Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

  Morigna suspected that little speech had not been aimed at Michael.

  “Thank you, Lady Calliande,” said Michael. “Any aid will be welcome.” He turned to Ridmark. “And just who are you?”

  “My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark.

  Michael’s eyes narrowed.

  “Brother,” said Jonas, gripping his elder brother’s shoulder, “he’s telling the truth. You’ve heard the tales of the Gray Knight?”

  “The gray warrior that aids travelers?” said Michael.

  “You remember the Swordbearer that passed through the town nine years ago?” said Jonas. “When our father was still praefectus?”

  “The Swordbearer?” said Michael, his eyes growing distant with memory. “But…that man said he was going to Urd Morlemoch. He…”

  “He did,” said Ridmark, “and he lived to tell the tale.” He paused. “Barely.”

  Morigna found herself staring at him in astonishment. She had thought his tale of traveling to Urd Morlemoch a madman’s folly. But he had already entered the Warden’s ancient fortress and returned? Even the Old Man was unnerved by the thought of going anywhere near Urd Morlemoch.

  Just what kind of man was Ridmark Arban?

  “Forgive me, Swordbearer,” said Michael. “I saw you nine years ago, when you stayed with the monks. I had…I had thought you dead long ago.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” said Ridmark. “I came home by a different route. And do not call me a Swordbearer. I lost the right to that title.”

  “I see,” said Michael, looking at the brand. “Then…why have you come to Moraime now?”

  “The omen of blue fire a month past?” said Ridmark. Michael nodded. “It is a sign of the return of the Frostborn. The Warden warned me against it when I was last in Urd Morlemoch. Now that I have seen the omen, I am going back to Urd Morlemoch to wring more answers from the Warden.”

  “You escaped from Urd Morlemoch,” said Michael, “and now you are going back there? God and all his saints, man. You are either valiant beyond all measure or a madman.”

  “Likely the latter,” said Ridmark, and Kharlacht snorted. “But my companions and I shall aid you against the undead, if we can.”

  “We should be glad for any aid,” said Michael. “Especially from the honored Magistria. These undead…weapons of mortal steel do not harm them. The walls keep them out, but they range over our fields, and if we do not get a crop into the ground soon, we will starve come winter.”

  “Someone is raising the undead,” said Ridmark. “It is possible a wizard called Shadowbearer is raising them. Have you encountered him at all?”

  Jonas snorted. “A legend of the dark elves.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “I wish he was, but he is not.”

  “An elven wizard?” said Michael. “My lady, Sir…ah, Ridmark, there are no elves here, whether high or dark. We are mostly humans, with some orcs and halflings. Sometimes dwarves pass through on their way to the Three Kingdoms or their enclave in Coldinium, but no elves.”

  “Then do you have any suspicions?” said Ridmark. “An orcish shaman of the blood gods could do it. Or some other renegade wizard.”

  “The Old Man,” said Michael at once.

  “No,” said Morigna. “He would not do it.”

  Michael scowled. “The man has magic, and refuses to speak to anyone. He has hidden himself in the hills for as long as anyone can remember, but he has nothing to do with the town.”

  “Much as I am loathe to agree with the witch,” said Jonas, “she may have a point. The Old Man has left the town alone for decades. Why trouble us now?”

  “Why indeed?” said Ridmark. “Perhaps…”

  Shouts rang out from inside the town, and a militiaman in leather armor sprinted through the gates.

  “Sir Michael!” shouted the young man, his face pale with terror. “Sir Michael!”

  “What is it, lad?” said Michael. “Speak!”

  “The undead,” said the militiaman. “They’re inside the town!”

  “What?” said Michael. “They got over the walls?”

  “No, sir,” said the militiaman. “They’re rising from the crypts below the monastery! Sir, what shall we do?”

  Chapter 5 - The Monastery

  Sir Michael stared at the messenger, and Ridmark realized that the older man was at a loss.

  The praefectus had done everything right so far by closing the gates, sealing the town, and putting a guard upon the wall. Given the number of raiders that wandered the Wilderland, Sir Michael had to be a veteran fighter. But fighting the undead, Ridmark realized, was outside of Michael’s experience.

  “Have they broken out of the monastery yet?” said Michael at last.

  “No, sir,” said the militiaman. “The monks barred the doors to the crypt. But it will not hold for long. What shall we do, sir? If the dead men get into the streets it will be a slaughter.”

  “We must abandon the town,” said Jonas. “We cannot fight those creatures on an even footing.”

  “And where will the people shelter?” said Michael. “What shall they eat? If we move everyone outside the walls, we will be vulnerable to every band of undead that happens to come along…or pagan orcs raiding from the north or kobolds out of the Deeps.”

  “If we stay it will be a slaughter,” said Jonas. “There must be hundreds of tombs in the monastery’s crypts, and if all those corpses rise at once and swarm into the village…”

  “Let us help,” said Ridmark.

  Both Michael and Jonas looked at him.

  “The undead are still trapped in the monastery’s crypt?” said Ridmark. The messenger nodded. “Sir Michael, then the time to act is now. My friends and I have experience fighting the undead, and we have the aid of a Magistria. If we attack at once, perhaps we can overcome the undead at the crypt and hold both the monastery and the town. But only if we act immediately.”

  “I do not know,” said Michael.

  “If you abandon Moraime now,” said Ridmark, “you will never get it back. The undead will hold the town, and your people will be scattered across the Wilderland.” Jonas scowled at him, but Ridmark ignored it. “The Wilderland is dotted with hundreds of ruined villages. If you abandon the town now, Moraime will be just one more of them”

  “Let us act boldly, Sir Michael,” said Caius, “for the Lord has given us a spirit of boldness, not of fear.” Morigna rolled her eyes, but thankfully, kept her mouth shut. “Yes, you’re right,” said Michael with a sharp nod. “We must either risk everything or lose everything.” He looked up at the rampart. “Sergeant! Close the gates after we go through, and keep watch upon the countryside. If some malignant intelligence controls the undead, it might decide to launch an attack upon the walls while we deal with the undead in the crypt.”

  “It was what I would do,” said Ridmark.

  “Gray Knight, thank you for your aid,” said Michael. “You know us not, yet you go into grave peril beside us.”

  “Do not thank us yet,” said Ridmark. “Not until the battle is won. I suggest we hasten.”

  “The undead will not remain in the crypt for long,” said Michael. “Come!”

  He strode through the gate. Jonas scowled at Ridmark once more, and then followed his brother. Ridmark wondered if he had somehow offended the younger knight. He had never seen Jonas before, but perhaps he met him during his previous visit to Moraime.

  It was something he could worry about later.

  Assuming the undead did not kill every single person in the town.

  “Calliande,” said Ridmark, following Jonas and Michael. “How many weapons could you enspell at once?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Calliande. “But the more weapons I augment, the harder it is for me to hold the spell. I could enspell our weapons and a few more, perhaps. Any more than that, and I doubt I could maintain the spell for long.”

  Ridmark nodded. The monks had lived atop the hill for centuries, carving crypts into the rock b
elow their home. If he remembered correctly, only the monks were buried beneath the hill, while the townsmen buried their dead in the graveyard outside the wall. But even that meant hundreds of undead could have been raised in the crypts below the monastery.

  And that also meant the necromancer could be here in Moraime.

  “Keep your sensing spell in place,” said Ridmark to Calliande in a low voice. “I wonder if our renegade wizard is in the town.”

  Calliande nodded. “The same thought occurred to me.”

  Morigna overheard them. “I can sense the presence of magic as well.”

  Calliande opened her mouth to argue, but Ridmark spoke first.

  “Two sets of eyes are better than one,” he said. “Keep watch.”

  Morigna nodded and whispered the spell. Ridmark was not yet sure what to make of her. She was pretty, but he knew that beauty was often a mask for something darker. She was arrogant and abrasive, yet had fought the undead in the marsh without flinching. And he suspected that much of her abrasiveness was a pose to hide a great deal of fear and loss.

  She had looked bleak when Michael mentioned Sir Nathan.

  Another riddle he could ponder later.

  Moraime had changed little in the nine years since Ridmark’s last visit. Most of the houses had been built of rough-cut stone and mortar, with tilted roofs of fired clay tiles to ward away the Wilderland’s harsh winters. The street from the gate led them to the village’s square, and Ridmark saw a large stone church, flanked on either side by halls for the stonemasons and the potters. Everywhere he saw signs of preparation for a siege, with women making bandages and arrows and carrying supplies to the walls, while men drilled with sword and spear. The newcomers drew stares, and townsmen looked alarmed at the sight of Morigna. She ignored the stares, her head held high with arrogant contempt. She claimed she did not know who had raised the undead, and Ridmark believed her.

  But he suspected she knew a great deal more than she claimed.

  A narrow road circled the rocky hill and led to the monastery’s curtain wall. The gate opened into a wide courtyard. Monks in brown robes hurried back and forth, many of them carrying crossbows. In the south, the monastic orders renounced violence, but in the Wilderland, monks did not have that luxury. A massive stone keep rose from the center of the courtyard, ringed in towers. Ridmark saw a small mob of monks and novices struggling at a set of doors in the keep’s base, near the entrance to the chapel.

  The doors to the crypts.

  “Sir Michael,” said a rasping, gravelly voice.

  The abbot of the monastery and the leader of Moraime hobbled towards them. The abbot was an elderly orcish man, so old that only a few wisps of white hair clung to his green scalp, his tusks yellowed and worn. He leaned heavily upon a cane in his right hand, yet hobbled towards them with surprising speed.

  “Abbot Ulakhur,” said Michael with a bow, and Ridmark and the others followed suit. Morigna only crossed her arms and glared at the old orc.

  “You have brought guests,” said Ulakhur, blinking his watery black eyes. “And the witch of the hills is with you.”

  “Forgive me, lord abbot,” said Michael, “but this is Ridmark Arban, the Gray Knight of the tales. The woman with him is Calliande of the Magistri, and they have come to offer help.”

  “You have?” said Ulakhur. “We sorely need aid.” The doors to the crypt thumped, the hinges creaking. “If those devils get out, it shall be a slaughter. I have commanded the brothers to seal the gates in the wall and retreat to the ramparts. If necessary, we shall fire the monastery and hope the undead are caught in the blaze.”

  “With respect, lord abbot, that may be necessary,” said Ridmark. “Lady Calliande can enchant our weapons to make them proof against the undead. If we force the undead to come at us here, perhaps we can defeat them.”

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande, “there might be another way. I can sense…something inside the hill, some source of dark magic in the crypts.”

  “I can detect it, too,” Morigna announced. “I think it is the source of the power that raised the undead.”

  “The necromancer himself?” said Ridmark.

  “Perhaps,” said Morigna.

  “No,” said Calliande with a distracted shake of her head. “A…totem, a relic. An object, I think. Something that was left in the crypts and then activated.

  “Then if we find and destroy it,” said Ridmark, “perhaps we can return the dead to their rest.” He looked at Ulakhur. “Lord abbot, with your permission, we shall enter the crypts and find this relic.”

  “You risk much on our behalf,” said Ulakhur. “Go with our blessings and prayers.”

  “If this goes ill,” said Michael, “we should withdraw the brothers to the wall, lord abbot, with crossbows and torches ready. If the Gray Knight fails, we should prepare to fire the monastery.”

  Ulakhur sighed. “Make what preparations you think best, Sir Michael. Gray Knight, you have our thanks. Though I am unsure of the presence of the witch of the hills.”

  Morigna scowled and started to speak, but Ridmark interrupted her. “She fought the undead outside of the town, lord abbot. I do not believe she means Moraime ill, and we need all the aid we can find.”

  “Very well,” said Ulakhur. “Go with God and his saints.”

  Michael shouted orders, and the monks abandoned the crypt doors and headed for the walls. The militiamen moved to follow Michael, and Jonas hesitated, looking back and forth between Ridmark and his brother. Ridmark met his gaze, and Jonas scowled, sneered, and went after the militiamen.

  The crypt doors shuddered, one of the planks splintering, and Ridmark glimpsed dark shapes moving behind the doors.

  And a hint of ghostly blue flame.

  “Prepare yourselves,” said Ridmark, raising his staff.

  ###

  Calliande took a deep breath and let her magical senses wash over the monastery one last time.

  She felt the peculiar power of Morigna’s earth magic, strange and alien. But it lacked the icy malevolence of the power binding the corpses behind the door, of the source of power buried in the crypt.

  Gavin drew his sword and set his shield, putting himself in front of Calliande.

  Morigna laughed. “Defending the women, boy? I need no one to defend me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of defending you,” said Gavin, not looking at Morigna.

  “Gavin,” said Calliande, “go with Ridmark. When the undead break through the doors, he will need your help.”

  Gavin hesitated, nodded, and hurried to join Ridmark and the other men.

  “Does he usually shield you in battle?” said Morigna.

  “Yes,” said Calliande, releasing her sensing spell and summoning more power, “effectively.”

  “Well, fear not,” said Morigna with her mocking smile. “I’ll look after you while you enchant the weapons.”

  “How very comforting,” said Calliande.

  She could deal with Morigna later, once the undead had been defeated. The woman was dangerous, and Calliande was sure that she had lied to Ridmark. Even if she had not used dark magic, she seemed well along on the path to becoming someone like Talvinius of the Eternalists or Alamur.

  But for now, they had to work together to defeat the undead.

  Calliande cast a spell. White fire burst from her hands, and Ridmark’s staff began to glow with white light, as did Kharlacht’s sword, Gavin’s blade, and Caius’s mace.

  The doors burst open, and the undead came forth.

  The undead in the marshes had been orcs, long-dead warriors of Vhaluusk. These undead had once been monks of Moraime, still clad in their crumbling robes. Generations of monks had been buried in the crypts, until the dark magic had defiled their graves and raised them up as undead.

  On the plus side, it meant none of the undead carried armor or weapons. No one buried monks with swords and daggers.

  Ridmark and the others charged into the horde of undead.

  Kharla
cht carved into them like a man harvesting wheat, his blue greatsword inscribing white-glowing arcs through the undead monks. Every blow severed a head or a skeletal arm. Caius followed the tall orc, hammering with his mace. Whenever an undead monk drew too near, Caius darted into the gap, his brown robes billowing around him, and shattered a skull or a leg. Gavin guarded the dwarven friar, bashing with his shield and striking with the orcish sword he had taken from the arachar in Aranaeus.

  But Ridmark tore through the undead like a storm.

  His staff had a steel core, and Calliande knew firsthand how heavy the weapon was. Yet he wielded the staff as if it weighed no more than a light willow branch. He fought through the undead, striking right and left, shifting his grip from one-handed to two-handed and back again. The creatures reached for him, rotting robes billowing around them, but Ridmark remained just ahead of them, so close that Calliande feared that he would fall again and again.

  But they never touched him, and he left a score of broken corpses in his wake.

  She had never seen a warrior like him. Of course, she could not remember anything that had happened before she had awakened thirty-two days ago. But even if she could, she doubted she could recall a man like Ridmark Arban.

  Ridmark, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin tore through the undead, driving them back toward the crypt.

  More of the creatures poured out of the doors, and some of them got past Ridmark and the others and charged Calliande, drawn by her magic like flies to a lamp.

  “Morigna,” said Calliande, her hands trembling as she struggled to maintain the spell around the weapons.

  She expected a mocking answer, but Morigna only stepped forward, purple fire crackling around her fingers. The sorceress clapped her hands, and a ripple went through the ground, the heavy flagstones of the courtyard folding and bending like paper. The shock wave knocked a half-dozen undead to the ground. At once the creatures started to rise, but Morigna gestured again. Mist billowed from the ground, wrapping around the undead. Calliande wondered what good that would do, but the undead sizzled and hissed. The acidic mist ate into their rotting flesh and dissolved their bones, and the undead collapsed into piles of burning slime.