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.
Either way, such a man would wish to avoid the attention of the Magistri and the Swordbearers…and both Ridmark and Calliande could bring the attention of the two Orders.
The Old Man would cooperate.
And if he was indeed responsible for the necromancy, then Ridmark would kill him without regret.
“I will accompany you,” said Morigna. “You think that I am involved in this? So be it. I shall prove otherwise. I will lend my magic to your cause, and help you defeat the undead.”
“Why would we want that?” said Gavin. “We already have a strong Magistria.”
“Because while the Magistria may be strong,” said Morigna, not taking her eyes from Ridmark, “I can do things she cannot. Just as she can do things I cannot.”
Ridmark said nothing.
“And I can aid you in other ways,” said Morigna. “I know the countryside well, and I can lead you right to the Old Man’s home. You will never find it otherwise – he has it ringed about with wards of concealment and hiding.” She hesitated, licked her lips. “I wish to help you. Please.”
Ridmark watched her. She looked almost upset, and he knew how a skilled actress could feign emotion. Yet Morigna seemed too wild, too rough, and simply too arrogant for that kind of manipulation. And he thought he saw a hint of pain there, despite all her prickly demeanor. Fear, even. But fear of what? The Old Man? Or something else?
“Very well,” said Ridmark. “I will not turn away help. But keep your debates with Brother Caius to a reasonable volume.”
“I’m sure we shall be the soul of civil discourse,” said Caius.
Caius looked pleased, Kharlacht indifferent, and Calliande and Gavin annoyed. Ridmark understood their dislike. He did not trust Morigna, not even slightly. But she had proven useful in the fight against the undead, both at the burial mounds and in the crypts. Likely her knowledge of the countryside and the Old Man would prove useful.
And Ridmark would be able to keep an eye on her.
“It is almost dark,” said Ridmark. “At first light tomorrow I will set out for the Old Man’s home.”
“Just as well,” said Morigna. “It is almost a full day’s journey.”
“You will stay here tonight as our guests, and eat at our table,” said Ulakhur. “We even have special quarters for female guests, lest their beauty distract our brothers from their holy contemplations.”
Calliande smiled. “You are a flatterer, lord abbot.”
Ulakhur barked out a laugh. “In my younger days, perhaps. Now, not so much.”
“Thank you, lord abbot,” said Caius. “We have been many days on travel rations, and I feel as if I could eat a horse.”
“Two horses,” said Kharlacht.
“Well, you are taller.”
“I have some questions,” said Ridmark.
“Please, ask what you will,” said Ulakhur. “I will tell you anything you wish to know, if it will keep Moraime safe.”
“Have any strangers come to Moraime recently?” said Ridmark.
Michael snorted. “Other than yourself, Gray Knight?”
“That is exactly what I mean,” said Ridmark. “Someone who seems as suspicious or out of place as I do.”
Michael looked at Jonas. “Those merchants of yours, brother.”
“Merchants?” said Ridmark.
Jonas snorted. “Rotherius and his lot? You think he is a necromancer? Surely you are jesting.”
“Who is Rotherius?” said Ridmark.
“A fur merchant from Coldinium,” said Jonas with a scowl. “He makes the trip from Coldinium once every year or so to buy pelts from me. No need to pay tax to the Comes of Coldinium on pelts acquired outside of the realm, after all. Nathan and I used to make some coin selling furs and drake scales.” He glanced at Morigna. “Of course, since Nathan died in such mysterious circumstances, I’ve carried on myself.”
“Could this merchant be involved?” said Ridmark.
Jonas laughed. “Oh, I suppose, if he were not a sweating craven. He would not come, if the profits were not so sweet. Every year I listen to him whine about how the pagan orcs or the urvaalgs or the ursaars shall descend upon him and tear him to bloody shreds.”
“A reasonable fear,” said Kharlacht.
“He travels with several guards,” said Jonas, “and they are staying at the inn. Question them if you like, but I am utterly certain they have nothing to do with the undead. The guards are unlettered knaves, and Rotherius himself is a craven. The man barricaded himself in his room when the undead attacked and hasn’t emerged since.”
“Very well,” said Ridmark. “One other question. Have any of you ever encountered a trolldomr who calls himself Rjalfur?”
The abbot and the praefectus looked at each other.
“I haven’t,” said Michael, “though I have spoken to farmers and hunters who have.”
“When I was younger, and the previous abbot still sent me on errands to the countryside,” said Ulakhur, “I talked to him once. He spoke in riddles, and then vanished into the ground.”
“How long has he been here?” said Ridmark.
“For centuries, surely,” said Ulakhur. “The first abbot recorded speaking with
him in the chronicles of the monastery, and the monastery has been here since the defeat of the Frostborn.”
“Is there any chance he would be behind the undead?” said Ridmark.
“I think that most unlikely,” said the abbot. “We have never heard any stories of Rjalfur harming anyone. Sometimes he even warns travelers against danger.”
“He warned us against the undead,” said Kharlacht.
“No,” said Ridmark. “The undead were almost a mile north of us, and they were attacking Morigna. He sent us into their path.”
“Perhaps he was aiding me,” said Morigna.
“I suppose that is likely,” said Michael, “given that your main skill is luring men to their doom.”
“There is no need for further argument,” said Ridmark before the praefectus and the sorceress could start shouting again. “I am going to the Old Man’s home tomorrow, as is Morigna.”
“Very well,” said Ulakhur, rising. “I shall have the novices show you to the guest chambers.”
They started to go, Morigna keeping well away from the Vorinii brothers.
“Morigna,” said Ridmark.
She looked back at him, and Calliande frowned.
“A word with you,” said Ridmark.
###
He led Morigna onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Below the monks labored, returning the corpses to their rest in the crypt. She saw the cleverness of his choice to speak with her on the balcony. No one could overhear them, yet they were in plain sight, so no one could accuse her of putting a spell on him.
For that matter, no one could accuse him of seducing her, either.
Ridmark Arban was a clever man. The meeting in the abbot’s study could have ended in violence, but he had taken charge with ease. Even more remarkable, both the abbot and the praefectus had deferred to him. Both Sir Michael and Ulakhur were stubborn men, and would not give way when they thought themselves right.
So how did a man able to sway their minds carry a coward’s brand upon his face?
“I am surprised,” said Morigna, “how quickly you brought them to see reason.”
“Nathan Vorinus,” said Ridmark. “Who was he?”
She tried not to flinch at the question.
“The youngest of the three brothers,” said Morigna. “A knight, like the other two, knighted by their father before he died. A hunter like Jonas, but he was better at it. He would range far over the hills and the marshes.”
“Where,” said Ridmark, “he met you.”
Morigna nodded, feeling something brittle shift inside her.
“Who was he?” said Ridmark.
She scowled. “I already answered the question. Shall I repeat myself? Perhaps with smaller words?”
As ever, her barb failed to get a reaction from him. “Let me restate the question. Who was he to you?”
“He was a brave man,” said Morigna, “a skilled hunter, bold and fearless. He could track a deer by the trace of its hooves upon the grass. He…”
Ridmark stared at her without blinking.
“A lover,” she said at last. “Damn you. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Did you kill him?” said Ridmark.
She laughed, harsh and cold. “Did I slay him, paint myself with blood, and dance naked around a standing stone to gain my magic?”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No,” she said. “I suppose it wasn’t.” She took a deep breath. “There…is a ring of standing stones near the Old Man’s home, raised by the dark elves in the deeps of time. The Old Man warned me away from it. He said the creatures of the dark elves still lurked in the caverns beneath the stones, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things. One day about two years past, I went hunting with Nathan. He chased a deer to the standing stones. I begged him not to go after it, but …”
“And,” said Ridmark, “the urvaalg was waiting for him.”
She nodded, blinking. She would not cry in front of him. She would not show weakness in front of anyone ever again. The Old Man had taught her that much. “I managed to kill the urvaalg with the loose boulders from the hill.”
“A remarkable feat,” said Ridmark. “It is hard to kill an urvaalg without a Soulblade or the magic of the Well.”
“I couldn’t save him,” said Morigna. “Michael and Jonas think I seduced Nathan and lured him to his death. But they may say whatever they wish about me.” The bitter pain filled her. “I saw the man I loved die in front of me. No punishment is worse than that.”
She expected Ridmark to condemn her, just as Michael and Jonas and that haughty Magistria had. Or to blame her for Nathan’s death, to chastise her for not saving him.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
She blinked. He looked tired, and…sad, so very sad.
“That is not,” he said, “something I would wish on anyone. Come. The monks of St. Cassian set a fine table, and we shall need our strength tomorrow.”
He left the balcony without another word. After a moment Morigna shrugged and followed him.
Ridmark Arban was a most unusual man, and Morigna found herself growing more curious.
Chapter 7 - Dark Magic
The monks of Moraime had a small cottage within their walls for unmarried female visitors. It was more comfortable than Calliande would have expected, with four single beds resting against the walls, a massive hearth between them, and a small room with its own latrine and a large stone bathtub set into the floor. With the thick stone walls, it would be warm and pleasant in the cool spring night.
Unfortunately, the monks had only one cottage for unmarried women, which meant Calliande would have to share it with Morigna.
She set her pack next to one of the beds and turned. Morigna regarded her with a smirk that was half-amused, half-wary. Calliande could not shake that feeling that she was confronting a wild animal, one that could either flee or attack in a rage.
Morigna’s stare reminded her of Rakhaag and his pack of lupivirii.
Calliande did not think there was any malevolence in Morigna, not yet. But there was arrogance, and spiteful contempt, and those things led easily to unyielding pride.
To men like Alamur and Talvinius.
“So,” said Morigna. “I suppose you would like the bath first?”
“It is large enough for four,” said Calliande, “and the monks have built a hypocaust for hot water. We can share easily enough.”
Morigna laughed. “Assuming you do not mind that the monks shall be spying upon us.”
Calliande blinked. “What?”
“These cloistered, feeble, fearful old men,” said Morigna. “Do you really think they built this guest cottage without any holes drilled into the walls?”
“I do,” said Calliande. “They have taken vows to God.”
“To God?” said Morigna, a glint in her black eyes. “A tale told by priests.”
“So you think there is no God?” said Calliande.
Morigna shrugged. “Perhaps there is, and perhaps there is not. Perhaps all those places described in the scriptures, Jerusalem and Rome and Babylon, never really existed, and Old Earth was nothing but a fable concocted by our ancestors.”
“Why would they do that?” said Calliande. She was aware that Morigna was testing her, probing her for weakness, and it was probably a good idea not engage at all. But Calliande had escaped from the Mhalekite orcs who had intended to sacrifice her upon the altar of the Black Mountain, had eluded the grasp of Shadowbearer, and had faced a female urdmordar in her fury and power.
She would not show any weakness before this arrogant, half-wild sorceress.
“To live in idle leisure, of course,” said Morigna. “The monks do not labor in the fields, and instead accept tithes from the townsfolk. Why make up stories about Old Earth that would allow them to live in idle luxury? Truly, it baffles the mind.”
“They hardly seem to live in luxury,” said Calliande. “Someone had to build this fortress. Did you see the monks? They all
look half-starved. I expect they spend long hours fasting and in prayer, and then long hours in labor, whether in the scriptorium or attending the monastery’s fields. If they concocted false tales to live in comfort, they certainly have done a poor job of it.”
Morigna laughed. “Better stone walls and a full belly than scratching for food in the wilderness.”
“I shall make a wild guess of my own,” said Calliande. “Your Old Man does not approve of the church?”
“He does not,” said Morigna. “He told me that there is no God, that all kindness and cruelty flow only from the hearts of men. He says that the church is a corrupt lie, and that strong men invented the scriptures to rule over weaker men.”
“You think he is correct?” said Calliande.
“I see no reason he is not,” said Morigna.
Calliande laughed. “You seem so…young.”
Morigna raised her eyebrows. “You cannot be more than two or three years older than me. You are as young as I am.”
“I’m not,” said Calliande. “I’m really not.”
If the monks had come to Moraime after the defeat of the Frostborn, it was entirely possible Calliande was older than the monastery itself.
“What do you mean, young?” said Morigna.
“You’re certain the church is corrupt?” said Calliande. “How many churches have you seen?”
“The monastery and the church in the town,” said Morigna, “and they live off the labor of the townsfolk.”
“And their own, too, it seems,” said Calliande. “But even if you dislike the monks, then tell me. How many other churches have you visited?”
Morigna said nothing.
“You must have gone to Coldinium, surely,” said Calliande. “It is not that far south of here. Or to the great cathedrals in Tarlion of Cintarra. Or maybe even the churches in the villages and the freeholds of the Northerland. Surely you must have seen many churches before you arrived at your opinion.”
“No,” said Morigna. “I’ve never been out of Vhaluusk.”
“And there are many churches among the pagan tribes of Vhaluusk, I am sure,” said Calliande. “Well, at least you took the time to form your own conclusions before swallowing whatever the Old Man happened to tell you. That would be dreadfully foolish otherwise.”
Frostborn: The Undying Wizard Page 8
