Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

by Jonathan Moeller

  She said nothing for a moment.

  “Who are you?” said Morigna.

  Ridmark grunted. “Have you forgotten my name already?”

  “That is not what I meant,” said Morigna. “An orcish warrior of Vhaluusk, a dwarven friar, and a proud Magistria, and they all obey your every word. And you bent Sir Michael and the abbot to your will. They are stubborn old fools. I thought they would sit and argue as the undead swarmed over them.” She shook her head again. “Why are you even here?”

  “I told you,” said Ridmark. “I’m going to Urd Morlemoch to wring answers from the Warden.”

  “You should not be,” said Morigna. “You ought to go back to Andomhaim and rule. You could if you wanted to. You are the strongest man I have ever met.” She looked toward the hill and grimaced. “Though the men I have met were either ancient wizards, elderly monks, or idiots like Michael or Jonas. The bar for comparison is not high.”

  “Or Nathan,” said Ridmark, voice quiet.

  She looked at him, pain flashing across her face. “He was different. You…remind me of him, a little. Though I do not think you would be so foolish as to charge into a circle of dark elven standing stones.”

  “You misjudge me greatly, then,” said Ridmark, remembering the day he had rescued Calliande.

  “Perhaps not,” said Morigna. “You are strong enough to take whatever you wish, yet you seem ready to throw your life away on this mad quest to Urd Morlemoch.”

  “It is necessary,” said Ridmark.

  “Is it?” said Morigna. “You could have whatever you want. Instead you are wandering the wilderness with a pack of outcasts and helping others with problems that are not your responsibility. Why?”

  “The same reason,” said Ridmark, “that you were planning to warn the town against the undead.”

  “Oh?” said Morigna. “And what reason is that? Can you read my mind? Perhaps Calliande ought to direct her fears about dark magic to you.”

  “Because,” said Ridmark, “it’s what Nathan would have wanted you to do.”

  Again he saw the pain flicker across her face.

  “Michael would not have believed me,” said Morigna. “Maybe I just wanted the satisfaction of telling him he was wrong after the undead overran Moraime.”

  “I am sure you would have enjoyed that satisfaction,” said Ridmark, “but that is not the main reason you did it.”

  “No,” said Morigna. “I suppose it is not.” She fell silent for a moment. “Is that why you are doing this? Because your dead wife would wish it of you?”

  Ridmark had never considered the question in that light. Aelia had believed him when he spoke of the return of the Frostborn, but had never seemed concerned. His wife had been a practical woman, more concerned with the welfare of Castra Marcaine than a far-off threat about which she could do nothing. Perhaps she had trusted him to take care of the Frostborn, if they ever returned.

  Just as she had trusted him to save her from Mhalek five years ago.

  “Ah,” said Morigna. “Have you no answer for me at last?”

  “Did Calliande tell you about her?” he said.

  “No,” said Morigna. “Only a little. That your wife died in front of you.”

  “Killed,” said Ridmark. “She was killed.”

  “And you could not save her,” said Morigna. “I suppose that explains much about you.”

  “Then you do understand,” said Ridmark, “why I am doing this.”

  She said nothing for a long moment.

  “Perhaps I do,” said Morigna at last.

  “Tell your ravens,” said Ridmark, turning back toward Calliande and the others. “Have them keep watch on the hill with the dark elven standing stones. If they do not wish to look at the stones, I cannot blame them. But they should have no such qualms about the hillside itself.”

  “I should have thought of it myself,” said Morigna.

  Ridmark rejoined Calliande and the others.

  “What was that about?” said Calliande. She was calm, but Ridmark could see her distrust of Morigna.

  “Dark magic and witchery, of course,” said Morigna. “I put a spell of evil sorcery upon the Gray Knight, and now he will dance upon my strings like a puppet.”

  Caius snorted. “Certainly that was the least spectacular piece of dark magic I have ever seen.”

  “There is a hill north of here with a dark elven stone circle,” said Ridmark. Calliande shuddered, no doubt recalling unpleasant memories of the stone circle upon the foothills of the Black Mountain. “Something is moving there.”

  “Perhaps an animal that wandered into the circle,” said Caius.

  “Or something worse,” said Ridmark. “The ravens will keep watch. We…”

  He heard the rasp of a boot upon stone and turned, raising his staff. But it was only Kharlacht.

  The orcish warrior did not look pleased.

  “Foes?” said Ridmark.

  “Worse,” rumbled Kharlacht. “A mystery. I followed the tracks halfway up the slope, to a wide ledge. And then nothing.”

  “Nothing?” said Ridmark. “The trail vanishes?”

  “It does,” said Kharlacht, “and it should not.” He gave an irritated shake of his head. “The footprints simply vanish. There is enough loose sand and dirt upon the hillside that I should have been able to track their passage, but I could not. It as if they were simply plucked off the hill.”

  “Perhaps you missed the tracks,” said Morigna.

  “This is possible,” said Kharlacht. “But I do not think so. Something else is afoot.”

  “Some trick of the Old Man’s magic?” said Gavin.

  “A logical conclusion,” said Morigna. “But he’s never done anything like that.”

  Ridmark considered, drumming his fingers against his staff. Footprints that disappeared, imprinted upon the hillside of a renegade wizard. He liked this less and less. Some of the creatures of dark elves could take a human form and yet use their wings to fly – he had fought an urdhracos in the ruins of Urd Morlemoch. Perhaps one lurked near the circle of standing stones.

  He opened his mouth to ask if Morigna’s ravens had seen any other flying creatures, and then stopped.

  Kharlacht’s footprints led down the side of the hill, and a half-dozen more sets of tracks followed his.

  Footprints, Ridmark was utterly certain, that had not been there a few moments ago.

  “Give me a moment to think,” said Ridmark, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  He kept tapping his fingers against his staff, but his eyes swung back and forth. The footprints broke off and moved along the sides of the wide path, and then came to a stop encircling Ridmark and his companions.

  As if they had just been surrounded by a band of invisible men.

  Some of the dark elves’ creatures could blend with their surroundings, and the dvargir could use shadow to conceal themselves almost perfectly. Yet the dvargir preferred to leave the Deeps at night, and Ridmark saw none of the telltale rippling that marked the presence of an urvaalg. For that matter, an urvaalg would have left clawed paw marks upon the ground.

  Not the prints of booted feet.

  Invisible men. A ridiculous idea.

  Yet Ridmark was utterly certain those footprints had not been there a few moments ago.

  And if there were invisible men watching them, they were preparing to strike. And if they were preparing to strike, they were close enough to overhear anything he said.

  Which meant he could not warn the others.

  Unless he thought of something clever.

  “Calliande,” he said, stepping closer to her.

  “What is it?” she said. “I don’t sense anything…”

  He took her in his arms and pulled her close. He just had time to see her expression, her blue eyes wide and shocked, but she made no effort to stop him. He cupped his free hand against the back of her neck and lowered his lips to her right ear.

  “Listen to me,” he whispered as softly
as he could. “We’re in terrible danger. Don’t speak. Nod if you understand.”

  He felt her nod, heard Morigna’s amused laugh.

  “A spell to break other spells,” whispered Ridmark. “Can you cast it over the path?”

  Calliande nodded.

  “Prepare it,” whispered Ridmark, her body warm against him. “Do it as soon as I step away.”

  She nodded once more, and he felt her hands clench as she summoned power, her breathing turning rhythmic. Hopefully their unseen observers would fail to notice anything amiss.

  Ridmark released her and took two steps back, gripping his staff in both hands.

  “Dare I even ask what that was about?” said Caius.

  Calliande flung out her hands, white fire dancing around her fingers, and a pulse of white light washed across the hillside. For a moment nothing happened, and Ridmark wondered if he had been too cautious, or if he had simply lost his mind.

  Then seven man-sized pillars of shadow swirled around the edges of the path. Kharlacht barked a curse and drew his greatsword, while Caius lifted his mace and Gavin yanked his sword from its sheath. Morigna took a step back, purple fire shining around her fingers.

  Then the shadows faded away, revealing seven men.

  Six of them wore identical costumes, dark cloaks with the hoods raised, swords and daggers at their belts. Crimson masks concealed their faces, shaped like grinning human skulls, and cuirasses of crimson leather armored their torsos. Ridmark recognized the design of the masks at once. They were assassins of the Red Family of Cintarra, a cult that worshipped Mhor, one of the old orcish blood gods, and they dealt death in his name. They also happened to profit tidily from their murders, and performed assassinations in exchange for large sums of gold.

  The seventh man was stocky and muscular, with a thick beard and a hauberk of chain mail, a sword ready in his hand.

  Sir Jonas Vorinus, younger brother of the praefectus of Moraime.

  “Well, well,” said Jonas with a laugh. “You were just as clever as I was warned, Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii. But not clever enough to escape the Enlightened of Incariel.”

  Chapter 9 - Sons of Mhor

  “The Enlightened of what?” said Morigna, scowling at Jonas. “What foolishness is this?”

  She was stunned. Jonas has used some sort of magic to conceal himself and his red-masked followers. Yet she had sensed nothing. Surely she would have felt something, some trace of the spell, as they drew closer. Certainly the Old Man would have detected the magic and dispatched the intruders.

  Yet there Jonas stood. Morigna had always considered him a spiteful, useless buffoon.

  Perhaps she had been mistaken.

  “Oh, you don’t know, do you?” said Jonas, lifting his sword with a lazy smile. “The Witch of the Hills, so arrogant, so sure of herself, doesn’t know something? How shocking.”

  “Incariel,” said Ridmark, his staff in both hands. The Gray Knight looked calm, but his voice was ice. “It’s a name for the great void the dark elves worshipped, the darkness that twisted them.”

  “And the dvargir,” added Caius, his mace ready.

  “Go on,” said Jonas. “This is most educational.”

  “There are some among the nobility of Andomhaim who worship Incariel, who believe it will give them the power to become the immortal princes of mankind,” said Ridmark. “Of course, the serpent promised much the same to Eve on Old Earth.”

  “A feeble story for children,” said Jonas. “Neither Old Earth nor the Dominus Christus ever existed, only this world. The priests of the church have no power. The Initiated of the Enlightened do, power beyond anything your parochial little mind can understand.”

  “Paul Tallmane said the same,” said Ridmark.

  “He was not one of the Initiated,” said Jonas, “and I have been sent to rectify his error.” His brown eyes, so similar to Nathan’s, turned back to Morigna. “And my fine friends, little witch? Do you recognize them?”

  Morigna sneered at Jonas’s companions. The men looked at her in silence, and she had to admit their grim skull-masks were a bit unnerving. “Whoever they are, they have poor taste in costumes. A crimson skull? Why not dress up in a sheet to frighten children?”

  “They are called the Red Family of Cintarra,” said Ridmark. “Hired assassins. I have enemies, and they are willing to pay a rich price for my head.”

  “The Dux Tarrabus Carhaine of Caerdracon, you mean,” said Jonas. “A fine and noble man. I enjoyed meeting him.”

  “And these are your fur merchants, I take it?” said Morigna.

  Jonas laughed. “Aye. They’ve visited Moraime for years. I made their acquaintance when I visited Coldinium a few years ago…and there I met the Enlightened. They sought worthy men to join them, to aid them in ruling the earth in the new order to come, and I joined them.”

  “I suspect your masters will be less than pleased,” said Ridmark, “when they learn how badly you botched this ambush.”

  “The Master cares nothing for methods, only for results,” said Jonas. “If I had to kill everyone in that miserable monastery to get at you, he would not blink an eye, so long as I was successful. Which reminds me. How did you see past the concealment?”

  “The Magistria sensed it,” said Ridmark. That annoyed Morigna – if Calliande had been able to sense it, why had it eluded her notice?

  “That is a lie,” said Jonas with a smile. “A good one, though. Mortal wizards, whether Magistri or renegade hill witches, cannot detect the power of Incariel’s shadow.”

  Shadow? What was he talking about?

  “Footprints,” said Ridmark. “You didn’t bother to conceal them when you followed us here.”

  Jonas groaned. “Of course! You really are as clever as the Dux said. Not clever enough to escape, of course, but still clever.”

  “And that is why you recognized me,” said Ridmark. “The Dux sent you to kill me.”

  “In a way,” said Jonas. “The Master said you might pass through Moraime, and it is well-known within the Enlightened that the Dux will pay a fortune for your head. So I can both please the Master and earn the Dux’s gold in the same day. If there were a God, I would say that he smiled upon me.”

  “So you want my head,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Jonas. “And the pretty blond head of the Magistria, too. A pity we have to kill her. Ah, but we could have put her to some good use.”

  One of the assassins let out a short, nasty laugh.

  “Shadowbearer,” said Calliande, her blue eyes narrowed. “Your precious Master is Shadowbearer, isn’t he? I should have known. He told me…” She shook her head.

  “The Master has many names,” said Jonas. “Some have called him Shadowbearer. We call him the Master, for he has taught us secret knowledge, and shown us the path to becoming gods.”

  “Folly,” said Caius.

  “As if you would know, dwarf,” said Jonas. “Your kindred shall have no place when the new order arises.” He pointed at Morigna. “Her, however, we shall take alive.”

  “Me?” said Morigna. “What does your Master want with me?”

  “I neither know nor care,” said Jonas. “I suspect the Master is doing a favor for one of his servants. But you will come with us…along with the stone carried by the Magistria.”

  “The empty soulstone,” said Morigna. “And what will your Master do with it?”

  “Why, that is a surprise,” said Jonas. “I suspect you will not enjoy it, though.”

  “Or to put it simply,” said Ridmark, “you are not important enough to the Enlightened to know.”

  Morigna laughed at the flicker of dismay that went over Jonas’s expression, but the chagrin soon turned to anger.

  “Enough,” said Jonas. “Let us begin, shall we?”

  “By all means, please,” said Ridmark. “I assumed there was a reason you wished to weary our ears with your nonsense.”

  “Perhaps because we spoiled his ambush,” said Calliand
e.

  Kharlacht barked a grim laugh. “Given how incompetently it was executed, we should not be surprised.”

  “Impatience is ever the failing of the young,” said Caius. “Had the Red Brothers and the cultist remain where they were, we would have strolled right into their trap. We…”

  “Enough!” said Jonas, pointing his sword. “I have decided to be generous and make you and offer. The Gray Knight and the Magistria must die, and the soulstone and the witch shall come with us.”

  “A compelling offer,” said Ridmark. “What do you offer in exchange?”

  “You three,” said Jonas with a smile. “The orc, the dwarf, and the boy. Kill the Gray Knight and the Magistria, help me overpower the witch, and I’ll let you live. More, I’ll even reward you. The Enlightened of Incariel are rising to power in Andomhaim, and we shall soon rule all of the world. Our friendship will be highly…”

  Gavin and Caius laughed, and even Kharlacht looked amused.

  “Aren’t you even going to offer us thirty pieces of silver?” said Gavin. “Isn’t that traditional?”

  Caius laughed. “Well spoken, lad.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Enough of this foolishness.” The Red Brother who had laughed turned his masked head to look at Jonas. “Kill them and be done with it. We were hired to kill your foes and help take the witch hostage, not to listen to your oratory.”

  “So be it, Rotherius,” said Jonas.

  “Are you sure that is wise?” said Ridmark. “We have a Magistria and another wielder of magic. You have none. Are you sure you can overcome us?”

  “I am entirely certain,” said Jonas. “You see, Gray Knight, you might have overcome Paul Tallmane. He may have been one of the Enlightened, but he was not one of the Initiated…and I am an Initiated of the Second Circle.”

  He lifted his sword, and shadows swirled and crawled around the blade.

  Cold power washed over Morigna, the darkness around the weapon pushing against her magical senses.

  “They taught you magic?” she said, astonished.

  “Greater than the petty tricks of a Magistrius,” said Jonas, the shadows crawling up his arms like the tentacles of some unearthly beast. “The power of Incariel, the power to evolve mankind into a new and higher form. A pity you will not be there to see it. Rotherius! Kill them all, save for the witch. She’s mine.”