Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (7 page)

“Hold!” shouted their sergeant. “Identify yourselves!” 

“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark, “and this is the Magistria Calliande.” He gestured at the blond woman. “We are traveling through the Wilderland, and were attacked by corpses raised by dark magic. We hope to shelter within your walls before continuing upon our way.”

“A Magistria?” said the sergeant. “Truly?”

“I am,” said Calliande. 

“Then your aid is sorely needed,” said the sergeant. “Bands of those corpses have been wandering the countryside, attacking farms and pastures. The walls have kept them out, but steel won’t hurt those things. Only fire harms them. Your magic could help us. We…”

“Sir!” said one of the men, pointing. “It’s her!”

He pointed at Morigna.

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “The witch who killed Sir Nathan?”

“I did not kill Nathan!” said Morigna, her temper rising. “I told you all. The urvaalg killed him. Had you a spark of wit, you would have believed me!” 

“Sir Jonas said you killed his brother!” said the sergeant.

“Who,” said Ridmark, calm as ever, “is Sir Nathan?”

“The brother of Sir Michael, the praefectus of the town,” said Morigna. “He thinks that I killed Nathan.”

“Did you?” said Ridmark.

She wanted to scream at him. Instead she took a deep breath. “No. I did not.”

“Get Sir Michael,” said the sergeant. “He’ll want to see this.” One of the men ran from the ramparts, and the rest leveled their crossbows. “You lot, stay where you are. Anything suspicious, we’ll fill you with shafts.”

“Yes, how fine, how noble,” said Morigna, glaring up at them. “These strangers have come to offer you aid against the undead, and you threaten them?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you raised the undead,” said the sergeant, “you and that crazy wizard in the hills.”

“I did not, and neither did he!” said Morigna. She wanted to summon her powers and teach these fools a lesson. “And I…”

“Enough,” said Ridmark. She glared at him. “We’ll speak to Sir Michael when he comes.” 

So they waited.

A few moments later the portcullis rattled up, the gate swung open, and Sir Michael Vorinus stalked out, accompanied by a pair of militiamen with spears. He was a tall, balding man, with arms like tree trunks and a hard face behind a bushy, graying beard. A man who looked like a younger version of Sir Michael followed him. Sir Jonas Vorinus, Michael's younger brother, looked at Morigna and scowled, contempt glinting in his eyes.

Then he saw Ridmark, and his eyes widened with surprise. 

He knew Ridmark?

Then Michael looked at Morigna.

“So,” said Michael, “the dead walk in the hills and the marshes, the folk flee behind the walls of the town, and the witch of the hills, the murderer of my brother, dares to show her face here.”

“I did not kill Nathan,” said Morigna. “That urvaalg killed him. I tried to save him, but I could not.” 

Michael made a dismissive wave of his hand. “Even if your hand did not deal the death blow, you led him to his death. His foolish infatuation with you was his undoing.”

A wave of fury rolled through Morigna. She had tried to save Nathan. To be reminded of his death, to have it thrown in her face before Ridmark and his companions, almost enraged her beyond reason. 

But Ridmark spoke before she could do anything rash. 

“I am sorry for the death of your brother,” said Ridmark. “But you face a more immediate peril. We are passing through the Wilderland, and had hoped to buy supplies and rest in Moraime. But we were attacked by a band of undead in the marshes, and found another group attacking Morigna.”

Michael sneered. “And why should I believe the word of a man who wears the brand of a coward? Even if you are an honest man, which I doubt, the witch could have enchanted you.”

“A fair point,” said Ridmark. “Would you believe the word of a Magistria?” 

He turned his head, and Calliande lifted her right hand. A ball of white light shimmered and danced over her fingers, and Michael’s eyes grew wide.

“Then you are truly a Magistria?” said Michael. “That wasn’t a lie?”

“I am,” said Calliande, cool and serene. Morigna did not like the other woman, but she had to admit that Calliande could look commanding, even queenly, when she wished. “My name is Calliande, and if I can aid you against these undead, I shall. The abuse of magic is evil, an affront to the laws of both God and man, and I will not allow it.”

Morigna suspected that little speech had not been aimed at Michael.

“Thank you, Lady Calliande,” said Michael. “Any aid will be welcome.” He turned to Ridmark. “And just who are you?”

“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark.

Michael’s eyes narrowed.

“Brother,” said Jonas, gripping his elder brother’s shoulder, “he’s telling the truth. You’ve heard the tales of the Gray Knight?”

“The gray warrior that aids travelers?” said Michael.

“You remember the Swordbearer that passed through the town nine years ago?” said Jonas. “When our father was still praefectus?” 

“The Swordbearer?” said Michael, his eyes growing distant with memory. “But…that man said he was going to Urd Morlemoch. He…”

“He did,” said Ridmark, “and he lived to tell the tale.” He paused. “Barely.”

Morigna found herself staring at him in astonishment. She had thought his tale of traveling to Urd Morlemoch a madman’s folly. But he had already entered the Warden’s ancient fortress and returned? Even the Old Man was unnerved by the thought of going anywhere near Urd Morlemoch. 

Just what kind of man was Ridmark Arban?

“Forgive me, Swordbearer,” said Michael. “I saw you nine years ago, when you stayed with the monks. I had…I had thought you dead long ago.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Ridmark. “I came home by a different route. And do not call me a Swordbearer. I lost the right to that title.” 

“I see,” said Michael, looking at the brand. “Then…why have you come to Moraime now?”

“The omen of blue fire a month past?” said Ridmark. Michael nodded. “It is a sign of the return of the Frostborn. The Warden warned me against it when I was last in Urd Morlemoch. Now that I have seen the omen, I am going back to Urd Morlemoch to wring more answers from the Warden.”

“You escaped from Urd Morlemoch,” said Michael, “and now you are going back there? God and all his saints, man. You are either valiant beyond all measure or a madman.”

“Likely the latter,” said Ridmark, and Kharlacht snorted. “But my companions and I shall aid you against the undead, if we can.” 

“We should be glad for any aid,” said Michael. “Especially from the honored Magistria. These undead…weapons of mortal steel do not harm them. The walls keep them out, but they range over our fields, and if we do not get a crop into the ground soon, we will starve come winter.” 

“Someone is raising the undead,” said Ridmark. “It is possible a wizard called Shadowbearer is raising them. Have you encountered him at all?”

Jonas snorted. “A legend of the dark elves.”

“No,” said Calliande. “I wish he was, but he is not.”

“An elven wizard?” said Michael. “My lady, Sir…ah, Ridmark, there are no elves here, whether high or dark. We are mostly humans, with some orcs and halflings. Sometimes dwarves pass through on their way to the Three Kingdoms or their enclave in Coldinium, but no elves.” 

“Then do you have any suspicions?” said Ridmark. “An orcish shaman of the blood gods could do it. Or some other renegade wizard.”

“The Old Man,” said Michael at once.

“No,” said Morigna. “He would not do it.”

Michael scowled. “The man has magic, and refuses to speak to anyone. He has hidden himself in the hills for as long as anyone can remember, but he has nothing to do with the town.”

“Much as I am loathe to agree with the witch,” said Jonas, “she may have a point. The Old Man has left the town alone for decades. Why trouble us now?” 

“Why indeed?” said Ridmark. “Perhaps…”

Shouts rang out from inside the town, and a militiaman in leather armor sprinted through the gates. 

“Sir Michael!” shouted the young man, his face pale with terror. “Sir Michael!”

“What is it, lad?” said Michael. “Speak!” 

“The undead,” said the militiaman. “They’re inside the town!”

“What?” said Michael. “They got over the walls?”

“No, sir,” said the militiaman. “They’re rising from the crypts below the monastery! Sir, what shall we do?”

Chapter 5 - The Monastery

Sir Michael stared at the messenger, and Ridmark realized that the older man was at a loss. 

The praefectus had done everything right so far by closing the gates, sealing the town, and putting a guard upon the wall. Given the number of raiders that wandered the Wilderland, Sir Michael had to be a veteran fighter. But fighting the undead, Ridmark realized, was outside of Michael’s experience. 

“Have they broken out of the monastery yet?” said Michael at last. 

“No, sir,” said the militiaman. “The monks barred the doors to the crypt. But it will not hold for long. What shall we do, sir? If the dead men get into the streets it will be a slaughter.”

“We must abandon the town,” said Jonas. “We cannot fight those creatures on an even footing.”

“And where will the people shelter?” said Michael. “What shall they eat? If we move everyone outside the walls, we will be vulnerable to every band of undead that happens to come along…or pagan orcs raiding from the north or kobolds out of the Deeps.”

“If we stay it will be a slaughter,” said Jonas. “There must be hundreds of tombs in the monastery’s crypts, and if all those corpses rise at once and swarm into the village…”

“Let us help,” said Ridmark.

Both Michael and Jonas looked at him. 

“The undead are still trapped in the monastery’s crypt?” said Ridmark. The messenger nodded. “Sir Michael, then the time to act is now. My friends and I have experience fighting the undead, and we have the aid of a Magistria. If we attack at once, perhaps we can overcome the undead at the crypt and hold both the monastery and the town. But only if we act immediately.”

“I do not know,” said Michael. 

“If you abandon Moraime now,” said Ridmark, “you will never get it back. The undead will hold the town, and your people will be scattered across the Wilderland.” Jonas scowled at him, but Ridmark ignored it. “The Wilderland is dotted with hundreds of ruined villages. If you abandon the town now, Moraime will be just one more of them”

“Let us act boldly, Sir Michael,” said Caius, “for the Lord has given us a spirit of boldness, not of fear.” Morigna rolled her eyes, but thankfully, kept her mouth shut. “Yes, you’re right,” said Michael with a sharp nod. “We must either risk everything or lose everything.” He looked up at the rampart. “Sergeant! Close the gates after we go through, and keep watch upon the countryside. If some malignant intelligence controls the undead, it might decide to launch an attack upon the walls while we deal with the undead in the crypt.”

“It was what I would do,” said Ridmark.

“Gray Knight, thank you for your aid,” said Michael. “You know us not, yet you go into grave peril beside us.” 

“Do not thank us yet,” said Ridmark. “Not until the battle is won. I suggest we hasten.”

“The undead will not remain in the crypt for long,” said Michael. “Come!” 

He strode through the gate. Jonas scowled at Ridmark once more, and then followed his brother. Ridmark wondered if he had somehow offended the younger knight. He had never seen Jonas before, but perhaps he met him during his previous visit to Moraime. 

It was something he could worry about later.

Assuming the undead did not kill every single person in the town.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark, following Jonas and Michael. “How many weapons could you enspell at once?”

“I’m not sure,” said Calliande. “But the more weapons I augment, the harder it is for me to hold the spell. I could enspell our weapons and a few more, perhaps. Any more than that, and I doubt I could maintain the spell for long.”

Ridmark nodded. The monks had lived atop the hill for centuries, carving crypts into the rock below their home. If he remembered correctly, only the monks were buried beneath the hill, while the townsmen buried their dead in the graveyard outside the wall. But even that meant hundreds of undead could have been raised in the crypts below the monastery. 

And that also meant the necromancer could be here in Moraime.

“Keep your sensing spell in place,” said Ridmark to Calliande in a low voice. “I wonder if our renegade wizard is in the town.”

Calliande nodded. “The same thought occurred to me.” 

Morigna overheard them. “I can sense the presence of magic as well.”

Calliande opened her mouth to argue, but Ridmark spoke first.

“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” he said. “Keep watch.” 

Morigna nodded and whispered the spell. Ridmark was not yet sure what to make of her. She was pretty, but he knew that beauty was often a mask for something darker. She was arrogant and abrasive, yet had fought the undead in the marsh without flinching. And he suspected that much of her abrasiveness was a pose to hide a great deal of fear and loss.

She had looked bleak when Michael mentioned Sir Nathan. 

Another riddle he could ponder later. 

Moraime had changed little in the nine years since Ridmark’s last visit. Most of the houses had been built of rough-cut stone and mortar, with tilted roofs of fired clay tiles to ward away the Wilderland’s harsh winters. The street from the gate led them to the village’s square, and Ridmark saw a large stone church, flanked on either side by halls for the stonemasons and the potters. Everywhere he saw signs of preparation for a siege, with women making bandages and arrows and carrying supplies to the walls, while men drilled with sword and spear. The newcomers drew stares, and townsmen looked alarmed at the sight of Morigna. She ignored the stares, her head held high with arrogant contempt. She claimed she did not know who had raised the undead, and Ridmark believed her.

But he suspected she knew a great deal more than she claimed.