Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

“What about you?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark shrugged. “I’ll escape and rejoin you in Moraime.”

  But he knew that he most likely would not. One wraith had almost finished him. Six would kill him in short order. He had long ago accepted that he would die, knew that he deserved it. But he would not lead the others to their deaths, not if he could find a way to prevent it.

  They protested, but to his surprise, so did Morigna.

  “Do not be ridiculous,” she said. “You will be killed.”

  “I don’t intend to be,” said Ridmark. The air grew colder, and a shadow fell over the lower path as the wraiths drew closer. “Calliande.”

  She looked like she wanted to protest, but nodded and worked the spell. Ridmark’s staff blazed with white light in his hand. It almost reminded him of carrying Heartwarden into battle. He wished he had a soulblade now.

  The wraiths boiled up the path, dark specters in the shape of hooded orcish shamans, and Ridmark had no more time for thought.

  He charged, trying to ignore the terrible chill, and thrust the length of the staff into the nearest wraith. The staff blazed with Calliande’s magic, and the first wraith unraveled into smoke and mist.

  But the other five pursued him.

  Ridmark retreated, whipping the staff in glowing circles to keep the wraiths at bay, trying to ignore the deathly chill settling into his muscles. The wraiths moved into a half-circle around him, driving him toward the rocky wall of the hill. They would pin him against the slope, overwhelm him, and kill him.

  He hoped the others had time to get away.

  He hoped he would see Aelia again. She had joined the Dominus Christus in paradise, he was sure, and though he knew he had been damned for his failure, Ridmark only hoped he could tell her how sorry he was, how very sorry…

  Ridmark felt the back of his boots strike the boulders of the slope. The wraiths closed around him, and Ridmark braced himself for one final charge…

  A second sun rose overhead.

  Ridmark squinted against the brilliant golden light that flooded the hillside. The wraiths went motionless, hissing and shrieking as shafts of golden light pierced their immaterial bodies. A moment later they dissolved into nothingness, and the horrible chill faded away.

  Ridmark caught his balance and stepped forward. His friends stood at the edge of ledge, staring at something in shock. Specifically, a towering figure of gray granite, hewn in the shape of a bent old man with a long beard, golden fire glimmering in his eyes.

  The trolldomr Rjalfur.

  Chapter 11 - Ancient Stone

  “Rjalfur,” said Ridmark.

  “Man of water,” said the trolldomr in his voice of thunder and rolling stone.

  “You drove off the wraiths,” said Ridmark. Calliande hurried to his side, looking over him for any sign of injury, and the others followed her.

  “This one did not drive them off,” said Rjalfur. “This one destroyed them. The bound shadows are the echoes of mortal men, given power and rage through dark magic. Such dark magic is an abomination, an affront to the song of the world. This one cleansed the abominations.”

  Ridmark bowed to the trolldomr. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. If you had not come along when you did, the battle might have gone ill.”

  Little expression crossed Rjalfur’s rough-hewn features, but the trolldomr seemed almost surprised. “You offer gratitude? Men of water rarely do, for their natures are so changeable, just as water changes from ice to liquid and steam and back again. When your Dominus Christus healed the ten lepers, did not only one come back to thank him?”

  “I know death when I see it,” said Ridmark, “and only a churl would not thank his deliverer.”

  “Ah.” Rjalfur considered this for a moment. “Then you are welcome, man of water. Your kind perishes so quickly. A sunrise and a sunset, and you are gone. Yet this one would not see your allotted span of years fall to creatures of abomination.”

  Twice now Rjalfur had helped them, once to warn them against the undead in the burial mounds, and again to save them from the wraiths. Perhaps the trolldomr knew more of what was happening here.

  “I wish to ask some questions, if I may,” said Ridmark.

  “You may,” said Rjalfur. “It is the nature of men of water to ask questions. Your lives are so short, and there are so many things to learn. You must ask questions constantly if you are to have time to learn anything.”

  Caius laughed. “I have lived for centuries, and I have often felt the same way, sir.”

  “Why are you helping us?” said Ridmark.

  The trolldomr said nothing, standing motionless as a statue.

  “We are grateful for your aid,” said Ridmark, “but…it is unusual for one of the trolldomr to involve himself in the affairs of others.”

  “We do not, save for when we are attacked. If we are attacked, we will defend ourselves. But this one has seen strange things, and wishes to know the answer. This one has seen the missionary,” said Rjalfur.

  “Which missionary?” said Ridmark.

  “It was a short time ago,” said Rjalfur. “Only four hundred years past.”

  “A short time, indeed,” said Gavin, blinking.

  “This one wandered the Deeps, listening to the song of the earth,” said Rjalfur. “The molten blood flowing through her veins, the sighs of the mountains as they carry their great burdens, the whisper of the canyons as they open. This one left the Deeps and came to the surface, listening to the song of the mountains in the land the orcs have named Vhaluusk. This one saw a man of water clad in a brown robe, wearing an instrument of torture and death around his neck.”

  “An instrument of death?” said Ridmark. He looked at Caius and Kharlacht, at the crosses both of them wore, and he understood. “You mean a cross.”

  “He was a missionary, this man you saw,” said Caius.

  “Yes,” said Rjalfur. “The man of water went into an orcish village, and proclaimed that the Dominus Christus had died for their sins. The shaman of the village said the missionary would die for the intrusion. This one expected the missionary to flee…but he did not. Instead he proclaimed his words all the louder, and then forgave his enemies as their swords pierced his heart.”

  “Is that why you are helping us?” said Ridmark.

  The trolldomr considered. “This one helps you because this one does not understand. For four hundred years this one has thought upon that missionary. Why did he die? He could have fled so easily. It is the nature of men of water, of short-lived mortals, to preserve their few years, as a miser hoards gold. Yet he sacrificed his remaining years with joy. Why? This one does not understand.”

  “Because he was a fool,” said Morigna, heat in her voice, “a fool who believed lies, and threw his life away for nothing.”

  “Perhaps,” said Rjalfur. “But you are a child of dark magic, Morigna of the swamps. This one has seen you wandering the marshes, and this one knows you love only power.”

  “What do you know of me?” said Morigna. “I…”

  “The missionary died,” said Caius, “because he loved something other than power. He trusted in the promise of the Dominus Christus, and wished to share that promise with the orcs.”

  “With the orcs and the halflings, the manetaur and the dark elves,” said Rjalfur. “Even with the khaldari. You wear the missionary’s sign about your neck, son of the khaldari. For tens of thousands of years, your kindred have dwelled in the Deeps and made war against the urdmordar and the dark elves and the dvargir. Yet in all that time, you are the first this one has seen who follows a different god.”

  Caius shrugged. “Humans only brought the Dominus Christus with them when they came to this world a thousand years ago.”

  “A short time,” said Rjalfur. “Why did the missionary let himself die? For four hundred years this one has wondered the sunlight world, seeking wisdom. This one has spoken with many mortals, and then saw an orc and a dwarf traveling together, both wearing crosses. How
did you come to believe as the missionary did?”

  Kharlacht shrugged. “My mother was a follower of the church, and had me baptized. The blood gods of my kindred are cruel and brutal, and the Dominus Christus is neither.”

  “A missionary came to the court of the king in Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “and I was moved by his words.”

  “So that is why you have helped us,” said Ridmark. “We are a mystery to you, and if we are killed, we will not be able to help you understand the mystery.

  “You speak true, man of water,” said Rjalfur. “It is hard for our kind to understand yours. We are stone and strength, and you are water and weakness. We are eternal, and you come and go so quickly. Generations of your kindred might past while we contemplate the song of the earth, the pulse of the molten stone through her veins. And yet this one would understand.”

  “Then help us survive,” said Ridmark.

  “If this one can,” said Rjalfur. “This one dislikes interfering, for it is grievous for us to alter the fates of other kindreds, whether for good or for ill, save for when we must defend ourselves. The lust for power is the greatest sin one of our kindred can commit.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. “Who raised the undead?”

  “You did,” said Rjalfur.

  Silence answered him.

  “Well,” said Caius at last, “do we cut off your head now, or later?”

  “I am not a Magistrius,” said Ridmark. “I have no magical power. I could not have raised the undead even if I wanted to do it.”

  Rjalfur let out a long, rumbling sigh. “Forgive me. It is difficult for this one to speak properly in the Latin tongue. Or, perhaps, your perceptions are too alien. My kindred…we do not see time in the same fashion you do.”

  “Like the high elves?” said Ridmark.

  “You have spoken with them?” said Rjalfur.

  “Once, long ago,” said Ridmark. “Nine years ago, which I suppose is a second or two to you. Ardrhythain said that the past is set in stone, the present is a fire that burns and changes, and the future is the shadows cast by that flame. The shadows change as the present does, and the high elves can see the changing shadows of the future.”

  So could the dark elves. The Warden had shown Ridmark his future, though he had disregarded it at the time. If only he had understood.

  Aelia might still be alive.

  “That is closer to our perspective,” said Rjalfur. “This one suspects men of water see time as a continuity, a continuum, rather than a totality.”

  “That is accurate,” said Calliande.

  Rjalfur thought for a moment. “This one understands, though perhaps only a little. When this one says that you raised the undead…perhaps it is more accurate to say that the undead were raised because of you.” The golden eyes shifted to Calliande. “And because of you.”

  “Us?” said Calliande.

  “For many years this one has walked the lands near Moraime,” said Rjalfur. “And only when you entered did the undead rise. There has long been dark magic in the hills, but it has only now awakened, and it seeks for you.”

  “The dvargir,” said Ridmark. “Do you know of them?”

  “The sons of the khaldari,” said Rjalfur, “who turned away from the gods of their fathers, and worshipped instead Incariel, the great void of the dark elves.”

  Calliande frowned. “Then Incariel is indeed the great darkness?”

  “It has many names,” said Rjalfur. “It was sealed away long ago, even by the standards of the trolldomr. It has had many worshippers, and rewards them with power. But it always devours the souls of its servants in the end.”

  “The dvargir,” said Caius slowly, “have some ability to control shadows. As did Jonas.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gavin, “then the dvargir are allied with Jonas, and raised the undead at his bidding.”

  “We found a dead dvargir in the crypt below the monastery of St. Cassian,” said Ridmark. “Are the dvargir responsible for the undead?”

  “This one does not know,” said Rjalfur. “The dvargir often pass through this land. There is an entrance to the Deeps north of here, and sometimes the dvargir come to the surface to seek slaves. They, too, are part of the dark magic that waits here. But if they come for you, this one does not know.”

  “Have you seen any dvargir recently?” said Ridmark. “And I mean within the last few days, not within the last few decades.”

  “This one has,” said Rjalfur. “They avoid the trolldomr, for they fear us. But this one has seen them moving through the hills with stealth.”

  “What of the Old Man?” said Ridmark. Morigna gave him a sharp look. “Has he raised the undead?”

  “He has not,” said Morigna. “I told you that.”

  “The Old Man is a coward,” said Rjalfur. “You, man of water, you risk your life fearlessly. The Old Man does not. He waits atop his hill, and if any foe with the slightest chance of harming him approaches, he activates his wards and hides behind them. He has always stayed well away from this one, though he has dwelled upon his hill for nearly ninety years.”

  “Ninety years?” said Ridmark, surprised. Even Morigna looked taken aback. “He has been here ninety years?”

  “Perhaps his magic sustains him,” said Rjalfur. The trolldomr fell silent for a moment. “This one does not know who raised the undead against you, as you understand the term. All this one knows is that the undead are for you. That is what this one can see in the song of stone and earth as it spreads throughout all of eternity. You came to the marshes of Moraime, and the undead rose to find you and the Magistria.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. “We will take any aid we can find. If you learn more, will you tell us? If it is within my power, I intend to end this dark magic.”

  “A noble cause,” said Rjalfur. “The trolldomr are custodians of the stone and the earth, and this one will be glad to aid you. We dislike interfering in the destinies of others…but if this one finds useful knowledge, this one shall give it you.”

  “A question,” said Calliande, stepping forward, “if I may.”

  “Of course,” said Rjalfur.

  “A place called Dragonfall,” said Calliande. “Do you know of it?”

  “This one does not,” said Rjalfur. The trolldomr tilted his head to the side, his glowing eyes gazing at Calliande. “But this one can see the name in the totality of your existence. You must find it. For if you find it…yes, you may save many lives. And if you do not, many lives shall perish.”

  Calliande nodded, her face tight with frustration. Rjalfur had told her nothing that she did not already know.

  And as quickly as he had appeared, Rjalfur vanished, his stony body disappearing into the ground.

  Ridmark let out a long breath.

  “Well,” said Caius, “that was certainly interesting.”

  “The creature is mad,” said Morigna. “A trolldomr interested in the lies of the church? Only a crippled mind could find such things fascinating.”

  “And only a blasphemer and a witch could not,” said Gavin, glaring at the black-haired sorceress.

  “Given that he saved us from the wraiths,” said Ridmark, before Morigna and Gavin could start arguing again, “perhaps we should be glad he finds such things fascinating.”

  “Perhaps,” said Morigna with a scowl. “But the trolldomr gave us no useful information.”

  “He gave us a great deal of useful information,” said Ridmark. “We can be sure that he was not involved, for one. Additionally, we are certain the dvargir are working with Jonas, and are likely the source of the necromancy we have seen. If they are using dark magic to creep around the marshes, we might never have seen them. And,” he pointed with his staff, “the wards have gone down.”

  The glimmering light blocking the upper path had vanished.

  “Perhaps the Old Man will know more,” said Ridmark.

  Morigna nodded. She looked almost nervous at the prospect of seeing him again.

 
; “Let’s go,” said Ridmark.

  They started climbing.

  Chapter 12 - The Old Man

  A short time later, Ridmark and the others reached the top of the hill.

  A small meadow covered the hill’s top, and it offered a magnificent view of the surrounding countryside. Ridmark saw the hills stretching away to the north, the forests to the west, the marshes to the east, and even the distant towers of the monastery far to the south. If the Old Man was as fearful as Rjalfur claimed, little wonder he dwelled here. A man could see any intruders coming for miles.

  A large stone cottage with a thatched roof stood at the northern edge of the meadow. A deep, wooded ravine separated the Old Man’s hill from its nearest neighbor, and atop that hill Ridmark saw the circle of black standing stones that Morigna had described.

  The standing stones where Nathan Vorinus had died.

  The cottage itself looked large and comfortable. Gardens filled half the meadow, and Ridmark saw that many of them had already been dug up in preparation for spring. The Old Man, it seemed, still had vigor enough to maintain his own gardens.

  Unusual in a man of ninety years.

  “This is it,” said Morigna, her voice quiet. “His cottage.”

  “Is he home?” said Caius.

  “He is,” said Morigna. “His wards would not have activated otherwise. He…”

  The door to the cottage swung open, and an old, old man hobbled out, leaning upon a staff.

  The man looked at least a century old, thin as a scarecrow and tough as old leather. Wispy white hair encircled his head and jaw and chin. He wore ragged, patchwork clothing and scuffed boots, and his right leg dragged a bit. His eyes were watery and bloodshot and blue, yet Ridmark saw a keen sharpness there.

  The Old Man came to a stop a dozen paces away, gazing at Morigna, and shook his head with a sigh.

  “Well, girl?” he said in precise Latin, his raspy voice tight with peevish irritation, “what is this? I told you to never bring strangers here.”

  Morigna sniffed. “They are hardly strangers. I know who they are, do I not?”

  “And I do not!” said the Old Man, rapping his staff against the ground in annoyance. “I told you, girl, strangers bring nothing but trouble! Why do you still fail to heed me after all this time? One would think that if you had listened to me, that strapping young man of yours might still be alive.”