“Me,” said Morigna, the chill settling into her bones. “That is why you took me in.”
“I admit, wearing a woman’s body is something of an…indignity, let us say,” said Coriolus. “And menstruation is a terrible inconvenience. But I have inhabited a woman’s flesh before, and can do so again if I must. And you…you have such magical potential, and you are healthy enough to live for nearly a century. How could I resist?”
“That is why you took me in after my mother and father died,” said Morigna. “To raise me as your vessel.”
The cruel glint in his eyes brightened. “Quite right. Oh, but you were a trial. Children are detestable vermin, but you were particularly vexing. But so easy to mold, for all that. The rebellious little sorceress, sneering at the Old Man but desiring his approval, forever running from and returning to her teacher. I taught you enough to magic to grow your potential, but never enough to threaten me. You should be honored, really. Your entire life has been shaped to reach this moment, from the first moment I saw your mother carrying you and sensed your potential…”
“My potential?” said Morigna, and she blinked. “Then you…you…”
He laughed. “Do you understand now?”
“You killed my mother and father,” she whispered.
His smile widened. “The dvargir are amenable to gold. And when I sent them to murder one wretched, flea-ridden hunter and his slattern wife, they did so gladly. Of course, I killed them all when I came to the rescue, the crazy wizard coming out of the hills to claim his apprentice, the child who would feel gratitude to her rescuer…”
Morigna screamed.
Fury beyond anything she had ever known filled her, and she threw herself against the wards with all her power. For a moment the sheet of crimson light flickered, but the Old Man’s magic was too strong. The trap snapped back into place.
Her entire life. Morigna’s entire life had been shaped by the Old Man’s malice.
He had murdered her mother and father just to claim her.
Morigna felt herself shaking, felt hot tears sliding down her face.
“There we go,” murmured Coriolus. “The proud little bitch, broken at last. How I have looked forward to this!”
“You will pay,” hissed Morigna. “I swear you will.”
“No, I won’t,” said Coriolus. “The Enlightened of Incariel are prattling fools for the most part,” Jonas scowled at him, “but they are right about one thing. Justice is only an illusion. The time for talk is over, dear Morigna. The hour of work has come…and the time to make your flesh suitable to receive my spirit.”
He gestured, red fire blazing around his fingers, and darkness swallowed Morigna.
###
Ridmark watched as Morigna floated out of the trap, wrapped in a cocoon of crimson light.
“And now, I suppose,” said Ridmark, “you’re going to kill the rest of us?”
“What?” said Coriolus. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort. Shadowbearer wants to kill you, and I shall not stand in his way. No, my little spell is going to put you to sleep until he arrives. Then you can deal with him. You will wish I had killed you then.” He grinned as Morigna floated to his side, her eyes closed. “Especially Calliande.”
“You should kill us now,” said Ridmark.
“Oh?” said Coriolus. “Why is that?”
“Because if I get loose,” said Ridmark, “I am going to kill you for your crimes.”
“Such a terrifying threat,” said Coriolus. “What will you do, beat me to death with that stick of yours?”
“He will,” said Calliande, her voice ice, “once I break your defensive wards. You are a monster.”
“A monster?” said Coriolus, raising his wispy white eyebrows. “I suppose from your perspective, I am. But I am an immortal, and you are not. And the wolf always looks like a monster to the sheep.” He lifted his hand, more red light flaring to life. “Sleep well. Do give my regards to Shadowbearer before he rips the tongues from your mouths.”
The red light blazed brighter. Blackness closed around Ridmark. He fought against it, but his eyes grew heavier.
The last thing he saw was Coriolus and Jonas striding from the hall, Morigna floating after them.
And then darkness swallowed the world.
Chapter 18 - New Flesh
Morigna floated through her dreams.
She saw her father and mother, saw Litavis and Maria. Her father had been tall and sinewy, able to move through the woods like a ghost. He had taken her along from time to time, teaching her how to track and hunt. Maria looked a great deal like Morigna, with long black hair and black eyes. She cleaned Litavis’s kills, teasing him until he joined in the work. He always complained about it, but did so good-naturedly. Every few weeks they went to Moraime to hear the priest and receive the sacrament, to buy supplies from the merchants.
They had been both so young. Maria had been no more than Morigna’s age, no more than twenty or twenty-one. They seemed so old in her memories.
But they hadn’t been old at all. They had died young.
Died when Coriolus sent his dvargir to cut them down.
She saw his face floating through her mind, that sneering, contemptuous face. She heard his endless lectures over the last fourteen years, his contempt for those weaker than himself, his pride in his strength. She had absorbed it all like a sponge, and he had molded her into a little copy of himself.
But it had all been a lie. He had not been teaching her, but preparing her. Molding her into a vessel to receive his corrupted spirit, like a potter shaping a jar.
Her entire life had been his lie.
She remembered running from her father’s cottage, screaming in terror. The dvargir had pursued her, cloaked in shadow. She had been certain she would die.
Then the Old Man had come, killing them with his magic.
The Old Man, who had saved her life.
But that had been another lie. He had murdered her parents. Then he had betrayed and murdered his dvargir servants to gain her trust.
All while plotting to possess her flesh.
Morigna screamed in fury, chasing him through the dream.
###
She awoke with a gasp, breathing hard, sweat pouring down her face.
And right away she realized that many things were very wrong.
Cold, rough stone dug into the skin of her back and shoulders and legs, and Morigna realized that she was naked. Panic filled her and she tried to sit up, but coils of rope encircled her wrists and ankles, holding her spread-eagle upon a slab of stone. She saw the sky overhead, covered in heavy gray clouds. It was not that chilly out, but without her clothing, Morigna felt desperately cold.
She summoned magic, trying to work a spell to break the ropes. Yet a stab of pain went through her head, and she slumped against the stone, unable to concentrate through the sudden agony.
“None of that, now,” said a familiar voice.
Morigna turned her head, looking around as she tried to find the speaker.
She lay on an altar of rough black stone. The altar itself sat atop a low mound of earth, encircled by a ring of black standing stones, their sides adorned with scenes of dark elves torturing their foes. Another ring encircled the first, and beyond Morigna saw the hills. She saw the Old Man’s cottage across the ravine, sitting perched atop its hill, the marshes stretching away to the south.
Coriolus came into sight, his long gray coat blowing in the breeze.
“I was wondering,” he said, “when you would wake up.”
“Let me go!” spat Morigna, the fury exploding through her. “Let me go!”
“And why,” said Coriolus, “should I do that?”
He stepped closer, and fear crawled through Morigna. She pressed against the altar, trying to get as far away from him as possible. She desperately wanted to cover herself.
“Oh, you need not fear that,” said Coriolus. “I will not harm or molest you. It would be most foolish, would it not? I have no inten
tion of damaging a house in which I plan to reside.”
“You killed my mother and father,” said Morigna. “You lied to me my whole life!”
“Yes, I believe I already mentioned that,” said Coriolus. “Kind of you to remember, though.” He turned his head. “You two, bring it here.”
Something moved, shuffling against the hill, and the stench of carrion came to Morigna’s nostrils. A pair of orcish undead came into sight, carrying a wooden table from the Old Man’s cottage. Upon the table rested a variety of clay pots, a set of brushes, a few rolled-up scrolls, and a golden chalice that glimmered in the dim light.
“Yes, there,” said Coriolus. “That will do.” He waved a hand. “Stand guard with the others.”
The undead shuffled away.
“Then you raised those undead,” said Morigna.
He raised his eyebrows, but did not look up as he rummaged through the table’s contents. “Was that not obvious? The skill of the dvargir with necromancy is crude, much like their warding magic. They could not have raised so many corporeal undead at once, and they certainly could not have created any wraiths.” He smiled, and Morigna saw the black shadow of a wraith drift past one of the standing stones.
No wonder she felt so cold.
“The standing stones,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid of the urvaalgs?”
“No,” said Coriolus, looking at one of his scrolls. “I had two of them, but they ran across a dvargir raiding party about a year ago. Dvargir steel can harm creatures of dark magic, though not as effectively as a soulblade. The urvaalgs killed six of the dvargir, but the beasts perished in the end. Pity. They might have been useful against the Gray Knight and his ragged little band. Though I hardly needed the help.”
“You commanded the urvaalgs?” said Morigna, a fresh chill sinking into her.
“Of course,” said Coriolus, still reading his scroll. “The spells to command them are complex for human wizards, but well within my capability.”
“Then you killed him,” whispered Morigna. “You killed Nathan.”
Coriolus said nothing, did not even look up from his scroll.
But she saw that damned smirk on his face.
“You killed him!” roared Morigna, jerking against the ropes. “My mother! My father! You killed everyone I ever loved. Why?”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” said Coriolus. “It was necessary to kill Nathan. If he had gotten you with child, that would have made possessing you considerably more complicated. It is much easier to possess a woman who has never carried a child.” He shook his head. “I learned that the hard way.”
“You killed them,” snarled Morigna. Blood dripped down her arms from the rope burns, but she was past caring. “You killed them, you…”
“That,” said Coriolus, “is quite enough.” He scowled. “You are injuring yourself. Or, more precisely, you are injuring the body that will soon be mine.”
He walked around the table and gestured, ruby light flashing from his hand. Invisible force wrapped around Morigna, locking her in place. Coriolus cast another spell, and this time white light flared around his fingers. He healed the cuts and bruises upon her arms and wrists, grimacing as he did.
“There,” said Coriolus. “I wish no more wear and tear upon you than necessary.”
“How generous,” spat Morigna.
“One must look after oneself,” said Coriolus. He returned to his table, opened one of the pots, and dipped a brush into it.
Then he moved closer and began painting sigils upon the skin of her left leg. She tried to jerk away, but the ropes held her fast. Inch by inch he worked, painting arcane sigils upon her shin and calf, and then working his way along her thigh.
“What are you doing?” said Morigna.
“Preparing the spell,” said Coriolus, still painting. “Transferring my spirit into your flesh is hardly as simple as pouring wine from one cup into another. A tremendous amount of magical force is required. The sigils I am painting upon you,” he moved from her left leg and onto her belly, his voice slipping into its familiar lecturing tone, “will serve to augment and focus the powers I shall summon.” He waved his free hand at the standing stones around them. “Hence the necessity of performing the spell here, on a night when the thirteen moons are in the proper configuration. The dark elves built these stone circles to empower their spells. Now they shall empower mine.”
“How very brilliant,” sneered Morigna.
Yet it was brilliant, even if he had turned his intellect to a twisted end. She had considered herself strong in magic, yet she could only follow about half of the glyphs he painted onto her skin, and she could barely grasp the entirety of the spell. And he had orchestrated her entire life to his end, his persona of the “Old Man” never wavering for even an instant.
At least she knew the truth now. If Ridmark had not come, if Shadowbearer had not commanded Coriolus to claim the empty soulstone, then Coriolus would simply have taken Morigna whenever he felt ready. She could well have perished without ever knowing the truth.
The truth that blazed inside her like an inferno.
He had killed her parents. He had killed the only man she had loved. She wanted to kill him more than she had ever wanted anything.
But she could do nothing more than lie motionless and watch as he prepared her like a butcher leading a sheep to the slaughterhouse.
In the end, she simply had not been strong enough.
“Not to worry,” said Coriolus, straightening up and rubbing his back with a grunt, “perhaps after I claim your flesh, your spirit will ascend to join the Dominus Christus in paradise, and your wretched parents and your imbecilic lover will await to welcome you” He leaned closer and grinned. “But we know better, don’t we?”
Morigna spat in his face.
Coriolus laughed and turned away.
“Coriolus.”
Morigna turned her head and saw Jonas Vorinus climb to the top of the mound, still clad in his chain mail and cloak.
“The guards are around the hill,” said Jonas, “though I don’t see why you are so cautious. The Gray Knight and his followers are imprisoned, and the fools of the town have no idea of what is about to happen.”
“Nevertheless,” said Coriolus, “I have not lived for over two centuries by taking foolish risks.”
“Perhaps,” said Jonas, and his eyes fell over Morigna.
A leering grin spread over his face.
She forced herself to meet his eyes without blinking, without flinching. Even like this, she refused to show weakness in front of a man like Jonas Vorinus.
“I cannot believe,” said Jonas, “that my brother fell in love with a woman like you. You’re too stringy. No curves to you at all. But Nathan never had any taste.” He laughed. “In the end, the dread witch of the hills is nothing more than a frightened girl.”
“If I’m too stringy,” said Morigna, “then why are you still staring?”
A hint of color went into Jonas’s face, and he scowled and looked away.
“Coriolus killed Nathan,” said Morigna. “Not me. He set the urvaalg upon Nathan. If you’re so keen to avenge his death, then take that sword and ram it between the Old Man’s ribs.”
“His death was your fault,” said Jonas. “You were Coriolus’s property, and you should have stayed away from Nathan.”
Morigna started to spit an answer back at him, but Jonas turned to the Old Man.
“You should contact the Master,” said Jonas.
“I shall notify Shadowbearer in my own good time,” said Coriolus. “Best not to communicate until my victory is certain.”
“Your victory is certain,” said Jonas. “The Gray Knight and the Magistria are imprisoned and cannot escape. The witch of the hills,” he smirked at her, “cannot escape.” He pointed at the leather pouch hanging from the Old Man’s belt. “And if you keep that soulstone for too long without telling the Master, he might think you were planning to keep it for yourself. I imagine his displeasure would
be considerable.”
“You make a good point,” said Coriolus. “Very well.”
He turned away, his back toward Morigna, and cast a spell. Darkness shivered and danced around him, and his shadow, longer and blacker than such dim light could cast, billowed out behind him.
And the shadow was pointing toward the light, not away from it.
“Master,” said Coriolus, speaking to his shadow. “I have news.”
The shadow rotated around him, slowly. Coriolus kept his face calm, but there was a hint of tension near his eyes.
He feared the thing that now circled him.
The shadow began to speak.
“Do you, now?” it said. Jonas dropped to his knees at once. The voice was deep and resonant and musical, far deeper than any human voice, deeper than even the rasping voices of the dvargir. Yet for all its beauty, there was a strange, eerie resonance to the voice.
As if two voices were speaking through the same mouth at once.
“I am pleased to report,” said Coriolus, his eyes moving to follow his shadow, “that I have succeeded in the task you have given me, Master. I have obtained the empty soulstone.”
“Indeed?” said the strange voice. It made Morigna’s skin crawl, and something about it frightened her more than everything that had happened to her.
The voice of Shadowbearer.
No wonder Calliande feared him so much.
“I have it with me now,” said Coriolus, touching his belt.
“Well done,” said Shadowbearer. “Competence, alas, seems to be a rare quality in the modern age. And what of the Gray Knight and the Magistria? You have slain them as I bid?”
“Even better, Master,” said Coriolus. “I hold them imprisoned.”
A cold note entered the strange voice. “I told you to kill them.”
“They are thoroughly bound,” said Coriolus. He remained calm, but a line of sweat trickled down his temple and into his beard. “I sealed them within a trap constructed of dvargir wards and dark magic within the entry hall of Thainkul Dural. Nothing can shatter the trap from within, and only the most powerful magic can break it from without. They will sleep until you come to wake them. I would not presume to take the pleasure of killing them.”
Frostborn: The Undying Wizard Page 22
