THE FINAL WAYSTONE

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

The ruins of the lizardmen hold death for the unwary.

Niara is one of the First Magistri, the most powerful wizards of Andomhaim. She has pursued the spider-devil Xothalaxiar far to the north of her homeland.

But to catch Xothalaxiar at last, Niara must pass one of the grim ruins of the ancient lizardmen.

A ruin that might hold her death...

***

The Final Waystone

Copyright 2023 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover design by Jonathan Moeller.

Ebook edition published January 2023.

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.

***

Get New Books

Sign up for my newsletter at this link, and get three free epic fantasy novels (https://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854).

***

The Final Waystone

I wasn’t lost, not precisely, but neither was I entirely sure where I was.

My name is Niara of Andomhaim, and I was a long, long way from home.

Or at least the places I had lived.

Home had been the small village where I had grown up with my widowed father, the village’s blacksmith.

A village that the urdmordar Xothalaxiar’s arachar soldiers had burned, striking down my father for daring to resist them.

The urdmordar were defeated now, their threat driven back, the realm of Andomhaim made safe by the power of the Magistri and the valor of the Swordbearers. The High King’s realm was at peace.

But not me.

I would never have peace.

Not until I found and slain Xothalaxiar for what she had done.

But, of course, if I didn’t figure out where I was, then I would never find Xothalaxiar. I didn’t mind if I fell in battle fighting Xothalaxiar, so long as the urdmordar died with me. I didn’t want to die wandering in this pine forest, trying to find a way through the mountains to the north, while Xothalaxiar seized the Dragonskull and built a new empire of her own.

I knew I was close.

The xortami ruins proved it.

I don’t think any man or woman of Andomhaim had ever visited this land or given it a name. It must have had a name, given that I knew the high elves had once lived here. And if the high elves had been here, so had the dark elves, the orcs, and many others. No doubt they had each given their own name to this land, but I was reasonably sure that I was the first human to ever walk here.

Lonely feeling, that.

But I hadn’t seen another human face since I had left Andomhaim.

I walked alone through the pine forest, my bronze staff in hand, my pack thumping against my armor with every step. I had lost my pack horses on the southern bank of the river, where I had been attacked by two of the rock drakes that hunted this land. The rock drakes were no more, but they had taken down my horses before I could kill them. My remaining supplies and provisions were in my rucksack, which was damned heavy, but I was used to burdens and ignored the discomfort. Besides, I wasn’t in any danger of going hungry. One of the unexpected benefits of wielding fire magic is that it’s very easy to bring down game animals, and a surprising number of edible plants grew here.

The fertile soil ensured that.

I suspected this land had burned beneath layers of molten stone and volcanic ash many times before. It would get cold here in winter, very cold, but the soil was fertile enough from the volcanic ash that a farmer could grow a rich crop.

The fire mountains were only sleeping, and their rest was an unquiet one. I passed vents in the ground, fumes rising from within their depths. I made sure to stay well away from those since the gases were poisonous, and I sometimes saw dead animals lying near the fissures. Other times I saw ponds that seethed and steamed, their shore ringed in mineral deposits like half-melted candles. It was easy to see that vast quantities of molten stone flowed beneath the ground, heating the waters and issuing fumes that vented from the fissures.

Perhaps that was the reason the only inhabitants in this land were orcish nomads who would dwell here for a season and then move on.

Well, the orcish nomads, and the halflings who called themselves the Hidden People. But they had kept out of my way so far, and I hoped that would continue.

I passed a crumbling stone wall. Weathered carvings marked its sides, showing lizardmen priests and warriors lording over captive orcs and halflings. The reliefs lacked the gloating malice and cruelty of dark elven art, but neither were they pleasant to view. They were blunt, brutal proclamations of power and domination.

Also inaccurate, given what the xortami had done to themselves with the Dragonskull.

The ruins proved that I was somewhere in the southern march of what had once been their empire. They all had the look of long-weathered fortifications, once held by soldiers patrolling the frontiers of the lizardmen’s domain. The Dragonskull would be somewhere north, beyond the mountains, in what had once been the xortami capital city of Takaris.

The fiery mountains? I wasn’t certain, but I didn’t think they had ever erupted until the xortami had created the Dragonskull and tried to tap its power.

That was why I couldn’t let Xothalaxiar find the thing. Think of what an urdmordar could do with a relic of such strength.

But that wasn’t the real reason I had chased her across so many lands.

I remembered again my father lying dead in the street as our village burned around us.

I couldn’t stop. Not yet.

Not until I avenged my father.

Then I could rest. Or die.

Maybe that would be a kind of rest.

I had taken another step, and I heard the metallic snarl of a hunting urvaalg echo through the pine trees.

I came to a stop, calling my magic and preparing to shape the power into spells. I didn’t care if I lived or died so long as I slew Xothalaxiar…but I didn’t want to die fighting an urvaalg in this empty, ruin-haunted land.

A deep voice shouted a battle cry, and the urvaalg snarled.

I also didn’t want to see anyone ripped apart by urvaalgs. It had happened far too often during the war to drive the urdmordar back from Tarlion. The urdmordar were fountains of dark magic, and their presence drew urvaalgs and other creatures of dark magic like flies to carrion. In the battles against the arachar soldiers of the urdmordar, there had been many wounded and sick men in the aftermath of the fighting, and the urvaalgs had lurked behind the army, watching for prey.

I had killed a lot of urvaalgs, and I was about to kill some more.

The pine needles rustled beneath my boots as I hurried forward. Their smell filled my nose, but new odors came to my nostrils. A rotten egg smell – I was probably approaching one of the hot springs. And a foul, greasy, rotting stink, like carrion but somehow worse.

The stench of an urvaalg.

I came to a clearing with a large pool. It seethed and stirred, bubbles sometimes forming, and steam rose from the waters. Grayish-white mineral growths rose from the edges of the water. They reminded me a bit of a chandler’s workshop I had once visited, where I had seen a row of misshapen and unsightly candles produced by his new apprentices.

A battle was underway at the edge of the hot spring.

Two urvaalgs stalked forward. They were gruesome, misshapen hybrids of apes and wolves created by the sorcery of the dark elves, their stringy black fur hanging from their grayish hides. You would think that such a warped thing couldn’t move so swiftly.

But they could, and their claws could rend steel and flesh with equal ease.

An orcish warrior faced them.

He was one of the Rhal-worshipping orcish nomads who moved through this land every season. Swirling blue tattoos marked the green skin of his face, a mark commonly born by pagan orcs who worshipped the blood god Rhal. The orc wore a leather cuirass and boots with ragged trousers. He wielded a steel-headed war axe, his black eyes glimmering with orcish blood rage.

One of the urvaalgs bounded towards him as I summoned my magic. The orcish warrior bellowed and swung his war axe to intercept the urvaalg.

That was the end of the orcish warrior, I thought. Normal weapons of steel would not hurt an urvaalg. The axe would irritate the creature but do it no serious harm, and the urvaalg would bear the warrior to the ground and rip out his throat.

So I was quite surprised when the axe sank halfway into the urvaalg’s neck.

The orcish warrior ripped the weapon free, and the urvaalg fell dead at his boots. The gray flesh around the wound in the creature’s neck had frozen, covered with a rime of frost. The axe was a magical weapon, and it was enspelled with the power of elemental ice.

I summoned my power and focused my will.

A shaft of white flame lanced from my hand and slashed across the flank of the remaining urvaalg. The magic of the Well of Tarlion burned into the urvaalg’s dark magic-infused flesh. The creature rocked back with a growl of fury, and both its burning gaze and the dark eyes of the orcish warrior fell on me.

I killed the urvaalg with a burst of elemental flame that scoured the flesh from its skull.

The Rhalite orc eyed me warily. He didn’t exactly raise his weapon, but it was ready in his right hand, and he was fast enough to cover the distance between us in the blink of an eye. Not fast enough to stop me from casting a spell, though.

The axe was…strange. I had never seen a weapon quite like it before. The haft was a steel shaft with leather wrapped around it. The blade was crescent-shaped since that was the most efficient way to shape an axe blade, but strange blocky symbols had been cut into the side of the head and down the part of the shaft that I could see. I didn’t recognize the design, but I did recognize the symbols.

It was a xortami weapon.

“I don’t want to fight you,” I said, using the orcish tongue. “If you wish to fight, then we shall. But the urvaalgs are an abomination, and I would not leave anyone to be slain by them.”

The orcish warrior considered me. He was a follower of Rhal, the orcish blood god of war and honorable battle. A follower of Mhor, the god of slaughter and murder, would have stabbed me when my back was turned. A follower of Qazalask, the god of necromancy and undeath, would have killed me and raised my corpse as an undead thrall. A devotee of Rhal would challenge me to open battle without skullduggery or trickery.

Of course, just because a man followed a god didn’t mean he would always keep to his faith’s creed.

But the orcish warrior finally offered a stiff bow.

“I thank you for your aid in battle,” said the warrior, his voice deep and rough. “I fear no foe or creature. But, in truth, I was not sure I could overcome two urvaalgs at once.”

“They are dangerous foes,” I said. “I would say you could bring back their claws and fangs as trophies, but they are foul.”

“They are,” agreed the warrior. “I am Kharrhal of the Tribe of the Blood-Washed Swords. You are strange to my eyes. Not an elf, I deem, and you are too large to be a halfling.”

I suppressed a smile. Tell a human woman she’s too large, and it will most likely be a deadly insult. Tell an orcish woman she’s large, and she will consider it a compliment, for both orcish men and women regarded strength and size as desirable attributes in a mate, making it all the more likely they would have large, strong children who would be adept at violence.

“I am Niara of Andomhaim,” I answered. “I am passing through this land in pursuit of a foe.”

“Ah! An honorable quest,” said Kharrhal. “What manner of foe do you pursue?”

“A female urdmordar.”

Kharrhal blinked at that. “You hunt dangerous prey, warrior.” My wariness eased a little as he said that. The specific word for ‘warrior’ he used referred to a dangerous peer, one to be treated with cautious respect. Then again, he might be trying to put me off my guard. “Swift death comes to those who face the spider-devils.” He glanced at the urvaalg I had slain, smoke still rising from its charred skull. “Though you may have more of a chance than most.”

“Perhaps,” I said. An orcish proverb passed through my mind. “Who can say how the blood shall flow once the sword has been drawn?” Kharrhal nodded as if I had said something profound, but then he was part of a tribe called the Blood-Washed Swords. Probably they quoted things like that to each other all the time. “Your tribe is part of the faithful of Rhal?”

“Yes,” said Kharrhal. “The Blood-Washed Swords spend summer in this land. Come winter, the wind is bitter, and the snows are heavy, and we migrate southwest to the mountains there and shelter in the hills.” His eyes narrowed. “You seem to know something of our ways already, Niara of Andomhaim.”

Maybe he was worried I was a spy.

“I have traveled to many lands and spoken with many different tribes and nations,” I said. “I have met tribes faithful to Rhal before. But I am neither elf nor halfling, but human.”

“Human?” said Rhal, speaking the strange word. I had used the Latin word for humanity, since I didn’t think there was a native orcish term for us. If I was the first human to ever walk this land, then probably no one in the Blood-Washed Swords had ever seen one of us before. “I am unfamiliar with…humans.”

“Our realm is called Andomhaim, and we live far to the south of here,” I said. “If a human has ever come here before, our lore does not tell of it. A few years ago, we drove back the urdmordar, slaying many of them. I pursue one of them who fled to this land.”

“Why?” said Kharrhal.

“Vengeance,” I said, choosing the reason he would understand. “The soldiers of that urdmordar slew my father. I shall follow her to the ends of the earth to repay that blood.”

Kharrhal nodded with approval. “A noble quest. What is the name of the urdmordar?”

“Xothalaxiar,” I said.

“This name is not known to me,” said Kharrhal. “This Xothalaxiar, does she go north?”

“She does.”

“Hmm,” said Kharrhal.

I let him think. I suspected he was the sort of man who did not speak much and preferred to think before he did.

“That may be ill news,” said Kharrhal. “Much evil lies to the north.”

“What manner of evil?” I said, though I had a good idea of it.

“The xortami lizardmen,” said Kharrhal. “They have the shape of orcs, or…humans, as you say, but their bodies are covered in scales, and they have the heads of great lizards. Once they ruled a mighty empire. Mayhap you have seen some of their ruins.” I nodded. “Their empire fell long ago, and now only squabbling tribes remain. They war endlessly upon each other, but they attack the Blood-Washed Swords when they can, for they both try to take us as slaves and to feast upon our flesh.”

“They sound like poor neighbors.”

Kharrhal grunted. “Battle is the way of the world. Rhal sends foes to keep us strong.” He grimaced behind his tusks. “And the xortami often try to keep us strong when the Blood-Washed Sword sojourn in this land.”

“Speaking of that,” I said, “why are you here alone? This land is dangerous for even a skilled warrior to travel without companions.”

“I am on the blood quest to become a headman,” said Kharrhal.

The blood quest was a custom shared by many orcish tribes. A shaman of the tribe laid the quest upon an orcish man who wished to become a full warrior with the right to stand in the tribe’s assembly, or gave a blood quest a full warrior who wanted to become a headman. Usually, the blood quest involved some deed of daring or slaying a dangerous beast and bringing back a trophy.

“What charge has the shaman of the tribe laid upon you?” I said.

“You do know something of our ways,” said Kharrhal. “To the north, there is a pass through the mountains guarded by ruined xortami citadels at either end.”

That caught my attention. I had been looking for a way through those mountains for some time.

Kharrhal continued. “Once those citadels were held by the xortami, but now they are haunts for creatures from the Deeps and whatever brigands manage to claim them. In the northern citadel is an ancient relic once held by our tribe, the Sword of Mzarhask. Should I return from the citadel with the Sword, I shall become a headman of the Blood-Washed Swords.”

“You know the way to this citadel?” I said, though I was more interested in the pass that it guarded.

“I do,” said Kharrhal. “I have hunted there before.”

“Perhaps we can reach an accord,” I said. “I need to know the way through the mountains. If you show me the way to the pass, I will help you deal with whatever is in the citadel.”

I watched him consider the offer. He knew I would be helpful – he had seen me kill that urvaalg with little effort. Of course, he had no reason to trust me, though if I had wanted him dead, I could have let the urvaalgs kill him and not lifted a finger to help him.

“Unless, of course,” I said, “this would offend Rhal and cause your blood quest to fail.”

“Rhal offers victory to those who take it,” said Kharrhal, “and to those who raise the weapons at hand.” He thought about it some more. “Very well. I will show you the way to the pass, and you shall help me claim the Sword of Mzarhask. You can have anything else hidden within the citadel, but the Sword must be mine.”

“We have an accord,” I said. “Let the defeat of our enemies be as swift and as unstoppable as the wind.” It was another proverb I had heard from Rhalite orcs.

“Indeed,” said Kharrhal. “Let us depart. The citadel is perhaps a day and a half from here.”

###

We headed east, following the line of the mountains’ foothills. It had been wise to seek Kharrhal’s help – I realized I had been heading in entirely the wrong direction, and I would have had to backtrack at some point.

“This Sword of Mzarhask,” I said as we walked. “What does it look like?”

Kharrhal hesitated, thought about it, and decided to answer. “Akin to the axe I carry.” He patted the haft of the weapon. “A sword of gray metal, the center of its blade marked with strange symbols. The shamans say that it strikes with the power of a thunderbolt and can cleave any shield and sunder any armor. Long years ago, it was carried by a great warlord of the Rhalite tribes called Mzarhask. For a time, he ruled the Rhalite tribes and waged war against the followers of Qazalask to the south and the halfling tribes in the mountains. But he was slain in battle, and his headmen buried him in the citadel at the northern end of the pass. The blade has rested there ever since.”

“Fortunate indeed that our paths crossed,” I said. “That axe you carry has a strong magical aura. Doubtless the Sword of Mzarhask shall as well, and I can help you find it.” I paused. “That is a xortami axe, is it not? The symbols upon its blade are similar to those I’ve seen upon the walls of the ruins.”

“Your eye is keen,” said Kharrhal. “The xortami had the art of making magical weapons. This axe strikes with the bite of a blizzard in the heart of winter, though the Sword of Mzarhask is said to be more powerful. I took this axe from the hand of a xortami warrior I slew.”

“You said they had the art of making magical weapons,” I said. “I assume they lost it?”

“So the shamans say,” said Kharrhal. “When the lizardmen ruled their empire, they could build great towers and mighty walls and also knew the secrets of making magical weapons written with symbols of power. But when the great cataclysm destroyed their empire, the xortami lost the knowledge. Their tribes have capable enough smiths, but they can no longer make weapons like this.” He shrugged. “Or they can, but the tribes that have the knowledge come not this far south. The xortami war against each other more often than they attack us.”

“The dwarves can do something similar,” I said. “Their stonescribes write symbols upon power upon weapons.”

“Dwarves?” said Kharrhal, frowning at the strange word.

“The khaldari?” I said. He shook his head. “I doubt you would ever have encountered them. Their nearest city was Khald Meraxur, beyond the Qazaluuskan Forest, and that was destroyed long ago.”

Kharrhal scowled. “We have little to do with the orcs of the Qazaluuskan Forest. Their worship of Qazalask is an abomination, and they defile the dead to raise their undead thralls. Often have we battled.”

I said nothing. This was not the time to mention that I had spoken at considerable length with some of the shamans of the Qazaluuskan Forest and had managed to reach an accord with them. At the very least, we hadn’t ended up killing each other.

“We’re a long way from the Qazaluuskan Forest,” I said.

Kharrhal eyed me. “Humans do not follow Qazalask, do they?”

“No,” I said. Well, if they did, they worshipped Qazalask in secret, at least in Andomhaim. “Most of us in Andomhaim belong to the church of the Dominus Christus.”

“The human god,” said Kharrhal. He did not question further. Like many pagan orcs, his idea of the gods was transactional – honor them, and they would provide protection and boons. Like a commoner with his lord. He would have found the idea of the Dominus Christus providing forgiveness of sins through faith, repentance, and the sacraments to be bafflingly incomprehensible. A group of Rhalite tribes lived to the west of Andomhaim, below the mountains of Kothluusk and the Mhorite orcs, and they had fought alongside the men of Andomhaim against the urdmordar. I know that some of the bishops of the church had high hopes of baptizing those Rhalite tribes and bringing them into the church of Andomhaim, but I thought it unlikely.

That night we reached the pass through the mountains, a narrow valley that crossed north through the peaks to what had once been the heart of the xortami empire. A ruined xortami citadel sat just south of the pass, a great central tower ringed by a crumbling curtain wall. The place looked deserted, but Kharrhal and I avoided it. There was no telling what might have taken up residence in the deserted fortress.

We camped that night out of sight of the curtain wall, taking turns at watch, and continued north into the pass at sunrise.

The pass was a strange place, about four or five miles wide and ten long. Rocky hills of angular dark basalt rose on either side, climbing up to the peaks. There were numerous vents and hot springs throughout the valley. Strange mineral formations surrounded the hot pools, and Kharrhal and I stayed well away from the vents in case they issued poisonous fumes. Far to the distance, reflected against the clouds of the sky, I saw a fiery glow.

“The mountains of fire in the xortami lands,” said Kharrhal. “Some of them must be erupting. At least one of them usually is. It is why we have never tried to settle in the lands beyond the mountains, nor do we ever visit them save to raid the lizardmen. Sometimes the land erupts in molten stone and burning ash, and everything burns for miles.”

“Aye,” I said, glancing at the red glare reflecting off the clouds. “I studied this as part of my training in the lore of magic.” That wasn’t entirely true, but the full explanation would have been too long. “The xortami reached too deeply into the secrets of dark magic and unleashed the cataclysm that destroyed them. The earth itself cracked and bled fire in their destruction.”

But it hadn’t destroyed the Dragonskull, unfortunately, nor swallowed the ruins of Takaris. Much evil might have been avoided had that happened.

Kharrhal grunted. “Do all human wizards have such lore?”

“Magistri,” I said. “We call ourselves the Magistri. And we know many things.”

But no one else had believed me about Xothalaxiar and the Dragonskull. Else I would not have made this long journey alone.

A few hours later, we came to the ruined fortress where the Sword of Mzarhask waited.

Maybe it was better to say it was abandoned because while it was weathered a bit, the tower and the curtain wall were in good condition, certainly better than the fortress to the south. This fortress stood on an outthrust spur of the foothills, the curtain wall ringing its top. A narrow road climbed to the single gate, and any attackers would be exposed to arrows and missile fire the entire way. The curtain wall looked as if it had been damaged and rebuilt in places with orcish masonry. I wondered how many others had occupied the fortress since the Dragonskull had been forged and the xortami empire had fallen.

“The Sword of Mzarhask awaits us there,” said Kharrhal. He had drawn his axe, and he pointed the weapon at the fortress. “Can you sense it from here?”

“Perhaps.” I concentrated and cast the spell to sense magical forces, focusing my will upon the grim fortress. I didn’t sense much – the spell worked much better in close proximity, and we were still a good distance from the gate. But I did sense multiple magical auras coming from within the hill. “There are numerous objects of magical power within. And I think they are inside the hill itself. There must be dungeons and tunnels beneath it.”

Kharrhal nodded. “The shamans said as much. We may have to search the fortress thoroughly.” He hesitated. “Your magic will make that easier.” He wasn’t entirely comfortable around magic, which frankly was wise, but that fortress was large, and searching it would take a lot of time. If I could use my spells to track down the sources of the different auras, that would save much time in finding the Sword of Mzarhask.

And that would fulfill my promise to Kharrhal, and I could go on my way.

Because beyond the ruined fortress stretched a wide land, more mountains rising in the distance.

The heart of the old xortami empire.

The Dragonskull was not far away.

Which meant Xothalaxiar would be close.

“Come,” I said. “Let’s find your Sword and send you back to your tribe to become a headman. They could probably benefit from your wisdom.”

“Why do you think I possess wisdom?” said Kharrhal.

“You were wise enough to make an ally of me, were you not?” I said.

Kharrhal snorted. “You talk like an orcish woman. Do all the human women have such bold tongues, or just you?”

“Probably just me.”

We climbed the steep road to the fortress’s gate. I kept a wary eye on the curtain wall and the great tower as we walked. The two of us made excellent targets for any archers upon the ramparts. But nothing moved on either wall or atop the great tower, and the gate stood open.

Well, I say it stood open, but the gate was gone entirely. I saw rusted hinges mounted on the ancient stonework but no trace of any actual doors. The gate had been smashed so long ago that the wood had rotted away.

Though given that the xortami empire had fallen fourteen and a half thousand years ago, the citadel was in remarkably good condition. The xortami, much like the dwarves, had built to last. A pity they hadn’t stopped before making the Dragonskull.

We walked through the gate and into the courtyard. The ground had been paved with square-cut slabs of stone, still flat and level despite the passage of the centuries. Over to the left, I saw a large rectangular hole with stairs sinking into the earth, no doubt leading to the lower levels. The great tower loomed overhead, its sides carved with more reliefs of the xortami lording it over captive orcs and halflings.

“Grim place, isn’t it?” I said.

“Aye, it is so,” said Kharrhal. “A strong fortress and it would be a seat for a powerful chieftain, maybe even a mighty warlord like Mzarhask in ancient days. But it is a place ill-omened. A man could not ever be at ease in such a stronghold.”

“The xortami are alien to us both,” I said. “You’ve seen dark elven ruins?” Kharrhal nodded. “They inspire the same sort of unrest in the mind. Such places are best avoided except at great need.”

“I cannot argue,” said Kharrhal. “Can you work your spell again?”

I nodded, summoned my magic, and cast the spell to sense magical forces. I once again sensed multiple auras beneath the courtyard, though with far greater clarity than before. Dozens of powerful auras shone in the hill beneath my boots. Some sort of magical forge, maybe? Perhaps this place had once been where the xortami had made enspelled weapons like Kharrhal’s axe and the Sword of Mzarhask.

And an aura of dark magic as well. That wasn’t surprising. The xortami priests had wielded dark magic, used it to forge the Dragonskull. I hoped that the Sword of Mzarhask wasn’t a weapon of dark magic, that the shamans hadn’t lied to Kharrhal about that…

Wait.

The aura was moving.

And it was above us.

I realized what was happening with just enough time to act.

White fire blazed to life along the length of my staff as I stepped forward, and I cast a spell, shaping the power of the Well of Tarlion into a ward. A half-dome of translucent white light appeared before me, wide enough to cover both Kharrhal and myself.

Which was good, because a second later a cone of shadow and blue flame swept over the ward.

I gritted my teeth, holding the spell against the strain. The attack struck hard, but my ward held against the assault. The cone of shadow and blue fire vanished, and I stepped back, scanning the sky, while Kharrhal lifted his axe and looked for foes.

I spotted the urdhracos, her leathery wings flapping as she perched upon a windowsill of the great tower.

I had faced urdhracosi several times before. Sometimes the dark elves lords forced themselves upon the women of other kindreds, fathering a hybrid. Inevitably, the corruption of the dark elven half won out, and an urdhracos was created. This particular urdhracos looked like an elven woman with pale blond hair, her eyes filled with the void, close-fitting black armor sheathing her body. Jagged talons of black metal rose from her fingers.

In her right hand, she held a sword, lightning flickering around its blade. Between the flashes of lightning, I saw xortami symbols written upon the weapon.

It looked like someone else had found the Sword of Mzarhask first.

“One of the winged devils,” said Kharrhal in a low voice. “We shall need all our valor to prevail.”

The urdhracos considered us for a moment and then grinned. Her teeth were very white in her pale face.

“You,” she said an orcish. “Something new. It’s been ever so long since I’ve seen something new. I wonder what it will feel like to kill you.”

The urdhracosi are powerful and highly intelligent, but they are almost always insane. Not to the extent that they will put themselves in danger, but they sometimes act erratically, especially if there is no dark elven lord to command them.

“I have slain urdhracosi before,” I called, “so I already know what I shall feel if you try to kill me.”

The urdhracos laughed, high and wild. “A good answer. The orc with you, I have no interest in him. I’ve seen thousands of generations of orcs live and die. Ugh! Boring, boring, boring. But you…you’re not boring. A creature of a sort I have never known before, wielding the magic of the high elves.” She leaned a little closer, the talons of her left hand rasping against the stone as she kept her balance on the windowsill. “My father would have found you fascinating. Until he killed you.”

“Your father?” I said.

The urdhracos grinned her mad smile. “You might know his title. The other dark elves called him the Ossuary.”

I did know that title. I had learned some of the lore of the dark elves from the Keeper, more when I studied under Ardrhythain in Cathair Solas, and more as we drove the urdmordar back. The dark elves had never shared their true names with other kindreds, so they always referred to each other by cruel, mocking titles – the Warden, trapped within Urd Morlemoch, the Traveler, who never left Nightmane Forest, the Sculptor, who had bred the urvaalgs, so his peers mocked him as a sculptor of flesh.

The Ossuary had been one of the greatest necromancers of the dark elves, capable of taking bones, charging them with dark magic, and creating relics of terrible power. He had been, in fact, the dark elven lord who had summoned the xortami to this world, intending to use them as slaves and soldiers.

Given that the Ossuary had disappeared from history and the xortami had built their empire, I expected the summoning hadn’t ended well for him.

“And do you still serve your father?” I said.

“Oh, not for thousands of years now,” said the urdhracos. “The xortami rather made a gelded dog out of him. A useful house pet.” She giggled. “They would have done the same to me, but…well, I can fly. It’s hard to catch someone who can fly. I’ve spent the last fourteen thousand years watching the xortami destroy one another. And sometimes giving them a little push when I think it best. You’re the second-strangest thing I’ve seen here in years.”

“And what was the strangest?” I said, and then the realization came to me. “A urdmordar traveled past this fortress.”

“Not four days past,” said the urdhracos. “I could feel her coming from such a long way off. The female urdmordar…it’s like a storm of dark magic upon the horizon, drawing ever closer.” I knew what she meant. I had felt it myself. “But she passed in haste and remained concealed. She headed into the north, to the ruins of the xortami.” The urdhracos laughed again. “She will find only death there. The xortami wrought a power too great for anyone to control. Not even a female urdmordar.”

“I see,” I said.

“Oh,” breathed the urdhracos. “You are pursuing her, are you not? Yes. Why else would you be in this land, wielding the magic of the high elves? A waste. The urdmordar goes to her death in the xortami ruins. You, too, will go to your death if you follow her. I shall be merciful. I will kill you both and spare you the agony that awaits.”

Without warning, she leaped from the windowsill, wings spread wide, and cast a spell.

But I had been expecting something like this, and I worked a spell of my own. Again the dome of pale light rose before us, and it kept the cone of shadow and blue fire from reaching either Kharrhal or me. The urdhracos let out a shrieking laugh and spiraled higher into the air, wings flapping as she swooped over us.

“Be ready,” I said in a low voice as I summoned power. “I can force her from the air, but we will need to strike swiftly.”

“We shall find victory or death,” said Kharrhal, axe ready in his hands.

The urdhracos swooped towards us, the Sword of Mzarhask in her right hand, dark magic playing around her left. The power built within my mind, and I focused my will and cast a spell of my own.

A shaft of mingled white flame and elemental fire lashed from my staff and slashed through the urdhracos’ left wing.

She had been ready for an attack, but I don’t think she anticipated anything like that. The urdhracos let out a shriek of surprise and pain, and her left wing collapsed. Her swooping dive ended with her crashing hard into the courtyard, armor ringing with the impact.

Kharrhal and I sprang forward, the orcish warrior moving with the speed that had let him take down that urvaalg near the hot spring.

As fast as he was, the urdhracos was faster. She leaped to her feet, whipping the Sword of Mzarhask at his head. Kharrhal parried, lightning flashing from the blade. I feared that the lightning would travel down the axe blade and its steel haft, but the weapon’s grip had been wrapped in leather, which was enough to keep the lightning from reaching his flesh.

I attacked from the right, swinging my staff at the urdhracos’s flank. I had often wielded the staff during the war against the urdmordar. In fact, I didn’t approve of how that had changed in the new Order of the Magistri, how the Magistri spent more time studying and practicing the healing spell rather than training with weapons. The other surviving First Magistri and the Master of the Order said it was to show that the Magistri were not a threat to the people of Andomhaim, that they would not abuse magic. I disagreed – I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about me, let alone the people of Andomhaim, and you’re more likely to have a strong mind in a strong body than a weak one.

Also, there are times when it’s useful to club someone, which I demonstrated when my staff impacted with the urdhracos’s armored hip.

White fire burst from the staff, channeled from my will, and the urdhracos stumbled back with a shriek. Kharrhal seized the opening and swung his axe, and the blade clanged off her stomach. The armor plates deflected the swing, though the impact knocked her back, and frost spread over the metal.

I closed for the kill, calling more magic.

But the urdhracos flung the Sword of Mzarhask at her feet and leaped into the air, her damaged wings pumping. She could not fly quite as fast as she could before, but her flight carried her to the curtain wall, and she perched there, staring down at us with that mad grin.

“Do you know why I’ve lived for so long?” she shouted. “I don’t fight to the death! Not unless I can avoid it, anyway. You should have let me kill you. It would be kinder than the fate you shall find in the ruins of the xortami.”

With that, she leaped off the wall and flew away, making for the mountains to the east. I watched her dwindle for a long while, half-expecting her to return to attack at any moment.

But the urdhracos departed and did not return.

Maybe she had decided that fighting me was not worth the trouble.

Or she would lurk from the shadows and watch Xothalaxiar kill me when I caught up to the urdmordar.

“It seems,” said Kharrhal, “that we have driven off our foe.”

His dark eyes strayed to the Sword of Mzarhask.

“Take it,” I said. “I keep my word. Though I do want to have a look around. Perhaps we will find something else useful.”

###

We spent a day exploring the great tower and the lower levels beneath the fortress. We found some xortami coins and jewels and split them between us. Kharrhal would have need of the wealth now that he was going to become a headman. I didn’t think I would need the money where I was going, but one never knew.

In the dungeons beneath the tower, we found a great forge chamber. The xortami had contrived a means for molten stone to flow through a warded channel, providing mighty heat for their forges. Magical auras radiated from enormous anvils carved with runes, no doubt where the xortami had forged their enspelled weapons. Had I more time, I might have been able to unravel the secret of their making. Instead, I merely helped myself to a short sword that crackled with lightning, much like the more powerful Sword of Mzarhask that Kharrhal now carried.

The next day we departed the ruined fortress, Kharrhal to go south back to the Blood-Washed Swords and me to follow Xothalaxiar into the north.

“I thank you for your assistance, Niara of Andomhaim,” said Kharrhal, and he bowed. “Should we ever find ourselves upon the opposite sides of the battlefield, I shall salute you as a worthy foe.”

“May that day never come,” I said.

Kharrhal hesitated, thinking. “Perhaps…the winged devil spoke wisdom. Mayhap the urdmordar has gone to her destruction in the north. Perhaps nothing but death will find you in the ruins of the xortami.”

“If you had blood kin to avenge,” I said, “would you turn back?”

“No,” agreed Kharrhal. “I would not. Good fortune in battle to you, Niara of Andomhaim.”

“And you, headman of the Blood-Washed Swords.”

###

Two weeks later, I stood atop a low hill facing the ruins of Takaris and finished the final Waystone.

My last measure, should I fail to stop Xothalaxiar.

It looked like the other two Waystones I had created, a sphere of white stone sitting atop a plinth. My personal sigil, a dagger piercing a ring, glowed in faint white light atop the stone.

Should I fail, the stones held my memories and would show the way to Takaris and the Dragonskull. If a valiant warrior touched one of the Waystones, it would link to him, and show him the path to the Dragonskull.

If I failed to stop Xothalaxiar.

The time was now.

She was only a few hours ahead of me.

I turned my back on the Waystone, drew in a deep breath, and strode towards the rippling wall of mist that surrounded the ruins of Takaris.

Either I would fall in battle, or I would avenge my father at last.

THE END

Thank you for reading THE FINAL WAYSTONE. The quest for the Dragonskull begins in DRAGONSKULL: SWORD OF THE SQUIRE (https://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=13944).

If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854).

***

About the Author

USA Today bestselling author Jonathan Moeller has written over 130 novels, including the bestselling FROSTBORN, SEVENFOLD SWORD, DRAGONTIARNA and THE GHOSTS fantasy series, and the SILENT ORDER science fiction series. His books have sold over a million and a half copies worldwide.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Email him at jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on his Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189) or Twitter feed (https://twitter.com/moellerjonathan).

***