Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (8 page)

A narrow road circled the rocky hill and led to the monastery’s curtain wall. The gate opened into a wide courtyard. Monks in brown robes hurried back and forth, many of them carrying crossbows. In the south, the monastic orders renounced violence, but in the Wilderland, monks did not have that luxury. A massive stone keep rose from the center of the courtyard, ringed in towers. Ridmark saw a small mob of monks and novices struggling at a set of doors in the keep’s base, near the entrance to the chapel.

The doors to the crypts.

“Sir Michael,” said a rasping, gravelly voice.

The abbot of the monastery and the leader of Moraime hobbled towards them. The abbot was an elderly orcish man, so old that only a few wisps of white hair clung to his green scalp, his tusks yellowed and worn. He leaned heavily upon a cane in his right hand, yet hobbled towards them with surprising speed. 

“Abbot Ulakhur,” said Michael with a bow, and Ridmark and the others followed suit. Morigna only crossed her arms and glared at the old orc. 

“You have brought guests,” said Ulakhur, blinking his watery black eyes. “And the witch of the hills is with you.”

“Forgive me, lord abbot,” said Michael, “but this is Ridmark Arban, the Gray Knight of the tales. The woman with him is Calliande of the Magistri, and they have come to offer help.” 

“You have?” said Ulakhur. “We sorely need aid.” The doors to the crypt thumped, the hinges creaking. “If those devils get out, it shall be a slaughter. I have commanded the brothers to seal the gates in the wall and retreat to the ramparts. If necessary, we shall fire the monastery and hope the undead are caught in the blaze.” 

“With respect, lord abbot, that may be necessary,” said Ridmark. “Lady Calliande can enchant our weapons to make them proof against the undead. If we force the undead to come at us here, perhaps we can defeat them.”

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, “there might be another way. I can sense…something inside the hill, some source of dark magic in the crypts.”

“I can detect it, too,” Morigna announced. “I think it is the source of the power that raised the undead.”

“The necromancer himself?” said Ridmark.

“Perhaps,” said Morigna.

“No,” said Calliande with a distracted shake of her head. “A…totem, a relic. An object, I think. Something that was left in the crypts and then activated.

“Then if we find and destroy it,” said Ridmark, “perhaps we can return the dead to their rest.” He looked at Ulakhur. “Lord abbot, with your permission, we shall enter the crypts and find this relic.”

“You risk much on our behalf,” said Ulakhur. “Go with our blessings and prayers.”

“If this goes ill,” said Michael, “we should withdraw the brothers to the wall, lord abbot, with crossbows and torches ready. If the Gray Knight fails, we should prepare to fire the monastery.”

Ulakhur sighed. “Make what preparations you think best, Sir Michael. Gray Knight, you have our thanks. Though I am unsure of the presence of the witch of the hills.”

Morigna scowled and started to speak, but Ridmark interrupted her. “She fought the undead outside of the town, lord abbot. I do not believe she means Moraime ill, and we need all the aid we can find.” 

“Very well,” said Ulakhur. “Go with God and his saints.”

Michael shouted orders, and the monks abandoned the crypt doors and headed for the walls. The militiamen moved to follow Michael, and Jonas hesitated, looking back and forth between Ridmark and his brother. Ridmark met his gaze, and Jonas scowled, sneered, and went after the militiamen. 

The crypt doors shuddered, one of the planks splintering, and Ridmark glimpsed dark shapes moving behind the doors.

And a hint of ghostly blue flame.

“Prepare yourselves,” said Ridmark, raising his staff.

###

Calliande took a deep breath and let her magical senses wash over the monastery one last time.

She felt the peculiar power of Morigna’s earth magic, strange and alien. But it lacked the icy malevolence of the power binding the corpses behind the door, of the source of power buried in the crypt. 

Gavin drew his sword and set his shield, putting himself in front of Calliande.

Morigna laughed. “Defending the women, boy? I need no one to defend me.”

“I wasn’t thinking of defending you,” said Gavin, not looking at Morigna.

“Gavin,” said Calliande, “go with Ridmark. When the undead break through the doors, he will need your help.”

Gavin hesitated, nodded, and hurried to join Ridmark and the other men. 

“Does he usually shield you in battle?” said Morigna. 

“Yes,” said Calliande, releasing her sensing spell and summoning more power, “effectively.”

“Well, fear not,” said Morigna with her mocking smile. “I’ll look after you while you enchant the weapons.” 

“How very comforting,” said Calliande. 

She could deal with Morigna later, once the undead had been defeated. The woman was dangerous, and Calliande was sure that she had lied to Ridmark. Even if she had not used dark magic, she seemed well along on the path to becoming someone like Talvinius of the Eternalists or Alamur. 

But for now, they had to work together to defeat the undead.

Calliande cast a spell. White fire burst from her hands, and Ridmark’s staff began to glow with white light, as did Kharlacht’s sword, Gavin’s blade, and Caius’s mace. 

The doors burst open, and the undead came forth.

The undead in the marshes had been orcs, long-dead warriors of Vhaluusk. These undead had once been monks of Moraime, still clad in their crumbling robes. Generations of monks had been buried in the crypts, until the dark magic had defiled their graves and raised them up as undead.

On the plus side, it meant none of the undead carried armor or weapons. No one buried monks with swords and daggers.

Ridmark and the others charged into the horde of undead.

Kharlacht carved into them like a man harvesting wheat, his blue greatsword inscribing white-glowing arcs through the undead monks. Every blow severed a head or a skeletal arm. Caius followed the tall orc, hammering with his mace. Whenever an undead monk drew too near, Caius darted into the gap, his brown robes billowing around him, and shattered a skull or a leg. Gavin guarded the dwarven friar, bashing with his shield and striking with the orcish sword he had taken from the arachar in Aranaeus.

But Ridmark tore through the undead like a storm.

His staff had a steel core, and Calliande knew firsthand how heavy the weapon was. Yet he wielded the staff as if it weighed no more than a light willow branch. He fought through the undead, striking right and left, shifting his grip from one-handed to two-handed and back again. The creatures reached for him, rotting robes billowing around them, but Ridmark remained just ahead of them, so close that Calliande feared that he would fall again and again. 

But they never touched him, and he left a score of broken corpses in his wake.

She had never seen a warrior like him. Of course, she could not remember anything that had happened before she had awakened thirty-two days ago. But even if she could, she doubted she could recall a man like Ridmark Arban.

Ridmark, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin tore through the undead, driving them back toward the crypt. 

More of the creatures poured out of the doors, and some of them got past Ridmark and the others and charged Calliande, drawn by her magic like flies to a lamp.

“Morigna,” said Calliande, her hands trembling as she struggled to maintain the spell around the weapons.

She expected a mocking answer, but Morigna only stepped forward, purple fire crackling around her fingers. The sorceress clapped her hands, and a ripple went through the ground, the heavy flagstones of the courtyard folding and bending like paper. The shock wave knocked a half-dozen undead to the ground. At once the creatures started to rise, but Morigna gestured again. Mist billowed from the ground, wrapping around the undead. Calliande wondered what good that would do, but the undead sizzled and hissed. The acidic mist ate into their rotting flesh and dissolved their bones, and the undead collapsed into piles of burning slime.

Unease went through Calliande. The Magistri used their magic to defend, to heal, and to seek knowledge, never to harm or kill. What would stop Morigna from conjuring acidic mist against living men?

Morigna raked her hands through the air, face tight with strain, and knocked another wave of undead monks into her pool of burning mist. They dissolved into smoke and slime, the stench hideous, and Ridmark and the others battled to the doors of the crypt. 

Silence fell over the courtyard.

Calliande looked around. Dozens of undead lay strewn across the ground, their skulls and limbs smashed. No more issued from the crypt doors, and Ridmark and the others stood at the threshold, glowing weapons in hand.

“Is that it?” said Calliande. “We destroyed them all already?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “There’s more down there.” 

“Torches?” said Gavin.

“No need,” said Morigna, lifting a hand. “I can provide the necessary light.”

She lifted her right hand, mist swirling above it, and for an alarmed moment Calliande thought she meant to attack. But the ball of mist began to glow with a gray light, shining brighter and brighter. 

“Good enough,” said Ridmark, and they descended into the darkness.

###

Scuttling noises echoed in crypt’s darkness.

Morigna’s eerie spell-light threw back the darkness, but cast crazed shadows in all directions. Massive, thick pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, and hundreds of graves had been cut into the floor, sealed with lids of stone. 

Most of the lids had been smashed open. 

Ridmark raised his staff, the weapon’s glow helping to throw back the darkness. He glimpsed dark shapes moving in the distant shadows of the vast crypt, caught glimpses of empty eyes gleaming with pale blue flames. Yet none of the undead approached. 

The creatures had shown no cunning during the fight in the marsh, and none during the fighting in the courtyard. Did that mean the necromancer was down here, controlling his minions? 

But why? Why loose the bands of undead in the countryside? Why raise the dead below the monastery? The attacks seemed to have no purpose.

Or they had a purpose that Ridmark could not yet see.

“Morigna,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice low. The light would have alerted anyone watching for intruders. “Do you sense anything?”

“Aye,” said Morigna, the light shining from her right hand, her left moving in the gestures of a spell. “At the far wall, I think. The dark magic is coming from there.” 

Ridmark nodded and kept walking, careful to keep his footing amongst the opened tombs. Broken stone lay everywhere, and the stench of dust and rotten flesh was heavy in the air. He heard the scuttling of the undead in the darkness, but none of the creatures attacked.

He suspected that they were talking into a trap. 

“Gray Knight,” rumbled Kharlacht, peering into the gloom. “A corpse ahead.”

“We are surrounded by walking corpses,” said Morigna. “Have you only now just noticed?”

The big orc ignored her. “A dwarven corpse, I think.”

“Dwarven?” said Caius.

“And fresh,” said Kharlacht. 

Morigna raised her right hand, the light brightening, and Ridmark saw the corpse. 

The short, stocky figure lay on its back, armored in black metal that looked somehow wet and reflective while absorbing the light. The gray-skinned face was utterly hairless, and a serrated black sword of the same metal lay in its right hand, a pointed shield near its left.

Morigna began to swear in a furious voice. 

“God save us,” said Caius.

“Why?” said Gavin. “What’s wrong?” 

“That isn’t a dwarf,” said Ridmark.

“What is it, then?” said Kharlacht.

“Look at its shadow,” said Ridmark. 

Kharlacht frowned. “It doesn’t have one.”

The broken stones and the pillars all cast shadows in Morigna’s hazy gray light. 

But the black-armored corpse did not, its armor drinking the light.

“That,” said Ridmark, “is the corpse of a dvargir.”

“Once of my kindred,” said Caius, his voice shaken, “but turned to worship the great void revered by the dark elves.”

Like the Enlightened of Incariel. 

“What would a dvargir be doing down here?” said Calliande. 

“They killed my parents,” spat Morigna. “Most probably they came here to attack Moraime.”

“Our dark cousins know necromancy,” said Caius. 

“How did it get in here?” said Kharlacht. “This hill is solid rock.”

“That would be no obstacle to the engineering skill of the dvargir,” said Caius. 

Ridmark stepped over an opened tomb and examined at the corpse. The dead dvargir showed no sign of a wound. Its eyes looked like polished disks of black granite, harsh and staring. 

“Gray Knight,” said Morigna. “The source of dark power. You are near it.” 

Ridmark nodded and lifted his staff like a torch, using its white glow to throw back the gloom. He was only a few yards from the crypt’s far wall, and he saw skulls resting in niches, their empty eyes staring at him.

A gleam of metal caught his attention…

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, and a deathly chill went through the crypt. 

And all at once Ridmark realized that the dead dvargir had indeed been a trap. 

He spun just as six hooded, translucent figures rose from the floor. The wraith outside of the burial mound had been the image of a long-dead orcish shaman. These wraiths looked like ancient monks, bent with age, heavy gray beards hanging from their chins.

And one wraith had been almost more than Ridmark could defeat.

Six would kill them all. 

Morigna and Calliande both began casting spells, and four of the wraiths flowed towards them. Two turned toward Ridmark, and he backed away, feeling his staff’s vibration fade as Calliande drew power for her spell. Even with her magic, even with Morigna’s help, they could not possibly defeat six wraiths at once. Six of the damned things could likely kill everyone in Moraime.