The Dark Warden (Book 6) by Jonathan Moeller

Ridmark, and your…eclectic band of companions.”
    “That’s us,” said Jager. “As eclectic as it gets.”
    “Indeed,” said Arandar, blinking. “I suspect there is quite a tale here.” He looked at Caius. “I…know you, Brother.”
    “I confess that you look familiar,” said Caius. “Did we meet in Tarlion?”
    “That is it,” said Arandar. “It was the day you preached before the gates of the Cathedral of Tarlion, commanding the lords and Magistri of Andomhaim to repent of their pride and licentiousness, petition the Dominus Christus for forgiveness, and lead sober and upright lives henceforth.” 
    Morigna let out a nasty laugh. “One imagines that was not well-received.”
    “For once we are in agreement,” said Jager. “I cannot see the nobles of Tarlion repenting of anything.” 
    Calliande watched Arandar, curious he would react to the mockery. The nobles of Andomhaim were a proud lot. And given how many of them seemed to have joined the Enlightened of Incariel, their pride might have been a mask for something worse. 
    But Arandar only looked pained. “I am a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to defend the realm of Andomhaim from creatures of dark magic.” He hesitated. “What I happen to think of the lords and knights of the realm is of no importance.”
    Caius snorted. “Wisely spoken.”
    “Before we speak any further,” said Arandar, “I would simply like to thank you for my life. All of you.” His eyes swept over them. “I know not who you are or your purpose. But if you had not come along when you did, I would have been slain, and my quest would have been in vain.”
    “Quest?” said Gavin.
     “Before we trade tales,” said Ridmark, “I suggest we return to our camp. We are too exposed here, and God only knows what else is wandering the Torn Hills.”
    “I accept your hospitality,” said Arandar. “I had a horse with some supplies, but the urhaalgar tore it apart.”
    “We’ll retrieve the supplies,” said Ridmark, “and then be on our way.”
    He beckoned, and Arandar walked to his side. Again Calliande was amused. Arandar was a Knight of the Soulblade, and Ridmark had no authority over him. Yet Arandar was already doing what Ridmark told him to do.
    That was good. Given the dangers they faced, they needed all the help they could find. 
     
    ###
     
    Ridmark’s headache dimmed by the time they returned to their camp. Whenever he looked in Arandar’s direction, he found his eyes straying to the scabbard at the knight’s belt, and the headache started to return. 
    His right hand twitched as if it wanted to grasp a sword hilt. 
    The last time he had held Heartwarden had been the day the High King had pronounced sentence on him at Castra Marcaine, the day Tarrabus Carhaine had influenced the High King and the Master of the Order to have Ridmark expelled from the Order and banished from Andomhaim. The pain of the severing had been excruciating, but Ridmark had hardly cared at the time.
    The loss of Aelia had been worse. His failure had been worse. He had hoped the High King would have him executed. 
    He saw both Morigna and Calliande staring at him. They knew him well enough to guess what was going through his head. The only thing more annoying than their arguments were the rare occasions when the two of them actually managed to agree, usually about something they had decided that he needed to do. 
    But he did not have the luxury of wallowing the past. 
    They were in too much danger. Part of Ridmark wanted to send Arandar and Heartwarden away. The rest of him, the rational part, realized that the knight would be a powerful ally. Ridmark and his companions were going into deadly danger, and Arandar’s courage and Heartwarden’s power might turn the tide.
    Even if Ridmark could no longer wield Heartwarden himself. 
    Another part of him wondered why Sir Arandar of Tarlion had come to the Torn Hills. Arandar was a bastard, and most of the knights of