingers. 

“Who are you?” said Ridmark.

“I think you know,” said the dark elf. His voice had grown deeper, far deeper and more melodious than any human voice. 

“The Warden,” said Ridmark. “You’re the Warden. What did you do with Sir Lancelus?”

The Warden’s thin lips twitched.

“No,” said Ridmark, “there never was a Sir Lancelus, was there? He was only a fiction, a disguise you created.”

“Very good,” said the Warden.

“Why?” said Ridmark. The dark elven sorcerer stood a mere dozen paces away. If Ridmark struck at once, perhaps he could land a blow before the Warden cast a spell. “Some sick game for your amusement?”

“Indeed,” said Warden, “but I have a greater purpose. A far greater purpose. I have been looking for someone like you for a long time, Ridmark Arban, and…”

Ridmark charged, drawing as much of Heartwarden’s power as he could manage. 

The Warden snapped his fingers again.

And the domed chamber erupted with black fire. A horrible chill ripped through Ridmark, and he screamed in pain.

The darkness swallowed him, and everything went black.

Chapter 9 - The Warden

Ridmark opened his eyes. 

Dull white light filled his vision, and a searing bolt of pain pulsed through his head. Ridmark grunted, his hand closing around Heartwarden’s hilt, and drew upon the sword’s power. Healing energy filled him, and after a few moments the throbbing agony in his skull subsided to merely a sharp pain.

He opened his eyes again and sat up.

And to his surprise, he found he was in a library.

It was the largest library he had ever seen. A floor of gleaming blue marble lay beneath him, and all around him rose shelves of dull black wood, built with the same peculiar arches and angles as Urd Morlemoch. Books filled the shelves to overflowing, books and scrolls beyond count, most of them written in high elven or dark elven. But Ridmark saw books in Latin, copies of the histories of Old Earth, and even a few stone tablets carved with the blocky glyphs of the dwarves. 

Ridmark stood, Heartwarden in hand, and saw the Warden.

The dark elven sorcerer sat a table a few paces away, scrutinizing a massive book open upon a wooden stand. Elaborate astronomical charts covered the pages of the book, alongside notations in dark elven characters. The Warden seemed absorbed in the book, one long, bony finger tracing the circles of a star chart. Ridmark’s fingers tightened around Heartwarden’s hilt. If he could strike before…

“No,” said the Warden, not looking up from his book, “no, do not bother. If you do, the backlash from my warding spells will kill you.” He looked up, his bottomless black eyes digging into Ridmark. “Then we shall have both wasted a great deal of time.” 

Ridmark said nothing, and the Warden rose from his chair. The sorcerer moved in eerie silence around the table, seeming to glide over the smooth marble floor. 

“Look at you,” said the Warden. “You stand at the crux of great events. An axle of history, of destiny itself, if there is such a thing. And you do not even see it. Perhaps you are too young. Or perhaps that is simply the nature of your kind. You cannot see your fate until it is too late to escape.” 

He stopped a few paces from Ridmark and stood motionless. Completely motionless, in fact. He did not breathe, did not blink. Ardrhythain had said that the Warden was undead. 

But he was far more powerful than the orcish undead Ridmark and Lancelus had fought in the corridors below.

No. Lancelus hadn’t fought alongside Ridmark. Sir Lancelus Tyriar had never existed, had been only an illusion summoned from the Warden’s magic. Which meant that everything that had happened since Ridmark had met the false Swordbearer had been orchestrated by the Warden.

Perhaps everything since Ridmark had set foot inside Urd Morlemoch.

“You haven’t killed me,” said Ridmark.

“Plainly,” said the Warden. “Or else the next world is rather different than what your Dominus Christus promised his followers.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “I’m still alive. You could have killed me with your magic at any time. You could have cut my throat while I was unconscious. But you did none of those things.”

The Warden said nothing, his alien face a cold mask. 

“Why?” said Ridmark.

“You are unusually clever,” said the Warden. “Especially for a human. Your kindred…you seem little more than fast-breeding savages. You eat, you sleep, you spawn, you fight, and you die. Like rabbits, but more violent. That summarizes the entirety of human history. And yet…you saw through the illusion. You did not touch the eye of the basilisk. That intrigues me. So. Intrigue me further. Why have I not yet killed you?”

Ridmark thought for a moment. Part of him demanded that he attack, that he drive Heartwarden through the Warden’s ancient black heart. But the rest of him knew it was futile. The Warden could crush him at any time.

So why hadn’t he?

Ridmark remembered what Ardrhythain had said about the Warden’s twisted games, about the dark elves’ love of cruelty.

“The reason you have not killed me,” said Ridmark, meeting the creature’s eyes, “is because you are called the Warden.”

The Warden said nothing, but a corner of his thin lip curled.

“Why call you the Warden?” said Ridmark. “Of all the titles to give you, why that? A warden is a jailer, a keeper of prisoners.”

“Ah,” said the Warden. He sounded disappointed. “So because I keep prisoners in stone, because I keep slaves to serve me and defend my home, that is why I am called the Warden?”

“Or because you play cruel games with them?” said Ridmark. “Like your ruse with Lancelus? Did you steal the face of a man you slew, or did you simply invent him?”

“I invented him, of course,” said the Warden. “Though Swordbearers have dared Urd Morlemoch in the past, seeking glory and adventure. I based our phantasmal Sir Lancelus off them. Though they, alas, did not prove quite as perceptive as you.” He stepped closer, smiling. “Then that is why I am called the Warden? Because I keep prisoners and amuse myself with them?”

“No,” said Ridmark, refusing to flinch before the Warden’s inhuman gaze. “You are called the Warden because you are your own jailer.”

The Warden’s smile vanished. 

“You’re undead,” said Ridmark. “Ardrhythain said you fled here to avoid the urdmordar and cast a spell to make Urd Morlemoch impervious to attack. Whatever you did worked. The dark elves are a scattered remnant and the empire of the urdmordar has been thrown down, but you are still here. I don’t think you can leave. You have power enough to rebuild an empire for the dark elves, but you don’t.”

The Warden still remained silent, but shadow fire began to crackle around his fingertips, and his eyes seemed to grow blacker and deeper.

“Whatever spell you cast made Urd Morlemoch impregnable,” said Ridmark, “but it imprisoned you here. That is why you are called the Warden. The title is not one of fear or respect, but of mockery. You are your own jailer. So the high elves call you the Warden…and the men of Andomhaim know you by that name.”  

The black fire around the Warden’s hands intensified, and Ridmark wondered if the sorcerer would strike him down.

Then the Warden threw back his head and laughed the same wild, mad laugh Lancelus had used, but this time Ridmark felt the pressure of the Warden’s crazed amusement against the inside of his head. 

“Where did Ardrhythain find you?” said the Warden, his laughter subsiding. 

“So am I correct?” said Ridmark.

The Warden’s humor vanished. “Yes. I was once an archmage of the elven people. When the urdmordar came, matters grew grave. I withdrew to Urd Morlemoch and worked spells to keep them at bay. Alas, my magic succeeded far beyond my anticipations. The urdmordar could not assail me, but neither could I leave.” He lifted one thin finger and tapped his lips for a moment. “Very good, Sir Ridmark. But that does not explain why I have kept you alive.”

“The obvious answer,” said Ridmark, “would be that you are cruel, and this is all a game.” 

“It is a game, is it not?” said the Warden. “A game with words as the playing pieces.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark, “but I suspect your usual games are a bit more…pointed. With flesh and blood as the game pieces. The basilisk’s eye. The illusion of Sir Lancelus. Those seem more to your taste. This is…something else.”

“Is it?” said the Warden. “A game can be more than one thing.”

“Such as a test?” said Ridmark. “Is that what Sir Lancelus and the illusion of Rhyannis were? Tests?”

The Warden nodded, the light glinting off his blue diadem.

“But tests of what?” said Ridmark.

“Of your worthiness,” said the Warden. “You slew the urdhracos. You realized that Rhyannis was a trap. And you grasped that Sir Lancelus was not what he seemed to be.” He clapped his hands, the mad humor returning to the gaunt, dead face. “I expected you to fail at every turn, but you confounded me.”

“And since you went to all that effort,” said Ridmark, “that suggests you have a purpose beyond mere games.”

“Do I?” said the Warden. “I have been imprisoned here for fifteen thousand years. I have offered princely rewards to any of my servants who brought me copies of the books your forebears brought over from Old Earth, and I have read them all. Your historians speak of the ancient kingdoms of the Greeks and the Romans, the Egyptians and the Babylonians, marveling at their antiquity. Yet I am older than them all, and when your distant ancestors first started making scratches in the mud and calling it writing, I had already been imprisoned here for millennia.”

“An impressive speech,” said Ridmark, though the thought of those vast gulfs of time chilled him, “though I fail to see what it has to do with me.”

“I have vanquished all my enemies save boredom,” said the Warden, “and amusements are rare here. The arrival of your kindred a thousand years past was the first new thing to happen upon this world in millennia. And the advent of the Frostborn two and a half centuries ago, of course. It shall be amusing to see how your realm deals with their return.”

Ridmark kept his expression calm. The Frostborn had been destroyed centuries ago, defeated by the High King and the Dragon Knight and the last Keeper of Avalon. But the urdmordar Gothalinzur had predicted their return, a thought that had weighed upon his mind ever since he had left the village of Victrix.

And now the Warden, the most powerful and knowledgeable wizard Ridmark had ever encountered, had said the same. 

But right now Ridmark had more immediate concerns.

Such as escaping whatever game the Warden had in mind.

“But,” said the Warden, “you still have not fully answered my question. Why have I not killed you?”

“Not for mercy,” said Ridmark, “and not for amusement. No. You have not slain me because you need me for something. You have a use for me.”

The Warden sighed. It sounded contented. Like a man resting at last from a long journey.

“Remarkable,” murmured the Warden, and he started to walk in a circle around Ridmark. “Remarkable indeed. Out of curiosity, did Ardrhythain chance to explain the nature of time to you?”

“He said the past was stone, carved and unchangeable,” said Ridmark. “The present was a raging fire, and the future the dancing shadows cast by those flames.”

“Dancing shadows,” said the Warden, still walking in a circle. Ridmark turned to keep the dark elven sorcerer in sight. “How poetic. And not strictly accurate. But close enough, yes. Dancing shadows. And you should see, Ridmark Arban, you should see the shadows dancing before you.” He laughed his mad laugh. “So many shadows! Perhaps it is just as well that you cannot see them. You might go mad.”

“You have a use for me. What is it?” said Ridmark. 

“You slew a female urdmordar,” said the Warden. “I can see that written in your past. You, alone, slew an urdmordar.”

“I was not alone,” said Ridmark. “I had aid. The men of Victrix…”

“Were irrelevant,” said the Warden. “They had no weapons that could hurt the urdmordar. You did, and you used it. Remarkable indeed. The urdmordar were a challenge even for the elven people, and you slew one in single combat.”

“As I recall,” said Ridmark, “the urdmordar destroyed the dark elven kingdoms and enslaved them.”

The Warden stopped, his empty black eyes glaring into Ridmark.

“All of them,” he hissed, “save for me.”

Ridmark said nothing. 

“But that also is irrelevant,” said the Warden. “You slew an urdmordar, and you are too humble to see how remarkable of a feat that was.” His mad laugh returned. “I have been looking for someone like you for a very long time, Ridmark Arban. Longer than you know. Longer than your kindred have walked the face of this world.” He looked towards the ceiling of the library. “After all this time…the stars will soon be in alignment. The way will be opened, the threshold ready, and I shall pass over it. Neither the archmage nor the bearer of shadows will be able to stop me.”

“No,” said Ridmark.

“Oh?” said the Warden.

“I will not help you to escape,” said Ridmark. “God only knows what evil you would wreak if you could walk free. I will not help you escape.”

“You could not help me escape if you wanted to,” said the Warden. “You lack the necessary magic. No, I have another use for you.”

“And what is that?” said Ridmark.

“A game,” said the Warden, spreading his thin hands, “a test.”

“I refuse,” said Ridmark, a plan occurring to him. It was a desperate gamble, but he had little choice.

“I could force you,” said the Warden.

“You could also kill me before I finish this sentence,” said Ridmark, “but you won’t.”

“And why not?” said the Warden.

“Because you’re bored,” said Ridmark. “And killing me or forcing me to obey you would be equally boring. And games are useless without wagers. Without stakes.”

The Warden leaned forward. “And you have appropriate stakes in mind?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “If I win your game, you will give me Rhyannis, unharmed, and allow us both to depart Urd Morlemoch.”

The Warden threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Will I? You play for great stakes on the precipice of disaster. Ah, but your boldness pleases me. Of course, if you lose, I will simply kill you.”

“All men die,” said Ridmark. 

“You may find that out sooner than you wish,” said the Warden. “I agree to your terms, Ridmark Arban. Let us take a short journey, shall we?” 

He lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers.

And black fire erupted from everything and swallowed Ridmark, pain screaming through him. 

When the fire cleared he found himself lying upon his back, fresh agony burning through his head and chest. He groped for Heartwarden’s hilt, found it, and tapped the sword’s magic for healing power. After a few moments he felt better, and managed to stand.

The Warden waited a few paces away, his blue coat rippling in the wind. 

They stood at the top of the world. 

Ridmark found himself standing on the crown of Urd Morlemoch’s central tower, the cold, salt-scented wind blowing past him, the ruins spread out below. In the center of the tower’s turret waited a ring of black standing stones, their sides carved with dark elven symbols. A few of the standing stones had lintels, creating crude doorways. A stone altar stood in the center of the circle, a blue glow shining from a crystal atop its rough surface.