Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (6 page)

Morigna knew that better than she might have wished.

The dwarven friar was an enigma, but not much of one. She had seen a few dwarves as they traveled through the Wilderland, and they were grim and silent and humorless, keeping to themselves and speaking only when necessary, stopping every night to offer prayers to the Stone Heart in the Deeps. Caius, by contrast, never seemed to shut up, and laughed often. She wondered how he had become a friar. Perhaps it was a rebellion against his people.

But she could not understand Ridmark Arban.

She had heard the stories of the Gray Knight, of course, of the gray-cloaked warrior who wandered the Wilderland to avenge some dead woman. She had certainly not expected him to be real. And she had certainly not expected him to have a coward’s brand, the sigil of a broken sword, marked upon his left cheek. The knights of Andomhaim only received those brands for the gravest crimes, for the most egregious acts of cowardice.

But this man was clearly no coward.

Certainly a coward would not fight a creature like that wraith. And a coward could not command the loyalty of his followers as did Ridmark Arban. Morigna would have expected the Magistria to lead the little group. But she obeyed Ridmark instead. They all did. A former knight, a man with a coward’s brand upon his cheek, and they followed his decisions.

Stranger and stranger. 

“Tell me, friar,” said Morigna, since Caius seemed the most inclined to talk, “how does a dwarf of the Three Kingdoms become a brother of the mendicants? It must be a remarkable tale.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Perhaps he saw a witch coupling with demons in the night, and the sight drove him to the church.”

Gavin laughed. 

“Regrettably, I fear the story is not quite so lurid,” said Caius. “Missionaries came to the court of Khald Tormen, and I heard the gospel of the Dominus Christus and believed. I left the Three Kingdoms and went to Tarlion to learn more. Alas, I found many of the priests and lords of Tarlion complacent in their faith, so I went north to spread the word of the Dominus Christus among the pagan orcish tribes of the Wilderland.” 

“A foolish course,” said Morigna. “The tribes of Vhaluusk are not receptive to missionaries. Many a chieftain has a wall lined with missionaries’ skulls.” 

“All things are in the hand of God,” said Caius, “and if that is my fate, it shall be as God decrees. And it would have been my fate, if not for Ridmark.”

“Oh?” said Morigna, looking at the gray-cloaked man. He had not spoken, but she was sure that he was listening.

“I was taken prisoner by some Mhalekite orcs,” said Caius, “and he slew them. A score of foes, and he overcame them.”

“You exaggerate,” said Ridmark, not glancing back at them as he led the way through the marsh. “There were only four.” 

“And you?” said Morigna, looking at Kharlacht. “He saved your life, too?”

“After a fashion,” said Kharlacht. “We fought a duel below the walls of Dun Licinia, when the Mhalekites laid siege to the town, and he spared my life.”

“Truly?” said Morigna, surprised. “And you follow him now?”

Kharlacht shrugged. “I had nowhere else to go.” 

“Certainly somewhere other than Urd Morlemoch, one would think,” said Morigna. 

“What of you, madam?” said Caius. “Perhaps our stories are remarkable, but I am sure yours is as well. One does not often come across lovely young sorceresses wandering the swamps of the Wilderland.”

“Flattery, dwarf?” said Morigna. 

“I merely state the truth,” said Caius. “Though you needn’t fear for your virtue. I have taken a vow of celibacy…and had I not, well, human women are far too thin and tall.”

Gavin laughed, turned a bit red again, and fell silent.

“So,” said Caius, “how does a young sorceress wind up living in the swamps of the Wilderland?” 

“Yes,” said Calliande. For a moment her blue eyes looked just as cold as Ridmark’s. “I would be most interested in knowing that myself. Human wielders of magic are rare outside of the Magistri.”

Morigna offered a chilly smile to the other woman. “And they often turn out to be crazed wielders of dark magic?”

“I can say in all candor,” said Calliande, “that has entirely been my experience.” 

“Very well,” said Morigna. “My parents were born in Moraime, so far as I know, and hunted and trapped outside the town walls. There are entrances to the Deeps in the hills northwest of the town, and one day some dvargir raiders from the Deeps came to the surface looking for slaves. My father fought back, and they killed him and my mother in front of me.” 

“May God rest their souls,” said Caius.

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande.

Morigna shrugged. “It was long ago. I was no more than five or six at the time. I barely remember it.”

Yet she still had nightmares about it, remembered the house burning, remembered her mother’s frantic screams, dark shapes wrapped in shadow pouring through the door.

“Plainly,” said Kharlacht, “you escaped.”

“Yes, plainly,” said Morigna. “How terribly observant. I ran from my father’s house and into the hills, and the dvargir followed. They would have killed me, but my magic manifested in rage and I killed two of them. And then the Old Man came and slew the others with his spells.”

“A tragic story,” said Caius. “I am sorry.”

Morigna shrugged. “It was fourteen years ago. The Old Man took me in and raised me, and taught me how to use my magic.” 

“He should have taken you to the Magistri,” said Calliande. “Your spells are earth magic, drawing upon the power of the world around you. That is dangerous for humans to use, a doorway to dark magic and worse things. If he had taken you to the Magistri, they could have taught you how to use the magic of the Well, magic to heal and defend and seek, magic you can use without putting yourself at risk.”

“The Old Man said the Magistri were not trustworthy,” said Morigna, “that they had been corrupted. Can you say otherwise?”

A shadow went over Calliande’s face. For all her pride, she was not that much older than Morigna. How much of her confident pose was only a mask?

“No,” she said at last. “No, I cannot.” 

Morigna shrugged. “The Old Man said much the same. He took me in and taught me to use my magic, and I have studied with him ever since.”

“And wandered the swamps on your own, it seems,” said Caius.

“The Old Man is hardly a tyrant, but he is not pleasant to live with, and I have lived alone since I was twelve,” said Morigna. “I can look after myself.”

“So that is what you do, then?” said Calliande. “Wander the swamps?” 

“I travel across Vhaluusk as I please,” said Morigna. “Otherwise I am alone with my own company, and I find that preferable.” 

At least, she had, once upon a time. But then she had met Nathan and things had changed. 

Now she did not know. 

“I am surprised you are still alive,” said Kharlacht. “Vhaluusk is a dangerous place.”

“Vhaluusk and the Wilderland are very dangerous places,” said Morigna. “And not just from your kindred. The dvargir scum, the horrors the dark elves left in their ruins, the Mhalekites and the lupivirii…”

“The lupivirii,” said Gavin, “are extremely dangerous.”

“And what would you know of them?” said Morigna. 

This time he only offered a thin smile in answer to her mockery. “You might be surprised.”

Morigna doubted that. “But I have my magic, and I keep my wits about me. This world is one where the strong prey upon the weak. The only security is power…and I have power of my own.”

“A dangerous attitude,” said Calliande. “It leads to abuse of that power.”

“A lie,” said Morigna, “told by those with power to keep the weak in their place. Just as your church tells lies to keep the peasants docile and complacent.”

Caius raised his graying eyebrows. “Then you think the teachings of the church are a lie?”

“I do,” said Morigna. The Old Man had always said so, and she had seen nothing to make her change her mind. “The meek are called blessed because they are too cowardly to take power for themselves. They…”

Calliande, Caius, Kharlacht, and Gavin all started to argue with her, but Ridmark spoke first. The others fell silent and looked at him, and Morigna marveled at that.

The man indeed had a commanding presence. 

“The Old Man,” said Ridmark, “this hermit who raised you.”

“What about him?” said Morigna. 

“You said he was timid,” said Ridmark, “that he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Morigna nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze as he looked back at him. “He wouldn’t. He avoids confrontation whenever possible.”

“But this is the same man,” said Ridmark, “who rescued you from the dvargir as a child. I have fought the dvargir before, and they are dangerous foes.”

“His magic is powerful,” said Morigna.

“Clearly,” said Ridmark. “I wish to meet him.”

Morigna frowned. “You think him responsible for raising the undead? He is not.” She glared at Calliande. “I have never seen him use dark magic, and he does not involve himself in the affairs of others.”

“I did not say that,” said Ridmark, calm in the face of her anger. “I wish to speak with him nonetheless. If he is as powerful as you say, he might know who has been raising these undead.”

“I see,” said Morigna. That made sense, but if Ridmark decided that the Old Man had raised the undead, then he would attack. For all his magical power, Morigna doubted that the Old Man could defend himself against someone like Ridmark Arban. Still, Ridmark did not seem like the sort to kill on suspicion, and he would find no reason for suspicion, since the Old Man had nothing to do with the undead. “Very well. Once we warn the folk of Moraime, I shall lead you to his home, and you may speak to him yourself.” 

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. 

He walked in silence for a moment, then turned as if something had just occurred to him.

“The townsfolk,” he said. “How are they likely to react to you?”

“To me?” said Morigna. “What do you mean?”

“Obviously they know you, if you’ve been there before,” said Ridmark. “The monks of the monastery of St. Cassian rule the town, and they are kindlier masters than many of the other rulers of the Wilderland. The dark elves, for instance, or the pagan orcs.” 

“Or the urdmordar,” said Gavin.

“As if you would know,” said Morigna.

“But the town of Moraime is a small island of order in a sea of wilderness and dangerous creatures,” said Ridmark. “Such folk quickly become suspicious…and often rightly so, given the dangers that surround them.”

“Such as me, perhaps?” said Morigna.

“I cannot imagine that the men of Moraime think well of a renegade wizard living in the hills near the town,” said Ridmark, “or of his apprentice. How will they react to you?” 

“With suspicion,” Morigna admitted.

“Justified suspicion?” said Ridmark. 

His blue eyes seemed to cut right through her.

“No,” said Morigna. “No. It is not. But…they do not see it that way.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. “We shall be careful, then. And you would do well to heed Gavin’s warning.”

“Warning?” she said, confused. “About what?”

“About facing an urdmordar,” said Ridmark. “Given that he stood a few paces from a female urdmordar before she fell in battle.”

Morigna blinked in astonishment. The urdmordar were deadly, and only powerful magic could slay a female urdmordar. She looked at Gavin and saw no trace of boasting, but only a distant look in his eyes, the look of a much older man who had survived terrible dangers at great cost.

Perhaps there was more to the idiot boy than she had thought. 

Ridmark turned away, and they kept walking.

They left the marshes behind and came to a hill-dotted plain. Once, Morigna knew, it had been part of the vast forests covering the Wilderland. But then the monks had settled upon the hill of Moraime after the defeat of the Frostborn, and the town had grown up around the monastery of St. Cassian. Now most of the trees had been cut down, and fields and pastures dotted the countryside. Nearly all the fields had been newly turned, and the spring planting was well underway. 

“Where is everyone?” said Kharlacht. “It is only a little past noon.”

“They ought to be busy with the planting,” said Gavin, “if they do not want to starve come winter.”

Ridmark looked at Morigna. “Is there some festival in the town? A fair, perhaps?”

She shook her head. “None.”

“It reminds me of Aranaeus,” said Kharlacht, “when the folk had retreated behind the walls for fear of the wolfmen.” 

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps we were not the only ones the undead attacked. Stay on your guard.” 

They took a well-worn dirt road that wound its way through the hills, and came to Moraime perhaps an hour later.

The monastery stood in the town’s center, built upon a rocky crag of a hill. Out of necessity, the monks had built their home in the form of a castra, a strong fortress with tall towers and a thick outer wall. Generations of devoted labor had carved the stones for the monastery, raising them into proud towers and strong walls. 

The town, home to perhaps fifteen hundred people, encircled the monastery’s hill. The monks had built a small oasis of order in the chaos of the Wilderland, and over the centuries others had come to shelter in that oasis. Refugees fleeing the endless wars of the pagan orc tribes, slaves escaped from the dvargir and the dark elves, and those who wished to leave the realm of Andomhaim for whatever reason. They came to Moraime and settled, and the monks welcomed everyone who lived in peace and accepted the teachings of the church and the Dominus Christus. 

The Old Man, with his dim view of the church, had never tried to settle within the town’s strong stone walls.

Of course, with his magic, he hardly needed their protection. 

“The gates are shut,” said Ridmark. 

“They shouldn’t be,” said Morigna. “Not at this time of day. Not unless…”

“The town is threatened,” said Ridmark. 

He led the way to the wall. It stood twenty feet tall, topped by a rampart. Men from the town’s militia stood over the gate, crossbows in hand, and they leveled their weapons.