Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

  Unease went through Calliande. The Magistri used their magic to defend, to heal, and to seek knowledge, never to harm or kill. What would stop Morigna from conjuring acidic mist against living men?

  Morigna raked her hands through the air, face tight with strain, and knocked another wave of undead monks into her pool of burning mist. They dissolved into smoke and slime, the stench hideous, and Ridmark and the others battled to the doors of the crypt.

  Silence fell over the courtyard.

  Calliande looked around. Dozens of undead lay strewn across the ground, their skulls and limbs smashed. No more issued from the crypt doors, and Ridmark and the others stood at the threshold, glowing weapons in hand.

  “Is that it?” said Calliande. “We destroyed them all already?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “There’s more down there.”

  “Torches?” said Gavin.

  “No need,” said Morigna, lifting a hand. “I can provide the necessary light.”

  She lifted her right hand, mist swirling above it, and for an alarmed moment Calliande thought she meant to attack. But the ball of mist began to glow with a gray light, shining brighter and brighter.

  “Good enough,” said Ridmark, and they descended into the darkness.

  ###

  Scuttling noises echoed in crypt’s darkness.

  Morigna’s eerie spell-light threw back the darkness, but cast crazed shadows in all directions. Massive, thick pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, and hundreds of graves had been cut into the floor, sealed with lids of stone.

  Most of the lids had been smashed open.

  Ridmark raised his staff, the weapon’s glow helping to throw back the darkness. He glimpsed dark shapes moving in the distant shadows of the vast crypt, caught glimpses of empty eyes gleaming with pale blue flames. Yet none of the undead approached.

  The creatures had shown no cunning during the fight in the marsh, and none during the fighting in the courtyard. Did that mean the necromancer was down here, controlling his minions?

  But why? Why loose the bands of undead in the countryside? Why raise the dead below the monastery? The attacks seemed to have no purpose.

  Or they had a purpose that Ridmark could not yet see.

  “Morigna,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice low. The light would have alerted anyone watching for intruders. “Do you sense anything?”

  “Aye,” said Morigna, the light shining from her right hand, her left moving in the gestures of a spell. “At the far wall, I think. The dark magic is coming from there.”

  Ridmark nodded and kept walking, careful to keep his footing amongst the opened tombs. Broken stone lay everywhere, and the stench of dust and rotten flesh was heavy in the air. He heard the scuttling of the undead in the darkness, but none of the creatures attacked.

  He suspected that they were talking into a trap.

  “Gray Knight,” rumbled Kharlacht, peering into the gloom. “A corpse ahead.”

  “We are surrounded by walking corpses,” said Morigna. “Have you only now just noticed?”

  The big orc ignored her. “A dwarven corpse, I think.”

  “Dwarven?” said Caius.

  “And fresh,” said Kharlacht.

  Morigna raised her right hand, the light brightening, and Ridmark saw the corpse.

  The short, stocky figure lay on its back, armored in black metal that looked somehow wet and reflective while absorbing the light. The gray-skinned face was utterly hairless, and a serrated black sword of the same metal lay in its right hand, a pointed shield near its left.

  Morigna began to swear in a furious voice.

  “God save us,” said Caius.

  “Why?” said Gavin. “What’s wrong?”

  “That isn’t a dwarf,” said Ridmark.

  “What is it, then?” said Kharlacht.

  “Look at its shadow,” said Ridmark.

  Kharlacht frowned. “It doesn’t have one.”

  The broken stones and the pillars all cast shadows in Morigna’s hazy gray light.

  But the black-armored corpse did not, its armor drinking the light.

  “That,” said Ridmark, “is the corpse of a dvargir.”

  “Once of my kindred,” said Caius, his voice shaken, “but turned to worship the great void revered by the dark elves.”

  Like the Enlightened of Incariel.

  “What would a dvargir be doing down here?” said Calliande.

  “They killed my parents,” spat Morigna. “Most probably they came here to attack Moraime.”

  “Our dark cousins know necromancy,” said Caius.

  “How did it get in here?” said Kharlacht. “This hill is solid rock.”

  “That would be no obstacle to the engineering skill of the dvargir,” said Caius.

  Ridmark stepped over an opened tomb and examined at the corpse. The dead dvargir showed no sign of a wound. Its eyes looked like polished disks of black granite, harsh and staring.

  “Gray Knight,” said Morigna. “The source of dark power. You are near it.”

  Ridmark nodded and lifted his staff like a torch, using its white glow to throw back the gloom. He was only a few yards from the crypt’s far wall, and he saw skulls resting in niches, their empty eyes staring at him.

  A gleam of metal caught his attention…

  “Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, and a deathly chill went through the crypt.

  And all at once Ridmark realized that the dead dvargir had indeed been a trap.

  He spun just as six hooded, translucent figures rose from the floor. The wraith outside of the burial mound had been the image of a long-dead orcish shaman. These wraiths looked like ancient monks, bent with age, heavy gray beards hanging from their chins.

  And one wraith had been almost more than Ridmark could defeat.

  Six would kill them all.

  Morigna and Calliande both began casting spells, and four of the wraiths flowed towards them. Two turned toward Ridmark, and he backed away, feeling his staff’s vibration fade as Calliande drew power for her spell. Even with her magic, even with Morigna’s help, they could not possibly defeat six wraiths at once. Six of the damned things could likely kill everyone in Moraime.

  The wraiths reached for him, and Ridmark was out of time.

  He whirled, sprinted at the wall, and plunged his staff into one of the burial niches with all his strength, aiming for the metal he had seen earlier. From the staff’s fading glow he saw a skull crowned with an elaborate diadem, jewels glittering in the metal.

  Jewels that flickered with a pale glow of their own.

  Ridmark smashed his staff into the skull, and it shattered against the stone wall, the diadem snapping.

  A pulse of cold blue fire erupted from the wall, washing over him and illuminating the crypt. The flames did not burn him, but he felt a terrible chill from their touch. The fire rolled through the crypt, and the wraiths dissolved into smoke at their touch, while the undead monks quivered and collapsed motionless to the floor.

  Ridmark let out a long breath and caught his balance, leaning on his staff for a moment.

  “Is anyone wounded?” he said.

  “No,” said Calliande. “Well, yes. Some scrapes, some cuts. But none of the wraiths touched us.”

  “What did you do?” said Morigna. “There was a surge of power…and then nothing.”

  Ridmark turned and took careful steps towards the others. They were all alive, God and his saints be praised. Both Kharlacht and Gavin had taken some cuts, and already Calliande was working spells to heal them.

  “There was a… totem,” said Ridmark. “A human skull, crowned with a diadem, blue gems in the metal. I guessed it was the source of the power, and I shattered it.” He rolled his shoulders, stretching the aching muscles. He had done a lot of fighting today. “It seemed to do the trick.”

  “A bold guess,” said Morigna.

  “But an accurate one,” said Kharlacht, “given that it saved our lives.”

  “I’ve never
heard of such a spell,” said Calliande.

  “I have, I fear,” said Caius. “It is a dvargir totem. When the dvargir abandoned my people and turned towards the darkness, the great void rewarded them with power over shadows and the dead. They use such totems to raise undead guardians to defend their strongholds.”

  “It seems,” said Ridmark, “that your Old Man is not responsible for the undead after all.”

  “I told you,” said Morigna, but the reply lacked her usual spite, her eyes subdued as she stared at the dead dvargir.

  Perhaps it had brought back more memories than she had wished.

  “I think,” said Ridmark, “we should go have a talk with Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael.”

  Chapter 6 - The Abbot

  Abbot Ulakhur’s study was as austere as Ridmark expected.

  It occupied the highest room in one of the keep’s towers, with a view of the town and the hills rising to the north. The abbot’s desk was a simple wooden table, adorned only with a few half-finished letters and a copy of the Gospel of St. Luke. A wooden shelf held curios, mostly orcish knives and daggers made in the style of Vhaluusk. Ridmark guessed that Ulakhur’s path to the church had been as convoluted as Kharlacht’s.

  Fortunately, the abbot’s study had numerous guest chairs, and Ridmark sat gratefully in one, his legs and shoulders aching, and the others did the same. The abbot seated himself behind his desk, while Sir Michael leaned against the wall, his expression grim. Jonas paced back and forth before the study door.

  Again and again he glowered at Ridmark.

  But Michael spoke first.

  “I object,” he said, pointing at Morigna, “to her presence here. She killed my brother.”

  “I did not,” said Morigna. Ridmark would have expected more anger, but she only sounded tired. The battle had taken its toll upon her. Or maybe she was tired of the argument. “The urvaalg killed Nathan. I tried to save him, but…”

  “Praefectus,” said the old abbot, “peace, I beg you. We all grieve for the death of Sir Nathan, and I admit, if I could have worked my will,” his black eyes turned to Morigna, “Nathan would have stayed far away from her. But she fought valiantly alongside the Gray Knight and his friends to defeat the undead.”

  “As you say,” said Michael, but his anger seemed undimmed.

  “She deserves our thanks,” said Ulakhur, “as does Ridmark Arban.” He rose and bowed in their direction. “If not for your aid, we would have lost the monastery. And we could easily have lost the town.”

  “You would have lost the town in any event,” said Calliande, voice quiet. “I barely have the magical strength to overcome one wraith, and there were six in the crypt. Even if you had held the wall against the skeletal undead, the wraiths could have passed through the wall without hindrance, and you would have been forced to flee the town.”

  “Then, truly,” said Ulakhur, “God in his mercy sent you to us in our hour of need.”

  “He works in mysterious ways,” said Caius, “his wonders to perform.”

  “I fear it may not be so mysterious,” said Calliande. “The undead might be after me.”

  “You, my lady?” said Ulakhur. “Why?”

  “There is a renegade high elven wizard who calls himself Shadowbearer,” said Calliande.

  Jonas scoffed. “A legend.”

  Calliande remained calm, but Ridmark knew her well enough by now to know when she wanted to roll her eyes.

  “Shadowbearer may or may not be a legend,” said Calliande, “but this high elven wizard calls himself by that name. I escaped him once, and he is hunting me. Already he has sent groups of undead after me. I fear…I fear I may have brought this evil upon you.”

  “No,” said Caius. “The evil is the work of the dvargir, not Shadowbearer. And certainly not you.”

  “Then how,” said Michael, “did that dead dvargir get into the crypts?”

  “A grievous evil,” said Ulakhur. “Generations of departed brothers rested in the crypts, awaiting the Last Day. The vile necromancy has defiled that sacred place. Thankfully their souls rest in the arms of the Dominus Christus…though their mortal vessels can still be profaned by dark magic.”

  “I am not sure,” said Ridmark, “that the dead dvargir was responsible.”

  “Why not?” said Ulakhur.

  “As Sir Michael said,” said Ridmark, “how did the dvargir get into the crypts?”

  No one had an answer for him.

  Ridmark had fought dvargir before, while he had been a Swordbearer in service to the Dux Gareth Licinius of Castra Marcaine. The dvargir dwelled in the Deeps, and rarely came to the surface, preferring to spend their time warring against the dark elves and the kobolds and the deep orcs and each other. But when they attacked humans on the surface, they preferred to use surprise and ambush. One of their favorite tactics was to tunnel into the cellars of a castra and attack in the middle of the night.

  “I do not know,” said Ulakhur. “The brothers and the novices searched the crypt once it was made safe. They found no sign of a tunnel.”

  “Is there a secret entrance?” said Ridmark. “This monastery is a fortress, and often fortresses are built with escape tunnels. Is there a secret passage from the crypts?”

  “No,” said Ulakhur. “I’m sure of it. The monastery has secret passages, of course, and the knowledge of them is passed from abbot to abbot. But there are no secret passages to the crypts.”

  Jonas laughed. “Then perhaps the dvargir used magic to turn itself into a wraith and pass through the walls.”

  “No,” said Caius. “The dvargir have magic, but that is not among their powers.”

  “The dvargir must have infiltrated the monastery in the night,” said Kharlacht.

  “Or,” said Jonas, “someone within the monastery let it inside.”

  Ulakhur frowned. Despite his advanced age, the old orc still looked fierce. “Do you accuse one of our brothers, Sir Jonas? We are all men of God, and we do not betray each other.”

  “Even the Dominus Christus was betrayed, was he not?” said Jonas. “Treachery ever lurks in the heart of men.”

  “This is so,” said Michael, “but why would any of the monks or novices let a dvargir into the monastery? The dvargir take humans and orcs and halflings as slaves. Any traitor would find himself killed once he was no longer useful.”

  “Nor,” said Ulakhur, “does that explain the undead in the countryside.”

  “How many groups of undead have you seen?” said Ridmark.

  “Perhaps half a dozen,” said Michael, “of twenty or thirty each. There are many old orcish burial mounds scattered around the hills and the marshes. Sensible folk stay away from them, but this necromancer must have gone digging.”

  “It seems,” said Morigna, “that a great deal of preparation must have been involved. So, Magistria, much as you might wish to blame yourself, it seems you cannot. The necromancer cannot have known you would come here.”

  Calliande frowned, but Michael spoke first. “Be silent. I will tolerate your presence here, but I will not suffer you to speak.”

  “A pity,” said Morigna. “If you listened to my counsel, then…”

  “If Nathan had listened to my counsel,” said Michael, “then you might not have led him to his death.”

  Morigna said nothing, but her fingers tightened against the arms of her chair.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Jonas. “Brother, lord abbot, you are the governors of Moraime. Not this Magistria, not the witch of the hills, and certainly not this…this gray-cloaked brigand with a coward’s brand. Why are we even heeding his counsel?”

  Ridmark met Jonas’s gaze without blinking, and eventually the knight looked away.

  Again Ridmark could not shake the feeling that Jonas knew him. Of course, after Mhalek, most of the men of Andomhaim knew his name, and to his annoyance tales of the Gray Knight had spread far and wide. But Jonas’s dislike seemed different, as if the man knew him personally.

  Or had s
ome other reason to hate him.

  “You should not speak of things you do not understand, Sir Jonas,” said Caius.

  “The Gray Knight aided us without asking for any reward,” said the abbot. “And a man’s sins are in his past, if he repents and asks the Dominus Christus for forgiveness.”

  “He saved my life and the lives of my village from an urdmordar,” said Gavin.

  Jonas laughed. “An urdmordar? Be silent when your elders are speaking, boy. And do not make up fanciful tales, or I shall have to give you a beating.”

  “Sound advice,” said Morigna, and Gavin answered her with a glare.

  “I told you to be silent,” said Michael, stepping closer to her. “Lord abbot, it is my belief that the Old Man and his apprentice are responsible for the undead. They used their magic to smuggle the dvargir into the monastery to divert blame from themselves.”

  “That is a slander,” said Morigna. “I have never lifted my hand against anyone in this miserable little town.”

  “Save for my brother, perhaps?” said Michael.

  Morigna slammed a fist against the arm of her chair. “I tried to save him, damn you! Why will you not believe me?”

  “Because,” said Calliande, “you are a renegade wielder of outlawed magic, as is your teacher?”

  “I am suspicious of the Old Man,” said Ulakhur, “but he has dwelled alone in the hills for longer than I have been abbot. Longer than I have been a brother at this monastery. In all that long span of years he has never made trouble for the people of Moraime.”

  “Perhaps, lord abbot,” said Jonas, “your forgiving nature makes it difficult for you to see the treacherous nature of men.” He looked at Morigna. “Or of women.”

  Ulakhur snorted. “My lad, I knew well the treacherous nature of men long before you were born.”

  “Then why do you not see the plain and obvious truth?” said Michael, pointing at Morigna. “Obviously the Old Man worked the necromancy, and left the dead dvargir to fool us. His apprentice is part of the plot. And she murdered my brother!”

  “You blind fool!” shouted Morigna, shooting to her feet. “I tried to save him! I would have done anything to save him. Why…”