Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (17 page)

“I do not know,” said Morigna. “But he has survived here for all these years, has he not?” 

“And will he welcome strangers arriving with a half-dozen wraiths on their tails?” said Caius.

Morigna grinned at the dwarven friar. “Probably not. But if a half-dozen wraiths turn up on his doorstep, he will have no choice but to fight. And there are wards around his home.”

“I haven’t sensed anything,” said Calliande. 

“They are latent,” said Morigna. “They only activate when foes draw near. He uses them whenever orcish or kobold raiders move through the marshes.”

“But will the Old Man see us as foes and activate the wards to keep us out?” said Caius.

“We have no choice in the matter,” said Ridmark. 

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “They’re getting closer. We…”

“Run!” said Ridmark.

Morigna saw the wall of mist darken. She wondered if her spell had unraveled, or the master of the undead had started countering her magic. 

But the wraiths flowed unharmed through the wall of mist, the air growing cold against Morigna’s skin.

She turned and sprinted after the others, her tattered cloak flying around her. 

###

Ridmark raced up the path. 

The others followed, their boots scraping against the rocky ground. His arms and legs burned from the day’s fighting. He would need rest soon, and he suspected the others would as well. He did not know how much a toll the use of that much magic had taken Calliande and Morigna, but he suspected it was significant.

If they did not get behind the Old Man’s wards, if the Old Man’s wards were not strong enough to turn aside the wraiths, they were dead.

It was as simple as that. 

He ran across the broad ledge that Kharlacht had described. It would have been ideal for an ambush – Jonas and his men could have stood against the face of the hill, and driven them back to the edge. Just as well that Jonas had grown impatient. Another path, narrower than the first, ascended at a steep angle along the stony face of the hill.

Ridmark ran for the path.

White light flared, and he ran into an invisible wall. He stumbled backward across the ledge, just in time to see a shimmering field of light fade away from the path. Sigils of white fire burned for a moment upon the rocky slope, and then faded away.

The Old Man had already activated his wards. 

“That was the spell of a Magistrius,” said Calliande. “A ward. Powerful one.”

“Then it seems the Old Man is indeed a renegade Magistrius,” said Caius. 

“Can you break the ward?” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Calliande. “No, it’s too strong. Maybe if I had an hour or two to wear it down, but…”

Ridmark understood. They didn’t have an hour. They didn’t have five minutes. 

The air grew colder.

“Morigna,” said Ridmark. “Did the Old Man tell you how to bypass his wards?”

She gave a sharp shake of her head. “No. Only that if I wanted to survive, I had better be inside of them.” 

“How generous,” said Calliande.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark. “My staff. Enspell it, and I will hold off the wraiths for as long as I can.”

“You’ll die,” said Calliande.

“We shall fight alongside you,” said Kharlacht.

“No,” said Ridmark, looking around the ledge. Could they climb up the hillside? No, it was too steep and too rocky. “She doesn’t have enough magic to make all your weapons effective against the wraiths. But she can augment mine, and you can escape while I hold the wraiths.” He pointed toward the marshes. “The slope is steep, but if you’re careful, you can manage it. Head back to Moraime. Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael must be warned about Jonas’s treachery.” 

“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.