Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (18 page)

Rjalfur thought for a moment. “This one understands, though perhaps only a little. When this one says that you raised the undead…perhaps it is more accurate to say that the undead were raised because of you.” The golden eyes shifted to Calliande. “And because of you.”

“Us?” said Calliande.

“For many years this one has walked the lands near Moraime,” said Rjalfur. “And only when you entered did the undead rise. There has long been dark magic in the hills, but it has only now awakened, and it seeks for you.”

“The dvargir,” said Ridmark. “Do you know of them?” 

“The sons of the khaldari,” said Rjalfur, “who turned away from the gods of their fathers, and worshipped instead Incariel, the great void of the dark elves.” 

Calliande frowned. “Then Incariel is indeed the great darkness?”

“It has many names,” said Rjalfur. “It was sealed away long ago, even by the standards of the trolldomr. It has had many worshippers, and rewards them with power. But it always devours the souls of its servants in the end.”

“The dvargir,” said Caius slowly, “have some ability to control shadows. As did Jonas.” 

“Perhaps,” said Gavin, “then the dvargir are allied with Jonas, and raised the undead at his bidding.” 

“We found a dead dvargir in the crypt below the monastery of St. Cassian,” said Ridmark. “Are the dvargir responsible for the undead?”

“This one does not know,” said Rjalfur. “The dvargir often pass through this land. There is an entrance to the Deeps north of here, and sometimes the dvargir come to the surface to seek slaves. They, too, are part of the dark magic that waits here. But if they come for you, this one does not know.”

“Have you seen any dvargir recently?” said Ridmark. “And I mean within the last few days, not within the last few decades.”

“This one has,” said Rjalfur. “They avoid the trolldomr, for they fear us. But this one has seen them moving through the hills with stealth.” 

“What of the Old Man?” said Ridmark. Morigna gave him a sharp look. “Has he raised the undead?”

“He has not,” said Morigna. “I told you that.”

“The Old Man is a coward,” said Rjalfur. “You, man of water, you risk your life fearlessly. The Old Man does not. He waits atop his hill, and if any foe with the slightest chance of harming him approaches, he activates his wards and hides behind them. He has always stayed well away from this one, though he has dwelled upon his hill for nearly ninety years.”

“Ninety years?” said Ridmark, surprised. Even Morigna looked taken aback. “He has been here ninety years?”

“Perhaps his magic sustains him,” said Rjalfur. The trolldomr fell silent for a moment. “This one does not know who raised the undead against you, as you understand the term. All this one knows is that the undead are for you. That is what this one can see in the song of stone and earth as it spreads throughout all of eternity. You came to the marshes of Moraime, and the undead rose to find you and the Magistria.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “We will take any aid we can find. If you learn more, will you tell us? If it is within my power, I intend to end this dark magic.”

“A noble cause,” said Rjalfur. “The trolldomr are custodians of the stone and the earth, and this one will be glad to aid you. We dislike interfering in the destinies of others…but if this one finds useful knowledge, this one shall give it you.” 

“A question,” said Calliande, stepping forward, “if I may.”

“Of course,” said Rjalfur.

“A place called Dragonfall,” said Calliande. “Do you know of it?”

“This one does not,” said Rjalfur. The trolldomr tilted his head to the side, his glowing eyes gazing at Calliande. “But this one can see the name in the totality of your existence. You must find it. For if you find it…yes, you may save many lives. And if you do not, many lives shall perish.”

Calliande nodded, her face tight with frustration. Rjalfur had told her nothing that she did not already know. 

And as quickly as he had appeared, Rjalfur vanished, his stony body disappearing into the ground.

Ridmark let out a long breath.

“Well,” said Caius, “that was certainly interesting.”

“The creature is mad,” said Morigna. “A trolldomr interested in the lies of the church? Only a crippled mind could find such things fascinating.”

“And only a blasphemer and a witch could not,” said Gavin, glaring at the black-haired sorceress.

“Given that he saved us from the wraiths,” said Ridmark, before Morigna and Gavin could start arguing again, “perhaps we should be glad he finds such things fascinating.”

“Perhaps,” said Morigna with a scowl. “But the trolldomr gave us no useful information.”

“He gave us a great deal of useful information,” said Ridmark. “We can be sure that he was not involved, for one. Additionally, we are certain the dvargir are working with Jonas, and are likely the source of the necromancy we have seen. If they are using dark magic to creep around the marshes, we might never have seen them. And,” he pointed with his staff, “the wards have gone down.”

The glimmering light blocking the upper path had vanished.

“Perhaps the Old Man will know more,” said Ridmark.

Morigna nodded. She looked almost nervous at the prospect of seeing him again. 

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark.

They started climbing.

Chapter 12 - The Old Man

A short time later, Ridmark and the others reached the top of the hill.

A small meadow covered the hill’s top, and it offered a magnificent view of the surrounding countryside. Ridmark saw the hills stretching away to the north, the forests to the west, the marshes to the east, and even the distant towers of the monastery far to the south. If the Old Man was as fearful as Rjalfur claimed, little wonder he dwelled here. A man could see any intruders coming for miles. 

A large stone cottage with a thatched roof stood at the northern edge of the meadow. A deep, wooded ravine separated the Old Man’s hill from its nearest neighbor, and atop that hill Ridmark saw the circle of black standing stones that Morigna had described. 

The standing stones where Nathan Vorinus had died.

The cottage itself looked large and comfortable. Gardens filled half the meadow, and Ridmark saw that many of them had already been dug up in preparation for spring. The Old Man, it seemed, still had vigor enough to maintain his own gardens.

Unusual in a man of ninety years. 

“This is it,” said Morigna, her voice quiet. “His cottage.”

“Is he home?” said Caius. 

“He is,” said Morigna. “His wards would not have activated otherwise. He…”

The door to the cottage swung open, and an old, old man hobbled out, leaning upon a staff.

The man looked at least a century old, thin as a scarecrow and tough as old leather. Wispy white hair encircled his head and jaw and chin. He wore ragged, patchwork clothing and scuffed boots, and his right leg dragged a bit. His eyes were watery and bloodshot and blue, yet Ridmark saw a keen sharpness there. 

The Old Man came to a stop a dozen paces away, gazing at Morigna, and shook his head with a sigh. 

“Well, girl?” he said in precise Latin, his raspy voice tight with peevish irritation, “what is this? I told you to never bring strangers here.”

Morigna sniffed. “They are hardly strangers. I know who they are, do I not?”

“And I do not!” said the Old Man, rapping his staff against the ground in annoyance. “I told you, girl, strangers bring nothing but trouble! Why do you still fail to heed me after all this time? One would think that if you had listened to me, that strapping young man of yours might still be alive.”

Morigna bristled. “And if you had killed the urvaalg, he would still be alive!” 

“We mean no harm,” said Ridmark.

The Old Man turned to face him. “Whether or not one means harm is irrelevant. Intentions do not matter. Results do. You have brought danger to me by coming here…to say nothing of the risk to yourselves.”

“There are undead loose in the marshes, and they have attacked the town of Moraime,” said Ridmark. 

The Old Man scoffed, his expression almost identical to Morigna’s. Ridmark saw where she had learned much of her truculent posing. “This is not my concern. The superstitious, petty fools of the town and monastery can deal with their own problems.” 

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “Then permit us to ask a few questions of you, and we shall be on our way.”

The Old Man drew himself up. “And just who are you to ask me questions, young man?”

“I am Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark. The Old Man blinked once, but gave no other sign of recognition. “This is Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, Brother Caius of the mendicant order, and Calliande of the Magistri.”

The Old Man deflated a bit. “A Magistria? Truly?”

Calliande nodded. 

“Prove it.”

She smiled, raised an eyebrow, and lifted her hand, white light glimmering around her fingers.

“Oh,” said the Old Man. He closed his eyes and rested his head against his staff. “Have you come for me? After all these decades, have you finally come to make me pay for my crimes?” 

“What crimes are those?” said Calliande. 

“We did not even know you existed until yesterday,” said Ridmark. “Who are you, truly?”

“My name,” said the Old Man, “is Coriolus.” 

“Your name!” said Morigna in fury. “For fourteen years I have lived with you, and you never told me your…”

“You lived with me for six years at best,” said Coriolus with a snort of derision. “By twelve years of age, you came and went as you pleased and spent more time with the beasts of the marsh, save for when you wanted to learn another bit of magic.” 

“Fine,” spat Morigna. “Then I have known you for fourteen years, and in all that time, you never once told me your name?”

Coriolus shrugged. “You are not a Magistria, and you never well be.”

Morigna glared at him, but Ridmark saw a flicker of pain go across her face. He could not blame her. This strange old man had taken her in after her parents’ death and had taught her magic, but seemed to hold her in contempt. Little wonder she was so prickly and hostile. 

He felt sorry for her.

“Well,” said Coriolus, ignoring Morigna, “you are here about the undead, I assume?”

Ridmark nodded. “Someone has been raising undead from the orcish burial mounds and the crypts below the monastery.”

“Ah,” said Coriolus. He grinned. “And I suppose you think I’m behind it, hmm? The crazy old wizard lurking in the hills, raising corpses to terrorizing the pious local villagers, is that it?”

“You must admit,” said Ridmark, “it is a most believable story.”

“Hardly,” said Morigna, “given how lazy you are.”

Coriolus ignored her. “I admit, it is plausible. I suppose I could raise corpses as undead, if I could be bothered to learn the necessary necromancy. But why should I? I care nothing for the villagers, to be sure, and would not lift a finger to come to their aid…but nor would I lift a finger to harm them.” 

“Convince me of that,” said Ridmark.

“Why should I?” said Coriolus with a sneer.

Ridmark remembered how Rjalfur had called the Old Man a coward. “Because I travel in the company of a Magistria. She might not know you, but if we return to Tarlion and tell the Masters of the Order that a renegade named Coriolus is lurking in the hills north of Moraime…tell me, how would they react?”

“You wouldn’t,” said Coriolus, a muscle twitching near his eye.

“On the other hand,” said Ridmark, “if you answer my questions freely, I will forget where I obtained the answers.”

For a moment the Old Man stared at him, trembling with fury. Ridmark wondered if he had pushed him too far, if Coriolus would indeed attack. But the Old Man only sighed and looked away, shaking his head.

Coriolus was indeed a coward. 

“Fine,” spat Coriolus. “I suppose you had better come inside, then.” 

###

Morigna watched the Old Man with disdain.

Fourteen years she had known him, and he had never once told her his name. She had asked, repeatedly. At first he had merely hit her for asking. When she had grown too strong for that, she had still asked, but he put her off with inane answers. 

And he had never told her.

But had he not taught her that strength ruled and weakness served? Sharing his name with her would have been a weakness.

Yet it still made her feel cold and empty.

Ridmark and the others sat at the long table in the cottage’s main room. Morigna stood near the wall, as far from the Old Man as she could get, though she took care not to touch anything, since the cottage was just as filthy as she remembered. Wooden plates covered the table, some covered with chunks of rotting food. Shelves lined the walls of the cottage, holding books and scrolls and various curios. A thick coating of dust covered everything, and if the Old Man had indeed lived here for ninety years, surely the floor had not been cleaned in that time.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home,” said Ridmark. His expression was its usual calm mask, giving no hint of the thoughts behind those icy blue eyes. 

Coriolus snorted. “Bah. You bullied your way in here, Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii. I met your grandfather, you know, old Dux Rience. I wonder what he would think of a grandson with a coward’s brand.”

“Doubtless he would be disappointed,” said Ridmark. “However, he would take comfort in the knowledge that I had never wielded dark magic to raise undead.”

Coriolus coughed and spat in the hearth, his spittle sizzling against the coals. “Like me, you mean?”

“Well?” said Ridmark. “Did you?”

The Old Man was silent for a long time.

“No, I did not,” he said. For the first time Morigna heard something like contrition in his voice. “I have made many mistakes, but that was not one of them.”

“Tell me about these mistakes,” said Ridmark. 

Coriolus sighed. “A long time ago…a very long time ago, I was a new-made Magistrius of the Order in Tarlion.” He smirked at Calliande. “I was little different than most young Magistri. So proud, so arrogant, so sure of myself. I thought the world was mine to reshape as I liked. For its own good, of course, but mine to reshape nonetheless.” He sighed, his eyes growing distant. “And then I met her.”