Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

  With Heartwarden he had struck down Mhalek himself.

  And then Aelia had died.

  Ridmark walked toward the charging undead, the staff ready in his right hand. The power of Calliande’s magic was not as strong as Heartwarden’s. The soulblade had blazed like a torch in Ridmark’s fist, and with the sword Ridmark had cut a path through creatures of dark magic. The staff shone with a gentle glow, its vibrations weaker.

  But more than enough to destroy the undead.

  The first creature came at him, raising a rusted mace to strike, and Ridmark moved.

  He dodged the blow, the staff a white blur in his hand. Normal weapons could not harm the undead, but the staff had been charged with Calliande’s magic, and his strike shattered the bones of the creature’s weapon hand. The mace fell into the grass and rolled away, and Ridmark reversed his weapon and jabbed the undead in the gut. The creature did not need to breathe and felt no pain, but the power of Ridmark’s blow knocked the undead orc back a step.

  He whipped the staff around and drove its length into the undead orc’s head. The tusked skull exploded in a burst of yellowing bone. The blue flames winked out, and the corpse collapsed into pieces, the bones tumbling away.

  Three more reached for him, and Ridmark charged into them.

  Most of the knights of Andomhaim looked down upon the quarterstaff, seeing it as the weapon of commoners, of freeholders and laborers. A true knight with a sword, they believed, could overcome a peasant armed with a staff.

  Ridmark knew better.

  He deflected a descending sword with a sweep of his staff, pivoted, and spun his weapon around. The staff’s heavy length crashed into the back of an undead orc’s knee, and the creature toppled. Ridmark’s next blow slammed into the crown of its head, and the weight of his strike shattered the undead orc’s skull, pieces of its rusted helmet falling away. He dodged the swing of a heavy axe and brought the staff down upon the undead orc’s arms before it recovered its balance. The bones cracked and splintered, the axe falling away, and Ridmark dispatched the creature with a sharp swing to the head. The last orc raised its sword for a final strike, and Ridmark moved before it could launch the blow, knocking the weapon aside. The creature lunged at him with skeletal fingers, but Ridmark sidestepped and swung his staff with both hands. The skull popped off the neck and soared through the air, tumbling jaw over forehead, and landed with a splash in a pool. The body staggered forward and disintegrated into loose bones and rotting flesh.

  Ridmark spun, intending to aid either Kharlacht or Caius if they were hard-pressed.

  But neither one needed his help. Kharlacht carved his way through the undead orcs like a butcher cutting meat. He wielded his greatsword with massive arcs, every blow shearing through a skeletal neck or skull. Few undead drew close enough to harm him, and when they did he stepped back or allowed their blows to shatter against his dark elven armor. Caius fought at Kharlacht’s side. With his heavy mace, the burly friar barely needed Calliande’s magical augmentation. The blows of his mace shattered knees and spines, and Caius then finished them off with a strike to the head.

  Ridmark shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Gavin strike down an undead orc that charged Calliande. It had been just over a week since they had departed Aranaeus, but the boy’s skill had improved in that time. His blade sheared through the undead creature’s neck, white fire struggling against the ghostly blue flame, and the undead orc fell motionless. Gavin had a steady head and a steady arm, and if they lived through this, one day he would be a masterful swordsman.

  But for now, Ridmark would try to keep the undead away from Gavin and Calliande.

  He turned back to the attack, the length of his staff shattering another undead skull. The corpse fell, and Ridmark moved closer to the others as they fought their way to the burial mounds. They had destroyed at least a score of the undead, but more still emerged from the ruined fortress. How many of the creatures were there? Individually, the undead were not strong, but they could overwhelm Ridmark and the others through sheer numbers.

  And whatever necromancer had raised them had to be watching the fight. Perhaps the wizard’s plan was to pin them in place and then unleash his spells in an attack.

  A dark shape emerged from the ruins, and Ridmark wondered if he had found the wizard.

  It was an undead orc that stood nearly eight feet tall, taller than even Kharlacht. Black steel armored the orc from head to toe, and the creature carried an enormous black greatsword. Eldritch symbols of crimson fire shone upon its cuirass and bracers and greaves, and Ridmark realized the creature’s armor had been reinforced by blood magic long ago, likely the work of an orcish shaman. No doubt that explained why the armor had survived the centuries in the ground without damage. Its owner must have been a powerful chieftain, perhaps even the petty king who had raised this fortress.

  The armored orc spotted Ridmark and raced towards him, raising the greatsword.

  Ridmark sprinted to meet the creature as Kharlacht and Caius fought their way through the other undead.

  He did not attempt to block the undead chieftain’s first swing. His staff had a steel core, but the sheer weight and power of the undead orc’s greatsword would tear the staff from his grasp. The huge blade blurred past his face, and Ridmark stepped inside the creature’s guard, his staff swinging. It slammed into an armored leg, and the massive orc staggered but did not fall. The staff flared with white light as Calliande’s magic struggled against the ancient spells upon the armor, its glyphs shining with a crimson glow. The orc rushed at Ridmark, and he landed another blow on its armored flank as the creature passed. The undead warrior staggered from the blow, and Ridmark stepped behind it and struck, his staff hammering against the black helmet.

  The armor deflected the blow of his staff, and the undead orc turned with inhuman grace, the black sword blurring. Ridmark retreated as the creature pursued him with heavy, lumbering steps, its black sword clutched in both hands. One strike from the undead orc’s heavy sword would open him up like a butchered pig.

  The heavy sword…

  That armor had to be heavy, too.

  Ridmark dodged another swing and changed direction. His staff struck the undead orc’s heavy cuirass and bounced away, but he had not intended the strike to penetrate armor. It held the creature’s attention, and the warrior followed him.

  He jumped into one of the stagnant pools, the cloudy water splashing around his boots, and backed away.

  The warrior pursued him, striding into the water.

  And as it did, its armored boots sank into the muck at the bottom of the pool. The undead orc staggered, its balance lost for just a moment, but a moment was all that Ridmark needed. He thrust the staff with both hands, all his strength behind the blow, and slammed its butt into the orc’s skeletal face. The skull shattered beneath the staff, its end clanging against the back of the orc’s helmet, and the white light in the staff drowned out the ghostly blue fire of its eyes. Ridmark retracted his staff and scrambled upon dry ground, but the headless orc did not pursue him.

  It fell into the pool with a mighty splash, the black armor sinking.

  The glow from the sigils painted the water the color of blood.

  Ridmark looked around for more foes, and saw the remainder of the undead orcs fleeing.

  ###

  Calliande lowered her hands, blinking the sweat from her eyes. Maintaining the auras over the weapons was not as draining as casting spells of attack, but it was still an effort.

  Yet the undead orcs retreated, fleeing around the earthwork outer wall of the ruined fortress.

  Kharlacht started to pursue.

  “Hold!” Ridmark’s voice rang over the marsh. “Hold here! They might be trying to lure us into a trap.”

  Kharlacht glared at Ridmark, his black eyes gleaming red with the battle fury of his orcish blood. But the big orc took a deep breath, calmed himself, and gave a sharp nod.

  Ridmark strode back to Calliande’s s
ide, and the others rejoined him.

  “They fled from us?” said Gavin, peering at the fortress. “That…seems odd.”

  “It is,” said Ridmark. “One more peculiar thing in a day filled with them.”

  “Undead like that do not flee,” said Calliande. “They have no minds of their own, and act as their master commands.”

  “So their master commanded them to fall back,” said Gavin.

  “That seems likely,” said Ridmark, staring at the ruined tower.

  “Perhaps the wizard wishes to draw us into a trap,” said Kharlacht.

  “Or,” said Ridmark, “he desired to test our strength, and is now preparing something new for us.”

  “A cheering thought,” said Caius.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande, “before we go any further, I should destroy that armor. The spells of dark magic upon it are potent, and I fear that anyone who claims it might be driven mad.”

  He frowned. “Will it cost much of your strength?”

  She shook her head. “A single spell should suffice.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “We’ll destroy the armor, and then we’ll scout the interior of the fortress. It is a logical place for the necromancer to hide, and even if he isn’t there, we’ll have a good view of the countryside from the tower.”

  He led the way to where the armored orcish chieftain had fallen. Even if Ridmark had forgotten the location, the eerie blood-colored glow in the water would have been easy to find. Calliande took a deep breath and gazed into the pool, and then worked a spell to probe the dark magic upon the armored corpse.

  “Do you think the trolldomr summoned the undead, sir?” said Gavin to Ridmark.

  “That seems unlikely,” said Caius. “The trolldomr are alien, but that is not the same as malevolence. And I have never heard a single account of a trolldomr using dark magic.”

  “But you said that Rjalfur was acting oddly for a trolldomr, Brother,” said Gavin.

  “Aye,” said Caius. “But he did warn us against the undead.”

  “Or,” rumbled Kharlacht, watching the fortress, “it could have been a ploy to lure us here.”

  Calliande closed her eyes and focused upon the armor. The spells upon it were potent. Their long-dead creator had been powerful, but unskilled. The spells were crude, and Calliande thought she could unravel them without much effort.

  “I am inclined to agree with Brother Caius,” said Ridmark. “Still. Rjalfur did act strangely. If we encounter him again, best be on our guard.”

  Calliande opened her eyes and raised her hand. A shaft of white flame burst from her palm and stabbed into the water. The crimson light flared once and vanished as her magic shattered the spell.

  “It is done,” said Calliande.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. “Watch for more dark magic.”

  Calliande nodded and cast the spell again, extending her magical senses in all directions.

  She flinched, her eyes widening.

  Multiple spikes of magical power washed against her.

  “What is it?” said Ridmark, catching her elbow.

  She recovered her balance. “Someone’s casting spells north of here, powerful ones. Not dark magic. Ridmark…I think the undead didn’t retreat. I think they sensed a more promising target, and are going after him.”

  “Someone needs our aid?” said Gavin.

  “Then let us furnish it,” said Ridmark, and he broke in a run for the fortress.

  Calliande and the others followed him.

  Chapter 3 - The Sorceress

  Ridmark ran around the curve of the earthen wall, a flare of purple light flashing in the distance.

  Who was casting spells? Perhaps the master of the undead had lost control over his creations, and they had turned upon him. Or maybe an orcish shaman of the blood gods had been traveling near the ruins, and the undead had attacked him. Or perhaps a Magistrius had come to fight the undead.

  Ridmark thought that unlikely. There had been no Magistri living in Moraime when he had passed through the town nine years past, and he doubted any had come to settle since.

  Which meant that the wizard was likely a renegade, a wielder of magic who operated outside the laws of the Order of the Magistri.

  Such men were almost always dangerous.

  He spotted three undead orcs and tightened his grasp on his staff, but the creatures ignored him. They ran around the curve of the earthwork wall, pursuing the unknown wizard. For a moment Ridmark wondered if Rjalfur had been lying. The trolldomr had claimed that the dark magic had been targeted at Ridmark, but what if they had stumbled upon someone else’s quarrel? Two renegade wizards fighting with dark magic?

  If he had, he would ensure they hurt no one else.

  Part of his mind whispered that he ought to leave and continue to Urd Morlemoch. The Frostborn were returning, unless Ridmark found a way to stop them, and they could destroy the world. Better to stay out of this business and continue on his way.

  But it was not in his nature to turn back.

  And if he died here, if the undead or a renegade wizard struck him down, then it was no more than he deserved for what had happened to Aelia.

  Ridmark reached the northern end of the fortress and saw a battle.

  A swarm of undead, nearly thirty of them, moved around the base of a burial mound. Ridmark saw a score lying upon the slopes of the burial mound, some of them torn to pieces. A figure in a tattered cloak stood atop the hill.

  “The wizard,” said Calliande.

  The figure spun, and to his surprise, Ridmark saw himself looking at a young woman.

  She was about twenty, with long black hair tied back into a thick tail. Her hard black eyes were stark against her pale face. Her cloak was a tattered mixture of gray and brown strips, no doubt to aid in concealment. Beneath the cloak she wore boots, trousers, and a jerkin of well-worn leather.

  The woman spun, sweeping her hand before her, her mouth moving in silent words.

  Purple light flared around her fingers, and a strange ripple went through the slope of the mound. The earth turned to quicksand beneath the feet of the undead orcs, and they sank into the ground, clawing at the grass. The spell ended with several undead half-buried. The woman gestured again, and a shudder went through the ground beneath Ridmark’s boots. Thick cords erupted from the earth, roots wet with mud and moisture. They curled around the undead and tightened with enough force to rip them apart.

  This woman, young though she was, was a powerful sorceress.

  And clearly not a Magistria.

  She turned again, and her dark eyes met Ridmark’s. Even across the distance he felt a peculiar sort of shock at her gaze. Was it recognition? No, he was sure that he had never seen her before.

  It didn’t matter. She had held her own against the undead, but without aid, they would overwhelm her.

  “Calliande,” said Ridmark.

  She stared at the sorceress, her mouth a hard line. But she blinked, nodded, and cast a spell. Again white light flared to life around their weapons, Ridmark’s staff a glowing line in his fist. A ripple went through the undead orcs as they sensed the presence of Calliande’s spell, and some of the creatures turned toward them. The sorceress upon the hill took advantage of their distraction and struck, more roots rising from the ground to entangle the undead.

  Ridmark charged, Kharlacht and Caius at his side as Gavin hung back to shield Calliande from the undead. He brought his staff around and struck, smashing an orc’s skull, and whipped the weapon around to catch another undead behind the knees. The creature fell, and Caius’s mace met its skull.

  The sorceress flung out her arms, and the ground around Ridmark rippled. For an instant he wondered if the woman had attacked him, if the undead had simply been a ploy to lure them into a trap, but the shockwave knocked the undead from their feet. He destroyed three of them before they recovered, Calliande’s magic glowing brighter around the staff as it canceled the necromancy binding the undead things. Kharlacht
and Caius struck on his left and right, forcing their way through the undead. The mob of dead orcs staggered, forced back by the sheer power of their attack. The sorceress atop the burial mound sent another shock through the earth, a wild, mad grin on her face, and Ridmark struck down two more undead.

  The fight was almost over.

  “Ridmark!”

  Calliande’s voice rang over the fray.

  “The fortress!” she shouted.

  He turned his head just in time to see the wraith float through the earthwork wall.

  The translucent creature looked like a hooded specter in a long black robe. It had the features of an orcish shaman of the blood gods, its face adorned with elaborate tattoos, bronze rings glinting in its nose and ears and lips. It glided over the water, and the grass turned black and dead at its touch.

  Ridmark suspected much the same would happen if it touched a living man or woman.

  “Do not let it reach you!” said Calliande. “One touch will be enough to kill you.”

  The sorceress atop the hill gestured, and more roots rose from the earth, lashing at the wraith. But the roots passed through its immaterial body without touching it, and Ridmark glimpsed a flicker of fear on the sorceress’s face.

  “Can you ward us against it?” said Ridmark, smashing another undead orc.

  “Aye,” said Calliande, “but I’ll not have enough strength left to maintain the aura around your weapons.”

  “Will the aura harm it?” said Ridmark, the wraith flowing toward him.

  “It will!” said Calliande. “But…”

  “Kharlacht, Caius!” said Ridmark. “Hold against the undead orcs. Gavin, guard Lady Calliande.” The sorceress in the tattered cloak unleashed another spell, throwing more of the undead to the ground, and Kharlacht and Caius seized the moment to attack.

  “What will you…” began Calliande.

  Ridmark was already moving.

  The air grew colder as he charged the wraith, and its eyes, filled with ghostly blue flame, turned toward him. It was freezing cold, yet no frost formed upon the pools of water, and Ridmark’s breath did not steam. It was a magical cold, one that tugged upon his life force.