Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

  He suspected a touch from the wraith would not be pleasant.

  The creature lunged at him, and Ridmark swung his staff one-handed, using the weapon’s greater reach to keep the wraith away from him. The staff sheared through the wraith’s torso, the spell upon it glowing brighter. The wraith hissed in pain, the first time Ridmark had heard any of the undead make a noise.

  “Human dog,” whispered the wraith in orcish. “Bow down. We shall make all your kindred slaves.”

  “Unlikely,” said Ridmark, watching the wraith. “Given that you failed in life, and are now nothing more than a shadow.”

  The wraith shrieked in fury, the sound cutting into Ridmark’s head like a knife, and billowed towards him. Ridmark danced around the wraith, thrusting and jabbing with his staff. The creature recoiled from every strike, hissing with pain, yet Ridmark’s blows seemed only to discomfort it. Had Ridmark still carried Heartwarden, he could have dispatched the wraith with a single swing of blade.

  But he only had a staff and Calliande's spell, and he circled the wraith, striking again and again. The terrible chill started to sink into his muscles, his fingers growing numb. It would not affect his ability to fight, not yet, but soon he would start to shiver.

  One stumble and the wraith would have him.

  Then his staff blazed with white fire, the weapon thrumming with fresh power.

  Ridmark did not hesitate, but swung with all his strength, driving the shaft through the wraith’s chest. The creature reared back, screaming, and for the first time its ethereal form rippled and blurred. Ridmark thrust his staff like a spear, raking the weapon across the undead creature’s face. Calliande’s white fire drowned out the eerie blue flame, and the wraith loosed one final shriek and dissolved into smoke.

  Ridmark lowered his staff, breathing hard, and the deadly chill faded.

  He looked around for more undead, but the fighting was over, and the white fire faded from his staff.

  The orcish undead lay motionless below the burial mound, the earth torn and ripped from the sorceress’s spells. Kharlacht and Caius lowered their weapons and walked over, while Calliande hurried toward him, Gavin following.

  “Are you hurt?” said Calliande.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “What did you do?”

  “Brother Caius and Kharlacht slew all the undead,” said Calliande, “so I put all my power into your staff.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. “Your aid was most timely.”

  “We may need it again,” said Calliande, flexing her fingers.

  Ridmark followed her gaze and watched as the sorceress approached.

  She moved across the grassy patches and the pools with slow, steady grace, the gait of someone well-accustomed to the marshes. She looked lithe and fit, and had she been wearing a proper gown, no doubt would have been lovely enough. Neither Kharlacht nor Caius sheathed their weapons as she approached, and Gavin gripped his sword, but the young woman either did not notice or did not care.

  She stopped and gazed at them. Ridmark met her hard black eyes, and saw a wary amusement there.

  “Well,” she said in Latin at last, “this certainly is a riddle.”

  Her accent was strange. She spoke Latin with a precise, stately formality. Ridmark would have expected such an accent from a lady in the High King’s court of Tarlion, not from a mud-spattered sorceress wandering the marshes of the Wilderland. Strangely, it suited her well – her voice could have made her a capable bard.

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark, watching her.

  “An orc,” said the sorceress, her eyes flicking over them, “a dwarf in a monk’s robes, a Magistria, a stripling boy with a shield,” Gavin scowled at her, “and a man in a gray cloak with a coward’s brand who fights with the wrath of a lion. Strange indeed, and there are many strange things in the marshes.”

  “Yourself among them,” said Ridmark, hoping to test her reaction.

  A faint smile passed over her pale lips. “Oh, for a certainty, Gray Knight. For that is who you are, is it not? I have heard the tales the townsfolk Moraime tell. The lost knight, wandering forever through the Wilderland to avenge his slain love. A romantic tale. Or it would be, if it were not so foolish. A dead woman can offer a man no comfort.”

  “Since we stopped the undead from killing you,” said Ridmark, “perhaps you ought to be grateful that I am a fool.”

  A flicker of chagrin went over her face. “Perhaps you are right. I could have handled the corpses on my own. But that wraith…I have no spells to harm such a creature. Just as well you and your pet Magistria came along when you did.”

  Calliande scowled, and Gavin stepped forward. “You should speak to the Lady Calliande with respect.”

  “Respect is a wage, boy, not a gift,” said the sorceress. “Yet…I thank you for your aid, both you, Gray Knight, and you, Magistria. Having a wraith drain away my life is not how I wished this day to end.”

  “I suspect,” said Ridmark, “we can all agree on that. The undead seemed most interested in you.”

  “Vexingly so,” agreed the sorceress. “I was making my way south when the first band of corpses attacked me. I dispatched them all, and then decided to warn the fools of Moraime of the threat. Likely I passed too close to the ruins of the fortress, and drew the attention of the undead.”

  “They seemed most interested in you,” said Ridmark.

  “As if,” said Calliande, “you raised them and lost control.”

  The sorceress smirked. “Or as if they had been commanded to seek out wielders of magic. They hunted you, did they not? Perhaps you raised them.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have summoned them?” said Ridmark.

  “I fear not,” said the sorceress. “My guess would be a shaman of the orcish blood gods, but none have been seen in the marshes since Mhalek led the tribes of Vhaluusk to their doom in Andomhaim…” She blinked and smirked at Ridmark again. “But if you truly are the Gray Knight, you already know that.”

  “You know who I am,” said Ridmark. “Might we know who you are?”

  The young woman blinked and then laughed. “If you must. You can call me Morigna.” She gripped the edges of her tattered cloak and performed an elaborate mockery of a formal curtsy. “And I am pleased to meet you, my lords and lady, in my humble palace, which I hope is to your liking.” She looked at Gavin. “Was that respectful enough?”

  Gavin opened his mouth, his face going red, but Ridmark spoke first.

  “I am Ridmark Arban,” he said. “This is Calliande of the Magistri, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, and Brother Caius of the mendicant order.”

  “A peculiar company,” said Morigna.

  “Almost as peculiar as finding a sorceress in the Wilderland,” said Calliande, a hint of ice in her voice. “Where did you learn your magic?”

  “Ah,” said Morigna. “So that is what you are doing, is it? The Magistria hunting for renegade wizards, outcasts from the Order, while her ragtag band of enforcers trudge after her?”

  “Ragtag?” said Gavin, his face turning red again.

  “Given the state of your cloak,” said Ridmark, “that is a serious accusation to level.”

  She grinned at him. “And as for my magic, I acquired it in the usual way. I prayed to the forces of darkness for thirteen nights, and then danced naked around a ring of dark elven standing stones. On the thirteenth night, I conjured forth a hundred and one demons and coupled with each of them upon the altar, and in return they bestowed magical powers upon me.”

  “Casual blasphemy,” said Caius, “is hardly a joking matter.”

  “Why not?” said Morigna. “Given that it amuses me to watch Gavin splutter so.”

  “And given that we just fought our way through a pack of undead,” said Ridmark, cutting off Gavin’s furious response, “it is a relevant question.”

  “Indeed,” said Morigna. “My magic manifested when I was a child, and the Old Man taught me.”

  “The Old Man?” said Ridmark
.

  “He is a hermit who lives some distance north of Moraime, and he took me as a student.”

  “What is his name?” said Calliande.

  “That is his to tell you, not mine,” said Morigna. “And I do not know, in truth. He has claimed many names. But do not fear. The Old Man did not raise your undead. The man is so querulous he could not harm a fly, which is a pity, given that he lives in his own filth. But now that I have answered your question, you shall answer mine.”

  Ridmark inclined his head.

  “Your little ragtag band,” said Morigna. “Where is it going?”

  “You saw the omen of blue flame thirty-two days past?” said Ridmark.

  “It would have been most difficult to miss,” said Morigna.

  “It was a sign of the return of the Frostborn,” said Ridmark.

  Morigna scoffed. “The Frostborn are legendary.”

  “They are not,” said Ridmark, “and they are returning. That is certain, but I do not know where or when. But the Warden of Urd Morlemoch warned me of the omen nine years past, and so I travel to Urd Morlemoch once more to wring the answers from him.”

  Morigna laughed. “Absurd. Well, my first answer was a fanciful tale, so I suppose you are within your rights to repay me in kind. Where are you really going, Ridmark Arban?”

  “Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark again, “to get answers from the Warden.”

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Madness,” said Morigna. “You…are telling the truth? You truly intend to do this?”

  Ridmark nodded.

  “Mad, utterly mad,” said Morigna. She shrugged. “By why not? If you are the Gray Knight, you went to Urd Morlemoch once before and returned. Nathan told me, before…”

  She stopped talking. Clearly, she did not want Ridmark to know about this Nathan, whoever he was.

  “So if neither you nor this Old Man raised the undead,” said Ridmark, “then who did?”

  “I know not,” said Morigna. “The magic is a sort I have never sensed before.”

  “I have,” said Calliande. “It reminds me of Shadowbearer’s, though it is not his.”

  “Shadowbearer?” said Morigna. “That is a legend of the dark elves.”

  “He’s not,” said Calliande. “I met him.”

  “How peculiar,” said Morigna. “You speak of these legends with such familiarity.”

  “We saw a trolldomr earlier,” said Ridmark. “Do you think he might have done it?”

  “Old Rjalfur?” said Morigna with a laugh. “I doubt it. He has lived in the Deeps near here for years, and emerges from time to time to pose riddles to travelers. He is mad, but harmless.”

  “Does he offer a pot of gold to anyone who answers one of his riddles?” said Caius.

  “Alas, no,” said Morigna. “Though I have heard that dwarves offer gold to anyone who answers a riddle.”

  “I fear that is only a tale,” said Caius.

  “How tragic,” said Morigna, turning her attention back to Ridmark. “So. You have fought your way free of the undead. I assume you will continue your fool’s quest to Urd Morlemoch?”

  “We shall,” said Ridmark. “But only after we find the necromancer who raised these undead.”

  She frowned. “Why? You fought your way free, and with the Magistria’s magic you are strong enough that neither the undead nor the necromancer will stop you. Go and leave the problems of others behind.”

  “I will not,” said Ridmark. “Not if it is in my power to aid them.”

  “But you could die,” said Morigna. “You cannot perish in Urd Morlemoch if you die here.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “All men die.”

  She stared at him, baffled. As if he had started babbling in a language that she did not know.

  “Why?” said Morigna. “Why help them? Do you hope for a reward from the monks?”

  “They may do as they like,” said Ridmark. “But they are outside of the realm, away from the High King’s protection and the aid of the Magistri and the Swordbearers. I would not leave them to their fate.”

  “I do not understand,” said Morigna. “You are strong enough to do as you like. Why waste your time with those too weak to defend themselves?”

  “Because it is the duty of all sons of the church to defend the weak and the helpless, as the Dominus Christus instructed,” said Caius.

  “The words of men a thousand years dead,” said Morigna, “do not concern me.”

  “Then you think the strong should rule over the weak and do as they like?” said Calliande.

  “The world is what it is,” said Morigna. “What I may or may not wish has no consequence upon it.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “I have learned that myself.”

  Morigna blinked, and though his words still seem to baffle her, she appeared almost intrigued.

  “Then you mean to help the town of Moraime?” said Morigna.

  “I do,” said Ridmark, “if I can.”

  “Then I shall travel with you to the town,” said Morigna. “I wish to warn them of the undead.”

  “No,” said Calliande at once.

  Ridmark looked at her.

  “You just gave us that fine speech about the strong ruling the weak,” said Calliande, her voice tight with anger, “and users of magic who believe such things tend to abuse their powers. Grievously.”

  “I have no wish to rule anyone,” said Morigna, “merely to be left alone.”

  “Then why warn the town and the monastery?” said Ridmark.

  “Because,” said Morigna, “I owe a debt, and I wish to repay it. I owe a man…” She shook her head and looked away. “Suffice it to say I have my own reasons. If you are going to Moraime to warn the monks and their town, I shall come. And if not, I will go on my own.”

  “No,” said Calliande at once. “She’s not trustworthy, Ridmark. She’s not one of the Magistri.”

  “In fairness,” said Caius, “Alamur was a Magistrius, and he was a traitor and a servant of Shadowbearer.”

  “I agree with Lady Calliande,” said Gavin, glaring at Morigna. She only answered him with a mocking smile.

  Kharlacht shrugged. “She handled herself well in the fight against the undead. If there are more of those creatures about, we will need all the aid we can find.”

  “She used dark magic,” said Calliande.

  “I did not,” said Morigna. “I commanded the earth and the wind to aid me, as the Old Man taught me. Nothing I did drew upon dark magic or necromancy. One would expect a learned Magistria to know the difference. But perhaps the Magistri are not as wise as I was led to believe.”

  Calliande gave a sharp shake of her head, but said nothing.

  “Well, Gray Knight?” said Morigna. “It seems the choice is yours. Shall I accompany you or not?”

  “For now,” said Ridmark. “Let us travel to Moraime together. There is safety in numbers, and if we are attacked again, we could use your aid. Or if you are attacked by more of those wraiths upon the road, I would not want your death upon my conscience.” God knew he had enough upon it already.

  “Very well,” said Morigna.

  “Be warned, though,” said Ridmark. “If you have lied to us, if you raised these undead, I will put a stop to it.”

  She gazed at him for a moment, and then nodded.

  “I would expect no less,” she said. “Lead on.”

  “And I shall watch you, too,” said Calliande.

  “Watch all you like, Magistria,” said Morigna, filling the title with scorn. “You shall find nothing. And perhaps you shall even learn a thing or two.”

  “Enough,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go. If there are more of these undead about, if some wizard is opening the old orcish burial mounds, the town of Moraime has to be warned. This way.”

  He led them away from the ruined fortress.

  Chapter 4 - Moraime

  Morigna was not sure what to make of her new companions.

  Or, at least, of thei
r grim-faced leader.

  She took the measure of the others easily enough. Morigna had never met a Magistria, but Calliande was just as she had always imagined the Magistri to be – cold, aloof, suspicious, and imperious. The Old Man had always said the Magistri were fools, too enslaved and shackled to their rules to achieve anything, and Calliande did little to dispel that belief. The idiot boy trudging after her was most likely the Magistria’s servant.

  Kharlacht, likewise, was easy to understand. Morigna had traveled through much of Vhaluusk, and she had spoken and bartered with the orcish tribes of the hills and the mountains. To judge from his cross necklace, Kharlacht was baptized, which was odd, but not impossible. Some of the orcs of the south had listened to the missionaries rather than killing them, and likely Kharlacht was one of them. It was peculiar that an orcish warrior would forsake the old blood gods for the God of the church. The blood gods permitted a warrior to take as many wives and concubines as he wished, while the church of Andomhaim did not. Still, guilt could drive a man to do odd things.

  Morigna knew that better than she might have wished.

  The dwarven friar was an enigma, but not much of one. She had seen a few dwarves as they traveled through the Wilderland, and they were grim and silent and humorless, keeping to themselves and speaking only when necessary, stopping every night to offer prayers to the Stone Heart in the Deeps. Caius, by contrast, never seemed to shut up, and laughed often. She wondered how he had become a friar. Perhaps it was a rebellion against his people.

  But she could not understand Ridmark Arban.

  She had heard the stories of the Gray Knight, of course, of the gray-cloaked warrior who wandered the Wilderland to avenge some dead woman. She had certainly not expected him to be real. And she had certainly not expected him to have a coward’s brand, the sigil of a broken sword, marked upon his left cheek. The knights of Andomhaim only received those brands for the gravest crimes, for the most egregious acts of cowardice.