Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (9 page)

The wraiths reached for him, and Ridmark was out of time.

He whirled, sprinted at the wall, and plunged his staff into one of the burial niches with all his strength, aiming for the metal he had seen earlier. From the staff’s fading glow he saw a skull crowned with an elaborate diadem, jewels glittering in the metal.

Jewels that flickered with a pale glow of their own.

Ridmark smashed his staff into the skull, and it shattered against the stone wall, the diadem snapping. 

A pulse of cold blue fire erupted from the wall, washing over him and illuminating the crypt. The flames did not burn him, but he felt a terrible chill from their touch. The fire rolled through the crypt, and the wraiths dissolved into smoke at their touch, while the undead monks quivered and collapsed motionless to the floor. 

Ridmark let out a long breath and caught his balance, leaning on his staff for a moment. 

“Is anyone wounded?” he said. 

“No,” said Calliande. “Well, yes. Some scrapes, some cuts. But none of the wraiths touched us.”

“What did you do?” said Morigna. “There was a surge of power…and then nothing.”

Ridmark turned and took careful steps towards the others. They were all alive, God and his saints be praised. Both Kharlacht and Gavin had taken some cuts, and already Calliande was working spells to heal them. 

“There was a… totem,” said Ridmark. “A human skull, crowned with a diadem, blue gems in the metal. I guessed it was the source of the power, and I shattered it.” He rolled his shoulders, stretching the aching muscles. He had done a lot of fighting today. “It seemed to do the trick.”

“A bold guess,” said Morigna. 

“But an accurate one,” said Kharlacht, “given that it saved our lives.”

“I’ve never heard of such a spell,” said Calliande.

“I have, I fear,” said Caius. “It is a dvargir totem. When the dvargir abandoned my people and turned towards the darkness, the great void rewarded them with power over shadows and the dead. They use such totems to raise undead guardians to defend their strongholds.” 

“It seems,” said Ridmark, “that your Old Man is not responsible for the undead after all.”

“I told you,” said Morigna, but the reply lacked her usual spite, her eyes subdued as she stared at the dead dvargir. 

Perhaps it had brought back more memories than she had wished. 

“I think,” said Ridmark, “we should go have a talk with Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael.” 

Chapter 6 - The Abbot

Abbot Ulakhur’s study was as austere as Ridmark expected.

It occupied the highest room in one of the keep’s towers, with a view of the town and the hills rising to the north. The abbot’s desk was a simple wooden table, adorned only with a few half-finished letters and a copy of the Gospel of St. Luke. A wooden shelf held curios, mostly orcish knives and daggers made in the style of Vhaluusk. Ridmark guessed that Ulakhur’s path to the church had been as convoluted as Kharlacht’s.

Fortunately, the abbot’s study had numerous guest chairs, and Ridmark sat gratefully in one, his legs and shoulders aching, and the others did the same. The abbot seated himself behind his desk, while Sir Michael leaned against the wall, his expression grim. Jonas paced back and forth before the study door.

Again and again he glowered at Ridmark. 

But Michael spoke first.

“I object,” he said, pointing at Morigna, “to her presence here. She killed my brother.”

“I did not,” said Morigna. Ridmark would have expected more anger, but she only sounded tired. The battle had taken its toll upon her. Or maybe she was tired of the argument. “The urvaalg killed Nathan. I tried to save him, but…”

“Praefectus,” said the old abbot, “peace, I beg you. We all grieve for the death of Sir Nathan, and I admit, if I could have worked my will,” his black eyes turned to Morigna, “Nathan would have stayed far away from her. But she fought valiantly alongside the Gray Knight and his friends to defeat the undead.” 

“As you say,” said Michael, but his anger seemed undimmed. 

“She deserves our thanks,” said Ulakhur, “as does Ridmark Arban.” He rose and bowed in their direction. “If not for your aid, we would have lost the monastery. And we could easily have lost the town.”

“You would have lost the town in any event,” said Calliande, voice quiet. “I barely have the magical strength to overcome one wraith, and there were six in the crypt. Even if you had held the wall against the skeletal undead, the wraiths could have passed through the wall without hindrance, and you would have been forced to flee the town.”

“Then, truly,” said Ulakhur, “God in his mercy sent you to us in our hour of need.”

“He works in mysterious ways,” said Caius, “his wonders to perform.”

“I fear it may not be so mysterious,” said Calliande. “The undead might be after me.”

“You, my lady?” said Ulakhur. “Why?”

“There is a renegade high elven wizard who calls himself Shadowbearer,” said Calliande. 

Jonas scoffed. “A legend.” 

Calliande remained calm, but Ridmark knew her well enough by now to know when she wanted to roll her eyes.

“Shadowbearer may or may not be a legend,” said Calliande, “but this high elven wizard calls himself by that name. I escaped him once, and he is hunting me. Already he has sent groups of undead after me. I fear…I fear I may have brought this evil upon you.” 

“No,” said Caius. “The evil is the work of the dvargir, not Shadowbearer. And certainly not you.” 

“Then how,” said Michael, “did that dead dvargir get into the crypts?” 

“A grievous evil,” said Ulakhur. “Generations of departed brothers rested in the crypts, awaiting the Last Day. The vile necromancy has defiled that sacred place. Thankfully their souls rest in the arms of the Dominus Christus…though their mortal vessels can still be profaned by dark magic.” 

“I am not sure,” said Ridmark, “that the dead dvargir was responsible.”

“Why not?” said Ulakhur.

“As Sir Michael said,” said Ridmark, “how did the dvargir get into the crypts?”

No one had an answer for him.

Ridmark had fought dvargir before, while he had been a Swordbearer in service to the Dux Gareth Licinius of Castra Marcaine. The dvargir dwelled in the Deeps, and rarely came to the surface, preferring to spend their time warring against the dark elves and the kobolds and the deep orcs and each other. But when they attacked humans on the surface, they preferred to use surprise and ambush. One of their favorite tactics was to tunnel into the cellars of a castra and attack in the middle of the night. 

“I do not know,” said Ulakhur. “The brothers and the novices searched the crypt once it was made safe. They found no sign of a tunnel.” 

“Is there a secret entrance?” said Ridmark. “This monastery is a fortress, and often fortresses are built with escape tunnels. Is there a secret passage from the crypts?”

“No,” said Ulakhur. “I’m sure of it. The monastery has secret passages, of course, and the knowledge of them is passed from abbot to abbot. But there are no secret passages to the crypts.” 

Jonas laughed. “Then perhaps the dvargir used magic to turn itself into a wraith and pass through the walls.”

“No,” said Caius. “The dvargir have magic, but that is not among their powers.” 

“The dvargir must have infiltrated the monastery in the night,” said Kharlacht. 

“Or,” said Jonas, “someone within the monastery let it inside.”

Ulakhur frowned. Despite his advanced age, the old orc still looked fierce. “Do you accuse one of our brothers, Sir Jonas? We are all men of God, and we do not betray each other.”

“Even the Dominus Christus was betrayed, was he not?” said Jonas. “Treachery ever lurks in the heart of men.” 

“This is so,” said Michael, “but why would any of the monks or novices let a dvargir into the monastery? The dvargir take humans and orcs and halflings as slaves. Any traitor would find himself killed once he was no longer useful.” 

“Nor,” said Ulakhur, “does that explain the undead in the countryside.”

“How many groups of undead have you seen?” said Ridmark.

“Perhaps half a dozen,” said Michael, “of twenty or thirty each. There are many old orcish burial mounds scattered around the hills and the marshes. Sensible folk stay away from them, but this necromancer must have gone digging.”

“It seems,” said Morigna, “that a great deal of preparation must have been involved. So, Magistria, much as you might wish to blame yourself, it seems you cannot. The necromancer cannot have known you would come here.”

Calliande frowned, but Michael spoke first. “Be silent. I will tolerate your presence here, but I will not suffer you to speak.” 

“A pity,” said Morigna. “If you listened to my counsel, then…”

“If Nathan had listened to my counsel,” said Michael, “then you might not have led him to his death.”

Morigna said nothing, but her fingers tightened against the arms of her chair.

“This is ridiculous,” said Jonas. “Brother, lord abbot, you are the governors of Moraime. Not this Magistria, not the witch of the hills, and certainly not this…this gray-cloaked brigand with a coward’s brand. Why are we even heeding his counsel?”

Ridmark met Jonas’s gaze without blinking, and eventually the knight looked away. 

Again Ridmark could not shake the feeling that Jonas knew him. Of course, after Mhalek, most of the men of Andomhaim knew his name, and to his annoyance tales of the Gray Knight had spread far and wide. But Jonas’s dislike seemed different, as if the man knew him personally.

Or had some other reason to hate him.

“You should not speak of things you do not understand, Sir Jonas,” said Caius. 

“The Gray Knight aided us without asking for any reward,” said the abbot. “And a man’s sins are in his past, if he repents and asks the Dominus Christus for forgiveness.” 

“He saved my life and the lives of my village from an urdmordar,” said Gavin.

Jonas laughed. “An urdmordar? Be silent when your elders are speaking, boy. And do not make up fanciful tales, or I shall have to give you a beating.” 

“Sound advice,” said Morigna, and Gavin answered her with a glare. 

“I told you to be silent,” said Michael, stepping closer to her. “Lord abbot, it is my belief that the Old Man and his apprentice are responsible for the undead. They used their magic to smuggle the dvargir into the monastery to divert blame from themselves.”

“That is a slander,” said Morigna. “I have never lifted my hand against anyone in this miserable little town.”

“Save for my brother, perhaps?” said Michael.

Morigna slammed a fist against the arm of her chair. “I tried to save him, damn you! Why will you not believe me?”

“Because,” said Calliande, “you are a renegade wielder of outlawed magic, as is your teacher?” 

“I am suspicious of the Old Man,” said Ulakhur, “but he has dwelled alone in the hills for longer than I have been abbot. Longer than I have been a brother at this monastery. In all that long span of years he has never made trouble for the people of Moraime.” 

“Perhaps, lord abbot,” said Jonas, “your forgiving nature makes it difficult for you to see the treacherous nature of men.” He looked at Morigna. “Or of women.”

Ulakhur snorted. “My lad, I knew well the treacherous nature of men long before you were born.”

“Then why do you not see the plain and obvious truth?” said Michael, pointing at Morigna. “Obviously the Old Man worked the necromancy, and left the dead dvargir to fool us. His apprentice is part of the plot. And she murdered my brother!”

“You blind fool!” shouted Morigna, shooting to her feet. “I tried to save him! I would have done anything to save him. Why…”

Calliande, Michael, Jonas, Caius, Gavin and the abbot all began trying to talk at once. The study filled with the sound of angry voices, and soon everyone was shouting. 

Ridmark sighed, got to his feet, and picked up his staff.

And then he swung.

The sound of the heavy weapon slamming into the abbot’s desk was deafening.

The others stared at him in surprise. 

“It seems to me,” said Ridmark into the silence, “that we have a common goal. We must find this necromancer and stop him from raising more undead to send against Moraime. It matters not whether the necromancer is a wild sorcerer, a renegade Magistrius, an orcish shaman of the blood gods, a band of dvargir, or the Old Man himself.” Morigna started to protest, but Ridmark raised a hand. “We can agree on this.” 

The others nodded. 

“So,” said Ridmark, “I think this is the logical course. Sir Michael, Sir Jonas, the monks, and the militiamen will remain behind to guard the town and the monastery from further bands of undead. I myself will go in search of the necromancer, along with my companions.” 

“That is reasonable,” said Ulakhur.

“Though one wonders,” said Jonas, “how you are going to find the necromancer.”

“I will start,” said Ridmark, “by traveling to the home of the Old Man and speaking with him.” 

Morigna scowled. “Then you think he is responsible? I have told you that he is not!”

“I do not know what to think yet,” said Ridmark. “Maybe Sir Michael is right, and you simply defend the Old Man out of loyalty.” Her scowl deepened. She had a pretty face, but her black eyes made her look ferocious when enraged. “Or maybe Sir Michael is wrong, and the Old Man has nothing to do with it. But by all account, he has lived north of Moraime for decades. He will know the area better than anyone. And if his magic is as powerful as you say, if he is not the necromancer…then he will almost certainly know who raised the undead.”

Morigna opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it again. “I…had not considered that.”

“The Old Man has never aided Moraime before,” said Michael. “When pagan orcs raided out of the north, or kobolds came out of the Deeps, he never lifted a finger to aid us.”

“And neither did he aid your foes,” said Ridmark. “I simply wish to talk with him.”

“What makes you think he will speak with you?” said Jonas.

“He will,” said Ridmark. “I can be very persuasive.”

He did not know what kind of man Morigna’s teacher was, but he could guess. Mostly likely the Old Man was a dabbler in forbidden magic, given the spells he had taught Morigna. Or he was a renegade Magistrius, one who had fled the High King’s realm for anything from practicing dark magic to having an affair with the wife of a Comes.