Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (3 page)

As would have happened in Dun Licinia, if Calliande had not pursued him into the Wilderland. 

“Would it not be better to find some strong place and wait for the foe to come to us?” said Gavin.

“I fear not,” said Ridmark. “For one, there are no strong places in these marshes, not until we reach Moraime. And if Shadowbearer and his servants are hunting us, they might not expect us to hunt them in turn.”

He beckoned, and they headed north, away from the causeway and into the marshes.

Chapter 2 - Tombs

Calliande moved carefully across the grassy knoll, the ground squishing beneath her boots.

Ridmark led the way, staff in hand, his gray elven cloak hanging loose around his shoulders. His blue eyes were cold and watchful in his hard face, the black stubble shading his jaw like dust. Despite their many days in the wilderness, he moved with the grace and speed of a hunting predator, his boots rarely making a sound against the wet ground. 

At such times the coward’s brand upon his left cheek never seemed more incongruous. He did not deserve the sigil of a broken sword upon his cheek, did not deserve the burden of self-inflicted guilt he carried with it. Mhalek was to blame for his wife’s death, not Ridmark.

It was unjust. She wondered if she could ever convince him of that.

But, then, life was not just. 

Calliande knew that all too well. She could remember nothing that had happened before she had awakened in the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance thirty-two days ago, nothing before the omen of blue fire filled the sky. Yet she knew so many things. She knew the history of Andomhaim and the older kindreds. She knew many languages, and was sometimes surprised when Caius or Kharlacht said something in the dwarven and orcish tongues and she understood them. She knew how to treat illness, injury, and wound, and her skills had saved many lives during Qazarl’s siege of Dun Licinia. 

And she knew how to use magic for healing, defense, and knowledge, the three paths of the Order of the Magistri. With those powers, she had helped Ridmark save the villagers of Aranaeus and destroy the dread urdmordar Agrimnalazur. 

Yet she remembered nothing of her past life, could not remember how she had learned her skills…and if her suspicions were correct, she had rested in that dark vault below the Tower for centuries, guarded by the Order of the Vigilant. 

And she remembered nothing of it, and sometimes that made her want to scream in frustration. 

But for now the possibility of danger held her attention. 

She kept a minor spell in place, one to detect the presence of magic. With it, she could keep Shadowbearer and his minions from ambushing them. So far she had sensed nothing, and yet…

Her spell detected a faint ripple, almost on the edge of her consciousness. An echo, really. 

Someone had worked magic nearby, recently. 

Yet she could not tell what kind of magic. 

“Anything?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “There was magic here, not long ago. Maybe the trolldomr. I can’t tell.”

He nodded and kept moving. They passed through thick stands of trees, pools of stagnant water sitting at their roots, moss hanging from their branches like long gray beards. The stench of rotting vegetation was everywhere, and Calliande wondered why anyone would live in such a place. Still, she supposed food would be abundant, with the fish and the lizards and the birds. And the marshes would make for a defensible home. A large army would have trouble moving through this terrain, and a small, determined force could inflict hell upon any invaders…

She blinked. How did she know that with such certainty? Had she led armies in the past?

The memory hovered just out of reach, cloaked by the mists choking her mind, and she almost cursed in frustrated fury.

“Do you smell that?” said Kharlacht, his voice cutting into her dark thoughts.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, and Calliande caught it as well, a worse scent underlying the odor of rotting vegetation and stagnant water.

Rotting flesh. 

Even in the thirty-two days since she had awakened, Calliande had smelled it too many times not to recognize it. 

“It’s coming from there,” said Ridmark, pointing at the trees.

They kept walking. The trees thinned, and a fortress rose from the earth.

Or the ruins of a fortress, anyway. Once it had been a massive round tower of stone ringed by an earthwork wall. Now the tower’s roof had collapsed, and the marsh had flooded the courtyard, reeds and grass growing within. Dozens of small mounds encircled the wall, covered in grass and small trees.

And many of the mounds looked disturbed.

“Burial mounds,” said Kharlacht.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Like the ones outside of Dun Licinia.”

“Some chieftain or petty orcish king made his stronghold here,” said Kharlacht, pointing at the ruined fortress, “and buried his chief warriors and their slaves around him.”

Something shivered against Calliande’s magical senses.

“Ridmark,” she said. “There was powerful dark magic here. Recently.”

“Today?” said Ridmark.

“Within a few hours,” she said.

“And an undead creature, brought from its grave through necromancy,” said Ridmark, “would terrify a swamp drake. It would terrify any animal. They would know it was unnatural, and their instincts would tell them to flee.” 

“Like the corpses Qazarl raised outside of Dun Licinia,” said Caius.

Gavin shuddered. “Or the undead that Agrimnalazur raised against us.”

“And the sort of creatures that Shadowbearer would use to hunt Calliande,” said Ridmark. “It seemed Rjalfur warned us true. We…”

Dark magic blazed against Calliande’s senses.

“Ridmark!” she said. “They’re coming. They’re…”

But they had no need of her warning. 

Dozens of dark forms burst from the fortress’s ruined gate. They were skeletal orcs, ragged tusks jutting from their jaws, moldering flesh still clinging to their bones. Ghostly blue fire danced up their limbs and flickered inside their eyes. The undead orcs held rusted weapons in their skeletal fists, swords and axes and maces, and some still wore armor and carried shields.

“Calliande!” shouted Ridmark, but she had already begun the spell.

When Shadowbearer’s undead kobolds had attacked at the ford of the River Moradel, she had struck back at them using her magic, blasting away the necromancy Shadowbearer had bound to their corpses. She had destroyed dozens of them, yet the effort had nearly exhausted her strength. If not for Ridmark’s intervention, she would have been killed.

Yet it had taught her a valuable lesson. 

She had bound her magic to his staff, giving it the power to harm undead creatures. And in doing so, she realized that enspelling the weapons of others was far, far easier than striking down the undead through raw force. 

She needed to save her strength to face whoever had raised the undead.

Calliande finished her spell and thrust out her hands. White light flared around her fingers, and the same white light glimmered around Ridmark’s staff. The head of Caius’s bronze-colored mace began to glow, and both Kharlacht’s greatsword and Gavin’s orcish blade began to radiate white light. Gavin blinked in surprise and set himself, his shield upon his left arm. 

As one, the undead orcs turned to look at Calliande, their ghostly eyes staring at her.

They felt the power of her spell.

“Kharlacht, Caius, with me,” said Ridmark, lifting his glowing staff, his voice icy calm. “Gavin, shield Lady Calliande and deal with any orcs that get past us.”

He strode forward, the orcish warrior and the dwarven friar following.

###

The staff thrummed with Calliande’s magic beneath Ridmark’s hands.

It brought back a storm of memories. Once Ridmark had been a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, a Swordbearer, and he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle. With that sword he had slain the urdmordar Gothalinzur, entered Urd Morlemoch and escaped, and defeated the Mhalekite horde.

With Heartwarden he had struck down Mhalek himself.

And then Aelia had died. 

Ridmark walked toward the charging undead, the staff ready in his right hand. The power of Calliande’s magic was not as strong as Heartwarden’s. The soulblade had blazed like a torch in Ridmark’s fist, and with the sword Ridmark had cut a path through creatures of dark magic. The staff shone with a gentle glow, its vibrations weaker.

But more than enough to destroy the undead. 

The first creature came at him, raising a rusted mace to strike, and Ridmark moved. 

He dodged the blow, the staff a white blur in his hand. Normal weapons could not harm the undead, but the staff had been charged with Calliande’s magic, and his strike shattered the bones of the creature’s weapon hand. The mace fell into the grass and rolled away, and Ridmark reversed his weapon and jabbed the undead in the gut. The creature did not need to breathe and felt no pain, but the power of Ridmark’s blow knocked the undead orc back a step.

He whipped the staff around and drove its length into the undead orc’s head. The tusked skull exploded in a burst of yellowing bone. The blue flames winked out, and the corpse collapsed into pieces, the bones tumbling away.

Three more reached for him, and Ridmark charged into them.

Most of the knights of Andomhaim looked down upon the quarterstaff, seeing it as the weapon of commoners, of freeholders and laborers. A true knight with a sword, they believed, could overcome a peasant armed with a staff.

Ridmark knew better. 

He deflected a descending sword with a sweep of his staff, pivoted, and spun his weapon around. The staff’s heavy length crashed into the back of an undead orc’s knee, and the creature toppled. Ridmark’s next blow slammed into the crown of its head, and the weight of his strike shattered the undead orc’s skull, pieces of its rusted helmet falling away. He dodged the swing of a heavy axe and brought the staff down upon the undead orc’s arms before it recovered its balance. The bones cracked and splintered, the axe falling away, and Ridmark dispatched the creature with a sharp swing to the head. The last orc raised its sword for a final strike, and Ridmark moved before it could launch the blow, knocking the weapon aside. The creature lunged at him with skeletal fingers, but Ridmark sidestepped and swung his staff with both hands. The skull popped off the neck and soared through the air, tumbling jaw over forehead, and landed with a splash in a pool. The body staggered forward and disintegrated into loose bones and rotting flesh.

Ridmark spun, intending to aid either Kharlacht or Caius if they were hard-pressed. 

But neither one needed his help. Kharlacht carved his way through the undead orcs like a butcher cutting meat. He wielded his greatsword with massive arcs, every blow shearing through a skeletal neck or skull. Few undead drew close enough to harm him, and when they did he stepped back or allowed their blows to shatter against his dark elven armor. Caius fought at Kharlacht’s side. With his heavy mace, the burly friar barely needed Calliande’s magical augmentation. The blows of his mace shattered knees and spines, and Caius then finished them off with a strike to the head. 

Ridmark shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Gavin strike down an undead orc that charged Calliande. It had been just over a week since they had departed Aranaeus, but the boy’s skill had improved in that time. His blade sheared through the undead creature’s neck, white fire struggling against the ghostly blue flame, and the undead orc fell motionless. Gavin had a steady head and a steady arm, and if they lived through this, one day he would be a masterful swordsman.

But for now, Ridmark would try to keep the undead away from Gavin and Calliande.

He turned back to the attack, the length of his staff shattering another undead skull. The corpse fell, and Ridmark moved closer to the others as they fought their way to the burial mounds. They had destroyed at least a score of the undead, but more still emerged from the ruined fortress. How many of the creatures were there? Individually, the undead were not strong, but they could overwhelm Ridmark and the others through sheer numbers. 

And whatever necromancer had raised them had to be watching the fight. Perhaps the wizard’s plan was to pin them in place and then unleash his spells in an attack. 

A dark shape emerged from the ruins, and Ridmark wondered if he had found the wizard.

It was an undead orc that stood nearly eight feet tall, taller than even Kharlacht. Black steel armored the orc from head to toe, and the creature carried an enormous black greatsword. Eldritch symbols of crimson fire shone upon its cuirass and bracers and greaves, and Ridmark realized the creature’s armor had been reinforced by blood magic long ago, likely the work of an orcish shaman. No doubt that explained why the armor had survived the centuries in the ground without damage. Its owner must have been a powerful chieftain, perhaps even the petty king who had raised this fortress.

The armored orc spotted Ridmark and raced towards him, raising the greatsword.

Ridmark sprinted to meet the creature as Kharlacht and Caius fought their way through the other undead. 

He did not attempt to block the undead chieftain’s first swing. His staff had a steel core, but the sheer weight and power of the undead orc’s greatsword would tear the staff from his grasp. The huge blade blurred past his face, and Ridmark stepped inside the creature’s guard, his staff swinging. It slammed into an armored leg, and the massive orc staggered but did not fall. The staff flared with white light as Calliande’s magic struggled against the ancient spells upon the armor, its glyphs shining with a crimson glow. The orc rushed at Ridmark, and he landed another blow on its armored flank as the creature passed. The undead warrior staggered from the blow, and Ridmark stepped behind it and struck, his staff hammering against the black helmet. 

The armor deflected the blow of his staff, and the undead orc turned with inhuman grace, the black sword blurring. Ridmark retreated as the creature pursued him with heavy, lumbering steps, its black sword clutched in both hands. One strike from the undead orc’s heavy sword would open him up like a butchered pig.