The Dark Warden (Book 6) by Jonathan Moeller Page A

Andomhaim believed that Arandar’s father had been a minor knight or Comes. Ridmark knew who Arandar’s father really was. 
    So Ridmark could not imagine why Arandar’s father had sent him to the Torn Hills, or why Arandar might have come for his own reasons. 
    “Thank you,” said Arandar, his voice grave, “for sharing your camp.” He had aged in the five years since Ridmark had seen him at Dun Licinia, fresh lines upon his face and more gray in his hair. Yet he was still hale. He had held his own against those urhaalgars. 
    Ridmark nodded. “You remember Brother Caius.” He gestured at the others. “This is Calliande, a Magistri of the Order. Kharlacht, a baptized orc of Vhaluusk. Gavin, from Aranaeus, a village in the Wilderland. Morigna, a woman from Moraime in the Wilderland.”
     “You cast those spells, then?” said Arandar, frowning. “The rippling ground and the nets of roots?”
    “That I did,” said Morigna, eyeing him with a smirk.
    “You are not a Magistria,” said Arandar.
    “The Magistri,” said Morigna, “should be so fortunate.” 
    “You travel with this woman, Ridmark?” said Arandar. “A wild sorceress?”
    “She is brave and skilled,” said Ridmark, “and has saved our lives more than once.”
    “Wizards outside of the Magistri inevitably turn to necromancy and dark magic,” said Arandar. 
    “Oh, must they?” said Morigna. “It sounds tedious. Well, I shall see if I can fit it into my calendar.” 
    “She has not worked any dark magic, Sir Arandar,” said Calliande. “I am sure of it.”
    “I do not require you to defend me,” said Morigna, “nor do I need to justify myself to this preening fool who wields a weapon which rightfully belongs to another man.” 
    “I am the rightful and lawful bearer of Heartwarden,” said Arandar, though he glanced at Ridmark as he spoke. 
    Morigna let out a nasty laugh. “A better man’s leavings are good enough for you, one supposes? Perhaps once you return to Tarlion, your lord will have tired of his mistress, and you can take her into your bed while he…”
    Arandar’s eyes flashed. Morigna didn’t know it, but she had hit upon his weak point.
    “Are you sure this woman is not a wielder of dark magic?” said Arandar, stepping towards her. 
    Morigna raised her staff, purple fire crackling around the fingers of his free hand. “Is that a threat?”
    “You want to try me, witch?” said Arandar, his hand falling around Heartwarden’s hilt. A throb of pain went through Ridmark’s skull. 
    “You think yourself so capable, then?” said Morigna. “Let us see if the fabled Swordbearers are as…”
    “Stop. Now,” said Ridmark, his headache adding bite to his words. “Morigna, he’s a Swordbearer. Heartwarden will protect him from any magic you throw at him, and unless you happen to shoot an arrow through his eye, he will kill you without much trouble.”
    Morigna glared at him.
    “And you,” said Ridmark, pointing at Arandar. “She saved your life. If her spells hadn’t thrown off the urhaalgars, they would have ripped you apart before we killed the urshanes. She is not a wielder of dark magic. If you do not believe me, believe Calliande.”
    “Very well,” said Arandar, and he offered a shallow bow to Morigna. “I apologize if I spoke too soon.”
    “Morigna,” said Ridmark.
    She rolled her eyes. “I apologize for threatening to defend myself from unjust accusations.” 
    “Well,” said Jager, “isn’t this pleasant?”
    “And this,” said Ridmark, “is Jager and his wife Mara, both of Coldinium.”
    “Your servants?” said Arandar. 
    Morigna laughed again. 
    “Oh, yes, indeed,” said Jager. “Why, when his lordship Ridmark awakes, we bring him his porridge, his robe, and his razor, and…”
    “Jager,” said Mara. 
    “No,” said Ridmark. “Everyone here has chosen to follow me for reasons of their own.”
    “Where are you going?” said Arandar. “This has…something to do