The Elder Shamans
Jonathan Moeller
THE ELDER SHAMANS
Jonathan Moeller
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The Elder Shamans
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About the Author
Description
RIDMARK ARBAN was once an honored Swordbearer. Now he is a disgraced exile, outcast and alone.
To redeem himself, he seeks the secret of the return of the Frostborn, and at last he has come to the grim citadel ruled by the Elder Shamans.
But the Elder Shamans do not part with their secrets willingly.
And their most dangerous secret might mean Ridmark's death...
The Elder Shamans
Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.
Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.
Cover image copyright © Kamensky | Dreamstime.com - Helmet Of The Knight Photo & Konstik | Dreamstime.com
Ebook edition published May 2017.
All Rights Reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
The Elder Shamans
“You are troubled, human Ridmark,” said Ansa.
“Yes,” said Ridmark, frowning at the path.
“Why?” said Ansa. She was a halfling woman, about four and a half feet tall, with enormous blue eyes and thick yellow hair that hung to her shoulders. Ansa wore peculiar armor of close-fitting leather and a dozen amulets made of bone and feathers and stones that swung as she moved. A strange design had been painted upon her face, a swirling blue pattern that centered around her eyes, making it look as if she wore a mask.
Though their recent exertions had caused her to sweat, smearing the blue design. But if there was ever a time to sweat, it was when running a combination of dvargir warriors and enraged wyverns.
Ridmark and Ansa had escaped from both the dvargir and the wyverns, but he was beginning to suspect that they had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire.
“Because,” said Ridmark, “I think someone passed this way right before us.”
“I noticed that as well,” said Ansa.
They walked along a high path clinging to the side of the Lion Mountains, a cold wind blowing past them, the valley of Khald Meraxur far below. The air was cold and sharp and dry, and Ridmark felt chilled even in his heavy jerkin and cloak. On his left, he saw the foothills and then the vast green expanse of the Qazaluuskan Forest, stretching away to the west until it vanished into the horizon. To his right rose the towering peaks of the Lion Mountains, their tops crowned with snow and vanishing into the gray clouds overhead.
Ahead of them wound the path, climbing into the gray mass of the mountains.
And on the path, Ridmark saw traces of passage. A piece of cracked leather lay on the ground, and the scratches of iron-nailed boots marked the stone. And despite the wind, Ridmark smelled the faint but unmistakable chemical reek that surrounded the undead slaves the bone orcs raised.
“A large party passed this way,” said Ansa.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Bone orcs, I think.”
“Yes,” said Ansa. “The stench of their dead things is overpowering. I do not think they are more than two or three hours ahead of us.”
Ridmark frowned. “I wondered how they got past the dvargir and the wyverns.”
Ansa shrugged, her slim shoulders rippling beneath her leather armor. “Perhaps they found another way to Urd Drysaar. We are approaching from the south, and I know there is another route from the north. Maybe they found it necessary to use this path instead.”
“Or they were powerful enough that the dvargir decided to let them pass, and they had magic enough to get past the wyverns,” said Ridmark. He did not like that thought at all. “They might have a shaman with them, maybe more than one.”
Ansa scoffed. “Would the shamans of the bone orcs be powerful enough to evade both the dvargir and the wyverns?”
“They might be,” said Ridmark. “The strongest shamans have powerful magic. And the powerful shamans can rise again as Old Ones after their deaths. The Elder Shamans of the bone orcs have dwelled in Urd Drysaar for time immemorial.” It was his turn to shrug. “The Elder Shamans have to come from somewhere.”
Ansa frowned. “Then you think a Qazaluuskan shaman is traveling to Urd Drysaar to…to become an Elder Shaman?”
“Or to consult with them,” said Ridmark. “Or to challenge them and take their place. Or maybe to ask for guidance with omens. The bone orcs do whatever their omens tell them to do.”
“Then what shall we do?” said Ansa. “I have four Gemstones, but I would not want to use them in a battle with a bone orc shaman.”
“We’ll avoid them if we can,” said Ridmark. “If they see us…well, maybe we can talk our way out of it.”
A dry note entered Ansa’s voice. “As we did with the dvargir?”
“They didn’t kill us.”
Ansa snorted. “Only because they were preoccupied with the wyverns.”
“We’ll just have to deal with the bone orcs if we find them,” said Ridmark. “You cannot turn back.”
“No,” said Ansa at once. “Marcomer is in Urd Drysaar, I know it. I will not abandon him.”
She seemed almost frantic for a moment as she said it. Ansa had been adamant that Marcomer was still alive, that he was within Urd Drysaar, but Ridmark wondered if that was a delusional hope. Perhaps the improbability of Marcomer’s survival was beginning to occur to her. Of course, his own hope was even more delusional. He knew the Frostborn would return somehow. Both Gothalinzur and the Warden had warned him of it. The Elder Shamans knew arcane secrets forgotten by the rest of the world, and they might know how the Frostborn would return, and how Ridmark could stop them.
Perhaps he could wring the secret from them.
Or they might kill him on the spot.
Ridmark’s own life was of no importance, not after how he had failed Aelia. But he didn’t want Ansa to get killed. If he could find a way for her to escape from Urd Drysaar with her life, he would.
If Marcomer had been slain in Urd Drysaar, perhaps Ansa would not want to leave the grave of her betrothed.
Ridmark understood that.
“We might run into the bone orcs anyway,” said Ridmark. “No matter what we do. That magical defense around Urd Drysaar, the one we need the Gemstone of Mists to pass. If they can’t pass it, we’ll run into them.”
“We might,” said Ansa, “but there are other, secret paths into Urd Drysaar. Those of the Hidden People who quest to Urd Drysaar, those who are not Gemspeakers and cannot wield Gemstones of Mist, they use the secret paths to enter the ruins.”
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “Then let us hope this shaman was clever enough to use the secret paths, and we can avoid them entirely.”
###
The path climbed higher, and an hour later they came to the magical defenses of Urd Drysaar itself.
The path opened into a narrow valley, a rough V-shaped cut into the side of the mountain about fifty yards long and twenty wide.
On the other side of the valley rose a wall of rippling white mist.
Ridmark had never seen anything like it, not even in the gloomy ruins of Urd Morlemoch. The wall of mist rose higher than the walls of Tarlion itself, and though it rippled and undulated, it never moved. The cold wind coming down from the mountains should have torn it to tatters, but the wall of mist remained in place.
>
“The magical defenses,” said Ansa, gazing at the wall.
“What does it do?” said Ridmark. “Is it poisonous?”
“Yes,” said Ansa. “It also burns like acid, and so it is a mercy that the poison kills swiftly. And when the mist slays its victims, the Elder Shamans gather up the dead and raise them as undead slaves.”
Ridmark considered the ground for a moment. It was hard to make out any tracks on the stony ground, but there were a few.
“The bone orcs,” said Ridmark. “They went into the mist.”
Ansa nodded. “I feared so. Their shaman must have been strong enough to turn aside the mist.”
“Or they were all slain and raised as undead.”
“If they were,” said Ansa, “then the Gemstone of Fire will help us to deal with them.” She took a deep breath, collecting herself. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Let’s see the end of this.”
“Marcomer will be waiting for me,” said Ansa, as if trying to convince herself. “He will. I know he will.”
“Then let’s not keep him waiting any longer,” said Ridmark.
Ansa seemed to recover herself, her face settling back into its usual calm mask, and nodded. “You’re right.”
She reached into her pouch and drew out one of the Gemstones she carried, the Gemstone of Mists. The Gemstone was a soulstone, a receptacle for potent magic, and it gave off a faint grayish glow. If Ansa used the Gemstone’s magic, she could turn both herself and Ridmark invisible.
“How will that let us pass the wall of mists?” said Ridmark.
“It will turn us unseen, both from eyes of flesh and eyes of magic,” said Ansa. “It will let us walk through the mist without the magic finding us.”
That did not make any sense to Ridmark, but he was neither a wizard or a Gemspeaker.
They walked until they stood two yards from the rippling curtain of mist. A faint, acrid reek from the mist reached his nostrils, and the smell of it made Ridmark’s eyes water and his head spin a little.
“We must be quick,” said Ansa. “The stone’s magic will not last long, and we will need to pass through the defenses quickly. Place your hand upon my shoulder.”
Ridmark nodded, shifted his staff to his left hand, and put his right hand on Ansa’s left shoulder. She looked calm, but he felt the faint tremor of excitement and fear go through her.
“May the ancestors favor our cause,” said Ansa, and she lifted the Gemstone of Mists.
The light shone brighter from the Gemstone, and then it flashed. The world turned gray and hazy and blurred as if all color and hue had been leached away. The magic of the gemstone had taken effect, rendering them invisible.
“Run!” shouted Ansa.
Ridmark took a deep breath and then sprinted into the wall of mists. Odd that he could see Ansa without any difficulty, but perhaps they could see each other while the Gemstone made them invisible to the rest of the world. He plunged into the mist, trying to hold his breath as he ran. The entire world vanished into a thick gray fog, and he could not see more than a foot in any direction. On and on he ran, following Ansa’s darting form, and at last, the burning in his lungs forced him to take a deep, ragged breath. The air felt cold and clammy, but he could breathe it, and it did not seem to harm him.
Then the mist ended, and Ridmark found himself running towards a flight of broad white stairs that climbed up a steep slope. He came to a stop, looking for Ansa, and he spotted the Gemspeaker a few paces ahead just as the light from the Gemstone of Mists faded.
The world snapped into color and focus, and Ridmark found himself gazing at the ruins of Urd Drysaar.
Ansa took a deep breath, lowering the Gemstone of Mists and returning it to her pouch. “We are through.”
Ridmark said nothing, looking at the ruins that rose from the mountain like white bones jutting from dead earth. Slender towers, nearly a dozen of them, stood against the iron-gray sky, surrounding a massive central tower that rose hundreds of feet tall. The towers had been built of gleaming white stone like polished bone, and a bastion-studded wall encircled the towers. Like the other dark elven ruins that Ridmark had visited, Urd Drysaar was beautiful, but it was a twisted, alien beauty, one designed for the aesthetics of the dark elves. A human just found it unsettling and strange.
Urd Drysaar also looked as if it had been the site of a terrible battle. Gaping breaches had been carved into the walls, and the tops of some of the towers had been smashed. One of the towers looked like a half-melted candle, some of the white stone frozen in rivulets against its side. The lore Ridmark had heard from the bone orcs, the kobolds, and Ansa herself said that the dark elven lord called the Jeweler had once ruled these lands, but the urdmordar had destroyed him long ago.
Evidently, the Jeweler had not gone without a fight.
Ridmark knew firsthand the hardness and strength of the strange white stone the dark elves had used to build their strongholds, and it must have taken a tremendous amount of force to blast those holes in the walls.
The details about Urd Drysaar flashed through Ridmark’s mind in a moment, but a far more urgent sight commanded his attention.
Three bone orcs stood halfway up the stairs leading to the citadel’s gate, staring down at him in surprise. The orcs wore leather armor and heavy fur-lined cloaks to keep the chill at bay, and their green-skinned faces had been painted in the war patterns of the bone orcs, black and white paint that gave their faces the look of fleshless skulls.
All three bone orcs carried short bows, and as one the orcs raised their weapons.
“Down!” shouted Ridmark, but Ansa was already moving. She threw herself to the ground, and Ridmark surged forward and raced up the stairs, staff in hand. Two of the bone orcs shifted to aim at him, while the third pointed his weapon at Ansa, and all three orcs released at once. Ridmark threw himself to the ground, and just in time. The arrows hissed past him, so close he could almost see the glue that held the feathers to the shaft.
He could not see if Ansa had avoided the arrow or not, and he dared not take the time to look. Ridmark heaved back to his feet, his right shoulder and right hip throbbing from his impact against the stairs, and kept charging. The first Qazaluuskan orc started to aim his bow, but Ridmark was faster. He whipped his staff around in a swing, and the length of heavy wood and iron slammed into the side of the orc’s head. There was a hideous crunching noise, the orc’s head jerked to the side, and the bone orc fell dead, his corpse rolling down the stairs of Urd Drysaar.
The second orc proved wiser, and threw aside his bow and yanked a short sword from his belt. He lunged at Ridmark, but he underestimated the strength of Ridmark’s quarterstaff. Ridmark jerked his staff up to block, deflecting the blade, and reversed his weapon, driving the end of the staff into the orc’s gut. The breath exploded past the bone orc’s tusks, and Ridmark hammered his staff into the side of the orc’s head.
The orcish warrior fell, and Ridmark turned towards the final bone orc.
He was a half-second too late. The bone orc had drawn back his bow, his arrow leveled at Ridmark’s chest. Ridmark had no time to dodge, not enough time to attack, and not even enough time to duck.
He whipped his staff before him in the thin hope of deflecting the shot, and the orc released his arrow.
Before the arrow could clear the bow, the bone orc erupted into snarling flames.
Fire burst from his skin, the stench of burning flesh flooding Ridmark’s nostrils, and the bow and the arrow both disintegrated into smoking splinters. The burning orc collapsed, and Ridmark stepped back, looking down the stairs toward the wall of mist.
Ansa ran towards him, the Gemstone of Fire in her hand still giving off a faint yellow-orange glow.
“Good timing,” said Ridmark. “The last one had me.”
“It was the fastest I could use the Gemstone,” said Ansa, putting away the glowing soulstone and drawing her short hunting bow. “Spirits of the ancestors, I always forget how
quick you move in battle.”
Quick? The fight had seemed to take an eternity, but Ridmark knew that was only the heat of combat. Likely the entire thing had taken less than half a minute.
“These three were likely sentries,” said Ridmark. “Left here to stand watch while their master went into the ruins to speak with the Elder Shamans.”
“I thought as much,” said Ansa. “What should we do? Should we wait for the bone orc shaman to depart?”
Ridmark considered. “No. If the Elder Shamans take offense, they might decide to kill the lesser shaman and his guards. If that happens, we don’t want to get caught in the fight.”
“If we go through the gate and encounter more foes,” said Ansa, “neither the Gemstone of Fire nor the Gemstone of Mists will have recovered their strength yet.”
“But the Gemstones of Winds is still ready?” said Ridmark.
“Aye,” said Ansa. “We have not yet tapped its power. And will take but a few moments for the Gemstones to regain their strength, but in battle, those few moments can be an eternity.” She wasn’t wrong. “Maybe it would be best to wait.”
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. A thought occurred to him. “But if Marcomer is in the ruins and the bone orcs encounter him…”
Ansa stiffened. “Then we must aid him at once.”
“Agreed,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go. Keep your bow and the Gemstone of Winds ready. If we need to flee, we can use it to escape or to move to a more defensible position.”
“As you say,” said Ansa.
Ridmark started up the stairs, passing the smoldering bone orc and moving closer to the gate. The truth was that he had no idea what they would find inside the Urd Drysaar, and any plan he could make would prove useless. Again, he realized how dangerous this was, how much of a risk he was taking. He didn’t care what happened to him, but he didn’t wish to take anyone with him in death.
But maybe Ansa didn’t care, either. She had set herself to find her betrothed or die trying, just as Ridmark had set himself to learn the secret of the Frostborn or die in the process.
