Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (35 page)

But Calliande lacked the power to kill him. Her magic was not strong enough, and her magic was the only weapon they had that could wound the transformed Eternalist. If one of them had carried a Soulblade, the power of the enchanted weapon would have been enough to kill Coriolus.

But they had only Calliande’s magic, and her strength was starting to fail. The effort of maintaining the spell upon the weapons had grown, and she felt a stabbing pain behind her eyes. She could not maintain this pace for much longer. 

And even her full strength had not been enough to defeat Coriolus. 

She forced herself to summon more magic, trying to think of a way to stop him.

But no ideas came.

###

Morigna flung her full strength at Coriolus, a wave of acidic mist washing over him. The gleaming black plates of his carapace sizzled and crackled, and he screamed in fury, all three of his heads shrieking metallic cries. Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin swarmed beneath the misshapen creature’s legs, hacking and stabbing and swinging. 

But creature’s wounds healed as fast as they could deal them, and not even Kharlacht’s heavy sword dealt lasting injuries. 

Coriolus was going to kill them all.

Morigna felt herself snarl, her fear replaced by fury. She would not give him the chance to take her flesh, she vowed. She would force him to kill her. He might have murdered her mother and father, might have blighted her entire life with his deceptions. But he would not live on through her body. Let him find another host.

She drew herself up, preparing to fling herself at the creature and attack it with her bare hands, magic crackling around her fists…

Then Ridmark darted around Coriolus and ran to her side.

“Come with me,” he said, “now.” 

“What?” said Morigna. “Why…”

“He wants you,” said Ridmark. “Killing us is only secondary. But if he wants you, he’ll have to chase you. Run!” 

He pushed her forward, and Morigna had no choice but to run. They raced into the inner circle and up the grassy mound, past the menhirs, and back to the altar. Morigna’s skin crawled with revulsion at the sight of the thing, at the golden chalice Coriolus had intended to hold her blood.

She heard the furious roar, felt the weight of his gaze as Coriolus realized what had happened.

“Get behind the altar,” said Ridmark. 

“Why?” said Morigna. “It…”

“Do it!” he said, his voice iron, and she moved behind the altar before she knew what had happened. Ridmark sprang atop the altar, staff and orcish axe in hand, the gray cloak billowing behind him.

“Coriolus!” he shouted. “Coriolus, you cowardly rat! Come here!” 

All three of the alien heads rotated to face him, and the creature raced up the mound. 

###

Ridmark made himself stand motionless, his expression contemptuous. Every instinct screamed for him to attack the misshapen horror racing up the hill, or to run and flee until his heart burst. 

He wondered if Coriolus would hesitate, or if the creature would simply kill him.

But Coriolus hesitated. The Old Man had not survived for all these centuries by taking foolish risks, and Ridmark’s actions implied confidence. The creature stopped at the edge of the mound, towering over the altar and Ridmark like a pillar of shadow and talons. 

“It’s over, Coriolus,” said Ridmark.

“Oh?” boomed the creature. The human face embedded in the Eternalist’s chest grinned like a madman. “Is it?”

“It is,” said Ridmark. “I defeated Agrimnalazur. I slew Gothalinzur. I went to Urd Morlemoch and returned, and defeated the Mhalekites in the shadow of the Black Mountain.”

The others scrambled up the mound, ready to attack, but Ridmark waved them away. He saw the exhausted tension on Calliande’s face, the battle fury on Kharlacht’s. If this went wrong, hopefully they could get away. 

“Did you indeed?” said Coriolus. He circled the altar, the ground shaking beneath his clawed feet. Ridmark turned to keep him in sight, sweat trickling down his back. “And why recite this litany to me, gray vagabond?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “you are next.”

Coriolus roared with laughter. “Am I? How will you slay me, fool? You have no magic that can kill me. A Soulblade could have slain me, but you are an exile and an outcast.”

“This is true,” said Ridmark. 

“And you, Morigna,” said Coriolus, one of his heads pivoting to look at her. “Hiding behind the stone like a little child? Do you think to beg?”

Morigna glared up at him. “I will cut my own throat before I let you touch me again!” 

“Actually, there is no need for you to kill yourself,” said Ridmark. He eyed Coriolus. Just a little farther… “Coriolus will never touch you again.”

“And why is that, hmm?” said Coriolus, circling the altar once more. A hint of impatience had entered his tone. Perhaps he had realized that Ridmark was bluffing. “Because you will slay me?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark, watching as Coriolus took another few steps, moving with deadly, serpentine grace despite his armored bulk. 

A gloating note entered the inhuman voice. “And how will you do that?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I know something you don’t.”

The others stared at him. He saw their tension, their confusion. 

“And what,” hissed Coriolus, “is that?” 

“The menhir at your right,” said Ridmark, “isn’t actually a menhir.”

One of Coriolus’s heads turned, while the other two gazed down at him.

Then all three snapped to the right.

“What?” roared Coriolus. “How did you…”

The gray menhir shifted, and resolved into the form of an ancient old man. Rjalfur’s golden eyes opened, and the trolldomr started to speak, but Coriolus acted first. His clawed arms came up, and shadows and blue flame erupted from his talons and exploded into Rjalfur with terrible force. A gale of hot wind swept over the standing circle, and Ridmark braced himself, cloak billowing around him.

The glare and the wind faded away, leaving Rjalfur untouched. 

Coriolus backed away, his limbs twitching.

“You should not have attacked this one,” said Rjalfur, raising his stony hand.

Golden light washed over the hilltop, and Coriolus screamed. The darkness around him unraveled, shredding away like soap dissolving in water. Coriolus’s black-armored form shrank, and then he became a gaunt old man in a gray coat once more, trembling with fear and shock, hands raised in a warding spell.

Yet the golden light blazed over him, pinning him in place. Coriolus tried to move, but the golden light held him. He flung an attack of shadows at the trolldomr, but the golden light scattered it like dust. 

“Why did you attack this one?” said Rjalfur.

“What did the Gray Knight promise you?” said Coriolus. “What do you want? I can pay you more, I have the ear of Shadowbearer himself, I…”

Rjalfur growled, and for the first time the trolldomr sounded angry. “Do not speak of the bearer of shadow! The Gray Knight gave this one nothing. He did not lift his hand against this one, as you did.”

“I…I…” Coriolus sputtered, staring at Rjalfur, and then glared at Ridmark. “He tricked me! He tricked me into attacking you. Strike against him, not me!”

“The Gray Knight only spoke the truth,” said Rjalfur. “Long has this one pondered the mystery of humankind. They are mortal and must die, yet some give away their lives freely, even joyfully. Why?”

“You dare not lift your hand against me!” said Coriolus. “You will earn the wroth of Shadowbearer! You…”

“And from you, this one at last understands,” said Rjalfur. “It is for love that they sacrifice their lives. Love for their kin, their God, their friends in arms.” The burning eyes of gold shifted to Ridmark. “It is why the Gray Knight risks himself again and again, for he believes himself unworthy of the love of his lost wife.”

Morigna and Calliande both looked at him, and Ridmark said nothing. 

“Listen to me,” said Coriolus, “I can…”

“It was for love of him that the others followed the Gray Knights,” said the trolldomr, ignoring Coriolus’s frantic pleas, “and this one understands you well, disciple of the bearer of shadow. There is no love in you, save for yourself.” 

“Let me go,” said Coriolus, “and I will trouble you no further. I will not lift my hand against you, I…”

“This one will let you go,” said Rjalfur, “for the trolldomr do not kill. But you have done terrible evil, Coriolus of the Eternalists. You have used dark magic, and twisted yourself and others. There is no love in your mind, and your heart is blighted. You will not repent, even after this one could have slain you, and you will continue your wicked course until you are at last stopped.” 

A crafty look came over Coriolus’s face. “But you will let me go?” The fear started to fade, and he grinned at Morigna. 

“This one will,” said Rjalfur. “But you lifted your hand against this one. The trolldomr only fight in self-defense. Therefore this one shall undo the magic you have worked, the crimes you have committed against the song of the earth. All of them.” 

A surprised hiss went through Morigna’s teeth.

“Very well,” said Coriolus, still smiling. “I accept. You…”

And then he understood, and his eyes went wide with terror.

“No,” he said, “no, no! Stop! Stop! Stop…”

Rjalfur closed his fist, and the sheet of golden light tightened into a blazing shaft that pierced the Old Man’s chest.

Coriolus screamed as his spells were unraveled, his wards collapsed.

Including the spell that bound his spirit to his stolen body.

He was already old, but he aged before Ridmark’s eyes, fifty years passing in a heartbeat, another fifty a moment after that. The golden light winked out, and Coriolus looked impossibly ancient, his body nothing more than rags of skin draped over bone, a few wisps of hair still clinging to his wrinkled scalp.

He turned toward Morigna, his eyes filled with horror, and took one staggering step.

Then he collapsed onto his back and did not move again, his unblinking eyes gazing at the moons of the night sky.

The green fire of the menhirs faded away, and darkness fell over the hilltop at last. 

“You killed him,” whispered Morigna, gazing at the withered corpse.

“This one did not,” said Rjalfur. “This one merely unraveled the damage he had caused with his dark magic. Some of that damage had extended his life to unnatural length.” The trolldomr paused. “It would have been better for him if he had died long ago, before he could darken his soul with so many crimes.” 

“Yes,” said Morigna, “yes, it would have.” 

“You should learn from his fate, child of dark magic,” said Rjalfur. “It could yet be yours.”

Morigna scowled, but said nothing. 

“Thank you for your aid once again,” said Ridmark. “Without it, he would have killed us all.” 

“Perhaps he was right,” said Rjalfur, “and you did trick this one into aiding you.”

Ridmark shrugged. “I spoke no word that was untrue. And had he left you alone, you would not have intervened.”

But Ridmark had been fairly sure that Coriolus would panic and attack the trolldomr. 

And he had been right. It had been a hideous gamble…but he had been right once again. 

“This is so,” said Rjalfur. “He was the author of his own destruction. Thank you, Gray Knight. You have given this one much to think on.” 

The trolldomr turned and vanished back into the ground. 

Ridmark let out a long breath and turned to the others.

“It seems,” said Caius, lowering his mace, “that the Lord has seen fit to grant us victory once again.” 

“You have the soulstone?” said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded. “Here.” She patted the pouch at her belt. “I cannot believe he simply threw it at me.”

“As the Gray Knight said,” rumbled Kharlacht. “The wizard’s arrogance was his undoing.”

“That was good work,” said Ridmark to Gavin, “untying her.” 

Gavin shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. And you did tell us to free her if we could.”

“We should to return to Moraime now,” said Ridmark. “Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael will want to know that the undead have been defeated and the farmers can return to their fields.”

“In the morning,” said Caius. “It has been a long and trying day, and some rest would be welcome.”

“Just not here,” said Gavin, glancing at the menhirs.

“Agreed,” said Calliande, turning toward Morigna. “But we should find your clothes first.”

But Morigna had already vanished.

Chapter 23 - Omens

“He died when the trolldomr broke his spell,” said Ridmark.

Old Abbot Ulakhur shook his head, his tusks jutting from his white beard like daggers rising from a fall of snow. “An astonishing tale.”

“I would scare believe it myself,” said Sir Michael, his voice heavy with grief, “if I had not seen the undead for myself. And it explains much of Jonas’s…erratic behavior these last few months.” 

They had reached Moraime by afternoon, and had gone at once to the monastery of St. Cassian. The brothers had escorted them to the abbot’s austere study, and there Ulakhur and Michael Vorinus had listened as Ridmark had told them the tale of their fights, with occasional comments from Calliande and the others. 

“It was all about us,” said Ridmark. “The Old Man was sworn to Shadowbearer, and Shadowbearer wanted Calliande dead for escaping his grasp in the past. The undead were raised to draw me in, and the Old Man prepared his trap for us.”

“A wicked plan,” said Ulakhur. “Several innocent men and women of Moraime died in the attacks of the undead, and a half-dozen brothers when the undead burst from the crypts below the monastery.” 

“It is our fault,” said Ridmark. “I fear that we brought this evil upon you.”

“No,” said Michael with some heat, his face angry and flushed behind his beard. “No, it is not. You knew nothing of your peril, and you came to our aid without asking reward, a fact both the Old Man and my wretched brother knew to exploit. The blame is my brother's. He lied to us for years, all while he was plotting with that old sorcerer in the hills and worshipping that demon Intar…Instar…”