The Undying Wizard
Date: 2014-01-30 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; High Fantasy; Fiction; Adventure; Sword And Sorcery
Description: RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, and he quests for the ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, seeking a way to stop the return of the dreaded Frostborn. For if he does not find a way to stop them, the Frostborn shall entomb the world in ice forever. MORIGNA is the cunninng Witch of the Hills, feared and mistrusted by the townsmen of Moraime. Yet darker things stir in the hills. A trap that might devour both her and the Gray Knight...
Publisher: Createspace

FROSTBORN: THE UNDYING WIZARD

Jonathan Moeller

Description

RIDMARK ARBAN is the Gray Knight, and he quests for the ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, seeking a way to stop the return of the dreaded Frostborn.

For if he does not find a way to stop them, the Frostborn shall entomb the world in ice forever.

MORIGNA is the cunninng Witch of the Hills, feared and mistrusted by the townsmen of Moraime. Yet darker things stir in the hills.

A trap that might devour both her and the Gray Knight...

Frostborn: The Undying Wizard

Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published February 2014.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Prologue

An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:

In the Year of Our Lord 1256, the last Keeper of Avalon and the Dragon Knight destroyed the dread Frostborn after fifty years of war, and the realm of Andomhaim had peace from battle at last, and the armies of the High King laid down their arms.

Yet peace provided a more subtle enemy than war.

For long ago the archmage Ardrhythain had founded the Two Orders, the Swordbearers and the Magistri, giving them magic to wield against the foes of mankind. And with their magic, the realm of Andomhaim stood fast against the wrath of the urdmordar and the storm of the Frostborn. Yet now both foes had been overthrown, and the hearts of the Magistri grew proud. For some among them had grown to love their power more than all other things, and desired ever more.

“Why should man be weak and mortal?” said these Magistri. “Why should he die? Do not the dark elves live for millennia? Are not the urdmordar immortal, save those slain in battle? Why should we obey the strictures of the High King and the church? Our magic makes us strong, and can make us stronger yet. Let us therefore use our spells to become immortal and rule over mankind as gods.”

These Magistri called themselves the Eternalists, for they desired to become immortal. And in their madness they turned to the vilest dark magic and the foulest blood sorcery, and wrought great misery and terrible destruction. At last the truth of their crimes came to light, and the Swordbearers and the true Magistri united to burn the cancer from their midst. In the Year of Our Lord 1307, the Eternalists were defeated, and those who desired to live forever met death at last.

Yet rumor held that not all the Eternalists had been slain, that some had escaped to lurk in dark places and plot revenge…

Chapter 1 - Fire and Stone

Thirty-two days after it began, thirty-two days after that afternoon in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark stopped and looked across the marshes.

Something did not smell right.

“What is it?” said the orcish man at his right. The orc was tall and strong, his black hair bound in a warrior’s topknot. He wore armor of overlapping blue steel plates, the hilt of a greatsword rising over his right shoulder.

“Kharlacht,” said Ridmark. “Wait a moment.”

“Something is amiss?” said a woman’s voice.

Ridmark looked at his other three companions.

The first was a human woman named Calliande, her long blond hair pulled back in a ragged tail, her blue eyes narrowed with sudden alarm. She looked young and lovely, and while the beauty was real, the youth was not. She was two centuries old.

Likely older, but no one knew for certain.

The second was a dwarven man in the brown robes of a mendicant friar, his gray skin the color of granite, his receding black hair and beard streaked with gray. Brother Caius looked as if he had been hewn from living stone. His strange eyes were like disks of blue marble, and a mace of bronze-colored dwarven steel hung at his belt.

The third was a human boy of fifteen, with curly brown hair and brown eyes. He wore a chain mail hauberk, the shield of a man-at-arms slung over his back and an orcish sword at his belt. Dark circles ringed his brown eyes. That did not surprise Ridmark. Gavin had gone through a great deal since his home village of Aranaeus had been destroyed by the cultists of an urdmordar.

Little wonder he had not been sleeping well.

“Do you smell that?” Ridmark said.

Calliande smiled. “I fear I can smell nothing but myself. Traveling through the Wilderland does not offer many opportunities for bathing.”

“Nor do I,” said Caius in his deep, rolling voice. “Alas, the dwarven kindred are not known for their keen noses.”

“Perhaps that is just as well, Brother Caius,” said Gavin. “These marshes certainly have many…different smells.”

“That is merely a polite way of saying they smell bad,” said Calliande.

“True,” said Gavin. “Though I do smell something rotten.”

Kharlacht frowned. “As do I, Gray Knight.”

“And a metallic scent?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Kharlacht, his perpetual frown deepening. “Now that you mention it.”

Ridmark nodded. “Be on your guard.”

He tightened his grip on his staff and kept walking.

The road, such as it was, consisted of a causeway winding its way through the stagnant water of the marshes. Massive trees rose from the water, thick ropes of pale moss hanging from their branches, their rough trunks spotted with lichen. Grass and weeds covered the causeway, and here and there small, tough trees rose from the dirt. It made for slow going, but it was easier than wading through the water. The marshes themselves stretched north and south as the causeway rolled west. After another day’s journey they would come to the town of Moraime, and the town and its monastery marked the end of the marshes and the beginning of the forests and hills of central Vhaluusk.

And from there it was another few weeks’ journey to the wild, spell-damaged lands of the Torn Hills, and then to Urd Morlemoch itself.

Where the Warden waited with the answers Ridmark had sought for the last five years.

Assuming, of course, that something in the marshes did not kill him first.

Ridmark pushed aside his thoughts of Urd Morlemoch and focused upon the present. In these marshes, inattention was fatal. A cut could fester and lead to an agonizing death. The pagan orcish tribes of southern Vhaluusk lurked among the marshes, building houses upon wooden posts and attacking travelers with poisoned arrows.

And more dangerous creatures hunted among the waters and the trees.

Ridmark stopped again, the others halting behind him, and watched a pool of water bubble a dozen yards away.

Of course, more natural hazards might kill them before the orcs did.

“Gavin,” said Ridmark. “Do you still have any of the torches from Urd Dagaash?”

“Three,” said the boy. “But it’s mid-morning. Surely we do not need the light.”

“We don’t,” said Ridmark. “Light one anyway, give it to me, and then step back. All of you.”

Calliande gave him a suspicious look. “What are you doing?”

“Testing an idea,” said Ridmark as Gavin fumbled with his pack. “It’s perfectly safe.” He thought for a moment. “Mostly.”

He expected another lecture from her, another sermon about forgiving himself and not risking his life without cause, but she only sighed. Perhaps she had learned the futility by now. Or more likely she would save it until the others were out of earshot.

It would have been annoying if she were not so obviously concerned about him.

Ridmark had no qualms about risking his life, given that he deserved death for what he had done, but he did not want to risk the lives of the others. If he could have undertaken his journey to Urd Morlemoch alone, he would have done so. But the others had insisted on following him.

He did not want to get them killed.

Too many people had died on his account already.

He remembered Aelia screaming, remembered the blood upon the black and white tiles of Castra Marcaine…

Then Gavin approached with a lit torch, and Ridmark shook aside his dark musings.

“Stand back,” he warned the others, gesturing with the torch. “This might get loud.”

“Loud?” said Calliande.

“Like this,” said Ridmark, and he threw the torch. It spun end over and end and struck the bubbling pool of water. The torch went out with a faint hiss and sank.

“Well,” said Caius, “that was…”

A blue fireball erupted from the water with a plume of steam and an angry hiss. Kharlacht and Caius yelled and drew their weapons, while Calliande raised her hands, white light flaring around her fingers. But the fireball vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only burning grass and moss in its wake.

“What did you do?” said Gavin. “You…you aren’t really a wizard, are you?”

“Marsh gas,” said Ridmark. “Dead plants and animals get buried in the marsh, and when they decay, they give off a flammable gas. Since they are buried, there is no place for the gas to go. Eventually it leaks to the surface, and a single spark will set it alight.”

“I’ve heard the fur traders who visit…who used to visit Aranaeus speak of ghosts in the swamp,” said Gavin. “Blue lights at night.”

“There may be restless spirits in the swamp,” said Ridmark, “but those blue flames are marsh gases, catching flame and burning away.”

“I’d never heard of such a thing,” said Kharlacht.

“I thought were you were from Vhaluusk,” said Caius.

“The northern hills, near the mountains,” said Kharlacht. “Not the swamps. Even Qazarl thought the orcs of the swamps were mad.”

“This has been an enlightening demonstration,” said Calliande, “but why risk it? The light and noise will have drawn attention, if anyone is nearby.”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I wanted to see if any swamp drakes were near.”

Her eyes widened. “Swamp drakes?”

“The metallic scent,” said Ridmark. “Swamp drake scales. They nest near patches of marsh gas, use their breath to set it afire and kill prey. They can’t fly the way fire drakes can, but they still breathe flame upon their prey.”

“Then why draw their attention?” said Calliande.

“They’re hard to see,” said Ridmark. “Brown and gray scales. Blends perfectly with the marsh. If one’s hunting you, you might not see it until it rips out your throat or sets your head on fire. But since the explosion hasn’t drawn any attention,” he shrugged, “we ought to be safe enough.”

“A sound stratagem,” said Caius.

“It was,” said Calliande, “but I wish you would explain these things. You have a deep and subtle mind, Ridmark, but my heart almost stopped when the water caught fire.”

Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it.

She had a point.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I have spent years traveling in my own company, and I…have grown unused to explaining myself at times.”

Caius smiled. “At times, Gray Knight?”

“He merely objects, Brother,” said Kharlacht, “because of your insistence upon greeting the dawn every morning by singing the twenty-third Psalm in a voice that could wake the dead.”

“It is the duty of every baptized son of the church to offer praise to our Creator,” said Caius. “And only the Dominus Christus can raise the dead.”

“I said wake, not raise,” said Kharlacht.

Gavin burst out laughing and then fell silent, eyes wide with embarrassment.

“Be gentle,” said Calliande. “Brother Caius has a fine voice.”

“And loud,” said Kharlacht.

Caius snorted. “I was singing the twenty-third Psalm before you were born.”

“Enough,” said Ridmark, though he felt himself smile. “Brother Caius’s singing shall not have the chance to wake the dead if your bickering does it first. Come. If we make good time, we may yet get out of these marshes today.”

“A hopeful thought,” said Calliande. “And if God is merciful, perhaps there shall be a clean stream or pond where we can wash off the stench.”

“And,” said Caius, “a clearing that might provide excellent acoustics for morning praise.”

Ridmark shook his head. As much as he would have preferred to travel alone, traveling with companions did have compensations. It was pleasant to think about something other than the Frostborn, something other than his dark memories of that terrible day in Castra Marcaine.

For sooner or later his thoughts always returned there.

The causeway continued to a patch of massive, heavy trees veiled in thick curtains of hanging moss. Their roots had sunk deep into the causeway, and Ridmark and the others picked their way carefully over the uneven earth. The air now smelled of smoke, thanks to Ridmark’s impromptu fire, but the metallic smell had only grown stronger.

He stopped, hand tightening against his heavy staff.

“Something else?” said Calliande. “More marsh gas?”

“No,” said Ridmark, pointing with his staff. “Trouble.”

A small dome of dried mud and sticks sat between two of the thick trunks, a single opening in its side.

“What’s that?” said Gavin. “It looks like a hut.”

“A nest,” said Ridmark.

“Swamp drakes?” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. “The females only build nests after laying eggs. And they never go far from the nest until the hatchlings are strong enough to fend for themselves. That explosion should have drawn the mother’s attention.”

“Perhaps the nest is already abandoned,” said Caius.

Ridmark shook his head. “It’s too new. See? The mud is still wet in places. That explosion ought to have brought the female down on our heads. But why would she abandon her eggs?” He scratched the stubble on his chin, thinking. “She wouldn’t, unless…”

Unless something had killed her.

Or something had driven her from the nest.

But what could frighten away a female swamp drake from her eggs? Ridmark could think of several possibilities, and he wanted to fight none of them.

“Wait here,” he told the others.

“This might be one of those times,” said Calliande, flexing her fingers, “when you should explain your mind.”

“I’m going to check if there are any eggs in that nest,” said Ridmark. “If there aren’t, we’re safe. If there are, we may be in trouble. Keep your weapons ready.”

Kharlacht grunted and drew his massive greatsword, the blue blade glinting. Caius lifted his mace, and Gavin drew his orcish sword. Ridmark strung his bow, hung it from his shoulder, and started down the side of the causeway. Massive boulders jutted from the sides of the causeway, and more stood amongst the trees, their gray sides spotted with lichen. Likely the orcs of Vhaluusk had piled the boulders there long ago at the behest of their dark elven masters, to aid the dark elves’ endless war against the high elves.

Or, more likely, the orcs’ halfling slaves had toiled to construct the road. If Ridmark dug into the causeway, he suspected he would find the bones of uncounted generations of halfling slaves.

He stepped around a boulder and scrutinized the nest. It was six feet tall and twelve wide, a dome built about of mud and branches. Within the female drake kept her eggs warm, driving off and sometimes incinerating any predators while the male hunted for food. An opening yawned in one side of the nest, and Ridmark looked inside.

Seven white eggs lay within, packed in mud. Each was about the size of his fist, their white shells marked with dozens of green spots.

There was no sign of the female drake.

Ridmark stepped back, thinking. A female drake would not abandon her eggs, not while she was still alive.

“Ridmark!”

Calliande’s voice rang over the marshes.

He whirled, staff coming up, and saw a dark form racing across the causeway.

Unlike fire drakes, swamp drakes could not fly. But fire drakes rarely grew beyond the size of a large dog. The swamp drake racing toward Calliande and the others was the size of a knight’s war horse, all serpentine speed and movement, its tail lashing back and forth behind its barrel-shaped body. It was armored in brown and gray scales, and a ridged crest ringed its head. Ridmark saw its maw open wide, saw the flames glimmering to life behind its dagger-like teeth.

He dropped his staff, raised his bow, and released an arrow. The shaft slammed into the creature’s neck. The scales turned the force of the arrow, but the drake stopped and roared, shaking its head. It glared at Ridmark, its black-slit yellow eyes unblinking, and spat a gout of flame at him.

Ridmark sprinted to the left, dodging the fire. The flames washed over one of the trees, the bark crackling and hissing as it burned. Ridmark pivoted, raised his bow, and sent another arrow at the drake. This time the steel-tipped head sank into the creature’s neck, and the drake reared up on its hind legs with a brassy bellow of fury.

Caius and Kharlacht and Gavin took the opportunity to strike.

White light glimmered around them as Calliande worked a spell, using her magic to enhance their speed. Caius struck first, his mace slamming into the drake’s right hind leg as Ridmark seized his staff and ran for the causeway. Gavin landed a blow next, his orcish sword cutting through scales to bite into flesh. The drake screamed again and lashed with its tail, and the blow knocked Gavin off his feet. Yet he had cut deep into the drake’s leg, and the beast stumbled, losing its balance.

That was all the opening that Kharlacht needed.

The orcish warrior moved with speed and power, the dark elven greatsword a blue blur in his hands. The massive blade struck the drake behind its ridged crest. The creature shuddered, its claws digging chunks of grassy dirt from the causeway, and Kharlacht ripped his blade free and swung again.

The drake’s head fell from its neck in a burst of coppery blood and rolled away. The body went into a mad, thrashing dance, tail whipping back and forth, and then went still. Kharlacht let out a long sigh and lowered his sword, while Calliande rushed to Gavin’s side as the boy sat up with a groan.

“How is he?” said Ridmark, climbing the side of the causeway.

“Sore,” muttered Gavin.

“He’ll be fine, I think,” said Calliande. “Just bruised.”

“Good,” said Ridmark. He looked at Kharlacht. “Good swing, by the way.”

“Good shot,” said the big orc. “I have never been anything but mediocre with a bow.”

“Nor was I,” said Ridmark, “but when it is your only means of filling your belly for weeks at a time, you have the motivation to learn.”

“Indeed,” said Kharlacht.

Ridmark stepped past the drake’s carcass and joined Calliande and Gavin. “A good strike.”

“It was my fault,” said Gavin. “I should have paid closer attention during our lessons.” Kharlacht had been teaching him the sword, and Caius the mace, and Ridmark the use of his shield.

Caius snorted. “Yes, the lesson was to duck faster.”

“You did fine,” said Ridmark. “That drake could have killed us all, but it didn’t, and we are alive.”

“And it seems our worries were unfounded,” said Caius. “The explanation is simple enough. The drake detected us meddling with her eggs, and she came to their defense.”

“That’s not what happened,” said Ridmark.

“Why not?” said Caius.

“Because,” said Ridmark, prodding the crest of scales ringing the severed head with his staff, “this is a male drake.” He lowered his staff. “The females don’t have crests.”

“Like kobolds,” said Calliande with a shudder.

“Like kobolds,” said Ridmark. “And the male drakes never fight to defend the nests.”

“Perhaps this one was simply…chivalrous?” said Gavin.

“No,” said Ridmark. “The male wasn’t defending the nest. He was running from something to the north.”

“What could scare a monster like that?” said Gavin, looking at the carcass.

“Well,” said Caius, “what is north of here?”

“The Wilderland,” said Calliande.

“The mountains and hills of Vhaluusk,” said Kharlacht. “My old homeland.”

“Dark elven ruins,” said Ridmark.

They shared a look. They knew the sort of things that could lurk in the ruins of the dark elves.

“Ruins of Vhaluusk, too,” said Kharlacht. “After the High King and the Two Orders overthrew the urdmordar, the orcs of Vhaluusk warred among themselves, and every chieftain tried to make himself High King of the orcs in imitation of the High King of Andomhaim. Many fortresses were raised, and many burned, and the orcs of Vhaluusk war against each other to this day.” He shook his head, his tusks throwing dark shadows over his hard face. “To this day. Mhalek killed many orcs before he came south.”

“Mhalek killed many after he came south,” said Ridmark, remembering.

He looked north.

“You’re think of investigating, aren’t you?” said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded.

“Urd Morlemoch is west,” said Caius.

“We’re less than a day from the monastery of St. Cassian and the town of Moraime,” said Ridmark. “Anything that could frighten a swamp drake is a threat to the town.”

Calliande frowned. “You don’t know that. It is an unnecessary risk…”

Ridmark opened his mouth to continue their old argument, but a new voice cut him off.

“You speak the truth, man of water.”

The voice spoke Latin, but no human, orc, halfling, dwarf, or elf had a voice like that. It was deep, so deep that it sounded like a note from one of the ancient war horns housed in the High King’s stronghold of Tarlion. If a mountain could speak, it would have a voice like that.

He turned, and saw that one of the gray boulders near the nest stand up.

“What in God’s name is that?” said Gavin, lifting his sword.

The boulder seemed to take the shape of a towering old man of rough-hewn stone. Caius’s skin looked like gray granite, but this creature actually was made of rock, but rock that flowed and moved as easily as flesh. Golden light glimmered in the creature’s eyes, and Ridmark thought its expression looked solemn.

Even sad.

That did not reassure him. Likely it could pound them to a pulp while looking solemn and sad.

“It’s a trolldomr,” Ridmark heard himself say.

“One of the giants of stone and rock,” said Caius. The dwarven friar sounded awed. “They live in the Deeps, and shun the company of all others. They visit the dwarves, but only rarely.”

“You speak truly, son of the khaldari,” said the trolldomr. “This one has wandered far from the dark places beneath the earth.”

“Do you mean us harm?” said Ridmark. He had heard of the trolldomr, but had never before seen one. Few men of Andomhaim had. He glanced at Calliande, wondering if she might know more, but she seemed just as surprised as he did.

And even if she knew something of the trolldomr, she might have forgotten.

“Does this one mean you harm, man of water?” said the trolldomr. The creature appeared to consider for a moment. “This one does not mean anyone harm. But many mean you harm, it would appear.” The glowing golden eyes wandered over them. “So many different kindreds traveling together. Many must mean you harm.”

The trolldomr did not seem hostile. Yet from what Ridmark understood, the trolldomr rarely left the Deeps, and shunned company.

Why was this one here? Surely not to collect swamp drake eggs.

“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark. He gestured with his staff at the others. “This is Calliande of the Magistri, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, and Brother Caius of the Order of Mendicants. Might we know your name?”

The trolldomr considered this. “You may. But our tongue does not translate easily to yours. You may know this one as Rjalfur.”

“Rjalfur,” said Ridmark with a bow. “Might I ask why you have sought us out? While we certainly do not find your conversation disagreeable, it is nonetheless remarkable.”

“This is so,” said Rjalfur. “This one wished to stop and speak with you because I found you remarkable.” He pointed at Caius. “Specifically, you, child of the khaldari.”

“Me, sir?” said Caius. “I fear I am altogether unremarkable.”

“You are a child of the khaldari,” said Rjalfur, “and your kindred worship the gods of stone and silence, of inevitable death and stern duty. Yet you wear a symbol of the god the humans brought to this world.”

“You mean this?” said Caius, touching the wooden cross that rested against his chest.

“Yes,” said Rjalfur. “This one found it curious, and wishes to know why you wear such a symbol.”

“Several years ago a missionary came to Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “and shared the word of the Dominus Christus. I was convinced and baptized, and came forth to share the word with others.”

“Interesting,” said Rjalfur. The golden eyes shifted to Ridmark. “And you are right, man of water. There is something wrong here. Dark magic stirs to the north, and it comes for you.”

“For me?” said Ridmark. He shared a glance with Calliande. Had Shadowbearer found her at last?

“For you,” said Rjalfur, “and the Magistria. The dark magic comes for you. This one will bid you farewell now, and thanks you for the knowledge.”

The trolldomr sank into the earth so fast that he almost seemed to disappear. A ripple went through a patch of grass, one of the stagnant pools splashed, and then Rjalfur was gone.

Ridmark let out a breath.

“I take it,” said Gavin, his voice a bit unsteady, “that was a trolldomr?”

Ridmark nodded.

“What exactly is a trolldomr?” said Gavin.

“A kindred,” said Caius, “utterly alien to all of ours. Orcs and dwarves and humans have much in common, despite our differences. But the trolldomr are alien to all of us. They require neither food nor drink, and do not have blood…hence we are all ‘men of water’ to them. They wield magical control over earth and stone as easily as a fish swims or a bird flies…”

“Or as an urdmordar commands dark magic,” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Caius, “but the trolldomr are not malicious, not the way the urdmordar are. They are simply…indifferent. They keep to themselves, and only rarely interact with other kindreds. For one to speak is rare. For one to come to the surface and speak is…well, I have never heard of it happening, and the records of our stonescribes go back thousands of years.”

“He warned us,” said Ridmark. “Dark magic to the north. I think we know what frightened the drakes now.”

He met Calliande’s eyes, and saw the fear and determination there.

“Shadowbearer,” she said. “Or more of his creatures hunting for us.”

“This dread wizard, my lady,” said Gavin. “Could he have hunted you to the Wilderland?”

“He could,” said Calliande. “His power is great. Greater than anything I have sensed…since I awakened. Though that is not very long.”

“It could be more of his creatures,” said Caius. “Like the undead kobolds.”

“If so,” said Ridmark, “then we shall take the fight to them. If not, they will pursue us to Moraime, and I would not bring death upon the heads of the townsmen.”

As would have happened in Dun Licinia, if Calliande had not pursued him into the Wilderland.

“Would it not be better to find some strong place and wait for the foe to come to us?” said Gavin.

“I fear not,” said Ridmark. “For one, there are no strong places in these marshes, not until we reach Moraime. And if Shadowbearer and his servants are hunting us, they might not expect us to hunt them in turn.”

He beckoned, and they headed north, away from the causeway and into the marshes.

Chapter 2 - Tombs

Calliande moved carefully across the grassy knoll, the ground squishing beneath her boots.

Ridmark led the way, staff in hand, his gray elven cloak hanging loose around his shoulders. His blue eyes were cold and watchful in his hard face, the black stubble shading his jaw like dust. Despite their many days in the wilderness, he moved with the grace and speed of a hunting predator, his boots rarely making a sound against the wet ground.

At such times the coward’s brand upon his left cheek never seemed more incongruous. He did not deserve the sigil of a broken sword upon his cheek, did not deserve the burden of self-inflicted guilt he carried with it. Mhalek was to blame for his wife’s death, not Ridmark.

It was unjust. She wondered if she could ever convince him of that.

But, then, life was not just.

Calliande knew that all too well. She could remember nothing that had happened before she had awakened in the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance thirty-two days ago, nothing before the omen of blue fire filled the sky. Yet she knew so many things. She knew the history of Andomhaim and the older kindreds. She knew many languages, and was sometimes surprised when Caius or Kharlacht said something in the dwarven and orcish tongues and she understood them. She knew how to treat illness, injury, and wound, and her skills had saved many lives during Qazarl’s siege of Dun Licinia.

And she knew how to use magic for healing, defense, and knowledge, the three paths of the Order of the Magistri. With those powers, she had helped Ridmark save the villagers of Aranaeus and destroy the dread urdmordar Agrimnalazur.

Yet she remembered nothing of her past life, could not remember how she had learned her skills…and if her suspicions were correct, she had rested in that dark vault below the Tower for centuries, guarded by the Order of the Vigilant.

And she remembered nothing of it, and sometimes that made her want to scream in frustration.

But for now the possibility of danger held her attention.

She kept a minor spell in place, one to detect the presence of magic. With it, she could keep Shadowbearer and his minions from ambushing them. So far she had sensed nothing, and yet…

Her spell detected a faint ripple, almost on the edge of her consciousness. An echo, really.

Someone had worked magic nearby, recently.

Yet she could not tell what kind of magic.

“Anything?” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Calliande, her voice tight. “There was magic here, not long ago. Maybe the trolldomr. I can’t tell.”

He nodded and kept moving. They passed through thick stands of trees, pools of stagnant water sitting at their roots, moss hanging from their branches like long gray beards. The stench of rotting vegetation was everywhere, and Calliande wondered why anyone would live in such a place. Still, she supposed food would be abundant, with the fish and the lizards and the birds. And the marshes would make for a defensible home. A large army would have trouble moving through this terrain, and a small, determined force could inflict hell upon any invaders…

She blinked. How did she know that with such certainty? Had she led armies in the past?

The memory hovered just out of reach, cloaked by the mists choking her mind, and she almost cursed in frustrated fury.

“Do you smell that?” said Kharlacht, his voice cutting into her dark thoughts.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, and Calliande caught it as well, a worse scent underlying the odor of rotting vegetation and stagnant water.

Rotting flesh.

Even in the thirty-two days since she had awakened, Calliande had smelled it too many times not to recognize it.

“It’s coming from there,” said Ridmark, pointing at the trees.

They kept walking. The trees thinned, and a fortress rose from the earth.

Or the ruins of a fortress, anyway. Once it had been a massive round tower of stone ringed by an earthwork wall. Now the tower’s roof had collapsed, and the marsh had flooded the courtyard, reeds and grass growing within. Dozens of small mounds encircled the wall, covered in grass and small trees.

And many of the mounds looked disturbed.

“Burial mounds,” said Kharlacht.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Like the ones outside of Dun Licinia.”

“Some chieftain or petty orcish king made his stronghold here,” said Kharlacht, pointing at the ruined fortress, “and buried his chief warriors and their slaves around him.”

Something shivered against Calliande’s magical senses.

“Ridmark,” she said. “There was powerful dark magic here. Recently.”

“Today?” said Ridmark.

“Within a few hours,” she said.

“And an undead creature, brought from its grave through necromancy,” said Ridmark, “would terrify a swamp drake. It would terrify any animal. They would know it was unnatural, and their instincts would tell them to flee.”

“Like the corpses Qazarl raised outside of Dun Licinia,” said Caius.

Gavin shuddered. “Or the undead that Agrimnalazur raised against us.”

“And the sort of creatures that Shadowbearer would use to hunt Calliande,” said Ridmark. “It seemed Rjalfur warned us true. We…”

Dark magic blazed against Calliande’s senses.

“Ridmark!” she said. “They’re coming. They’re…”

But they had no need of her warning.

Dozens of dark forms burst from the fortress’s ruined gate. They were skeletal orcs, ragged tusks jutting from their jaws, moldering flesh still clinging to their bones. Ghostly blue fire danced up their limbs and flickered inside their eyes. The undead orcs held rusted weapons in their skeletal fists, swords and axes and maces, and some still wore armor and carried shields.

“Calliande!” shouted Ridmark, but she had already begun the spell.

When Shadowbearer’s undead kobolds had attacked at the ford of the River Moradel, she had struck back at them using her magic, blasting away the necromancy Shadowbearer had bound to their corpses. She had destroyed dozens of them, yet the effort had nearly exhausted her strength. If not for Ridmark’s intervention, she would have been killed.

Yet it had taught her a valuable lesson.

She had bound her magic to his staff, giving it the power to harm undead creatures. And in doing so, she realized that enspelling the weapons of others was far, far easier than striking down the undead through raw force.

She needed to save her strength to face whoever had raised the undead.

Calliande finished her spell and thrust out her hands. White light flared around her fingers, and the same white light glimmered around Ridmark’s staff. The head of Caius’s bronze-colored mace began to glow, and both Kharlacht’s greatsword and Gavin’s orcish blade began to radiate white light. Gavin blinked in surprise and set himself, his shield upon his left arm.

As one, the undead orcs turned to look at Calliande, their ghostly eyes staring at her.

They felt the power of her spell.

“Kharlacht, Caius, with me,” said Ridmark, lifting his glowing staff, his voice icy calm. “Gavin, shield Lady Calliande and deal with any orcs that get past us.”

He strode forward, the orcish warrior and the dwarven friar following.

###

The staff thrummed with Calliande’s magic beneath Ridmark’s hands.

It brought back a storm of memories. Once Ridmark had been a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, a Swordbearer, and he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle. With that sword he had slain the urdmordar Gothalinzur, entered Urd Morlemoch and escaped, and defeated the Mhalekite horde.

With Heartwarden he had struck down Mhalek himself.

And then Aelia had died.

Ridmark walked toward the charging undead, the staff ready in his right hand. The power of Calliande’s magic was not as strong as Heartwarden’s. The soulblade had blazed like a torch in Ridmark’s fist, and with the sword Ridmark had cut a path through creatures of dark magic. The staff shone with a gentle glow, its vibrations weaker.

But more than enough to destroy the undead.

The first creature came at him, raising a rusted mace to strike, and Ridmark moved.

He dodged the blow, the staff a white blur in his hand. Normal weapons could not harm the undead, but the staff had been charged with Calliande’s magic, and his strike shattered the bones of the creature’s weapon hand. The mace fell into the grass and rolled away, and Ridmark reversed his weapon and jabbed the undead in the gut. The creature did not need to breathe and felt no pain, but the power of Ridmark’s blow knocked the undead orc back a step.

He whipped the staff around and drove its length into the undead orc’s head. The tusked skull exploded in a burst of yellowing bone. The blue flames winked out, and the corpse collapsed into pieces, the bones tumbling away.

Three more reached for him, and Ridmark charged into them.

Most of the knights of Andomhaim looked down upon the quarterstaff, seeing it as the weapon of commoners, of freeholders and laborers. A true knight with a sword, they believed, could overcome a peasant armed with a staff.

Ridmark knew better.

He deflected a descending sword with a sweep of his staff, pivoted, and spun his weapon around. The staff’s heavy length crashed into the back of an undead orc’s knee, and the creature toppled. Ridmark’s next blow slammed into the crown of its head, and the weight of his strike shattered the undead orc’s skull, pieces of its rusted helmet falling away. He dodged the swing of a heavy axe and brought the staff down upon the undead orc’s arms before it recovered its balance. The bones cracked and splintered, the axe falling away, and Ridmark dispatched the creature with a sharp swing to the head. The last orc raised its sword for a final strike, and Ridmark moved before it could launch the blow, knocking the weapon aside. The creature lunged at him with skeletal fingers, but Ridmark sidestepped and swung his staff with both hands. The skull popped off the neck and soared through the air, tumbling jaw over forehead, and landed with a splash in a pool. The body staggered forward and disintegrated into loose bones and rotting flesh.

Ridmark spun, intending to aid either Kharlacht or Caius if they were hard-pressed.

But neither one needed his help. Kharlacht carved his way through the undead orcs like a butcher cutting meat. He wielded his greatsword with massive arcs, every blow shearing through a skeletal neck or skull. Few undead drew close enough to harm him, and when they did he stepped back or allowed their blows to shatter against his dark elven armor. Caius fought at Kharlacht’s side. With his heavy mace, the burly friar barely needed Calliande’s magical augmentation. The blows of his mace shattered knees and spines, and Caius then finished them off with a strike to the head.

Ridmark shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Gavin strike down an undead orc that charged Calliande. It had been just over a week since they had departed Aranaeus, but the boy’s skill had improved in that time. His blade sheared through the undead creature’s neck, white fire struggling against the ghostly blue flame, and the undead orc fell motionless. Gavin had a steady head and a steady arm, and if they lived through this, one day he would be a masterful swordsman.

But for now, Ridmark would try to keep the undead away from Gavin and Calliande.

He turned back to the attack, the length of his staff shattering another undead skull. The corpse fell, and Ridmark moved closer to the others as they fought their way to the burial mounds. They had destroyed at least a score of the undead, but more still emerged from the ruined fortress. How many of the creatures were there? Individually, the undead were not strong, but they could overwhelm Ridmark and the others through sheer numbers.

And whatever necromancer had raised them had to be watching the fight. Perhaps the wizard’s plan was to pin them in place and then unleash his spells in an attack.

A dark shape emerged from the ruins, and Ridmark wondered if he had found the wizard.

It was an undead orc that stood nearly eight feet tall, taller than even Kharlacht. Black steel armored the orc from head to toe, and the creature carried an enormous black greatsword. Eldritch symbols of crimson fire shone upon its cuirass and bracers and greaves, and Ridmark realized the creature’s armor had been reinforced by blood magic long ago, likely the work of an orcish shaman. No doubt that explained why the armor had survived the centuries in the ground without damage. Its owner must have been a powerful chieftain, perhaps even the petty king who had raised this fortress.

The armored orc spotted Ridmark and raced towards him, raising the greatsword.

Ridmark sprinted to meet the creature as Kharlacht and Caius fought their way through the other undead.

He did not attempt to block the undead chieftain’s first swing. His staff had a steel core, but the sheer weight and power of the undead orc’s greatsword would tear the staff from his grasp. The huge blade blurred past his face, and Ridmark stepped inside the creature’s guard, his staff swinging. It slammed into an armored leg, and the massive orc staggered but did not fall. The staff flared with white light as Calliande’s magic struggled against the ancient spells upon the armor, its glyphs shining with a crimson glow. The orc rushed at Ridmark, and he landed another blow on its armored flank as the creature passed. The undead warrior staggered from the blow, and Ridmark stepped behind it and struck, his staff hammering against the black helmet.

The armor deflected the blow of his staff, and the undead orc turned with inhuman grace, the black sword blurring. Ridmark retreated as the creature pursued him with heavy, lumbering steps, its black sword clutched in both hands. One strike from the undead orc’s heavy sword would open him up like a butchered pig.

The heavy sword…

That armor had to be heavy, too.

Ridmark dodged another swing and changed direction. His staff struck the undead orc’s heavy cuirass and bounced away, but he had not intended the strike to penetrate armor. It held the creature’s attention, and the warrior followed him.

He jumped into one of the stagnant pools, the cloudy water splashing around his boots, and backed away.

The warrior pursued him, striding into the water.

And as it did, its armored boots sank into the muck at the bottom of the pool. The undead orc staggered, its balance lost for just a moment, but a moment was all that Ridmark needed. He thrust the staff with both hands, all his strength behind the blow, and slammed its butt into the orc’s skeletal face. The skull shattered beneath the staff, its end clanging against the back of the orc’s helmet, and the white light in the staff drowned out the ghostly blue fire of its eyes. Ridmark retracted his staff and scrambled upon dry ground, but the headless orc did not pursue him.

It fell into the pool with a mighty splash, the black armor sinking.

The glow from the sigils painted the water the color of blood.

Ridmark looked around for more foes, and saw the remainder of the undead orcs fleeing.

###

Calliande lowered her hands, blinking the sweat from her eyes. Maintaining the auras over the weapons was not as draining as casting spells of attack, but it was still an effort.

Yet the undead orcs retreated, fleeing around the earthwork outer wall of the ruined fortress.

Kharlacht started to pursue.

“Hold!” Ridmark’s voice rang over the marsh. “Hold here! They might be trying to lure us into a trap.”

Kharlacht glared at Ridmark, his black eyes gleaming red with the battle fury of his orcish blood. But the big orc took a deep breath, calmed himself, and gave a sharp nod.

Ridmark strode back to Calliande’s side, and the others rejoined him.

“They fled from us?” said Gavin, peering at the fortress. “That…seems odd.”

“It is,” said Ridmark. “One more peculiar thing in a day filled with them.”

“Undead like that do not flee,” said Calliande. “They have no minds of their own, and act as their master commands.”

“So their master commanded them to fall back,” said Gavin.

“That seems likely,” said Ridmark, staring at the ruined tower.

“Perhaps the wizard wishes to draw us into a trap,” said Kharlacht.

“Or,” said Ridmark, “he desired to test our strength, and is now preparing something new for us.”

“A cheering thought,” said Caius.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, “before we go any further, I should destroy that armor. The spells of dark magic upon it are potent, and I fear that anyone who claims it might be driven mad.”

He frowned. “Will it cost much of your strength?”

She shook her head. “A single spell should suffice.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “We’ll destroy the armor, and then we’ll scout the interior of the fortress. It is a logical place for the necromancer to hide, and even if he isn’t there, we’ll have a good view of the countryside from the tower.”

He led the way to where the armored orcish chieftain had fallen. Even if Ridmark had forgotten the location, the eerie blood-colored glow in the water would have been easy to find. Calliande took a deep breath and gazed into the pool, and then worked a spell to probe the dark magic upon the armored corpse.

“Do you think the trolldomr summoned the undead, sir?” said Gavin to Ridmark.

“That seems unlikely,” said Caius. “The trolldomr are alien, but that is not the same as malevolence. And I have never heard a single account of a trolldomr using dark magic.”

“But you said that Rjalfur was acting oddly for a trolldomr, Brother,” said Gavin.

“Aye,” said Caius. “But he did warn us against the undead.”

“Or,” rumbled Kharlacht, watching the fortress, “it could have been a ploy to lure us here.”

Calliande closed her eyes and focused upon the armor. The spells upon it were potent. Their long-dead creator had been powerful, but unskilled. The spells were crude, and Calliande thought she could unravel them without much effort.

“I am inclined to agree with Brother Caius,” said Ridmark. “Still. Rjalfur did act strangely. If we encounter him again, best be on our guard.”

Calliande opened her eyes and raised her hand. A shaft of white flame burst from her palm and stabbed into the water. The crimson light flared once and vanished as her magic shattered the spell.

“It is done,” said Calliande.

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “Watch for more dark magic.”

Calliande nodded and cast the spell again, extending her magical senses in all directions.

She flinched, her eyes widening.

Multiple spikes of magical power washed against her.

“What is it?” said Ridmark, catching her elbow.

She recovered her balance. “Someone’s casting spells north of here, powerful ones. Not dark magic. Ridmark…I think the undead didn’t retreat. I think they sensed a more promising target, and are going after him.”

“Someone needs our aid?” said Gavin.

“Then let us furnish it,” said Ridmark, and he broke in a run for the fortress.

Calliande and the others followed him.

Chapter 3 - The Sorceress

Ridmark ran around the curve of the earthen wall, a flare of purple light flashing in the distance.

Who was casting spells? Perhaps the master of the undead had lost control over his creations, and they had turned upon him. Or maybe an orcish shaman of the blood gods had been traveling near the ruins, and the undead had attacked him. Or perhaps a Magistrius had come to fight the undead.

Ridmark thought that unlikely. There had been no Magistri living in Moraime when he had passed through the town nine years past, and he doubted any had come to settle since.

Which meant that the wizard was likely a renegade, a wielder of magic who operated outside the laws of the Order of the Magistri.

Such men were almost always dangerous.

He spotted three undead orcs and tightened his grasp on his staff, but the creatures ignored him. They ran around the curve of the earthwork wall, pursuing the unknown wizard. For a moment Ridmark wondered if Rjalfur had been lying. The trolldomr had claimed that the dark magic had been targeted at Ridmark, but what if they had stumbled upon someone else’s quarrel? Two renegade wizards fighting with dark magic?

If he had, he would ensure they hurt no one else.

Part of his mind whispered that he ought to leave and continue to Urd Morlemoch. The Frostborn were returning, unless Ridmark found a way to stop them, and they could destroy the world. Better to stay out of this business and continue on his way.

But it was not in his nature to turn back.

And if he died here, if the undead or a renegade wizard struck him down, then it was no more than he deserved for what had happened to Aelia.

Ridmark reached the northern end of the fortress and saw a battle.

A swarm of undead, nearly thirty of them, moved around the base of a burial mound. Ridmark saw a score lying upon the slopes of the burial mound, some of them torn to pieces. A figure in a tattered cloak stood atop the hill.

“The wizard,” said Calliande.

The figure spun, and to his surprise, Ridmark saw himself looking at a young woman.

She was about twenty, with long black hair tied back into a thick tail. Her hard black eyes were stark against her pale face. Her cloak was a tattered mixture of gray and brown strips, no doubt to aid in concealment. Beneath the cloak she wore boots, trousers, and a jerkin of well-worn leather.

The woman spun, sweeping her hand before her, her mouth moving in silent words.

Purple light flared around her fingers, and a strange ripple went through the slope of the mound. The earth turned to quicksand beneath the feet of the undead orcs, and they sank into the ground, clawing at the grass. The spell ended with several undead half-buried. The woman gestured again, and a shudder went through the ground beneath Ridmark’s boots. Thick cords erupted from the earth, roots wet with mud and moisture. They curled around the undead and tightened with enough force to rip them apart.

This woman, young though she was, was a powerful sorceress.

And clearly not a Magistria.

She turned again, and her dark eyes met Ridmark’s. Even across the distance he felt a peculiar sort of shock at her gaze. Was it recognition? No, he was sure that he had never seen her before.

It didn’t matter. She had held her own against the undead, but without aid, they would overwhelm her.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark.

She stared at the sorceress, her mouth a hard line. But she blinked, nodded, and cast a spell. Again white light flared to life around their weapons, Ridmark’s staff a glowing line in his fist. A ripple went through the undead orcs as they sensed the presence of Calliande’s spell, and some of the creatures turned toward them. The sorceress upon the hill took advantage of their distraction and struck, more roots rising from the ground to entangle the undead.

Ridmark charged, Kharlacht and Caius at his side as Gavin hung back to shield Calliande from the undead. He brought his staff around and struck, smashing an orc’s skull, and whipped the weapon around to catch another undead behind the knees. The creature fell, and Caius’s mace met its skull.

The sorceress flung out her arms, and the ground around Ridmark rippled. For an instant he wondered if the woman had attacked him, if the undead had simply been a ploy to lure them into a trap, but the shockwave knocked the undead from their feet. He destroyed three of them before they recovered, Calliande’s magic glowing brighter around the staff as it canceled the necromancy binding the undead things. Kharlacht and Caius struck on his left and right, forcing their way through the undead. The mob of dead orcs staggered, forced back by the sheer power of their attack. The sorceress atop the burial mound sent another shock through the earth, a wild, mad grin on her face, and Ridmark struck down two more undead.

The fight was almost over.

“Ridmark!”

Calliande’s voice rang over the fray.

“The fortress!” she shouted.

He turned his head just in time to see the wraith float through the earthwork wall.

The translucent creature looked like a hooded specter in a long black robe. It had the features of an orcish shaman of the blood gods, its face adorned with elaborate tattoos, bronze rings glinting in its nose and ears and lips. It glided over the water, and the grass turned black and dead at its touch.

Ridmark suspected much the same would happen if it touched a living man or woman.

“Do not let it reach you!” said Calliande. “One touch will be enough to kill you.”

The sorceress atop the hill gestured, and more roots rose from the earth, lashing at the wraith. But the roots passed through its immaterial body without touching it, and Ridmark glimpsed a flicker of fear on the sorceress’s face.

“Can you ward us against it?” said Ridmark, smashing another undead orc.

“Aye,” said Calliande, “but I’ll not have enough strength left to maintain the aura around your weapons.”

“Will the aura harm it?” said Ridmark, the wraith flowing toward him.

“It will!” said Calliande. “But…”

“Kharlacht, Caius!” said Ridmark. “Hold against the undead orcs. Gavin, guard Lady Calliande.” The sorceress in the tattered cloak unleashed another spell, throwing more of the undead to the ground, and Kharlacht and Caius seized the moment to attack.

“What will you…” began Calliande.

Ridmark was already moving.

The air grew colder as he charged the wraith, and its eyes, filled with ghostly blue flame, turned toward him. It was freezing cold, yet no frost formed upon the pools of water, and Ridmark’s breath did not steam. It was a magical cold, one that tugged upon his life force.

He suspected a touch from the wraith would not be pleasant.

The creature lunged at him, and Ridmark swung his staff one-handed, using the weapon’s greater reach to keep the wraith away from him. The staff sheared through the wraith’s torso, the spell upon it glowing brighter. The wraith hissed in pain, the first time Ridmark had heard any of the undead make a noise.

“Human dog,” whispered the wraith in orcish. “Bow down. We shall make all your kindred slaves.”

“Unlikely,” said Ridmark, watching the wraith. “Given that you failed in life, and are now nothing more than a shadow.”

The wraith shrieked in fury, the sound cutting into Ridmark’s head like a knife, and billowed towards him. Ridmark danced around the wraith, thrusting and jabbing with his staff. The creature recoiled from every strike, hissing with pain, yet Ridmark’s blows seemed only to discomfort it. Had Ridmark still carried Heartwarden, he could have dispatched the wraith with a single swing of blade.

But he only had a staff and Calliande's spell, and he circled the wraith, striking again and again. The terrible chill started to sink into his muscles, his fingers growing numb. It would not affect his ability to fight, not yet, but soon he would start to shiver.

One stumble and the wraith would have him.

Then his staff blazed with white fire, the weapon thrumming with fresh power.

Ridmark did not hesitate, but swung with all his strength, driving the shaft through the wraith’s chest. The creature reared back, screaming, and for the first time its ethereal form rippled and blurred. Ridmark thrust his staff like a spear, raking the weapon across the undead creature’s face. Calliande’s white fire drowned out the eerie blue flame, and the wraith loosed one final shriek and dissolved into smoke.

Ridmark lowered his staff, breathing hard, and the deadly chill faded.

He looked around for more undead, but the fighting was over, and the white fire faded from his staff.

The orcish undead lay motionless below the burial mound, the earth torn and ripped from the sorceress’s spells. Kharlacht and Caius lowered their weapons and walked over, while Calliande hurried toward him, Gavin following.

“Are you hurt?” said Calliande.

“No,” said Ridmark. “What did you do?”

“Brother Caius and Kharlacht slew all the undead,” said Calliande, “so I put all my power into your staff.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “Your aid was most timely.”

“We may need it again,” said Calliande, flexing her fingers.

Ridmark followed her gaze and watched as the sorceress approached.

She moved across the grassy patches and the pools with slow, steady grace, the gait of someone well-accustomed to the marshes. She looked lithe and fit, and had she been wearing a proper gown, no doubt would have been lovely enough. Neither Kharlacht nor Caius sheathed their weapons as she approached, and Gavin gripped his sword, but the young woman either did not notice or did not care.

She stopped and gazed at them. Ridmark met her hard black eyes, and saw a wary amusement there.

“Well,” she said in Latin at last, “this certainly is a riddle.”

Her accent was strange. She spoke Latin with a precise, stately formality. Ridmark would have expected such an accent from a lady in the High King’s court of Tarlion, not from a mud-spattered sorceress wandering the marshes of the Wilderland. Strangely, it suited her well – her voice could have made her a capable bard.

“Indeed,” said Ridmark, watching her.

“An orc,” said the sorceress, her eyes flicking over them, “a dwarf in a monk’s robes, a Magistria, a stripling boy with a shield,” Gavin scowled at her, “and a man in a gray cloak with a coward’s brand who fights with the wrath of a lion. Strange indeed, and there are many strange things in the marshes.”

“Yourself among them,” said Ridmark, hoping to test her reaction.

A faint smile passed over her pale lips. “Oh, for a certainty, Gray Knight. For that is who you are, is it not? I have heard the tales the townsfolk Moraime tell. The lost knight, wandering forever through the Wilderland to avenge his slain love. A romantic tale. Or it would be, if it were not so foolish. A dead woman can offer a man no comfort.”

“Since we stopped the undead from killing you,” said Ridmark, “perhaps you ought to be grateful that I am a fool.”

A flicker of chagrin went over her face. “Perhaps you are right. I could have handled the corpses on my own. But that wraith…I have no spells to harm such a creature. Just as well you and your pet Magistria came along when you did.”

Calliande scowled, and Gavin stepped forward. “You should speak to the Lady Calliande with respect.”

“Respect is a wage, boy, not a gift,” said the sorceress. “Yet…I thank you for your aid, both you, Gray Knight, and you, Magistria. Having a wraith drain away my life is not how I wished this day to end.”

“I suspect,” said Ridmark, “we can all agree on that. The undead seemed most interested in you.”

“Vexingly so,” agreed the sorceress. “I was making my way south when the first band of corpses attacked me. I dispatched them all, and then decided to warn the fools of Moraime of the threat. Likely I passed too close to the ruins of the fortress, and drew the attention of the undead.”

“They seemed most interested in you,” said Ridmark.

“As if,” said Calliande, “you raised them and lost control.”

The sorceress smirked. “Or as if they had been commanded to seek out wielders of magic. They hunted you, did they not? Perhaps you raised them.”

“Do you have any idea who might have summoned them?” said Ridmark.

“I fear not,” said the sorceress. “My guess would be a shaman of the orcish blood gods, but none have been seen in the marshes since Mhalek led the tribes of Vhaluusk to their doom in Andomhaim…” She blinked and smirked at Ridmark again. “But if you truly are the Gray Knight, you already know that.”

“You know who I am,” said Ridmark. “Might we know who you are?”

The young woman blinked and then laughed. “If you must. You can call me Morigna.” She gripped the edges of her tattered cloak and performed an elaborate mockery of a formal curtsy.  “And I am pleased to meet you, my lords and lady, in my humble palace, which I hope is to your liking.” She looked at Gavin. “Was that respectful enough?”

Gavin opened his mouth, his face going red, but Ridmark spoke first.

“I am Ridmark Arban,” he said. “This is Calliande of the Magistri, Kharlacht of Vhaluusk, Gavin of Aranaeus, and Brother Caius of the mendicant order.”

“A peculiar company,” said Morigna.

“Almost as peculiar as finding a sorceress in the Wilderland,” said Calliande, a hint of ice in her voice. “Where did you learn your magic?”

“Ah,” said Morigna. “So that is what you are doing, is it? The Magistria hunting for renegade wizards, outcasts from the Order, while her ragtag band of enforcers trudge after her?”

“Ragtag?” said Gavin, his face turning red again.

“Given the state of your cloak,” said Ridmark, “that is a serious accusation to level.”

She grinned at him. “And as for my magic, I acquired it in the usual way. I prayed to the forces of darkness for thirteen nights, and then danced naked around a ring of dark elven standing stones. On the thirteenth night, I conjured forth a hundred and one demons and coupled with each of them upon the altar, and in return they bestowed magical powers upon me.”

“Casual blasphemy,” said Caius, “is hardly a joking matter.”

“Why not?” said Morigna. “Given that it amuses me to watch Gavin splutter so.”

“And given that we just fought our way through a pack of undead,” said Ridmark, cutting off Gavin’s furious response, “it is a relevant question.”

“Indeed,” said Morigna. “My magic manifested when I was a child, and the Old Man taught me.”

“The Old Man?” said Ridmark.

“He is a hermit who lives some distance north of Moraime, and he took me as a student.”

“What is his name?” said Calliande.

“That is his to tell you, not mine,” said Morigna. “And I do not know, in truth. He has claimed many names. But do not fear. The Old Man did not raise your undead. The man is so querulous he could not harm a fly, which is a pity, given that he lives in his own filth. But now that I have answered your question, you shall answer mine.”

Ridmark inclined his head.

“Your little ragtag band,” said Morigna. “Where is it going?”

“You saw the omen of blue flame thirty-two days past?” said Ridmark.

“It would have been most difficult to miss,” said Morigna.

“It was a sign of the return of the Frostborn,” said Ridmark.

Morigna scoffed. “The Frostborn are legendary.”

“They are not,” said Ridmark, “and they are returning. That is certain, but I do not know where or when. But the Warden of Urd Morlemoch warned me of the omen nine years past, and so I travel to Urd Morlemoch once more to wring the answers from him.”

Morigna laughed. “Absurd. Well, my first answer was a fanciful tale, so I suppose you are within your rights to repay me in kind. Where are you really going, Ridmark Arban?”

“Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark again, “to get answers from the Warden.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Madness,” said Morigna. “You…are telling the truth? You truly intend to do this?”

Ridmark nodded.

“Mad, utterly mad,” said Morigna. She shrugged. “By why not? If you are the Gray Knight, you went to Urd Morlemoch once before and returned. Nathan told me, before…”

She stopped talking. Clearly, she did not want Ridmark to know about this Nathan, whoever he was.

“So if neither you nor this Old Man raised the undead,” said Ridmark, “then who did?”

“I know not,” said Morigna. “The magic is a sort I have never sensed before.”

“I have,” said Calliande. “It reminds me of Shadowbearer’s, though it is not his.”

“Shadowbearer?” said Morigna. “That is a legend of the dark elves.”

“He’s not,” said Calliande. “I met him.”

“How peculiar,” said Morigna. “You speak of these legends with such familiarity.”

“We saw a trolldomr earlier,” said Ridmark. “Do you think he might have done it?”

“Old Rjalfur?” said Morigna with a laugh. “I doubt it. He has lived in the Deeps near here for years, and emerges from time to time to pose riddles to travelers. He is mad, but harmless.”

“Does he offer a pot of gold to anyone who answers one of his riddles?” said Caius.

“Alas, no,” said Morigna. “Though I have heard that dwarves offer gold to anyone who answers a riddle.”

“I fear that is only a tale,” said Caius.

“How tragic,” said Morigna, turning her attention back to Ridmark. “So. You have fought your way free of the undead. I assume you will continue your fool’s quest to Urd Morlemoch?”

“We shall,” said Ridmark. “But only after we find the necromancer who raised these undead.”

She frowned. “Why? You fought your way free, and with the Magistria’s magic you are strong enough that neither the undead nor the necromancer will stop you. Go and leave the problems of others behind.”

“I will not,” said Ridmark. “Not if it is in my power to aid them.”

“But you could die,” said Morigna. “You cannot perish in Urd Morlemoch if you die here.”

Ridmark shrugged. “All men die.”

She stared at him, baffled. As if he had started babbling in a language that she did not know.

“Why?” said Morigna. “Why help them? Do you hope for a reward from the monks?”

“They may do as they like,” said Ridmark. “But they are outside of the realm, away from the High King’s protection and the aid of the Magistri and the Swordbearers. I would not leave them to their fate.”

“I do not understand,” said Morigna. “You are strong enough to do as you like. Why waste your time with those too weak to defend themselves?”

“Because it is the duty of all sons of the church to defend the weak and the helpless, as the Dominus Christus instructed,” said Caius.

“The words of men a thousand years dead,” said Morigna, “do not concern me.”

“Then you think the strong should rule over the weak and do as they like?” said Calliande.

“The world is what it is,” said Morigna. “What I may or may not wish has no consequence upon it.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “I have learned that myself.”

Morigna blinked, and though his words still seem to baffle her, she appeared almost intrigued.

“Then you mean to help the town of Moraime?” said Morigna.

“I do,” said Ridmark, “if I can.”

“Then I shall travel with you to the town,” said Morigna. “I wish to warn them of the undead.”

“No,” said Calliande at once.

Ridmark looked at her.

“You just gave us that fine speech about the strong ruling the weak,” said Calliande, her voice tight with anger, “and users of magic who believe such things tend to abuse their powers. Grievously.”

“I have no wish to rule anyone,” said Morigna, “merely to be left alone.”

“Then why warn the town and the monastery?” said Ridmark.

“Because,” said Morigna, “I owe a debt, and I wish to repay it. I owe a man…” She shook her head and looked away. “Suffice it to say I have my own reasons. If you are going to Moraime to warn the monks and their town, I shall come. And if not, I will go on my own.”

“No,” said Calliande at once. “She’s not trustworthy, Ridmark. She’s not one of the Magistri.”

“In fairness,” said Caius, “Alamur was a Magistrius, and he was a traitor and a servant of Shadowbearer.”

“I agree with Lady Calliande,” said Gavin, glaring at Morigna. She only answered him with a mocking smile.

Kharlacht shrugged. “She handled herself well in the fight against the undead. If there are more of those creatures about, we will need all the aid we can find.”

“She used dark magic,” said Calliande.

“I did not,” said Morigna. “I commanded the earth and the wind to aid me, as the Old Man taught me. Nothing I did drew upon dark magic or necromancy. One would expect a learned Magistria to know the difference. But perhaps the Magistri are not as wise as I was led to believe.”

Calliande gave a sharp shake of her head, but said nothing.

“Well, Gray Knight?” said Morigna. “It seems the choice is yours. Shall I accompany you or not?”

“For now,” said Ridmark. “Let us travel to Moraime together. There is safety in numbers, and if we are attacked again, we could use your aid. Or if you are attacked by more of those wraiths upon the road, I would not want your death upon my conscience.” God knew he had enough upon it already.

“Very well,” said Morigna.

“Be warned, though,” said Ridmark. “If you have lied to us, if you raised these undead, I will put a stop to it.”

She gazed at him for a moment, and then nodded.

“I would expect no less,” she said. “Lead on.”

“And I shall watch you, too,” said Calliande.

“Watch all you like, Magistria,” said Morigna, filling the title with scorn. “You shall find nothing. And perhaps you shall even learn a thing or two.”

“Enough,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go. If there are more of these undead about, if some wizard is opening the old orcish burial mounds, the town of Moraime has to be warned. This way.”

He led them away from the ruined fortress.

Chapter 4 - Moraime

Morigna was not sure what to make of her new companions.

Or, at least, of their grim-faced leader.

She took the measure of the others easily enough. Morigna had never met a Magistria, but Calliande was just as she had always imagined the Magistri to be – cold, aloof, suspicious, and imperious. The Old Man had always said the Magistri were fools, too enslaved and shackled to their rules to achieve anything, and Calliande did little to dispel that belief. The idiot boy trudging after her was most likely the Magistria’s servant.

Kharlacht, likewise, was easy to understand. Morigna had traveled through much of Vhaluusk, and she had spoken and bartered with the orcish tribes of the hills and the mountains. To judge from his cross necklace, Kharlacht was baptized, which was odd, but not impossible. Some of the orcs of the south had listened to the missionaries rather than killing them, and likely Kharlacht was one of them. It was peculiar that an orcish warrior would forsake the old blood gods for the God of the church. The blood gods permitted a warrior to take as many wives and concubines as he wished, while the church of Andomhaim did not. Still, guilt could drive a man to do odd things.

Morigna knew that better than she might have wished.

The dwarven friar was an enigma, but not much of one. She had seen a few dwarves as they traveled through the Wilderland, and they were grim and silent and humorless, keeping to themselves and speaking only when necessary, stopping every night to offer prayers to the Stone Heart in the Deeps. Caius, by contrast, never seemed to shut up, and laughed often. She wondered how he had become a friar. Perhaps it was a rebellion against his people.

But she could not understand Ridmark Arban.

She had heard the stories of the Gray Knight, of course, of the gray-cloaked warrior who wandered the Wilderland to avenge some dead woman. She had certainly not expected him to be real. And she had certainly not expected him to have a coward’s brand, the sigil of a broken sword, marked upon his left cheek. The knights of Andomhaim only received those brands for the gravest crimes, for the most egregious acts of cowardice.

But this man was clearly no coward.

Certainly a coward would not fight a creature like that wraith. And a coward could not command the loyalty of his followers as did Ridmark Arban. Morigna would have expected the Magistria to lead the little group. But she obeyed Ridmark instead. They all did. A former knight, a man with a coward’s brand upon his cheek, and they followed his decisions.

Stranger and stranger.

“Tell me, friar,” said Morigna, since Caius seemed the most inclined to talk, “how does a dwarf of the Three Kingdoms become a brother of the mendicants? It must be a remarkable tale.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Perhaps he saw a witch coupling with demons in the night, and the sight drove him to the church.”

Gavin laughed.

“Regrettably, I fear the story is not quite so lurid,” said Caius. “Missionaries came to the court of Khald Tormen, and I heard the gospel of the Dominus Christus and believed. I left the Three Kingdoms and went to Tarlion to learn more. Alas, I found many of the priests and lords of Tarlion complacent in their faith, so I went north to spread the word of the Dominus Christus among the pagan orcish tribes of the Wilderland.”

“A foolish course,” said Morigna. “The tribes of Vhaluusk are not receptive to missionaries. Many a chieftain has a wall lined with missionaries’ skulls.”

“All things are in the hand of God,” said Caius, “and if that is my fate, it shall be as God decrees. And it would have been my fate, if not for Ridmark.”

“Oh?” said Morigna, looking at the gray-cloaked man. He had not spoken, but she was sure that he was listening.

“I was taken prisoner by some Mhalekite orcs,” said Caius, “and he slew them. A score of foes, and he overcame them.”

“You exaggerate,” said Ridmark, not glancing back at them as he led the way through the marsh. “There were only four.”

“And you?” said Morigna, looking at Kharlacht. “He saved your life, too?”

“After a fashion,” said Kharlacht. “We fought a duel below the walls of Dun Licinia, when the Mhalekites laid siege to the town, and he spared my life.”

“Truly?” said Morigna, surprised. “And you follow him now?”

Kharlacht shrugged. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Certainly somewhere other than Urd Morlemoch, one would think,” said Morigna.

“What of you, madam?” said Caius. “Perhaps our stories are remarkable, but I am sure yours is as well. One does not often come across lovely young sorceresses wandering the swamps of the Wilderland.”

“Flattery, dwarf?” said Morigna.

“I merely state the truth,” said Caius. “Though you needn’t fear for your virtue. I have taken a vow of celibacy…and had I not, well, human women are far too thin and tall.”

Gavin laughed, turned a bit red again, and fell silent.

“So,” said Caius, “how does a young sorceress wind up living in the swamps of the Wilderland?”

“Yes,” said Calliande. For a moment her blue eyes looked just as cold as Ridmark’s. “I would be most interested in knowing that myself. Human wielders of magic are rare outside of the Magistri.”

Morigna offered a chilly smile to the other woman. “And they often turn out to be crazed wielders of dark magic?”

“I can say in all candor,” said Calliande, “that has entirely been my experience.”

“Very well,” said Morigna. “My parents were born in Moraime, so far as I know, and hunted and trapped outside the town walls. There are entrances to the Deeps in the hills northwest of the town, and one day some dvargir raiders from the Deeps came to the surface looking for slaves. My father fought back, and they killed him and my mother in front of me.”

“May God rest their souls,” said Caius.

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande.

Morigna shrugged. “It was long ago. I was no more than five or six at the time. I barely remember it.”

Yet she still had nightmares about it, remembered the house burning, remembered her mother’s frantic screams, dark shapes wrapped in shadow pouring through the door.

“Plainly,” said Kharlacht, “you escaped.”

“Yes, plainly,” said Morigna. “How terribly observant. I ran from my father’s house and into the hills, and the dvargir followed. They would have killed me, but my magic manifested in rage and I killed two of them. And then the Old Man came and slew the others with his spells.”

“A tragic story,” said Caius. “I am sorry.”

Morigna shrugged. “It was fourteen years ago. The Old Man took me in and raised me, and taught me how to use my magic.”

“He should have taken you to the Magistri,” said Calliande. “Your spells are earth magic, drawing upon the power of the world around you. That is dangerous for humans to use, a doorway to dark magic and worse things. If he had taken you to the Magistri, they could have taught you how to use the magic of the Well, magic to heal and defend and seek, magic you can use without putting yourself at risk.”

“The Old Man said the Magistri were not trustworthy,” said Morigna, “that they had been corrupted. Can you say otherwise?”

A shadow went over Calliande’s face. For all her pride, she was not that much older than Morigna. How much of her confident pose was only a mask?

“No,” she said at last. “No, I cannot.”

Morigna shrugged. “The Old Man said much the same. He took me in and taught me to use my magic, and I have studied with him ever since.”

“And wandered the swamps on your own, it seems,” said Caius.

“The Old Man is hardly a tyrant, but he is not pleasant to live with, and I have lived alone since I was twelve,” said Morigna. “I can look after myself.”

“So that is what you do, then?” said Calliande. “Wander the swamps?”

“I travel across Vhaluusk as I please,” said Morigna. “Otherwise I am alone with my own company, and I find that preferable.”

At least, she had, once upon a time. But then she had met Nathan and things had changed.

Now she did not know.

“I am surprised you are still alive,” said Kharlacht. “Vhaluusk is a dangerous place.”

“Vhaluusk and the Wilderland are very dangerous places,” said Morigna. “And not just from your kindred. The dvargir scum, the horrors the dark elves left in their ruins, the Mhalekites and the lupivirii…”

“The lupivirii,” said Gavin, “are extremely dangerous.”

“And what would you know of them?” said Morigna.

This time he only offered a thin smile in answer to her mockery. “You might be surprised.”

Morigna doubted that. “But I have my magic, and I keep my wits about me. This world is one where the strong prey upon the weak. The only security is power…and I have power of my own.”

“A dangerous attitude,” said Calliande. “It leads to abuse of that power.”

“A lie,” said Morigna, “told by those with power to keep the weak in their place. Just as your church tells lies to keep the peasants docile and complacent.”

Caius raised his graying eyebrows. “Then you think the teachings of the church are a lie?”

“I do,” said Morigna. The Old Man had always said so, and she had seen nothing to make her change her mind. “The meek are called blessed because they are too cowardly to take power for themselves. They…”

Calliande, Caius, Kharlacht, and Gavin all started to argue with her, but Ridmark spoke first. The others fell silent and looked at him, and Morigna marveled at that.

The man indeed had a commanding presence.

“The Old Man,” said Ridmark, “this hermit who raised you.”

“What about him?” said Morigna.

“You said he was timid,” said Ridmark, “that he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Morigna nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze as he looked back at him. “He wouldn’t. He avoids confrontation whenever possible.”

“But this is the same man,” said Ridmark, “who rescued you from the dvargir as a child. I have fought the dvargir before, and they are dangerous foes.”

“His magic is powerful,” said Morigna.

“Clearly,” said Ridmark. “I wish to meet him.”

Morigna frowned. “You think him responsible for raising the undead? He is not.” She glared at Calliande. “I have never seen him use dark magic, and he does not involve himself in the affairs of others.”

“I did not say that,” said Ridmark, calm in the face of her anger. “I wish to speak with him nonetheless. If he is as powerful as you say, he might know who has been raising these undead.”

“I see,” said Morigna. That made sense, but if Ridmark decided that the Old Man had raised the undead, then he would attack. For all his magical power, Morigna doubted that the Old Man could defend himself against someone like Ridmark Arban. Still, Ridmark did not seem like the sort to kill on suspicion, and he would find no reason for suspicion, since the Old Man had nothing to do with the undead. “Very well. Once we warn the folk of Moraime, I shall lead you to his home, and you may speak to him yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark.

He walked in silence for a moment, then turned as if something had just occurred to him.

“The townsfolk,” he said. “How are they likely to react to you?”

“To me?” said Morigna. “What do you mean?”

“Obviously they know you, if you’ve been there before,” said Ridmark. “The monks of the monastery of St. Cassian rule the town, and they are kindlier masters than many of the other rulers of the Wilderland. The dark elves, for instance, or the pagan orcs.”

“Or the urdmordar,” said Gavin.

“As if you would know,” said Morigna.

“But the town of Moraime is a small island of order in a sea of wilderness and dangerous creatures,” said Ridmark. “Such folk quickly become suspicious…and often rightly so, given the dangers that surround them.”

“Such as me, perhaps?” said Morigna.

“I cannot imagine that the men of Moraime think well of a renegade wizard living in the hills near the town,” said Ridmark, “or of his apprentice. How will they react to you?”

“With suspicion,” Morigna admitted.

“Justified suspicion?” said Ridmark.

His blue eyes seemed to cut right through her.

“No,” said Morigna. “No. It is not. But…they do not see it that way.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. “We shall be careful, then. And you would do well to heed Gavin’s warning.”

“Warning?” she said, confused. “About what?”

“About facing an urdmordar,” said Ridmark. “Given that he stood a few paces from a female urdmordar before she fell in battle.”

Morigna blinked in astonishment. The urdmordar were deadly, and only powerful magic could slay a female urdmordar. She looked at Gavin and saw no trace of boasting, but only a distant look in his eyes, the look of a much older man who had survived terrible dangers at great cost.

Perhaps there was more to the idiot boy than she had thought.

Ridmark turned away, and they kept walking.

They left the marshes behind and came to a hill-dotted plain. Once, Morigna knew, it had been part of the vast forests covering the Wilderland. But then the monks had settled upon the hill of Moraime after the defeat of the Frostborn, and the town had grown up around the monastery of St. Cassian. Now most of the trees had been cut down, and fields and pastures dotted the countryside. Nearly all the fields had been newly turned, and the spring planting was well underway.

“Where is everyone?” said Kharlacht. “It is only a little past noon.”

“They ought to be busy with the planting,” said Gavin, “if they do not want to starve come winter.”

Ridmark looked at Morigna. “Is there some festival in the town? A fair, perhaps?”

She shook her head. “None.”

“It reminds me of Aranaeus,” said Kharlacht, “when the folk had retreated behind the walls for fear of the wolfmen.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps we were not the only ones the undead attacked. Stay on your guard.”

They took a well-worn dirt road that wound its way through the hills, and came to Moraime perhaps an hour later.

The monastery stood in the town’s center, built upon a rocky crag of a hill. Out of necessity, the monks had built their home in the form of a castra, a strong fortress with tall towers and a thick outer wall. Generations of devoted labor had carved the stones for the monastery, raising them into proud towers and strong walls.

The town, home to perhaps fifteen hundred people, encircled the monastery’s hill. The monks had built a small oasis of order in the chaos of the Wilderland, and over the centuries others had come to shelter in that oasis. Refugees fleeing the endless wars of the pagan orc tribes, slaves escaped from the dvargir and the dark elves, and those who wished to leave the realm of Andomhaim for whatever reason. They came to Moraime and settled, and the monks welcomed everyone who lived in peace and accepted the teachings of the church and the Dominus Christus.

The Old Man, with his dim view of the church, had never tried to settle within the town’s strong stone walls.

Of course, with his magic, he hardly needed their protection.

“The gates are shut,” said Ridmark.

“They shouldn’t be,” said Morigna. “Not at this time of day. Not unless…”

“The town is threatened,” said Ridmark.

He led the way to the wall. It stood twenty feet tall, topped by a rampart. Men from the town’s militia stood over the gate, crossbows in hand, and they leveled their weapons.

“Hold!” shouted their sergeant. “Identify yourselves!”

“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark, “and this is the Magistria Calliande.” He gestured at the blond woman. “We are traveling through the Wilderland, and were attacked by corpses raised by dark magic. We hope to shelter within your walls before continuing upon our way.”

“A Magistria?” said the sergeant. “Truly?”

“I am,” said Calliande.

“Then your aid is sorely needed,” said the sergeant. “Bands of those corpses have been wandering the countryside, attacking farms and pastures. The walls have kept them out, but steel won’t hurt those things. Only fire harms them. Your magic could help us. We…”

“Sir!” said one of the men, pointing. “It’s her!”

He pointed at Morigna.

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “The witch who killed Sir Nathan?”

“I did not kill Nathan!” said Morigna, her temper rising. “I told you all. The urvaalg killed him. Had you a spark of wit, you would have believed me!”

“Sir Jonas said you killed his brother!” said the sergeant.

“Who,” said Ridmark, calm as ever, “is Sir Nathan?”

“The brother of Sir Michael, the praefectus of the town,” said Morigna. “He thinks that I killed Nathan.”

“Did you?” said Ridmark.

She wanted to scream at him. Instead she took a deep breath. “No. I did not.”

“Get Sir Michael,” said the sergeant. “He’ll want to see this.” One of the men ran from the ramparts, and the rest leveled their crossbows. “You lot, stay where you are. Anything suspicious, we’ll fill you with shafts.”

“Yes, how fine, how noble,” said Morigna, glaring up at them. “These strangers have come to offer you aid against the undead, and you threaten them?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you raised the undead,” said the sergeant, “you and that crazy wizard in the hills.”

“I did not, and neither did he!” said Morigna. She wanted to summon her powers and teach these fools a lesson. “And I…”

“Enough,” said Ridmark. She glared at him. “We’ll speak to Sir Michael when he comes.”

So they waited.

A few moments later the portcullis rattled up, the gate swung open, and Sir Michael Vorinus stalked out, accompanied by a pair of militiamen with spears. He was a tall, balding man, with arms like tree trunks and a hard face behind a bushy, graying beard. A man who looked like a younger version of Sir Michael followed him. Sir Jonas Vorinus, Michael's younger brother, looked at Morigna and scowled, contempt glinting in his eyes.

Then he saw Ridmark, and his eyes widened with surprise.

He knew Ridmark?

Then Michael looked at Morigna.

“So,” said Michael, “the dead walk in the hills and the marshes, the folk flee behind the walls of the town, and the witch of the hills, the murderer of my brother, dares to show her face here.”

“I did not kill Nathan,” said Morigna. “That urvaalg killed him. I tried to save him, but I could not.”

Michael made a dismissive wave of his hand. “Even if your hand did not deal the death blow, you led him to his death. His foolish infatuation with you was his undoing.”

A wave of fury rolled through Morigna. She had tried to save Nathan. To be reminded of his death, to have it thrown in her face before Ridmark and his companions, almost enraged her beyond reason.

But Ridmark spoke before she could do anything rash.

“I am sorry for the death of your brother,” said Ridmark. “But you face a more immediate peril. We are passing through the Wilderland, and had hoped to buy supplies and rest in Moraime. But we were attacked by a band of undead in the marshes, and found another group attacking Morigna.”

Michael sneered. “And why should I believe the word of a man who wears the brand of a coward? Even if you are an honest man, which I doubt, the witch could have enchanted you.”

“A fair point,” said Ridmark. “Would you believe the word of a Magistria?”

He turned his head, and Calliande lifted her right hand. A ball of white light shimmered and danced over her fingers, and Michael’s eyes grew wide.

“Then you are truly a Magistria?” said Michael. “That wasn’t a lie?”

“I am,” said Calliande, cool and serene. Morigna did not like the other woman, but she had to admit that Calliande could look commanding, even queenly, when she wished. “My name is Calliande, and if I can aid you against these undead, I shall. The abuse of magic is evil, an affront to the laws of both God and man, and I will not allow it.”

Morigna suspected that little speech had not been aimed at Michael.

“Thank you, Lady Calliande,” said Michael. “Any aid will be welcome.” He turned to Ridmark. “And just who are you?”

“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark.

Michael’s eyes narrowed.

“Brother,” said Jonas, gripping his elder brother’s shoulder, “he’s telling the truth. You’ve heard the tales of the Gray Knight?”

“The gray warrior that aids travelers?” said Michael.

“You remember the Swordbearer that passed through the town nine years ago?” said Jonas. “When our father was still praefectus?”

“The Swordbearer?” said Michael, his eyes growing distant with memory. “But…that man said he was going to Urd Morlemoch. He…”

“He did,” said Ridmark, “and he lived to tell the tale.” He paused. “Barely.”

Morigna found herself staring at him in astonishment. She had thought his tale of traveling to Urd Morlemoch a madman’s folly. But he had already entered the Warden’s ancient fortress and returned? Even the Old Man was unnerved by the thought of going anywhere near Urd Morlemoch.

Just what kind of man was Ridmark Arban?

“Forgive me, Swordbearer,” said Michael. “I saw you nine years ago, when you stayed with the monks. I had…I had thought you dead long ago.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Ridmark. “I came home by a different route. And do not call me a Swordbearer. I lost the right to that title.”

“I see,” said Michael, looking at the brand. “Then…why have you come to Moraime now?”

“The omen of blue fire a month past?” said Ridmark. Michael nodded. “It is a sign of the return of the Frostborn. The Warden warned me against it when I was last in Urd Morlemoch. Now that I have seen the omen, I am going back to Urd Morlemoch to wring more answers from the Warden.”

“You escaped from Urd Morlemoch,” said Michael, “and now you are going back there? God and all his saints, man. You are either valiant beyond all measure or a madman.”

“Likely the latter,” said Ridmark, and Kharlacht snorted. “But my companions and I shall aid you against the undead, if we can.”

“We should be glad for any aid,” said Michael. “Especially from the honored Magistria. These undead…weapons of mortal steel do not harm them. The walls keep them out, but they range over our fields, and if we do not get a crop into the ground soon, we will starve come winter.”

“Someone is raising the undead,” said Ridmark. “It is possible a wizard called Shadowbearer is raising them. Have you encountered him at all?”

Jonas snorted. “A legend of the dark elves.”

“No,” said Calliande. “I wish he was, but he is not.”

“An elven wizard?” said Michael. “My lady, Sir…ah, Ridmark, there are no elves here, whether high or dark. We are mostly humans, with some orcs and halflings. Sometimes dwarves pass through on their way to the Three Kingdoms or their enclave in Coldinium, but no elves.”

“Then do you have any suspicions?” said Ridmark. “An orcish shaman of the blood gods could do it. Or some other renegade wizard.”

“The Old Man,” said Michael at once.

“No,” said Morigna. “He would not do it.”

Michael scowled. “The man has magic, and refuses to speak to anyone. He has hidden himself in the hills for as long as anyone can remember, but he has nothing to do with the town.”

“Much as I am loathe to agree with the witch,” said Jonas, “she may have a point. The Old Man has left the town alone for decades. Why trouble us now?”

“Why indeed?” said Ridmark. “Perhaps…”

Shouts rang out from inside the town, and a militiaman in leather armor sprinted through the gates.

“Sir Michael!” shouted the young man, his face pale with terror. “Sir Michael!”

“What is it, lad?” said Michael. “Speak!”

“The undead,” said the militiaman. “They’re inside the town!”

“What?” said Michael. “They got over the walls?”

“No, sir,” said the militiaman. “They’re rising from the crypts below the monastery! Sir, what shall we do?”

Chapter 5 - The Monastery

Sir Michael stared at the messenger, and Ridmark realized that the older man was at a loss.

The praefectus had done everything right so far by closing the gates, sealing the town, and putting a guard upon the wall. Given the number of raiders that wandered the Wilderland, Sir Michael had to be a veteran fighter. But fighting the undead, Ridmark realized, was outside of Michael’s experience.

“Have they broken out of the monastery yet?” said Michael at last.

“No, sir,” said the militiaman. “The monks barred the doors to the crypt. But it will not hold for long. What shall we do, sir? If the dead men get into the streets it will be a slaughter.”

“We must abandon the town,” said Jonas. “We cannot fight those creatures on an even footing.”

“And where will the people shelter?” said Michael. “What shall they eat? If we move everyone outside the walls, we will be vulnerable to every band of undead that happens to come along…or pagan orcs raiding from the north or kobolds out of the Deeps.”

“If we stay it will be a slaughter,” said Jonas. “There must be hundreds of tombs in the monastery’s crypts, and if all those corpses rise at once and swarm into the village…”

“Let us help,” said Ridmark.

Both Michael and Jonas looked at him.

“The undead are still trapped in the monastery’s crypt?” said Ridmark. The messenger nodded. “Sir Michael, then the time to act is now. My friends and I have experience fighting the undead, and we have the aid of a Magistria. If we attack at once, perhaps we can overcome the undead at the crypt and hold both the monastery and the town. But only if we act immediately.”

“I do not know,” said Michael.

“If you abandon Moraime now,” said Ridmark, “you will never get it back. The undead will hold the town, and your people will be scattered across the Wilderland.” Jonas scowled at him, but Ridmark ignored it. “The Wilderland is dotted with hundreds of ruined villages. If you abandon the town now, Moraime will be just one more of them”

“Let us act boldly, Sir Michael,” said Caius, “for the Lord has given us a spirit of boldness, not of fear.” Morigna rolled her eyes, but thankfully, kept her mouth shut. “Yes, you’re right,” said Michael with a sharp nod. “We must either risk everything or lose everything.” He looked up at the rampart. “Sergeant! Close the gates after we go through, and keep watch upon the countryside. If some malignant intelligence controls the undead, it might decide to launch an attack upon the walls while we deal with the undead in the crypt.”

“It was what I would do,” said Ridmark.

“Gray Knight, thank you for your aid,” said Michael. “You know us not, yet you go into grave peril beside us.”

“Do not thank us yet,” said Ridmark. “Not until the battle is won. I suggest we hasten.”

“The undead will not remain in the crypt for long,” said Michael. “Come!”

He strode through the gate. Jonas scowled at Ridmark once more, and then followed his brother. Ridmark wondered if he had somehow offended the younger knight. He had never seen Jonas before, but perhaps he met him during his previous visit to Moraime.

It was something he could worry about later.

Assuming the undead did not kill every single person in the town.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark, following Jonas and Michael. “How many weapons could you enspell at once?”

“I’m not sure,” said Calliande. “But the more weapons I augment, the harder it is for me to hold the spell. I could enspell our weapons and a few more, perhaps. Any more than that, and I doubt I could maintain the spell for long.”

Ridmark nodded. The monks had lived atop the hill for centuries, carving crypts into the rock below their home. If he remembered correctly, only the monks were buried beneath the hill, while the townsmen buried their dead in the graveyard outside the wall. But even that meant hundreds of undead could have been raised in the crypts below the monastery.

And that also meant the necromancer could be here in Moraime.

“Keep your sensing spell in place,” said Ridmark to Calliande in a low voice. “I wonder if our renegade wizard is in the town.”

Calliande nodded. “The same thought occurred to me.”

Morigna overheard them. “I can sense the presence of magic as well.”

Calliande opened her mouth to argue, but Ridmark spoke first.

“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” he said. “Keep watch.”

Morigna nodded and whispered the spell. Ridmark was not yet sure what to make of her. She was pretty, but he knew that beauty was often a mask for something darker. She was arrogant and abrasive, yet had fought the undead in the marsh without flinching. And he suspected that much of her abrasiveness was a pose to hide a great deal of fear and loss.

She had looked bleak when Michael mentioned Sir Nathan.

Another riddle he could ponder later.

Moraime had changed little in the nine years since Ridmark’s last visit. Most of the houses had been built of rough-cut stone and mortar, with tilted roofs of fired clay tiles to ward away the Wilderland’s harsh winters. The street from the gate led them to the village’s square, and Ridmark saw a large stone church, flanked on either side by halls for the stonemasons and the potters. Everywhere he saw signs of preparation for a siege, with women making bandages and arrows and carrying supplies to the walls, while men drilled with sword and spear. The newcomers drew stares, and townsmen looked alarmed at the sight of Morigna. She ignored the stares, her head held high with arrogant contempt. She claimed she did not know who had raised the undead, and Ridmark believed her.

But he suspected she knew a great deal more than she claimed.

A narrow road circled the rocky hill and led to the monastery’s curtain wall. The gate opened into a wide courtyard. Monks in brown robes hurried back and forth, many of them carrying crossbows. In the south, the monastic orders renounced violence, but in the Wilderland, monks did not have that luxury. A massive stone keep rose from the center of the courtyard, ringed in towers. Ridmark saw a small mob of monks and novices struggling at a set of doors in the keep’s base, near the entrance to the chapel.

The doors to the crypts.

“Sir Michael,” said a rasping, gravelly voice.

The abbot of the monastery and the leader of Moraime hobbled towards them. The abbot was an elderly orcish man, so old that only a few wisps of white hair clung to his green scalp, his tusks yellowed and worn. He leaned heavily upon a cane in his right hand, yet hobbled towards them with surprising speed.

“Abbot Ulakhur,” said Michael with a bow, and Ridmark and the others followed suit. Morigna only crossed her arms and glared at the old orc.

“You have brought guests,” said Ulakhur, blinking his watery black eyes. “And the witch of the hills is with you.”

“Forgive me, lord abbot,” said Michael, “but this is Ridmark Arban, the Gray Knight of the tales. The woman with him is Calliande of the Magistri, and they have come to offer help.”

“You have?” said Ulakhur. “We sorely need aid.” The doors to the crypt thumped, the hinges creaking. “If those devils get out, it shall be a slaughter. I have commanded the brothers to seal the gates in the wall and retreat to the ramparts. If necessary, we shall fire the monastery and hope the undead are caught in the blaze.”

“With respect, lord abbot, that may be necessary,” said Ridmark. “Lady Calliande can enchant our weapons to make them proof against the undead. If we force the undead to come at us here, perhaps we can defeat them.”

“Ridmark,” said Calliande, “there might be another way. I can sense…something inside the hill, some source of dark magic in the crypts.”

“I can detect it, too,” Morigna announced. “I think it is the source of the power that raised the undead.”

“The necromancer himself?” said Ridmark.

“Perhaps,” said Morigna.

“No,” said Calliande with a distracted shake of her head. “A…totem, a relic. An object, I think. Something that was left in the crypts and then activated.

“Then if we find and destroy it,” said Ridmark, “perhaps we can return the dead to their rest.” He looked at Ulakhur. “Lord abbot, with your permission, we shall enter the crypts and find this relic.”

“You risk much on our behalf,” said Ulakhur. “Go with our blessings and prayers.”

“If this goes ill,” said Michael, “we should withdraw the brothers to the wall, lord abbot, with crossbows and torches ready. If the Gray Knight fails, we should prepare to fire the monastery.”

Ulakhur sighed. “Make what preparations you think best, Sir Michael. Gray Knight, you have our thanks. Though I am unsure of the presence of the witch of the hills.”

Morigna scowled and started to speak, but Ridmark interrupted her. “She fought the undead outside of the town, lord abbot. I do not believe she means Moraime ill, and we need all the aid we can find.”

“Very well,” said Ulakhur. “Go with God and his saints.”

Michael shouted orders, and the monks abandoned the crypt doors and headed for the walls. The militiamen moved to follow Michael, and Jonas hesitated, looking back and forth between Ridmark and his brother. Ridmark met his gaze, and Jonas scowled, sneered, and went after the militiamen.

The crypt doors shuddered, one of the planks splintering, and Ridmark glimpsed dark shapes moving behind the doors.

And a hint of ghostly blue flame.

“Prepare yourselves,” said Ridmark, raising his staff.

###

Calliande took a deep breath and let her magical senses wash over the monastery one last time.

She felt the peculiar power of Morigna’s earth magic, strange and alien. But it lacked the icy malevolence of the power binding the corpses behind the door, of the source of power buried in the crypt.

Gavin drew his sword and set his shield, putting himself in front of Calliande.

Morigna laughed. “Defending the women, boy? I need no one to defend me.”

“I wasn’t thinking of defending you,” said Gavin, not looking at Morigna.

“Gavin,” said Calliande, “go with Ridmark. When the undead break through the doors, he will need your help.”

Gavin hesitated, nodded, and hurried to join Ridmark and the other men.

“Does he usually shield you in battle?” said Morigna.

“Yes,” said Calliande, releasing her sensing spell and summoning more power, “effectively.”

“Well, fear not,” said Morigna with her mocking smile. “I’ll look after you while you enchant the weapons.”

“How very comforting,” said Calliande.

She could deal with Morigna later, once the undead had been defeated. The woman was dangerous, and Calliande was sure that she had lied to Ridmark. Even if she had not used dark magic, she seemed well along on the path to becoming someone like Talvinius of the Eternalists or Alamur.

But for now, they had to work together to defeat the undead.

Calliande cast a spell. White fire burst from her hands, and Ridmark’s staff began to glow with white light, as did Kharlacht’s sword, Gavin’s blade, and Caius’s mace.

The doors burst open, and the undead came forth.

The undead in the marshes had been orcs, long-dead warriors of Vhaluusk. These undead had once been monks of Moraime, still clad in their crumbling robes. Generations of monks had been buried in the crypts, until the dark magic had defiled their graves and raised them up as undead.

On the plus side, it meant none of the undead carried armor or weapons. No one buried monks with swords and daggers.

Ridmark and the others charged into the horde of undead.

Kharlacht carved into them like a man harvesting wheat, his blue greatsword inscribing white-glowing arcs through the undead monks. Every blow severed a head or a skeletal arm. Caius followed the tall orc, hammering with his mace. Whenever an undead monk drew too near, Caius darted into the gap, his brown robes billowing around him, and shattered a skull or a leg. Gavin guarded the dwarven friar, bashing with his shield and striking with the orcish sword he had taken from the arachar in Aranaeus.

But Ridmark tore through the undead like a storm.

His staff had a steel core, and Calliande knew firsthand how heavy the weapon was. Yet he wielded the staff as if it weighed no more than a light willow branch. He fought through the undead, striking right and left, shifting his grip from one-handed to two-handed and back again. The creatures reached for him, rotting robes billowing around them, but Ridmark remained just ahead of them, so close that Calliande feared that he would fall again and again.

But they never touched him, and he left a score of broken corpses in his wake.

She had never seen a warrior like him. Of course, she could not remember anything that had happened before she had awakened thirty-two days ago. But even if she could, she doubted she could recall a man like Ridmark Arban.

Ridmark, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin tore through the undead, driving them back toward the crypt.

More of the creatures poured out of the doors, and some of them got past Ridmark and the others and charged Calliande, drawn by her magic like flies to a lamp.

“Morigna,” said Calliande, her hands trembling as she struggled to maintain the spell around the weapons.

She expected a mocking answer, but Morigna only stepped forward, purple fire crackling around her fingers. The sorceress clapped her hands, and a ripple went through the ground, the heavy flagstones of the courtyard folding and bending like paper. The shock wave knocked a half-dozen undead to the ground. At once the creatures started to rise, but Morigna gestured again. Mist billowed from the ground, wrapping around the undead. Calliande wondered what good that would do, but the undead sizzled and hissed. The acidic mist ate into their rotting flesh and dissolved their bones, and the undead collapsed into piles of burning slime.

Unease went through Calliande. The Magistri used their magic to defend, to heal, and to seek knowledge, never to harm or kill. What would stop Morigna from conjuring acidic mist against living men?

Morigna raked her hands through the air, face tight with strain, and knocked another wave of undead monks into her pool of burning mist. They dissolved into smoke and slime, the stench hideous, and Ridmark and the others battled to the doors of the crypt.

Silence fell over the courtyard.

Calliande looked around. Dozens of undead lay strewn across the ground, their skulls and limbs smashed. No more issued from the crypt doors, and Ridmark and the others stood at the threshold, glowing weapons in hand.

“Is that it?” said Calliande. “We destroyed them all already?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “There’s more down there.”

“Torches?” said Gavin.

“No need,” said Morigna, lifting a hand. “I can provide the necessary light.”

She lifted her right hand, mist swirling above it, and for an alarmed moment Calliande thought she meant to attack. But the ball of mist began to glow with a gray light, shining brighter and brighter.

“Good enough,” said Ridmark, and they descended into the darkness.

###

Scuttling noises echoed in crypt’s darkness.

Morigna’s eerie spell-light threw back the darkness, but cast crazed shadows in all directions. Massive, thick pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, and hundreds of graves had been cut into the floor, sealed with lids of stone.

Most of the lids had been smashed open.

Ridmark raised his staff, the weapon’s glow helping to throw back the darkness. He glimpsed dark shapes moving in the distant shadows of the vast crypt, caught glimpses of empty eyes gleaming with pale blue flames. Yet none of the undead approached.

The creatures had shown no cunning during the fight in the marsh, and none during the fighting in the courtyard. Did that mean the necromancer was down here, controlling his minions?

But why? Why loose the bands of undead in the countryside? Why raise the dead below the monastery? The attacks seemed to have no purpose.

Or they had a purpose that Ridmark could not yet see.

“Morigna,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice low. The light would have alerted anyone watching for intruders. “Do you sense anything?”

“Aye,” said Morigna, the light shining from her right hand, her left moving in the gestures of a spell. “At the far wall, I think. The dark magic is coming from there.”

Ridmark nodded and kept walking, careful to keep his footing amongst the opened tombs. Broken stone lay everywhere, and the stench of dust and rotten flesh was heavy in the air. He heard the scuttling of the undead in the darkness, but none of the creatures attacked.

He suspected that they were talking into a trap.

“Gray Knight,” rumbled Kharlacht, peering into the gloom. “A corpse ahead.”

“We are surrounded by walking corpses,” said Morigna. “Have you only now just noticed?”

The big orc ignored her. “A dwarven corpse, I think.”

“Dwarven?” said Caius.

“And fresh,” said Kharlacht.

Morigna raised her right hand, the light brightening, and Ridmark saw the corpse.

The short, stocky figure lay on its back, armored in black metal that looked somehow wet and reflective while absorbing the light. The gray-skinned face was utterly hairless, and a serrated black sword of the same metal lay in its right hand, a pointed shield near its left.

Morigna began to swear in a furious voice.

“God save us,” said Caius.

“Why?” said Gavin. “What’s wrong?”

“That isn’t a dwarf,” said Ridmark.

“What is it, then?” said Kharlacht.

“Look at its shadow,” said Ridmark.

Kharlacht frowned. “It doesn’t have one.”

The broken stones and the pillars all cast shadows in Morigna’s hazy gray light.

But the black-armored corpse did not, its armor drinking the light.

“That,” said Ridmark, “is the corpse of a dvargir.”

“Once of my kindred,” said Caius, his voice shaken, “but turned to worship the great void revered by the dark elves.”

Like the Enlightened of Incariel.

“What would a dvargir be doing down here?” said Calliande.

“They killed my parents,” spat Morigna. “Most probably they came here to attack Moraime.”

“Our dark cousins know necromancy,” said Caius.

“How did it get in here?” said Kharlacht. “This hill is solid rock.”

“That would be no obstacle to the engineering skill of the dvargir,” said Caius.

Ridmark stepped over an opened tomb and examined at the corpse. The dead dvargir showed no sign of a wound. Its eyes looked like polished disks of black granite, harsh and staring.

“Gray Knight,” said Morigna. “The source of dark power. You are near it.”

Ridmark nodded and lifted his staff like a torch, using its white glow to throw back the gloom. He was only a few yards from the crypt’s far wall, and he saw skulls resting in niches, their empty eyes staring at him.

A gleam of metal caught his attention…

“Ridmark!” shouted Calliande, and a deathly chill went through the crypt.

And all at once Ridmark realized that the dead dvargir had indeed been a trap.

He spun just as six hooded, translucent figures rose from the floor. The wraith outside of the burial mound had been the image of a long-dead orcish shaman. These wraiths looked like ancient monks, bent with age, heavy gray beards hanging from their chins.

And one wraith had been almost more than Ridmark could defeat.

Six would kill them all.

Morigna and Calliande both began casting spells, and four of the wraiths flowed towards them. Two turned toward Ridmark, and he backed away, feeling his staff’s vibration fade as Calliande drew power for her spell. Even with her magic, even with Morigna’s help, they could not possibly defeat six wraiths at once. Six of the damned things could likely kill everyone in Moraime.

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.

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.”

“I…” Morigna opened her mouth, closed it again, and scowled. “The Old Man said the Magistri were proud and haughty.”

Calliande raised her eyebrows. “And how many Magistri have you met?”

“You,” said Morigna, “and…”

“The Old Man?” said Calliande. “Was he a Magistrius?”

“No,” said Morigna. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure. He knows a great deal about them, though.”

“Perhaps he was a Magistrius,” said Calliande, “and he fled the realm for some reason.”

Morigna smiled. “And since he was a Magistrius, everything he told me about their Order is accurate.”

“Or,” said Calliande, “he is bitter, and has told you a darkened version of the truth.”

Morigna made her uneasy, but her descriptions of the Old Man alarmed Calliande. He sounded a great deal like Alamur, a traitorous Magistrius who had tried to hand her over to Shadowbearer in Dun Licinia. Or, worse, Talvinius, a former Magistrius who had used dark magic to extend his lifespan, and had ended his days with his spirit bound to the body of an ancient, crippled kobold shaman.

“He would not lie about that to me,” declared Morigna.

“Are you entirely certain?” said Calliande.

“Yes,” said Morigna.

Calliande shrugged. “Well, if the monks can make up stories to ease their lives…why should the Old Man not spin tales to make himself sound better?”

Morigna said nothing, and Calliande had the satisfaction of seeing the sorceress at a brief loss.

“There is one thing the Old Man taught me that is certainly true,” said Morigna.

“Oh?” said Calliande.

“Power is the basis of all respect,” she said, “and the strong rule over the weak. If I did not have magic, Michael or Jonas would have killed me by now. You would probably try to take me back as a prisoner to Tarlion.”

“No,” said Calliande. She sat down on a bed and tugged off her boots, sighing in relief. “I would not. I have my own concerns, and cannot spare the time to take you back to Tarlion to forcibly enroll you in the Magistri.”

“What are you doing?” said Morigna.

“Bathing,” said Calliande. “If I must listen to you talk with such authority upon topics about which you know nothing, I may as well be comfortable for it.”

Morigna glared at her, but thankfully did not say anything.

Calliande crossed to the bathtub, stripped off her clothing, and stacked it in the corner. She made sure to pile everything over a leather pouch that had hung from her belt. That pouch contained a relic of tremendous power.

Exactly the sort of thing that should not fall into the hands of someone like Morigna.

Calliande lowered herself into the water and let sighed. The monks had filled the tub already, thank God, and the hypocaust kept the water warm. After a week traveling through the wilderness, of bathing only when she could find a stream, it felt wonderful.

She opened her eyes and saw Morigna staring at her.

“If you’re concerned about the monks spying on you,” said Calliande, “we could always tell them the tale of what happened to the foolish young man who spied upon the bathing Magistria.”

“No,” said Morigna. “It’s just…truly? You…bathe with others?”

Calliande shrugged. “It is the custom. Since the time of the Empire of the Romans, even before Malahan Pendragon led our ancestors from Old Earth. One bathhouse for men, and one for women.”

At least, it must have been the custom before she went into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. Of course, the custom might well have faded away in the two centuries she had slept below the Tower. But she had seen bathhouses in Dun Licinia and Moraime, and another for the monks alongside the main keep.

To sit in a hot bath and talk with friends was such a pleasant custom. It would be a pity if it faded away.

A memory of doing so hovered just as the edge of her consciousness, but as ever, it sank into the mists choking her past.

For a moment Calliande thought Morigna would stalk away back to the bedroom. But the woman steeled herself, pulled off her boots and removed her ragged cloak and her leather and wool clothing. She was slim and fit, with legs muscled from long travels across the hills and marshes, and the arms of a woman accustomed to using a short bow. Her black hair hung loose around her pale shoulders, and she took a deep breath, the ribs pressing against her skin.

Then she dropped herself into the water with a splash.

“Damnation!” spat Morigna. “It’s so hot!”

“It’s supposed to be,” said Calliande.

“I always bathe in the ponds of the hills,” said Morigna. “Cold in winter. I suppose you wouldn’t be used to that.”

“I suppose not,” said Calliande. She had bathed in creeks during the last thirty-two days, but could remember nothing before that. For all she knew, she had bathed in mountain streams every day. But she did remember cold water, remembered desperately floundering through the freezing water in the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance. “But I’ve had enough of cold water.”

“Still,” said Morigna, leaning against the stone tub, “this is…less unpleasant than I expected. I suppose one could even get used to it.”

“I suppose,” said Calliande.

The monks had left rough cakes of soap by the edge of the tub, and Calliande took one and started to scrub. It felt good to wash away the accumulated grime and grease of the road. Morigna frowned for a moment, and then reached for a second cake of soap and followed suit.

“I suppose I haven’t smelled like this in years,” said Morigna. “I’ll have half the wolves of the hills following me in bafflement.”

“You…speak to wolves?” said Calliande, thinking of dark magic.

“Of course not,” said Morigna. “Wolves are not capable of speech. But I could reach their minds, and command them to obey me, and share images from their primitive thoughts.”

Calliande shook her head, wet hair sticking to her face. “That is perilously close to dark magic.”

“Is it?” said Morigna, sniffing the soap with a look of distaste.

“If you used that same magic to enslave the minds of mortal men, then yes,” said Calliande.

“Well, I do not,” said Morigna. “I know you think me some dark witch eager to go on a rampage, but I am not. I want…I want…”

A look of distant pain came over her face.

“What do you want?” said Calliande.

“I want,” said Morigna at last, “to be left alone. To have enough power to be left alone.”

“Why did you need power for that?” said Calliande.

“Because,” said Morigna, “the strong do as they please…”

“You keep saying that,” said Calliande.

“It is true,” said Morigna. “No doubt you think the Old Man pumped my head full of lies. But he is right about this. The weak are trampled underfoot. The only security in life is power.”

“That is a bleak view,” said Calliande.

“Whether or not a truth is bleak,” said Morigna, “has no bearing on whether or not it is true.”

“There is kindness and love,” said Calliande.

Morigna laughed. “Masks only, for lust. Or manipulation.”

They washed in silence for a moment.

“I wish to ask you a question,” said Calliande, setting the cake of soap back on the edge of the tub.

Morigna sighed. “About whether or not I am a dark sorceress feeding upon the weak?”

“No,” said Calliande. “About a place.”

It was a risk, talking to Morigna about it. But if the Old Man was a renegade Magistrius or sorcerer, he might have access to forgotten lore.

Including, perhaps, the answer to one of Calliande’s questions.

“A place?” said Morigna. For the first time there was no arrogance or annoyance in her tone, only curiosity. “What kind of place?”

“A place called Dragonfall,” said Calliande, repeating the name the Watcher had given her as she dreamed.

“Dragonfall?” said Morigna. “No…the Old Man has never mentioned the name. What is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. The Watcher had said that her staff waited there, but Calliande would not tell that to Morigna. “I…think it might be a tomb of some kind. Something to do with the dragons of old.”

“Dragons?” said Morigna. “Now they are surely mythical. The great dragons of old who taught the high elves their magic long before humans ever came to this world? No living human has seen one…nor has any human in the history of Andomhaim, one should think.”

“Perhaps,” said Calliande, thinking. “Your Old Man…how old is he?”

Morigna blinked. “Old. Very old. He looks ancient. Certainly he has lived in the hills as long as anyone in Moraime can remember. Why?”

“The way you describe him,” said Calliande, “reminds me of someone I met.”

“Who?”

“Talvinius,” said Calliande. “A renegade Magistrius who joined the Eternalists.”

“An Eternalist?” said Morigna. “What is that?”

“A traitor to the Magistri,” said Calliande. “A hundred and fifty years past, a group of Magistri turned against the teachings of the church and the Order. They sought to use their magic to become…oh, a more powerful kindred of man, I suppose, as powerful as the dark elves and as immortal as the urdmordar.”

“Foolish,” said Morigna. “The natural of man is mortal. It is madness to deny that. No power can overcome it.”

“For once, I agree,” said Calliande. “The Eternalists pursued the vilest blood sorcery and dark magic in pursuit of their goal. Eventually, they were discovered, and driven out. Talvinius survived by transferring his spirit into the body of a kobold shaman and lurked in the Deeps for centuries. His minions captured me, and he tried to move his spirit into my body.”

Morigna started to laugh.

“What?” said Calliande. “It’s not funny.”

“But it is,” said Morigna. “He tried to possess a woman’s body? The old lecher! Likely he hoped to sit about and fondle himself. Well, herself, if he claimed your body.”

Despite herself, Calliande laughed at the grotesque absurdity of the thought. “I would not put it past him.”

“Clearly you escaped him,” said Morigna. “How did he die?”

“I killed him,” said Calliande. “He underestimated me.”

“And you think he reminds you of the Old Man?” said Morigna. “Don’t be absurd. The Old Man looks older than Moraime, and he needs a cane to walk. If he had the magic to take a new body, I think he would have done so fifty years ago.”

“Perhaps he was waiting for a suitable host,” said Calliande. “Talvinius was only strong enough to possess a kobold, not a human.”

“A thousand people live in Moraime,” said Morigna, “and hundreds more must have come and gone in the time the Old Man has lived here. If he was looking for a suitable body, surely he must have found one by now. The Old Man is not one of your Eternalists.”

Calliande shrugged, the water rippling. “When Ridmark speaks with him tomorrow, we’ll know for certain, won’t we?”

“The Gray Knight,” said Morigna. “An unusual man.”

“He is,” said Calliande.

“How did you meet him?” said Morigna.

“He saved my life,” said Calliande. “Some Mhalekite orcs were about to kill me for an arcane ritual. Ridmark stopped them, and I’ve been with him ever since.”

Morigna raised her eyebrows. “With him? Is that a polite euphemism?”

“No,” said Calliande, annoyed. “It’s not. Mhalek killed his wife five years ago, and Ridmark…” She shook her head. Why was she even trying to justify herself to Morigna? Calliande could not remember anything that had happened more than thirty-two days ago. For all she knew, she had been married and had borne children. Perhaps her husband and children still slept in some secret place, as she had slept below the Tower of Vigilance.

She could not think about Ridmark in that fashion.

Even if Aelia’s death had not scarred Ridmark too much to think about Calliande, or anyone, in that fashion.

“Ah,” said Morigna, “for the first time a question for which you do not have a glib answer. How interesting.”

“Ridmark saw his wife killed in front of him,” said Calliande. “He has not recovered from it.”

“That is not the sort of thing one recovers from,” said Morigna, a cold glint in her black eyes, “though I am sure I would not know. Yet I am curious why you are following this man, about whom you feel nothing, into a place like Urd Morlemoch.”

“Because the Frostborn are returning,” said Calliande. “The omen of blue fire a month past was proof of it. But we do not know how or when. The Warden warned Ridmark against the omen nine years ago.”

“Brave of you,” said Morigna, “but foolish. Even the Old Man would not go to Urd Morlemoch. Once he fretted about some lost book of the high elves, and I pointed out that he had told me the Warden has the largest library of magical lore upon this world. He said that was folly, that the Warden amuses himself by driving intruders to madness over a span of decades.”

“The Warden has answers that we need,” said Calliande.

“Such as,” said Morigna, glancing over Calliande’s shoulder, “the nature of the powerful magical object you carry?”

Calliande kept her expression blank.

“Do not bother to deny it,” said Morigna. “I have sensed the thing since I got within five paces of you. What is it?”

“An empty soulstone.” Perhaps Morigna would not recognize the term.

But to judge from the way Morigna’s eyes widened, that had been a vain hope.

“Truly?” said Morigna. “Such a thing…how did it get away from the high elves?”

“I think Shadowbearer stole it,” said Calliande. “The Mhalekites wanted to use it on me when they tried to kill me atop a dark elven altar.”

Morigna considered this in silence for a moment.

“Whatever you do,” she said, “do not tell the Old Man about it, and do not let him sense it.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Calliande.

“He might try to steal it, if he thinks he can get away with it,” said Morigna.

“And you won’t?” said Calliande.

Morigna shrugged. “Believe what you like. But I know my limitations. That is too much magical power for me to control. If I tried anything with the soulstone, I would likely burn myself to ashes. But the Old Man has no such limitations. Better not to wave raw meat in front of a dog.”

“I see,” said Calliande. “Thank you.”

She climbed out of the tub and got dressed.

###

Ridmark stood alone upon the monastery’s curtain wall and looked into the darkness.

He saw lights in the great hall behind him. Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius were eating heartily, and no doubt Caius was regaling the monks with tales from their travels. The dwarven friar knew how to spin a tale.

Ridmark himself had little taste for companionship. He would have gone to Urd Morlemoch alone, if he could have managed it. He deserved to die, but no one else did.

Still, without Calliande’s help, he would have perished at Urd Arowyn.

He heard the scrape of a boot against the rampart and turned, hand tightening against his staff.

But it was only Calliande, as if his thoughts had summoned her. She had bathed and put on clean clothing, a wool shirt and trousers and a leather jerkin and boots, her cloak pulled tight against the chill of the spring night.

“Shouldn’t you be at dinner?” said Ridmark.

Calliande shrugged. “The monks are not comfortable around women. So I availed myself of their bath instead. Why aren’t you there?”

“Because hearing Caius recount the glorious tales of my valor,” said Ridmark with a scowl, “grows tiresome. And I wish to think.”

She nodded, but did not leave. To his surprise, he did not mind. He sometimes tired of her constant lectures about letting go of the past, about forgiving himself. But she understood him, and she knew when not to push him too far.

And she, too, saw the dangers of the return of the Frostborn.

They stood in silence. A few lights shone here and there in the town, but none on the wall. The watchmen would want to preserve their night vision.

“What are you thinking about?” she said at last.

“It does not make sense,” said Ridmark.

“Morigna’s story?” said Calliande.

“No. She makes perfect sense,” said Ridmark, and Calliande frowned. “But of all this,” he waved a hand over the battlements, “does not.”

“The undead, you mean?” said Calliande.

“Yes,” said Ridmark. “Why raise the undead? Why attack Moraime?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps there is no purpose. Wielders of dark magic are rarely rational in their decisions.”

“There is always a purpose,” said Ridmark. “Qazarl raised the undead to attack Dun Licinia. Agrimnalazur and Morwen used the undead as guards. Yet I cannot see the reason here. Does someone hope to drive the people of Moraime behind their walls to prepare for an attack? If so, it would be better to wait until the crops are in the ground.”

“Our foe may not have a sound grasp of tactics,” said Calliande. “Morwen did not.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Yet her actions still had a purpose. Here, I cannot see the purpose, not yet.” He looked north. “Perhaps this Old Man of Morigna’s shall know more.”

“Morigna,” said Calliande.

There was a wary note in her voice.

“I don’t think you should trust her,” said Calliande.

“I won’t,” said Ridmark. “But trust is not necessary. I understand her.”

“So quickly, then?” said Calliande with a bit of doubt.

“The Old Man, whoever he is, raised her,” said Ridmark. “So all her arguments are, I expect, merely recitations of things the Old Man had told her over the years.”

“I thought as much,” said Calliande.

“But she is young,” said Ridmark.

“Younger than me, you mean,” said Calliande.

“We all are,” said Ridmark, “but I mean she is younger than all of us, save for Gavin. She is clever, and strong with magic, but has little experience of the world beyond the marshes. So she has the arrogance of youth coupled with considerable power.”

“A dangerous combination,” said Calliande.

“But tempered by loss,” said Ridmark. “Apparently she and Nathan Vorinus were lovers. He disregarded her counsel and got himself killed by an urvaalg, and Michael and Jonas blame her for his death.”

“Perhaps they are right to do so,” said Calliande.

“I don’t think so,” said Ridmark. “Either she is a convincing actress, or she blames herself for his death. Which is, I suspect, why she is helping us. Why she was going to Moraime in to warn the townsmen against the undead. It is what Nathan would have wanted her to do.” He shook his head. “I don’t trust her, but I believe I understand her.”

“Which is why you are talking her with us to speak with the Old Man,” said Calliande. “She could be luring us into a trap.”

Ridmark nodded. “I know. But if she is with us, she cannot work any mischief against the town.”

She seemed angry. “Maybe there is another reason.”

“Oh?” said Ridmark.

“She looked at you with her dark eyes and swayed you,” said Calliande.

Ridmark blinked. “Ah. You think she has charmed me, is that it?”

Calliande folded her arms. The words seemed to pain her, but she kept speaking. “She seems quite taken with you. And it is not unusual for a man to be swayed by the admiration of a pretty young woman.”

“The same could be said of you,” said Ridmark.

“What?”

“I intended to head to Urd Morlemoch alone,” said Ridmark. “I promised I would help find the truth of your memory, and I meant it. But I could do that alone. Yet it is a month later, and here we both are.”

“You said my help was valuable,” said Calliande.

“It was, and it is,” said Ridmark. “But I intended to risk my life and no others. Yet here you are. You have a knack for getting your way, Calliande.”

She laughed. “I suppose I do. Ridmark. Forgive me. What I said…that was unworthy of you.”

He waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” She gripped his hands, her fingers cold against his. “You are a good man, Ridmark Arban.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“I know you are humoring me,” she said. “But you are. Regardless of what you think of yourself. Regardless of the things for which you unjustly take the blame.” He sighed, but she kept speaking. “You are a good and brave man.”

He looked down at her and said nothing. She was lovely in the dim moonlight, and if he leaned down and kissed her, he suspected she would not protest. For just a moment he wondered what it feel like to have her lips against his, her body pressed against his…

He dismissed the thought.

Aelia’s death was his fault. No matter what anyone else said, no matter who forgave him for it, Tarrabus Carhaine had been right. The Order had been right to expel Ridmark, take his soulblade, and brand him as a coward. He deserved no less. He deserved much worse.

And neither he nor Calliande knew who she really was.

He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed her fingers, and then released them.

“And you are a brave and valiant woman,” he said.

For just an instant she looked disappointed, but then she smiled.

“I am not,” she said. “I have wanted to run screaming ever since I awoke beneath the Tower of Vigilance.”

“But you did not,” said Ridmark, “and you stood against the wrath of an urdmordar without fleeing. Few among the Magistri could do the same.”

Calliande sighed. “Let’s hope an urdmordar isn’t behind these undead.”

“I think we may be safe in that hope,” said Ridmark. “If an urdmordar showed herself so openly, Moraime would already be ashes.” He remembered the smoke rising from the ruins of Aranaeus. “And the Old Man seems like a survivor. If an urdmordar laired anywhere near his dwelling, he would flee.”

Calliande nodded. “I’m going to get some sleep.” She turned, paused. “Ridmark?”

“Aye?” he said.

“Thank you,” said Calliande.

“We’ll find the secret of the Frostborn yet,” said Ridmark, “and the truth of who you are.”

Or they would both die in the attempt. But there was no reason to say it.

She already knew that.

Chapter 8 - Scouts

The next morning, Ridmark and the others left Moraime and headed north.

Ridmark walked at the front, Kharlacht and Morigna at his side. Of Ridmark’s companions, Kharlacht had spent the most time in the wild, and knew how to track. Morigna was familiar with the countryside around Moraime and knew its dangers.

That, and she was the only one who knew where the Old Man lived.

Calliande followed, Gavin and Caius at her side. Gavin alternated between watching the countryside and scowling at Morigna, as if he believed her to be a greater threat than the swamp drakes or the undead.

He might not be wrong.

One way or another, they would know by the end of the day.

“We will have to head into the marshes,” said Morigna.

“That’s east, not north,” said Calliande.

“Aye,” said Morigna, “but it is the only way to reach the Old Man’s home. He lives upon one of the rockier hills. From the north, the east, and the west, it is inaccessible, and the only open path is from the south. And that path begins in the marshes.”

“A solid defensive choice,” said Kharlacht, “forcing any visitors to wade through the swamp.”

“Though it means we shall have to pass through the marshes again,” said Gavin.

“I am sure,” said Morigna with a smirk, “that a strapping young lad like you is ready for the challenge.”

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark, hoping to cut off yet another argument. “Where shall we head first?”

“The ruined fortress where we first met, Gray Knight,” said Morigna, brushing a bit of hair from her forehead as she looked at him. “From there we can head due north to the Old Man’s hill.”

“How many orcish burial mounds are in the marshes?” said Ridmark.

“Many,” said Morigna. She glanced at Kharlacht. “Your kindred warred amongst themselves so enthusiastically that the tribes here wiped each other out, and only the burial mounds remain.”

“Which means,” said Caius, “there will be plenty of opportunities to fight more undead.”

“If the necromancer raised more,” said Ridmark. There had been no attacks in the night, and none of the night watchmen had seen any undead moving outside the town. It was as if the necromancer had raised enough creatures to cause an upheaval, and had then stopped.

But why?

“I will keep my spells in place,” said Calliande, “watching for any sign of dark magic.”

She looked at Morigna as she said it, but the black-haired woman only smiled.

“I can help with that as well,” said Morigna, and she snapped her fingers, a pulse of purple fire flaring around her hand.

A moment later a pair of large black birds fell out of the sky and perched upon the shoulders of her tattered cloak, looking at Ridmark with beady black eyes.

“Crows?” said Gavin. “You can command crows?”

“Ravens,” said Morigna. “Much smarter than crows. And villagers of the Wilderland, for that matter.” She stroked one of the birds with a finger. “I can see their thoughts with a spell, and bid them to keep watch. If they see any undead, or any other foes, they will return to warn me.”

“Dark magic,” said Gavin.

“Only if it used against a mortal mind,” said Calliande, though she sounded reluctant.

“I suppose I could employ the spell upon you, dear Gavin,” said Morigna, “but, alas, where would be the challenge?”

Ridmark expected Gavin to insult her back, but the boy only shook his head. “I saw an urdmordar conjure shadows and green fire. After that, a trick with a pair of birds is hardly frightening.”

“Ah,” said Morigna. “You’re getting better at his.”

She snapped her fingers again, and the ravens flew off in silence.

“I imagine,” said Kharlacht, “that was a useful skill while hunting.”

Morigna blinked in surprise, and then laughed. “Yes, it was. Easier to find a deer through the eyes of a raven instead of a mortal man. Nathan said…” She shook her head. “We had best be on our way, Gray Knight, if you want to speak with the Old Man before dark.”

“Then let us be off,” said Ridmark. He beckoned with his staff, and they left Moraime.

He led them to the marshes, and they took the old causeway, picking their way over the rocks and the tangled roots. The marshes were silent around them, save for the occasional splash of water or cry of a bird. It was still too early in the year for insects, God be praised. Soon they came into sight of the domed mud hut of the swamp drake’s nest, and…

Ridmark stopped.

“What’s wrong?” said Calliande. “I don’t sense any magic.”

“I haven’t seen anyone approach,” said Morigna.

“Something’s missing,” said Ridmark.

“What?” said Kharlacht.

Caius realized the answer first. “The swamp drake. Where is its carcass?”

It had vanished.

Patches of dried blood marked the causeway, a faint metallic odor clinging to them. Ridmark saw the indentations on the grass where the drake’s carcass and severed head had lain, but the animal was gone.

“Scavengers must have gotten to it,” said Caius, but there was doubt in the dwarf’s deep voice.

“Scavengers would have left a mess,” said Ridmark. “Stay back so I can have a look at the ground.”

He paced forward, examining the damp grass and wet rock. There were no other tracks upon the causeway, save the ones they had left during the battle yesterday. The dead swamp drake had been as heavy as a horse, and would have taken a team of strong men to move. He supposed wolves or other scavengers could have done it, but only by ripping the carcass to shreds. Certainly they would not have bothered to move the armored scales and heavy bones of the dead drake.

He considered the ground, but no tracks or traces presented themselves. That made even less sense. The carcass could not have been moved without someone leaving tracks. Of course, the sides of the causeway were hardly ideal for preserving tracks, but surely some trace would have been left.

“So the carcass,” said Calliande, “simply disappeared.”

Ridmark straightened up. “It would appear so.” He looked at Morigna. “Are there any creatures in the marsh that could make a swamp drake’s carcass vanish?”

“None that I have ever encountered,” said Morigna. She, too, looked troubled.

“Maybe the trolldomr took it,” said Gavin. “Perhaps he can make things disappear into the ground with him.”

“Why would Rjalfur take the carcass of a swamp drake?” said Caius, but Gavin only shrugged.

“No matter,” said Ridmark, looking at Calliande. “Keep your sensing spell active, and warn us if you sense anything.” She nodded and Ridmark turned to Morigna. “Keep your eyes open. All six of them, it seems.”

“I shall,” said Morigna.

“The rest of you, be on your guard,” said Ridmark. “Something strange is happening, and I will not be at ease until we discover what.”

Caius snorted. “When have you ever been at ease?”

“Not recently,” said Ridmark.

Not since he had heard the Warden warn him against the return of the Frostborn nine years ago. Ridmark had wed Aelia, had hope to live in honor and peace as a Swordbearer of the Dux’s court, but in the back of his mind, the Warden’s warning had lingered.

And then Mhalek had come.

Ridmark led the way from the causeway to the ruined fortress. To his relief, they saw no additional undead near the ruins or the burial mounds. All of the mounds had been opened, the dead within having risen as undead, but nothing moved through the ruins.

Perhaps the previous attack had emptied the graves.

The undead they had destroyed still lay strewn across the ground, the bones moldering, the weapons rusting away in the dank of the swamp.

“Lady Calliande,” said Gavin. “After they are destroyed, can the undead be raised once more?”

“It depends upon the spell used,” said Calliande. “Some forms of dark magic devour the corpse after the spell is broken, leaving only ashes and embers in its wake. But others are more subtle. I fear these undead could well be raised again.”

“A grim thought,” said Kharlacht, “that we might have to fight them all over again.”

“Which way?” said Ridmark.

“Due north,” said Morigna.

They headed north from the fortress and the burial mound, picking their way across the grassy patches and around the trunks of the massive, mossy trees. Fortunately, the ground soon grew firmer, though rockier. Massive gray boulders jutted from the earth, weathered and mantled with lichen. The terrain tilted upward, and Ridmark saw that they walked upon a wide spit of rocky land that rose from the swamp like an island.

The perfect place for a renegade sorcerer to make his lair.

Ridmark looked over the mossy ground and stopped.

“Hold a moment,” he said.

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

“Footprints,” said Ridmark. “A large group of men passed this way. Recently. Perhaps even a few hours ago.”

“Truly?” said Morigna, peering at the ground. “I saw the Old Man four days past. These tracks were not here then.”

“Does the Old Man often have visitors?” said Ridmark.

“Rarely,” said Morigna. “Sometimes one of the townsmen will get desperate and visit him, but not often.” She seemed almost concerned. “No one else would dare.”

“Your ravens have seen nothing,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Morigna. “They overflew his cottage on their last flight. No one is on the hills.”

“An ambush, then,” said Kharlacht. “I dislike these rocks, Gray Knight.” He waved a fist at the tangled gray boulders covering the side of the hill. “Too many places for an ambush.”

“Agreed,” said Ridmark.

“I wish to go ahead and scout,” said Kharlacht. “If an ambush awaits us, perhaps we can repay our foes in kind.”

“Go,” said Ridmark. “Be careful.”

The orc’s lips split in a hard grin, his tusks rising like daggers before his face. “I shall be as careful as you are.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” muttered Calliande.

Kharlacht strode into the maze of boulders. Despite his bulk and his armor, he moved without sound, and soon disappeared.

“You let him go off alone?” said Morigna.

“Kharlacht knows what he is doing,” said Calliande.

“He does,” said Ridmark. “I left Dun Licinia alone, and I have spent years wandering the Wilderland. I know how to move without leaving a trail. Yet he tracked me nonetheless.”

Morigna shrugged, her tattered cloak rippling around her. “As you say.”

Dark shapes moved overhead, and Ridmark raised his staff. But it was only Morigna’s ravens, and they dropped upon her shoulders. Her eyes closed, darting back and forth behind the lids as she communicated with the birds.

“Anything?” said Ridmark.

“Nothing,” said Morigna, her voice tight. “The Old Man’s cottage is still there, and they saw smoke rising from the chimney. But…”

She fell silent.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

Her eyes shot open, and the ravens took flight.

“I need to speak with you,” said Morigna. She glanced at Calliande. “Alone.”

“Why?” said Calliande.

“So I can plot to bewitch him with dark magic, of course,” said Morigna.

“Of course,” said Calliande, her scorn apparent.

“But you could sense any spell I worked,” said Morigna. “And I simply do not wish to share with you what I have to say.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “Be quick about it, though.”

He strode a dozen paces away, close enough that he could see the others if anyone attacked, but far that Morigna would not be overhead.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“The place I told you about,” said Morigna in a low voice. “The circle of standing stones where…”

“Where Sir Nathan Vorinus died,” said Ridmark.

She gave a sharp nod. “It is atop a hill about a half-mile north of the Old Man’s cottage. Something is moving around within the circle.”

“Could the ravens see what it was?” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Morigna. “The ravens won’t go anywhere near the stones. They…sense the dark magic about the place, I think. Even with magic, I can’t force them to approach it.”

Ridmark nodded. Most animals avoided the dark elven standing stones. Most people, as well.

At least those with good intentions.

“Have the ravens circle this hill again,” said Ridmark. “See if they can find anything.”

Morigna gave a sharp nod, her face strained, and then she laughed.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“Look at me,” said Morigna. “Jumping at your commands, as if I was one of your ragged little collection of outcasts.”

“Do you have a better plan?” said Ridmark. “Then, please, I am eager to hear it.”

She scowled. “Are you mocking me?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “If you have a better plan, I shall be glad to put it into motion.” He shook his head. “Perhaps we are merely chasing shadows. Or perhaps deadly foes lurk in the boulders. If so, if I make the wrong decision, we all shall die, and I shall have more deaths upon my conscience. So I would be glad for a better plan.”

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 Calliande.

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.”

Rotherius snarled a command, and the masked assassins sprang forward, swords and daggers a blur of steel. Ridmark and his companions moved just as quickly. Gavin planted himself before Calliande, shield and sword ready, and the Magistria herself began casting a spell. Kharlacht and Caius broke right and left, charging to meet the assassins’ attack, while Ridmark moved like a gray-cloaked storm, his staff a dark blur in his hand.

But Morigna focused upon Jonas.

She drew upon her magic, letting the power of the earth flood through her. Her mind expanded, and she felt the ground beneath her boots, the stone bones of the earth spread below her like a skeleton draped in mud. She commanded the ground beneath Jonas to turn to quicksand, to suck him into the earth. The spell would hold him immobile until Ridmark questioned him.

Or until Morigna decided to kill him. Ridmark, for all his strength, seemed like the sort of man to show mercy to defeated enemies. Valorous, certainly, but foolish.

A dead enemy could do you no harm.

She gestured at him, and Jonas grinned.

The tentacle of shadow unwrapped from his arm and shot toward her with blinding speed. It wrapped around her like a rope, and Morigna screamed in sudden pain. She had no idea what kind of magic he had used, but it felt like a chain made of ice.

And it disrupted her concentration, shattering her spell.

Morigna slumped to her knees, fighting against the agony that flooded through her.

###

Calliande cast a spell, drawing on the magic of the Well despite her shock and alarm. The assassins of the Red Family were frightening, and she might die in the next few moments.

But the revelation about Shadowbearer alarmed her more.

When she had first learned of the Enlightened of Incariel, she had assumed they were simply another esoteric cult, a collection of fools pursuing forbidden knowledge. Such things had happened at various times through Andomhaim’s history. But then the Watcher had appeared in her dreams and warned her against the Enlightened, telling her that they were a tool of Shadowbearer.

And now, if Jonas had told the truth, the Enlightened were Shadowbearer’s willing allies.

The strange shadow writhing around Jonas’s sword arm seemed to prove the Watcher correct. It reminded Calliande of the shadow cast by Shadowbearer himself. It had crawled and hissed around him like a living serpent. When she had been dragged before him, naked and bound and helpless, she knew that a single touch of that terrible shadow would bring death. But he had intended to sacrifice her within a dark elven stone circle, binding her power to the empty soulstone.

The empty soulstone she now carried.

She felt a brief flicker of defiant pride. Apparently Shadowbearer had decided that she was too dangerous to keep alive.

Morigna fell with a cry of pain, Jonas’s shadow coiling around her like a rope. Caius charged to the left, swinging his mace, while Kharlacht struck right, driving back a pair of the skull-masked assassins. Gavin raised his shield and set himself before Calliande. Ridmark ran at Jonas, while Rotherius and a second Red Brother moved to intercept him.

White fire burn around Calliande’s hands as her spell flared to life. The light leapt from her fingers and soaked into her friends, and a moment later they moved faster, her magic enhancing their speed. The assassins fell back beneath the invigorated assault.

Then Jonas’s hard eyes shifted to her, and he pointed his sword.

A tentacle of shadow lashed from the sword blade like a whip and struck Calliande. She screamed in pain as icy agony filled her, and her concentration shattered. The spell collapsed, and the enhanced speed faded from Ridmark and the others.

“My lady!” shouted Gavin, slashing at the ribbon of shadow with his sword, but the blade passed through it.

“Kill the Magistria!” said Jonas. “Now!”

Two of the assassins turned toward her, and Gavin rushed to meet them, shield raised and sword drawn back.

Calliande tried to stand, but the icy cold from Jonas’s shadow would not leave her.

###

Ridmark tried to reach Jonas, but Rotherius and a second assassin of the Red Family intercepted him, their skull masks seeming to grin. Both men wielded sword and dagger, and came at him with the skill of men accustomed to fighting alongside each other.

That was bad. Ridmark had killed two Red Brothers in Aranaeus. But the fight had been close, dangerously close, and if Ridmark had been a half-second slower, Paul Tallmane and his hired assassins would have killed him.

And now he faced six sons of the Red Family.

But Ridmark had help. Kharlacht and Caius battled four of the assassins, and Gavin stood guard over Calliande. Both Calliande and Morigna had fallen to their knees, their faces twisted in pain from the touch of Jonas’s strange shadow. Jonas himself strode forward, shadows wreathing his sword.

Apparently becoming one of the Initiated brought powers in dark magic…though Ridmark had never seen magic like that before.

Then the assassins charged Ridmark, and he had no more time for thought.

Rotherius came in a rush, sword and dagger thrusting, while the second assassin circled to the right. Ridmark saw the game – Rotherius wanted to hold his attention while the second assassin attacked from the side. But Ridmark’s longer weapon gave him a greater reach, and he stepped back, gripping the bottom third of his staff with both hands.

His swing drove back Rotherius, and the assassin on the right lunged for the kill. But Ridmark reversed his grip on the staff and thrust the weapon like a spear. Its steel-shod head drove into the assassin’s red cuirass hard enough to dimple the leather, and the assassin staggered back. Before either Rotherius or the stunned assassin recovered, Ridmark reversed his grip on the staff yet again and swung it with all his strength. The length of heavy wood slammed into the side of the second assassin’s head with a clang. The skull mask was part of a steel helmet, and Ridmark doubted his blow had killed the assassin. Yet it had stunned the man, and Ridmark charged Rotherius, hoping to strike him down before the other assassin recovered.

Yet Rotherius met Ridmark’s attack with skill and speed. His sword went right, deflecting the thrust of Ridmark’s staff. Ridmark spun the weapon, hoping to line up another strike, but Rotherius lunged with his dagger, and Ridmark had to dodge. Then Jonas jumped into the fray, shadows dancing around his sword, and Ridmark retreated. He did not know what would happen if those swirling shadows touched his skin, but he suspected it would not be pleasant.

“Fall and die, Gray Knight,” said Jonas with a laugh. Two ropes of shadow rippled from his sword, coiling around Morigna and Calliande. Rotherius started to stab, but Jonas slashed, disrupting the masked assassin’s attack. “Go on, twirl that little stick of yours. Perhaps I’ll mount your head upon it when I present your corpse to the Dux.”

Jonas might have been an Enlightened of Incariel and an Initiated of the Second Circle, but he was not a very good swordsman. He swung again, getting in Rotherius’s way.

And leaving an opening a mile wide in his defenses.

Ridmark rammed his staff into Jonas’s chest with all his strength. The chain mail hauberk grated against the staff’s metal tip, but Ridmark heard the sound of a snapping rib. Jonas stumbled back with a grunt, and Ridmark swung again. The staff connected with the wrist of Jonas’s sword hand, and again bones snapped. Jonas dropped his sword with a scream and backed away, the shadows around the blade winking out.

Ridmark raised his staff for the kill, but Rotherius and the second assassin attacked, forcing him back.

###

The shadowy coil binding Calliande winked out, and the icy pain eased.

But it did not vanish entirely.

She struggled to her feet, summoning the magic of the Well, white fire burning around her fingers.

And as she did, something emerged from the mist that choked her memory.

The strange shadows. She had seen them before, somewhere in her past before she had gone into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. She had faced the shadows.

And she was still alive.

Which meant she knew how to fight them.

“Lady Calliande?” said Gavin.

“Help Caius, now,” said Calliande. Kharlacht held his own against the two assassins, protected by his dark elven armor and the longer reach of his greatsword, but Caius fell back, pursued by his two foes, a vicious gash across his forehead.

Gavin sprinted at the Red Brothers menacing the dwarven friar. One of the assassins turned to face him, and Caius got his footing back, breathing hard as he raised his mace to block. Kharlacht roared a malediction in orcish and struck with his greatsword, and one of the Red Brothers fell, his head rolling from the bloody stump of his neck. Ridmark dueled Rotherius and a second assassin, while Jonas huddled behind them, shadows crawling around him as he clutched his right arm.

Morigna remained on her knees, still shuddering despite the removal of Jonas’s shadow coil. Likely she had never faced such an attack before, and did not know how to fight it off.

And apparently, neither statement was true about Calliande.

She drew upon as much magic as she could hold. Ridmark’s staff blurred and slammed into the forehead of a masked assassin with a clang. The man toppled in silence, the forehead of his crimson skull dented. Rotherius drove at Ridmark, sword and dagger striking against the blur of Ridmark’s spinning staff.

Calliande flung out her hands, and white fire drilled into Jonas.

It couldn’t hurt him. A Magistria’s power could neither harm nor kill living mortals. But it attacked the dark magic swirling around the self-proclaimed Initiated of Incariel, and Jonas screamed in sudden agony and fell to one knee, his eyes wide with surprise. She saw the terror on his face as the shadows flickered beneath her white fire.

But the shadows closed around him like wings and repulsed her flames. The shadows wrapped tight around him, and Calliande felt a pulse of power as they healed his injuries. Jonas snarled, snatched up his sword, and charged at her, shadows coiling around his blade.

They leapt from his sword and flew at her like winged serpents.

But Calliande knew how to fight them.

She raised her hands, fingers hooked into claws, and worked a spell of warding and protection, similar to the one she had used against Agrimnalazur in Urd Arowyn. A shell of white light flared around her, and the tentacles of shadow slammed into it. The spell hissed and snarled beneath the strain, the light flickering. Calliande gritted her teeth and drew on more power, fighting to keep the ward in place. Her magic was strong…but so were the shadows pouring from Jonas’s sword.

Step by step Jonas staggered towards her, lips peeled back in a snarl, sword raised to strike. She had no power left to strike at him, none left to ward herself against his weapons.

Calliande looked for aid, but Morigna was still stunned, and Ridmark and the others struggled against the assassins.

Jonas drew closer.

###

Ridmark jumped back, just avoiding the edge of Rotherius’s sword.

The red-masked assassin was a masterful swordsman, one of the best Ridmark had ever fought. And unlike most swordsmen, he knew how to fight a man with a quarterstaff. The second assassin had not, and lay dead upon the ground.

Ridmark dodged another thrust, jumped back, and saw that the others had not fared as well.

Volleys of shadow and white fire ripped back and forth between Calliande and Jonas, yet Jonas seemed to have the upper hand. Blood dripped down Caius’s face, and both Kharlacht and Gavin had taken wounds. Morigna remained upon her knees, shuddering from whatever Jonas’s magic had done to her.

Unless Ridmark changed the balance of the fight, they were going to die.

An idea came to him, mad and wild. It might work. It might get them all killed. It would very likely get Ridmark killed, but that hardly mattered. But that was the point – Ridmark was only an obstacle to Jonas Vorinus. Jonas wanted Morigna and the empty soulstone. With Morigna overpowered, Jonas needed only to capture the soulstone.

And Ridmark would give him the opportunity.

He launched a series of thrusts and swings at Rotherius, putting the Red Brother on the defensive. Rotherius stepped back, and Ridmark landed a minor hit upon him. The assassin grunted, but rather than follow up with another attack, Ridmark turned and sprinted.

He ran at Calliande. He glimpsed her face, full of pain and determination, and he snatched the leather pouch from her belt.

“Ridmark!” she said. “What…”

“Is this what you want, Jonas?” said Ridmark, holding the pouch over his head. “The soulstone! When I throw it into the swamp, do you think you’ll find it again? Lower your weapons, or you can see how Shadowbearer rewards failure!”

“No!” roared Jonas. “Stop him! Kill him and take that damned stone!”

Ridmark turned, jammed the pouch into his belt, and sprinted down the path.

And as he hoped, Jonas and the four surviving assassins followed him, leaving the others behind.

###

Calliande caught her breath and gathered her power, preparing to strike at the shadows wreathing Jonas.

But Sir Jonas and the surviving assassins sprinted away down the path in pursuit of Ridmark. Calliande started after them, frustration and anger warring inside of her. What was Ridmark doing? Was he sacrificing his life to save them? Fool! Even if he succeeded, Jonas would only kill him and take the empty soulstone back to Shadowbearer, and God alone knew what kind of evil the high elven wizard would work with it…

Then her mind caught up to her raging emotions.

Ridmark had a plan. He was indifferent to his own survival, but he was not suicidal. If he had drawn off Jonas and the Red Family, he had done so for a reason.

Meanwhile, Calliande had her own tasks.

She hurried over to Caius, who was breathing hard, red blood marking his gray skin.

“Lady Calliande,” said Caius, “Ridmark…we must…”

“Quiet,” said Calliande, summoning magic and lifting her hands.

She placed her palms upon Caius’s head. For a moment she felt the pain of the wounds in his head and arm, the agony of them flooding through her as if they had been carved into her own flesh, and she gritted her teeth and tried not to scream.

But the pain faded, and the white light washing from her hands closed Caius’s wounds.

Calliande took a ragged breath and stepped back.

“Thank you,” said Caius, “but that was not necessary. You should save your strength. Ridmark…”

“Ridmark,” said Calliande as Kharlacht joined them, “knows what he is doing. And if you bleed to death, Brother Caius, poor Kharlacht and Gavin will have to carry your corpse all the way back to Dun Licinia.”

“And you are far too heavy for that,” said Kharlacht.

Calliande glanced at Morigna, saw that the black-haired sorceress was still on her knees, shivering. Whatever Jonas had done to her was still working. Calliande would deal with Gavin’s and Kharlacht’s wounds, and then…

A thunderclap rang out over the marshes.

###

Ridmark ran into the marsh and found what he sought.

He took a deep breath and scrambled up a nearby grassy hill, the massive trees rising around him with their veils of hanging moss. Ridmark yanked what he needed from the pouches on his belt and prepared himself.

A moment later Jonas Vorinus and the assassins came into sight, splashing through the water at the base of the hill.

“Ah,” said Jonas with satisfaction. “There are you are.” Shadows swirled around the blade of his sword. Evidently whatever strange powers the Enlightened had given him had been strong enough to heal his wrist.

“One chance, Jonas,” said Ridmark. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“You already killed two of the Family in Aranaeus,” said Rotherius in his harsh voice, “and two more upon the hill. Your life is already forfeit.”

“And how,” said Jonas, “are you going to kill us? We are five, and I am an Initiated of the Second Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel. You are one man with a stick and…did you set that dagger on fire?”

Ridmark lifted his dagger with his right hand, the blade wrapped in a burning cloth.

“A burning dagger?” said Jonas, laughing as he took another step forward. “How droll. They took away your Soulblade, and so you replaced it with a dagger and a rag.”

He laughed again, as did the other assassins.

Rotherius, however, did not, his skull mask looking at the water.

“Jonas,” said the assassin. “I think…”

A bubble broke the surface of the water, accompanied by a pungent odor.

Jonas looked at the water, then at Ridmark, dawning horror spreading across his face.

Ridmark tossed the burning dagger into the water and threw himself to the ground.

A heartbeat later a howling roar filled his ears, and a wall of hot air slammed into him. Ridmark rolled several paces, coughing and wheezing. At last the terrible roar faded, and Ridmark used his staff to pull himself to his feet.

The burning corpses of three skull-masked men floated in the water. Jonas staggered backward, his arm charred black, his face red from heat, his hair burned away. There was no sign of Rotherius.

Ridmark descended the hill and headed toward Jonas.

“No!” croaked Jonas, raising his hands. “No!” He spat in fury. “This isn’t over, Arban! Aid me. Aid me!”

Shadows swirled around him, and he disappeared. No doubt he had used his power to turn invisible once again. Ridmark swung his staff at the space Jonas had occupied, but only met empty air.

Footprints. If he had turned invisible, there would be footprints. Ridmark whirled, but saw no splashing, no footprints, no sign of Jonas.

His magic had transported him away.

Ridmark had seen such spells in Urd Morlemoch, but humans could not use them safely. Not without risking complete and irreversible madness. Jonas could not have gone far. Not without losing his mind.

On the other hand, perhaps he could. Perhaps Jonas’s strange shadow-magic allowed him to travel safely.

Right back to Calliande and the others, maybe?

And Rotherius, it seemed, had escaped.

He hurried back across the marshes, leaving the dead Red Brothers behind.

###

Morigna blinked, trying to ignore the headache behind her eyes, and looked up.

Calliande stood over her, face pinched and weary, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin waiting nearby. Morigna started to sit up, and a wave of dizziness went through her.

“Easy, now,” said Calliande, helping Morigna up. Morigna wanted to wave the other woman away. She was not some weakling child to require aid!

Nevertheless, she was quite dizzy.

“What happened?” she said. Two dead Red Brothers lay near the boulders, their blood the color of their masks. There was no sign of Jonas or the other assassins.

Or of Ridmark, for that matter.

“I’m not sure,” said Calliande.

“Those shadows,” said Morigna. “What were they?”

“Dark magic,” said Gavin.

“Clearly,” said Morigna, getting to her feet with a groan, “but of what kind?”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande, “but I must have fought it before, because I knew how to ward against it. Though I don’t remember it.”

“That,” said Morigna, “makes absolutely no sense.”

Calliande shrugged, looking towards the path. “I wish it did.”

“Where’s Ridmark?” said Morigna.

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “He took the soulstone and ran off into the swamp, and Jonas and the other assassins went after him. I…”

A gray-cloaked man came into sight, a staff in his right hand, a leather pouch in his left.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande.

“You might want this back,” said Ridmark, handing the pouch to her.

“Thank you,” said Calliande. “What did you do?”

“I lured Jonas and the assassins into a pocket of marsh gas,” said Ridmark, “and set it on fire.”

“That explains the noise, I expect,” said Caius.

Kharlacht started laughing.

“What?” said Morigna. “What is so funny?”

“The Gray Knight,” said Kharlacht, “is prone to mad plans. The nest of drakes at the stone circle.” He shook his head, still laughing. “The ursaar and the cave-in.”

“The kobolds and the enraged spitfangs,” said Caius.

“Challenging me to a duel,” said Kharlacht.

“The spiderlings and the trap in Urd Dagaash,” said Gavin.

Morigna stared at Ridmark. “Perhaps God does indeed exist, since it seems to be nothing short of a miracle that you are still alive.”

“I cannot argue,” said Ridmark. “Three of the assassins are dead. Rotherius got away. Jonas escaped through some sort of shadow-spell.”

“What was it?” said Caius. “I have never seen magic like that.”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “Shadowbearer had similar powers.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Shadowbearer could come and go as he pleased, disappearing and reappearing against through his magic.”

“I couldn’t ward against his spells,” said Morigna.

“It was an attack on the spiritual level,” said Calliande. “Your magic controls the elements, earth and air and animals. But it can’t heal or ward against that kind of attack. You had no way to deflect the spell. And why would the Enlightened of Incariel want you alive?”

“I know not,” said Morigna. “I have never heard of these so-called ‘Enlightened’ before today.”

“Ridmark, this is dangerous,” said Calliande. “If Shadowbearer is the Master of the Enlightened, if they’re all obeying his commands…then Andomhaim is in terrible danger. Not just from the return of the Frostborn, but from the Enlightened. Imagine men like Jonas Vorinus and Paul Tallmane ruling over Andomhaim. They would kill countless innocents…and if Shadowbearer is giving them magic…”

Ridmark nodded. “You’re right.” He looked at the hill. “Perhaps the Old Man shall be able to tell us more.”

“You mean to press on, then?” said Caius.

“Perhaps it would be better to turn back,” said Gavin.

Morigna scowled at them. “Why not? We have come this far. Or do you think the Old Man is allied with these Enlightened fools?”

“Actually,” said Ridmark, his voice hardening, “I don’t think we can go back.”

He pointed.

Dark shapes moved up the slope, clad in rusted armor, ancient weapons in their hands, blue fires dancing in their empty eye sockets.

Undead orcs, dozens of them.

“Well,” said Caius, “I suppose that answers the question of who raised the undead. Jonas couldn’t kill us himself, but he has sent his minions to kill us instead.”

“Prepare yourselves,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff.

Chapter 10 - Shadows

Ridmark watched the undead orcs come.

As before, they moved in a mindless, thoughtless mob. Part of his mind prepared himself for more fighting, his arms and legs relaxing, his heart hammering against his ribs.

But the rest of him wondered about the timing. Had Jonas raised the undead? If so, why hadn’t he thrown them into battle at once?

Or had someone else been observing them, waiting until Jonas and his assassin allies had been driven back before attacking?

Ridmark didn’t know, but he intended to find out.

Assuming they lived through this.

Calliande cast a spell. Ridmark’s staff vibrated in his hands, shining with a light of its own. Morigna drew herself up, purple fire crackling around her fingers.

“Are you able to keep this up?” said Ridmark, looking his staff.

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” said Calliande, sweat tricking down her face. Her voice only shook a little.

“The path,” said Morigna. “Further down the hill, do you see where it narrows between two boulders? If we can drive the undead past that point, I can conjure a wall of acid mist between the boulders and hold the undead at bay.”

“So the undead simply march into the mist and dissolve?” said Gavin.

“Less work than destroying them ourselves,” said Kharlacht.

The undead orcs drew closer, weapons raised.

“Then first,” said Ridmark, “let us drive the orcs back.”

He hurried forward, and Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin followed him, weapons ready. The undead surged forward, and Ridmark struck. His staff landed with enough force to knock a tusked skull from the rotted stump of its neck. The undead collapsed, the blue light fading from its eyes. Around him Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius attacked. Caius’s mace shattered bones and crushed skulls, while Gavin lopped off limbs and heads with quick strikes of his orcish sword, and Kharlacht’s heavy blade cut them in twain.

The undead orcs were strong and fast, but Ridmark and the others had Calliande’s magic, and the undead were unskilled. The assassins from the Red Family had been skilled and capable fighters. The undead fought with crude power, but with neither skill nor grace.

Ridmark forced his way through the creatures. Morigna cast a spell, and roots erupted from the stony soil of the hillside, curling and entrapping a dozen of the undead. Gavin chopped through the bound undead. Step by step they drove the creatures back, leaving a carpet of crumbling bones and rusted armor in their wake.

And then Ridmark saw the gap in the path, the twin boulders looming together like a long-crumbled arch.

He dodged a rusted axe and lashed out with his staff, shattering an orcish skull. The corpse fell backward, slowing down the others.

Another wave of undead, nearly a hundred strong, climbed up the slope.

“Morigna!” shouted Ridmark. “Now!”

###

Morigna took a deep breath, putting her thoughts through the patterns of spell casting.

She felt terrible. The shadows that Jonas had conjured had disrupted her connection with the earth magic, and she had tried a dozen times to fight off Jonas’s attack.

But she had been unable to concentrate through the pain.

If not for Calliande and Ridmark, she would be dead.

Or, worse, Jonas’s captive, helpless to defend herself against him.

The thought terrified her. Strength and power were important. The Old Man had taught that to her, and her experience of life had agreed with him. She had wanted to be strong, so strong that no one could ever hurt her again.

The way she had been hurt the night the dvargir had killed her parents, the day the urvaalg slew Nathan.

She had trusted in her magic and wits, certain they would see her through any danger. Even Nathan’s death had not shaken her confidence. If he had listened to her, he would still be alive.

But even all her power had been useless against the shadows.

She had trusted in her strength, and her strength had not been enough.

Morigna did not know what that meant.

But she could ponder it later after they escaped the mob of undead climbing the hill.

She summoned power from the land around her and gestured. The magic surged through her, and a wall of mist filled the gap between the two boulders. The undead passing through it caught fire at once, the mist burning into their bones and decayed flesh. A dozen of the creatures remained trapped on the near side, but Ridmark and the others cut them down.

More undead creatures pressed into the mist, Morigna’s magic eating into them and setting them aflame. Soon a heap of smoking, sizzling bones and dissolving flesh blocked the gap between the boulders.

“That,” said Gavin, lowering his sword and breathing hard, “is a most unpleasant smell.”

For once, Morigna could not disagree with him.

“Why are they still walking into the mist?” said Kharlacht as another corpse collapsed into charred bones.

“They’re puppets of dead flesh upon strings of dark magic,” said Ridmark. “They won’t turn back unless their master commands them.”

“Jonas,” said Morigna. “The wretch failed to defeat us, and so he loosed his undead.”

“I’m not sure it was him,” said Ridmark. “The marsh gas burned him badly, and I think his shadows carried him away to safety. And we didn’t see any undead on our way here.”

“Perhaps Jonas turned them invisible,” said Gavin, “the way he did with his assassins.”

Another corpse fell sizzling and smoking.

“Surely hiding that many undead at once would strain Jonas’s powers?” said Caius.

“I think it more likely,” said Calliande, “that Jonas has an ally, one that raised the undead and watched the fight from afar. Once he saw that Ridmark had beaten Jonas, he sent the undead into the fight.”

“Another Initiated of the Enlightened?” said Caius.

“Perhaps,” said Calliande. “Maybe one of the dvargir.”

The undead on the other side of the misty barrier began retreating.

“And whoever the necromancer is,” said Ridmark, “he’s still observing us. Calliande. Can you sense him?”

She worked the spell to sense the presence of magic.

“The undead,” she said, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. “Lots of undead. But…I can’t sense anyone working spells nearby.”

“Morigna,” said Ridmark. “Your ravens?”

She shook her head. “The fighting scared them off. I’ll have to summon more.” The admission of weakness galled her. “It will take time.”

But Ridmark did not look upset. “When you can. If you can bind more birds, have them look around.” He rubbed his jaw, the black stubble rasping beneath his palm. “Though I suppose that standing circle would be an excellent place for a necromancer to hide.”

“Yes.” Morigna hesitated. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “All of you.”

Ridmark blinked. “For what?”

“For saving my life,” said Morigna. “For keeping Jonas from taking me prisoner.”

“Shadowbearer wanted me alive, too,” said Calliande, her eyes still closed. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“Do you have any idea why Jonas wanted you prisoner?” said Ridmark.

“None,” said Morigna. “It must be a grudge. A reward Shadowbearer promised him for capturing the soulstone.”

“But Jonas said it was a favor for another of Shadowbearer’s servants,” said Caius.

Morigna shrugged. “I know not. I’ve never been more than a hundred miles from Moraime. Certainly I doubt there are many others in the town who are part of this cult of Incariel.”

“The undead,” said Gavin. “They’re moving off.”

“Likely they will keep watch upon the hill,” said Ridmark.

“Then what do we do now?” said Kharlacht. “If we try to fight our way out, they could overwhelm us.”

Ridmark shrugged. “We’ll do what we came here to do.” His eyes moved to Morigna. “Let’s speak with the Old Man.”

Morigna swallowed and nodded. “This way.”

“Ridmark!” said Calliande, her eyes shooting open.

“You sense something?” said Ridmark.

“Wraiths,” said Calliande.

The single wraith near the ruined fortress wraith had almost been enough to kill them. The six below the crypt would have killed them, had Ridmark not been so clever.

“How many?” Morigna asked.

“A dozen, at least,” said Calliande. “Probably more.”

“They have trapped us like rats in a pit,” said Kharlacht with a growl, the red haze of orcish battle fury brightening in his black eyes. In that moment Morigna could almost believed he could carve his way through the undead on his own.

“Aye,” said Morigna, “but we have a way out. The Old Man.”

Ridmark looked at her. “His power is strong enough to resist that many wraiths?”

“I do not know,” said Morigna. “But he has survived here for all these years, has he not?”

“And will he welcome strangers arriving with a half-dozen wraiths on their tails?” said Caius.

Morigna grinned at the dwarven friar. “Probably not. But if a half-dozen wraiths turn up on his doorstep, he will have no choice but to fight. And there are wards around his home.”

“I haven’t sensed anything,” said Calliande.

“They are latent,” said Morigna. “They only activate when foes draw near. He uses them whenever orcish or kobold raiders move through the marshes.”

“But will the Old Man see us as foes and activate the wards to keep us out?” said Caius.

“We have no choice in the matter,” said Ridmark.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “They’re getting closer. We…”

“Run!” said Ridmark.

Morigna saw the wall of mist darken. She wondered if her spell had unraveled, or the master of the undead had started countering her magic.

But the wraiths flowed unharmed through the wall of mist, the air growing cold against Morigna’s skin.

She turned and sprinted after the others, her tattered cloak flying around her.

###

Ridmark raced up the path.

The others followed, their boots scraping against the rocky ground. His arms and legs burned from the day’s fighting. He would need rest soon, and he suspected the others would as well. He did not know how much a toll the use of that much magic had taken Calliande and Morigna, but he suspected it was significant.

If they did not get behind the Old Man’s wards, if the Old Man’s wards were not strong enough to turn aside the wraiths, they were dead.

It was as simple as that.

He ran across the broad ledge that Kharlacht had described. It would have been ideal for an ambush – Jonas and his men could have stood against the face of the hill, and driven them back to the edge. Just as well that Jonas had grown impatient. Another path, narrower than the first, ascended at a steep angle along the stony face of the hill.

Ridmark ran for the path.

White light flared, and he ran into an invisible wall. He stumbled backward across the ledge, just in time to see a shimmering field of light fade away from the path. Sigils of white fire burned for a moment upon the rocky slope, and then faded away.

The Old Man had already activated his wards.

“That was the spell of a Magistrius,” said Calliande. “A ward. Powerful one.”

“Then it seems the Old Man is indeed a renegade Magistrius,” said Caius.

“Can you break the ward?” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Calliande. “No, it’s too strong. Maybe if I had an hour or two to wear it down, but…”

Ridmark understood. They didn’t have an hour. They didn’t have five minutes.

The air grew colder.

“Morigna,” said Ridmark. “Did the Old Man tell you how to bypass his wards?”

She gave a sharp shake of her head. “No. Only that if I wanted to survive, I had better be inside of them.”

“How generous,” said Calliande.

“Calliande,” said Ridmark. “My staff. Enspell it, and I will hold off the wraiths for as long as I can.”

“You’ll die,” said Calliande.

“We shall fight alongside you,” said Kharlacht.

“No,” said Ridmark, looking around the ledge. Could they climb up the hillside? No, it was too steep and too rocky. “She doesn’t have enough magic to make all your weapons effective against the wraiths. But she can augment mine, and you can escape while I hold the wraiths.” He pointed toward the marshes. “The slope is steep, but if you’re careful, you can manage it. Head back to Moraime. Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael must be warned about Jonas’s treachery.”

“What about you?” said Calliande.

Ridmark shrugged. “I’ll escape and rejoin you in Moraime.”

But he knew that he most likely would not. One wraith had almost finished him. Six would kill him in short order. He had long ago accepted that he would die, knew that he deserved it. But he would not lead the others to their deaths, not if he could find a way to prevent it.

They protested, but to his surprise, so did Morigna.

“Do not be ridiculous,” she said. “You will be killed.”

“I don’t intend to be,” said Ridmark. The air grew colder, and a shadow fell over the lower path as the wraiths drew closer. “Calliande.”

She looked like she wanted to protest, but nodded and worked the spell. Ridmark’s staff blazed with white light in his hand. It almost reminded him of carrying Heartwarden into battle. He wished he had a soulblade now.

The wraiths boiled up the path, dark specters in the shape of hooded orcish shamans, and Ridmark had no more time for thought.

He charged, trying to ignore the terrible chill, and thrust the length of the staff into the nearest wraith. The staff blazed with Calliande’s magic, and the first wraith unraveled into smoke and mist.

But the other five pursued him.

Ridmark retreated, whipping the staff in glowing circles to keep the wraiths at bay, trying to ignore the deathly chill settling into his muscles. The wraiths moved into a half-circle around him, driving him toward the rocky wall of the hill. They would pin him against the slope, overwhelm him, and kill him.

He hoped the others had time to get away.

He hoped he would see Aelia again. She had joined the Dominus Christus in paradise, he was sure, and though he knew he had been damned for his failure, Ridmark only hoped he could tell her how sorry he was, how very sorry…

Ridmark felt the back of his boots strike the boulders of the slope. The wraiths closed around him, and Ridmark braced himself for one final charge…

A second sun rose overhead.

Ridmark squinted against the brilliant golden light that flooded the hillside. The wraiths went motionless, hissing and shrieking as shafts of golden light pierced their immaterial bodies. A moment later they dissolved into nothingness, and the horrible chill faded away.

Ridmark caught his balance and stepped forward. His friends stood at the edge of ledge, staring at something in shock. Specifically, a towering figure of gray granite, hewn in the shape of a bent old man with a long beard, golden fire glimmering in his eyes.

The trolldomr Rjalfur.

Chapter 11 - Ancient Stone

“Rjalfur,” said Ridmark.

“Man of water,” said the trolldomr in his voice of thunder and rolling stone.

“You drove off the wraiths,” said Ridmark. Calliande hurried to his side, looking over him for any sign of injury, and the others followed her.

“This one did not drive them off,” said Rjalfur. “This one destroyed them. The bound shadows are the echoes of mortal men, given power and rage through dark magic. Such dark magic is an abomination, an affront to the song of the world. This one cleansed the abominations.”

Ridmark bowed to the trolldomr. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. If you had not come along when you did, the battle might have gone ill.”

Little expression crossed Rjalfur’s rough-hewn features, but the trolldomr seemed almost surprised. “You offer gratitude? Men of water rarely do, for their natures are so changeable, just as water changes from ice to liquid and steam and back again. When your Dominus Christus healed the ten lepers, did not only one come back to thank him?”

“I know death when I see it,” said Ridmark, “and only a churl would not thank his deliverer.”

“Ah.” Rjalfur considered this for a moment. “Then you are welcome, man of water. Your kind perishes so quickly. A sunrise and a sunset, and you are gone. Yet this one would not see your allotted span of years fall to creatures of abomination.”

Twice now Rjalfur had helped them, once to warn them against the undead in the burial mounds, and again to save them from the wraiths. Perhaps the trolldomr knew more of what was happening here.

“I wish to ask some questions, if I may,” said Ridmark.

“You may,” said Rjalfur. “It is the nature of men of water to ask questions. Your lives are so short, and there are so many things to learn. You must ask questions constantly if you are to have time to learn anything.”

Caius laughed. “I have lived for centuries, and I have often felt the same way, sir.”

“Why are you helping us?” said Ridmark.

The trolldomr said nothing, standing motionless as a statue.

“We are grateful for your aid,” said Ridmark, “but…it is unusual for one of the trolldomr to involve himself in the affairs of others.”

“We do not, save for when we are attacked. If we are attacked, we will defend ourselves. But this one has seen strange things, and wishes to know the answer. This one has seen the missionary,” said Rjalfur.

“Which missionary?” said Ridmark.

“It was a short time ago,” said Rjalfur. “Only four hundred years past.”

“A short time, indeed,” said Gavin, blinking.

“This one wandered the Deeps, listening to the song of the earth,” said Rjalfur. “The molten blood flowing through her veins, the sighs of the mountains as they carry their great burdens, the whisper of the canyons as they open. This one left the Deeps and came to the surface, listening to the song of the mountains in the land the orcs have named Vhaluusk. This one saw a man of water clad in a brown robe, wearing an instrument of torture and death around his neck.”

“An instrument of death?” said Ridmark. He looked at Caius and Kharlacht, at the crosses both of them wore, and he understood. “You mean a cross.”

“He was a missionary, this man you saw,” said Caius.

“Yes,” said Rjalfur. “The man of water went into an orcish village, and proclaimed that the Dominus Christus had died for their sins. The shaman of the village said the missionary would die for the intrusion. This one expected the missionary to flee…but he did not. Instead he proclaimed his words all the louder, and then forgave his enemies as their swords pierced his heart.”

“Is that why you are helping us?” said Ridmark.

The trolldomr considered. “This one helps you because this one does not understand. For four hundred years this one has thought upon that missionary. Why did he die? He could have fled so easily. It is the nature of men of water, of short-lived mortals, to preserve their few years, as a miser hoards gold. Yet he sacrificed his remaining years with joy. Why? This one does not understand.”

“Because he was a fool,” said Morigna, heat in her voice, “a fool who believed lies, and threw his life away for nothing.”

“Perhaps,” said Rjalfur. “But you are a child of dark magic, Morigna of the swamps. This one has seen you wandering the marshes, and this one knows you love only power.”

“What do you know of me?” said Morigna. “I…”

“The missionary died,” said Caius, “because he loved something other than power. He trusted in the promise of the Dominus Christus, and wished to share that promise with the orcs.”

“With the orcs and the halflings, the manetaur and the dark elves,” said Rjalfur. “Even with the khaldari. You wear the missionary’s sign about your neck, son of the khaldari. For tens of thousands of years, your kindred have dwelled in the Deeps and made war against the urdmordar and the dark elves and the dvargir. Yet in all that time, you are the first this one has seen who follows a different god.”

Caius shrugged. “Humans only brought the Dominus Christus with them when they came to this world a thousand years ago.”

“A short time,” said Rjalfur. “Why did the missionary let himself die? For four hundred years this one has wondered the sunlight world, seeking wisdom. This one has spoken with many mortals, and then saw an orc and a dwarf traveling together, both wearing crosses. How did you come to believe as the missionary did?”

Kharlacht shrugged. “My mother was a follower of the church, and had me baptized. The blood gods of my kindred are cruel and brutal, and the Dominus Christus is neither.”

“A missionary came to the court of the king in Khald Tormen,” said Caius, “and I was moved by his words.”

“So that is why you have helped us,” said Ridmark. “We are a mystery to you, and if we are killed, we will not be able to help you understand the mystery.

“You speak true, man of water,” said Rjalfur. “It is hard for our kind to understand yours. We are stone and strength, and you are water and weakness. We are eternal, and you come and go so quickly. Generations of your kindred might past while we contemplate the song of the earth, the pulse of the molten stone through her veins. And yet this one would understand.”

“Then help us survive,” said Ridmark.

“If this one can,” said Rjalfur. “This one dislikes interfering, for it is grievous for us to alter the fates of other kindreds, whether for good or for ill, save for when we must defend ourselves. The lust for power is the greatest sin one of our kindred can commit.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. “Who raised the undead?”

“You did,” said Rjalfur.

Silence answered him.

“Well,” said Caius at last, “do we cut off your head now, or later?”

“I am not a Magistrius,” said Ridmark. “I have no magical power. I could not have raised the undead even if I wanted to do it.”

Rjalfur let out a long, rumbling sigh. “Forgive me. It is difficult for this one to speak properly in the Latin tongue. Or, perhaps, your perceptions are too alien. My kindred…we do not see time in the same fashion you do.”

“Like the high elves?” said Ridmark.

“You have spoken with them?” said Rjalfur.

“Once, long ago,” said Ridmark. “Nine years ago, which I suppose is a second or two to you. Ardrhythain said that the past is set in stone, the present is a fire that burns and changes, and the future is the shadows cast by that flame. The shadows change as the present does, and the high elves can see the changing shadows of the future.”

So could the dark elves. The Warden had shown Ridmark his future, though he had disregarded it at the time. If only he had understood.

Aelia might still be alive.

“That is closer to our perspective,” said Rjalfur. “This one suspects men of water see time as a continuity, a continuum, rather than a totality.”

“That is accurate,” said Calliande.

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.”

“Who?” said Ridmark.

Coriolus’s smile was both sad and bitter. “My downfall.”

Despite her anger, Morigna was intrigued. The Old Man had told her little about his past. Coriolus had spent a great deal of time complaining about the Magistri and the Swordbearers and the church, claiming they had failed to understand his genius, but had never given her a straight answer.

“Victoria,” said Coriolus. “The bastard daughter of the High King’s younger brother.”

Ridmark and Calliande shared a look.

“I take it,” said Ridmark, “that you were fond of her.”

“I was,” said Coriolus. “We met, and it was…ah, to be young again. We were quite taken with each other.”

“And then you took her into your bed,” said Ridmark.

“Yes,” said Coriolus. “It was necessary to keep it a secret, of course. I might have been a Magistrius, but I was of common birth, and she was the High King’s niece, even if she was a bastard.” He spat into the fire again. “Pendragon blood does not defile itself with the touch of a commoner,” he smirked, “but she was glad to defile herself with me.”

“Please,” said Calliande with a hint of disgust, “if you carried on an affair with this woman, there’s no need to gloat over it.”

“Oh?” said Coriolus, leering at her. “How would you know, my pretty little Magistria? So pretty, and so cold. What would you know about the pleasures of the bedchamber?”

Caius and Gavin bristled. Morigna expected Calliande to wilt beneath the mockery, but the Magistria only offered a chilly smile. “I confess I cannot say for certainty. But given your advanced age, sir, I fear I shall not learn any of those pleasures from you.”

The Old Man cackled. “Quick-witted. I like that. A good quality in a Magistria. But while your dwarven monk and your young squire bristle in outrage over my adulterous sins, we have lost the main point.”

“You and Victoria,” said Ridmark. “What happened?”

“The inevitable,” said Coriolus. “She became pregnant. I urged her to purge the child from her womb, or barring that, to wed me. But she so feared her father’s displeasure…and she lacked the necessary steel to rid herself of the child. A common weakness in the female sex, alas. We quarreled on the wall overlooking the harbor of Tarlion. She ran from me, tripped upon her skirts, fell down, and cracked her head.” He sighed, and to Morigna’s astonishment there was a glimmer of pain upon his face. “I rushed to help her…but it was too late. Not even my healing magic could aid her.”

“So you carried on an affair with an unmarried woman,” said Caius, “and then just she happened to accidentally die when she became pregnant?”

“Of course you do not believe me,” said Coriolus. “Why would you? I realize that no one else would believe me, and the High King would have me beheaded for murder. I had no choice but to flee. At first I settled in the Northerland, as far from Tarlion as I could go without leaving the realm of Andomhaim entirely. But as the realm’s population grew, more settlers came to the Northerland, and so I fled into the Wilderland. Eventually I came to Moraime and settled here.”

“Why here?” said Ridmark.

Coriolus spread his bony hands. “Why not? The hill is defensible, even without my wards, and commands an excellent view of the countryside. The town is a convenient place to obtain tools I cannot make myself. If I went any further north, I would risk venturing into the realms of the remaining dark elven princes. Any further west, and I might draw the eye of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch. Sometimes the Warden sends his servants to abduct people he finds interesting, and I have no wish to share that fate. No one who enters Urd Morlemoch ever comes out again.”

“Indeed not,” said Ridmark without a hint of expression.

“And there is one other reason, though I doubt you will believe it of me,” said Coriolus.

“What is that?” said Ridmark.

“There is an entrance to the Deeps a few miles north of here,” said Coriolus, “and it leads to one of the dvargir cities. The dvargir come forth and raid every few years, but I turn them aside when they do. Why do you think Moraime still stands? Why do you think no one has burned it to the ground and carried its people off into slavery? Because I have kept watch over it.”

Morigna laughed. “Do you expect them to believe that, Old Man? That you have been the secret guardian of Moraime for all these years? I have never seen you lift a finger in defense of the town.”

“Dear girl,” said Coriolus, “just because you are too dense to have observed something does not mean it did not happen.”

She started to snarl back at him, but Ridmark answered first. “So you have kept watch over the town of Moraime. How else have you passed the time in your exile?”

“By studying the secrets of earth magic, of course,” said Coriolus.

“That is forbidden to the Magistri,” said Calliande. “The power of the Well cannot be used to kill and harm mortals, but earth magic can. The Order has banned its study and use, as part of the Pact with the elven archmage Ardrhythain.”

“The Order of the Magistri is a collection of musty fools, young lady,” said Coriolus, “and they are idiots to forbid themselves the study of earth magic. There is great potential in it, potential to make Andomhaim strong.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “But that is no longer my concern. I left Andomhaim long ago, and the realm and the two Orders may do as they wish.”

“How did you meet Morigna?” said Ridmark.

His watery eyes shifted to her, cold and indifferent.

“A praefectus appointed by the abbot governs Moraime,” said Coriolus, “but sometimes a man finds the praefectus’s rule chafing. Morigna’s mother and father were such – hunters, trappers, and poachers. Though I suppose since no King, Dux, or Comes rules in Moraime, it hardly counts as poaching. They made their home in the hills not far from here, and sold pelts to the traders who sometimes come from Coldinium.”

“A home too close,” said Ridmark, “to the entrance of the Deeps.”

Morigna remembered the house burning, her mother screaming, the dvargir mantled in shadow as they approached.

Her magic rising up in wrath…

“I am unsure exactly what happened,” said Coriolus. “I suspect the dvargir came to take her parents as slaves, and they fought back and were killed. When the dvargir tried to take Morigna, they encountered more than they expected. You see, she was born with a natural connection to earth magic.” His tone grew drier, more lecturing, as it often did when he discussed the intricacies of magic. “Such a thing is becoming more common. When humanity first came here from Old Earth, the only magic we possessed was that borne by the Keeper of Avalon. Later Ardrhythain of Cathair Solas gave us the magic of the Soulblades and the Well. I believe that the longer humanity has lived upon this world, the more attuned we have become to its native magic. Hence the increasing number of children born with innate magical ability…”

“That is fascinating,” said Ridmark, “but it doesn’t explain how you found Morigna.”

“I came across the scene as I returned from a journey,” said Coriolus, “and killed the dvargir. I found Morigna weeping over the corpses of her parents, and intended to deposit her with the monastery. Then I saw that she possessed magic strong enough to have killed two of the dvargir. So I took her to study her magic further.”

Calliande frowned. “Not to…raise her? You only took her to study her magic?”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” said Coriolus, irritated. “Of course I fed and clothed and housed her – a drain upon my resources, I might add. And I taught her how to use and control her magic. Not that she ever showed any gratitude for anything I did for her. Willful, rebellious child. When she turned twelve, we quarreled fiercely, and she left. She returns every few weeks, of course, when she has a question about magic. But the ungrateful, feral little child does not obey me.”

“Indeed,” said Calliande, her tone frosty. “Why should she? Given that you clearly care nothing for her.”

A mixture of fury and embarrassment filled Morigna. What right did the Magistria have to feel sorry for her?

But a tiny part of her appreciated it.

“I taught her to use her magic,” retorted Coriolus. “And more importantly, I taught her to be strong. The world respects strength alone and nothing else. I owe her nothing. She owes me a great deal.”

“And what, precisely, is that?” said Ridmark.

Coriolus opened his mouth, closed it again, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “As I said, a great deal.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. “Thank you for your candor. I am grateful.”

Coriolus sniffed. “As you should be.”

“Though I do have one more question,” said Ridmark.

“Of course you do,” said Coriolus.

“You didn’t raise the undead that attacked Moraime,” said Ridmark. “Who did?”

“I know not,” said Coriolus.

“Yes, the vast wisdom of the Old Man of the hills,” said Morigna.

“I know not,” said Coriolus, “but I strongly suspect the dvargir. They’ve been active lately, quite active. There is a ruined dwarven outpost a few miles into the Deeps. The dvargir have fortified it, and have sent scouts regularly into the countryside, using their power to cloak themselves in shadow.”

“You have the ability to detect them?” said Calliande.

“Yes,” said Coriolus with a smirk. “A spell of the earth magic you despise so much. The dvargir and others who manipulate shadow magic can make themselves undetectable to spells drawn from the Well. However, their weight still presses upon the earth, and a practitioner skilled with earth magic can detect their presence.”

“You never taught me that,” said Morigna with a frown.

“I saw no need,” said Coriolus.

“Teach her the spell before we depart, please,” said Ridmark. “I suspect we shall find it useful.”

“If it removes you from my hill all the faster, I shall not object,” said Coriolus.

And perhaps the spell would let Morigna detect the presence of Jonas.

“One final question,” said Ridmark. “What do you know of the Enlightened of Incariel?”

“The what?” said Coriolus.

“The Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark. “A secret society that wishes me dead.”

“A charming young man such as you?” said Coriolus. “I can’t imagine why anyone might wish you harm.” He spat in the fire again. “But I have never heard of them. The term Incariel I recognize. It is one of the names given to the void the dark elves worshipped in ancient days. Allegedly it was a fallen angel or demon imprisoned within the core of this world. Whether such a being actually exists or not, I do not know. Most likely it is a myth the princes of the dark elves invented to control their subjects, just as the lords of Andomhaim invented the myths of the church.”

“An invented myth?” said Caius. Morigna expected him to leap to the defense of the church, but he did not. “The dvargir and the dark elves derive their powers of shadow from something. Clearly there is more to Incariel than mere myth.”

“A natural force,” said Coriolus, “given a name through fear and superstition. One…”

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

Her face was calm, but Morigna thought she saw a hint of tension there.

Coriolus blinked a few times. “No, I’ve never heard of it. What is it? Some fable, perhaps, or…”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark, rising to his feet, “for your counsel. We shall trouble you no further. If you could teach the spell of detection to Morigna before we depart, we will be grateful.”

“Very well,” said Coriolus. The Old Man’s watery eyes turned toward Morigna. “It is time for another lesson, child.”

###

Ridmark stood behind the cottage, gazing at the ring of dark elven standing stones upon the hill across the ravine.

They were more complex than the circle where Vlazur had tried to kill Calliande. Two massive rings of dark menhirs, some of them topped with lintels, stood in a ring around a low mound of earth. An altar of black stone capped the mound, still rough and jagged despite the passage of the centuries. The dark elves had used these stone circles to augment their sorcery, drawing upon the magic of the earth like a miller using a stream to drive his grindstone.

The ruins of the dark elves he had seen, citadels like Urd Dagaash and Urd Arowyn and even Urd Morlemoch itself, had been places of beauty. Alien, eerie, disturbing beauty, but beauty nonetheless. The stone circles of the dark elves made no such pretense. Ridmark suspected the dark elves lied to themselves, as wicked men often did, claiming that they were in the right.

But at the stone circles, all pretense was stripped away.

Calliande stepped to his side.

“Perhaps you ought to keep an eye on Morigna and Coriolus,” said Ridmark, “and make sure he doesn’t hurt her.”

“He won’t,” said Calliande. Ridmark glanced back at the others. Morigna and Coriolus stood at the far edge of the hilltop, the Old Man gesturing as he lectured. Caius and Kharlacht and Gavin sat upon the ground, cleaning their weapons and armor, but they kept an eye upon the Old Man and his apprentice.

“My sensing spell is active,” said Calliande. “If he tries anything, I will detect it. Though he is powerful, Ridmark. He can draw on both the magic of the Well and earth magic, and God only knows what else. If he wants to fight, I don’t think I could defeat him.”

“He won’t fight,” said Ridmark. “Rjalfur was right. He is a coward.”

Calliande nodded. “You didn’t even need to threaten him very much, and he told us everything.” Her blue eyes strayed toward Morigna. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” said Ridmark.

“I thought she might be someone like Talvinius or Alamur,” said Calliande. “Now I simply feel sorry for her.”

“Don’t tell her that,” said Ridmark. “She might bite your head off.”

“Aye, and then lay her eggs in my neck,” said Calliande. She shook her head. “No, forgive me, that is harsh. What happened to her is not her fault.”

“But she bears responsibility,” said Ridmark, “for whatever she chooses to do next.”

“As do well all,” said Calliande.

Coriolus threw up his hands in disgust and stalked into the cottage, slamming the door behind him. Morigna stared after him, a flicker of pain on her face. Then she shook her head, arranging her features into their usual arrogant mask, and walked to join Ridmark and Calliande.

“It is done, then?” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Morigna. “He taught me the spell.” She sniffed. “Had the pompous old fool taught it to me earlier, we might have avoided much trouble.”

“I take it,” said Calliande, “he will not talk to us further.”

Morigna’s smile was icy. “He said we could see ourselves out.”

Ridmark nodded. “Did he tell the truth?”

Morigna blinked. “About what?”

“Everything,” said Ridmark.

“He contradicted nothing he had told me earlier,” said Morigna. “But he has never told me his name. Or his story about his bastard lover.” She shrugged. “He could have been telling the truth. Or he could have spun you a tale.” She looked at Calliande. “You’re the learned Magistria. Was there ever a bastard Pendragon woman named Victoria?”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “It would have been after my time.”

“After your time?” said Morigna, incredulous. “It would have been decades ago.”

Calliande took a deep breath. “I will tell you the truth, Morigna. I don’t know how old I am. Thirty-three days ago, on the day of the blue fire, I awoke in a vault below the ruins of the Tower of Vigilance in the Northerland. The Tower burned and fell into ruin ninety years ago, which means I might have been lying in that vault since the Tower was built.” She shrugged. “And I can remember nothing of what happened before I awoke.”

For the first time Ridmark could remember, Morigna was at a loss for words.

“She’s telling the truth,” said Ridmark. “I was there.”

“Hellfire and damnation,” said Morigna. “So you might be older than the Old Man, then?”

Calliande nodded.

“Why tell me this?” said Morigna.

“So that you understand that I am sincere,” said Calliande, “when I tell you that I am sorry your parents died, that you had to grow up with such a wretched man as Coriolus.”

Morigna’s eyes narrowed, and Ridmark expected her to fly into a tirade. But something seemed to wither in her hard black eyes, and she sighed.

“Thank you,” she said, as if the words pained her. “I…he truly is wretched, it is he not? I thought he was a wizard of power, hiding from the church and the Magistri because they feared him for his intellect. Instead he is an old wretch who could not even take responsibility for his bastard child.” She spat. “He truly is a coward.”

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but he is powerful. And I am sure he didn’t tell us the entire truth. You said he hardly ever leaves his home, but you have been gone for months at a time for the last eight years.” Morigna nodded. “Yet if he could detect the dvargir and you could not…I wonder if he could make himself undetectable to you, or to anyone else.”

“So what do you intend to do next?” said Calliande.

“We’ll camp here tonight, inside Coriolus’s wards,” said Ridmark. “Then we will visit the Deeps, and see if the dvargir are indeed stirring.”

Chapter 13 - Silence

The next day as the morning sun rose overhead, Ridmark stared into the darkness.

Specifically, into the darkness of the entrance to the Deeps.

The entrance was a few miles north of the hill with the ring of standing stones. As they circled the base of the hill, Ridmark kept a wary eye on the dark stones upon the hill’s rocky crest, watching for any sign of movement. Nathan Vorinus had fallen beneath the talons of an urvaalg there, and it would not surprise Ridmark to find more of the twisted creatures upon the slopes.

Yet nothing moved on the hill. Not even birds flew overhead. Though if Morigna could not magically compel her ravens to fly over the standing circle, Ridmark doubted a normal bird would do so.

But they saw no sign of any undead or urvaalgs, and soon they stood before the entrance to the Deeps.

Ridmark had ventured into the Deeps more often than he had liked, but he had never seen an entrance quite like this one. A tunnel mouth yawned in the slope of the rocky hill, but the arch had been carved and worked by living hands. Dozens of square, angular glyphs encircled the entrance.

The dwarven language.

Caius stared up at the glyphs.

Morigna blinked. “You can read those?”

“Certainly,” said Caius.

“You know the dvargir tongue?” said Morigna.

“They’re not dvargir, but dwarven,” said Caius. “An archaic form, but still dwarven.” He pointed at the arch. “A guide to any travelers of my kindred. According to the sign, the stronghold of Thainkul Dural lies a few miles within the tunnel.”

“Thainkul Dural?” said Calliande.

“The Three Kingdoms of the dwarves were once nine,” said Caius. “Three still stand in the Deeps to the west, but the urdmordar and the dark elves destroyed several, and others turned to the worship of the great void and became the dvargir.” He scratched at his graying beard. “I think Thainkul Dural was an outpost of one of the lost six kingdoms.”

“And then the dvargir just moved in?” said Gavin.

Caius nodded. “My kindred build mighty strongholds, and our sundered cousins have an eye for quality.”

“So the dvargir are really dwarves, then?” said Gavin. “Just dwarves that chose to worship the great void.”

“Not quite,” said Caius.

“The choice to follow the great void is different than any other choice,” said Calliande. Her voice was distant, and Ridmark stopped and looked at her. Her voice only took that tone when she remembered something she had learned  before she had gone into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance. “A man can choose to be a murderer or a thief, and while his crime leaves marks upon his soul, it does nothing to his flesh. Choosing to worship the great void is a weightier choice. Swearing to the darkness, pledging to serve it, draws some of the darkness into the worshipper’s soul. And that darkness bestows power even as it twists the flesh. You remember how the dead dvargir cast no shadow?” Gavin nodded. “That is one of the effects of the change. The dvargir can command shadows, but cast no shadows themselves.”

“And their eyes,” murmured Caius, his blue eyes distant with memory. “You will know at once if you look into the eyes of a dvargir. There is nothing but darkness there.”

Ridmark nodded. The Warden’s eyes had been like that.

“Darkness,” said Caius, his usual jovial air gone, “and an utter lack of mercy and conscience. The great void takes that as its price.” He looked at Morigna. “You might consider a lack of mercy to be strength, a virtue to be admired. But look into the eyes of a dvargir, behold his love of cruelty, and you will not know admiration. No, you will know only fear.”

Ridmark expected Morigna to react with scorn, but she said nothing. She had been subdued ever since leaving Coriolus’s cottage. The Old Man’s revelations had left her shaken. And perhaps seeing her mentor in a new light had cast doubt upon his teachings of strength and mercy.

“There are other changes,” said Calliande. “The void is a corruption. A dvargir man cannot father a child on a dwarven woman, nor a dwarven man with a dvargir woman. The same is true of the dark elves and the high elves.”

“So that would mean,” said Gavin, “if Sir Jonas worships Incariel, and Incariel is really the great void of the dark elves, then he’s become something like a…a human dvargir? Or a human version of a dark elf?”

“Perhaps,” said Calliande. “I don’t know. Apparently I have faced his sort of powers before…but not like this. He’s something new.”

“How,” said Morigna, “do you know all of this?”

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. “I must have learned it before I lost my memory. Otherwise I wouldn’t know it.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” said Morigna.

“I cannot disagree with you,” said Calliande.

“Regardless of their nature, we should proceed,” said Ridmark. Standing before an entrance to the Deeps was not the time to discourse upon the history and nature of the dvargir. “If the dvargir are indeed responsible for the undead, I intend to stop them. Or at least warn Sir Michael and Abbot Ulakhur so they can defend the town adequately. Morigna, can you cast the spell to detect the dvargir?”

Morigna nodded and began gesturing, purple fire flaring around her hands. She raised her arms, and the fire pulsed and went out. As it did, she staggered a few steps, her eyes growing wide.

“What is it?” said Ridmark. “Did it work?”

“It did,” said Morigna. She pinched her nose. “But it is an…odd feeling. Like having ants crawl over my skin. I can sense where you are standing, your weight upon the earth. I am sure I will sense the dvargir, if they cloak themselves in shadow. Or Jonas, for that matter.”

“How far does the spell extend?” said Ridmark

Morigna’s face tightened, her eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. “About…a hundred yards, I think.” She opened her eyes. “I do not know how well it will work underground.”

“Let us find out,” said Ridmark.

“I should walk with you, Gray Knight,” said Caius. “My kindred might have left traps in the tunnel, and I will recognize them. If the dvargir have set any traps, I have the best chance of spotting them.”

Ridmark nodded. “Very well. Morigna, on my left. Caius, on my right. Kharlacht and Gavin, keep your eyes open and your weapons ready. Calliande, keep your sensing spell active. If the dvargir raised the undead, they might have kept some as guardians, or their wizards…”

“Stonecasters,” said Caius.

“Their stonecasters might have left other wards,” said Ridmark.

Calliande cast her sensing spell as the others moved into place. Ridmark tapped his staff against the stony ground a few times, nodded to himself, and walked into the tunnel, the others following.

The darkness swallowed them, but it did not last for long. Patches of pale blue light glimmered upon the floor and walls. As they drew closer, Ridmark saw clusters of ghost mushrooms clinging to the stone, the pale light radiating from their luminescent caps. In the dim light he saw the distinct marks of dwarven stonework. The floor had been leveled, and a shallow trench followed the center of the tunnel, no doubt a culvert to drain water. From time to time he saw dwarven glyphs upon the wall.

“Milestones,” said Caius when he asked. “More or less. Humans use the mile of the old Empire of the Romans. Our equivalent unit of distance is called a strizahd, which is approximately one-fifth of a mile. The strizahd glyphs mark off the distance to the Stone Heart in the Three Kingdoms, the place where the dwarven kindred first entered this world.”

“That sounds complicated,” said Gavin.

Caius grinned. “More complicated than a mile? Marking off five thousand steps seems onerous, if you ask me.”

“Scholarly debates can come later,” said Ridmark, “once we are not approaching a dvargir stronghold in the Deeps.”

Both Caius and Gavin fell silent.

The tunnel sloped down, the strizahd-glyphs marking off the distance in regular intervals. The clusters of ghost mushrooms provided regular light, for which Ridmark was grateful. Deeper and wider the tunnel went, and Ridmark heard faint splashing in the distance.

An underground stream, perhaps, or a lake?

The tunnel opened into a large stone cavern, and Ridmark stopped for a moment to get his bearings.

The cavern was at least as large as the monastery’s courtyard. A rippling pond occupied its central half, and Ridmark saw the dull gleam of flickering lights within the waters. Thick clusters of ghost mushrooms, some as tall as small trees, encircled the water.

The façade of Thainkul Dural filled the cavern’s far wall.

It had been cut out of the living rock, with pillars and a fortified rampart for archers. The buttresses supporting the rampart had been carved in the shape of armored dwarven warriors, solemn and grim. A gleaming door of bronze-colored dwarven steel sealed the entrance, surrounded by deep-cut glyphs.

“There is a ward upon the gates,” said Calliande. “A powerful one.”

“Aye,” said Caius. “The stonescribes would have imbued the doors with the power of a lodestone to hold them in place. The doors are impervious to all but the most powerful attacks and spells.” He snorted. “It is often easier to tunnel through the surrounding rock than to go through a dwarven gate.”

“If the gates are sealed,” said Gavin, “then perhaps the stronghold is deserted. Maybe the final defenders locked themselves inside and died long ago.”

“That makes sense,” said Ridmark, “but it doesn’t explain the tracks.”

He gestured with his staff, squinting in the blue-lit gloom. Dry sand and silt covered the cavern floor, no doubt deposited whenever the tunnel flooded. Dozens of tracks marked the floor. Some of them had been left armored boots, others by clawed feet.

“What are those tracks?” said Morigna. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Murrag,” said Ridmark. “A lizard.”

“Are they dangerous?” said Morigna.

“Not particularly,” said Ridmark. “Think of a fat, surly lizard the size of a sheep. The kindreds that dwell in the Deeps use them as herd animals.”

“Which means,” said Kharlacht, “the dvargir living within the stronghold must bring their murrags out here to graze upon the mushrooms every so often.”

“Or to catch fish,” said Ridmark, looking at the glowing fish in the pond. All the tracks led to and from the closed gates of dwarven steel in the carved façade.

“So,” said Gavin. “How are we going to get into Thainkul Dural?”

That was a very good question.

“I could break the spell upon the gates,” said Morigna.

“I fear that would accomplish little,” said Caius. “Even if you broke the spell, the gates themselves will remain locked, and we have no tool or spell to penetrate them. I suppose we could hammer them down, given enough time, or chisel through the surrounding stone, but the resultant noise would alert the dvargir within the fortress.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark, a thought rattling at the edge of his mind.

Why hadn’t they seen any guards? The dvargir were vicious and merciless, and with that came unrelenting paranoia. The dvargir never went anywhere without guards. Perhaps they trusted in Thainkul Dural’s gates to protect them from intruders. Yet that seemed unlikely. Perhaps a small party of dvargir had taken refuge in the abandoned ruin, and they did not have enough men to spare as sentinels.

If so, why had they not raised undead to act as guards?

Ridmark examined the rampart over the gates. It was forty feet over the cavern floor, with high, narrow battlements. The battlements almost reached the cavern’s roof, yet there was enough room to allow an intruder to climb over the battlements and onto the rampart.

“We’ll climb up,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir might not have thought to seal off the entrances on the rampart. If…”

“Wait,” said Caius. He frowned at some of the glyphs upon the façade. “I think…”

“Ridmark!”

Ridmark whirled. Morigna stood rigid, purple fire flaring to life around her hands as she gathered power for a spell.

“Someone is moving,” she said, voice tight with alarm. “Near the lake. I cannot see…”

“The dvargir have found us!” said Kharlacht. “To arms!”

Ridmark gazed at the pond. If the unseen foes were indeed dvargir, they would have to release their shadowy invisibility before attacking. Yet there were other creatures that could move unseen in the Deeps. The urvaalgs and the ursaars, for one. Or…

Ridmark saw a shape outlined against the ghost mushrooms, hunched and moving without sound.

“Deep orcs!” said Ridmark, moving to attack.

And as he did, a dozen deep orcs sprang from the ghost mushrooms.

The orcs of the surface tended to be tall and muscular, with dark green skin and black hair. The deep orcs were shorter and thinner, their skins a sickly yellow. Their huge ears, bigger than Ridmark’s palms, clung to the side of their heads. The deep orcs were eyeless, yet a strange band of knotted, veined flesh encircled their heads like a blindfold. The strange organ allowed them to see heat the way that humans and surface orcs saw the sun’s light. The dark elves had created the deep orcs long ago, using their magic to make them more effective slaves in the Deeps. The urdmordar had crushed the dark elves, but the deep orcs remained, living in independent tribes scattered throughout the Deeps.

Or as slaves to the dvargir and the remaining dark elves.

One of the deep orcs charged at Ridmark. The orc wore black leather armor that drank the light, and carried a pair of black daggers. The orc lunged in eerie silence, his boots making no sound, and Ridmark jumped back. The blades missed, and he whirled his staff, using his weapon’s longer reach to land a hit against the deep orc’s left flank. He heard the crack of a rib, and for the first time the deep orc made a sound, a faint hiss of pain. Before the orcish warrior recovered, Ridmark raised his staff and brought it down upon the orc’s skull. Again he heard the crack of bone, and the deep orc fell, as silent as death as he had been in life.

Ridmark sought a new foe and found a dozen deep orcs locked in battle against his friends. Kharlacht and Caius fought back to back as was their custom, a half-dozen orcs circling around them like dancing shadows. Gavin stood guard before Calliande, struggling against two deep orcs as the Magistria cast a spell. Morigna gestured, summoning up a column of pale white mist. A deep orc ran into the mist, and collapsed thrashing and smoking as the acid ate into his flesh.

Ridmark sprinted for Calliande, intending to aid Gavin against the deep orcs. Calliande finished her spell, a blaze of white light burning around her, and the same white light wrapped around Ridmark. He felt her magic augment his speed, and he used the extra momentum to leap forward, swinging his staff with both hands. One of the deep orcs started to turn, but with Calliande’s magic Ridmark was faster, and his staff creased the orcish warrior’s skull. Gavin seized the opportunity and struck, his heavy sword sinking into the second orc’s belly. The deep orc staggered, and Gavin ripped his sword free and drove the blade into the warrior’s throat.

The boy’s sword work had indeed improved. Ridmark would have preferred that Gavin had lived in peace in Aranaeus, but since that was impossible, he was pleased that Gavin was developing into a capable fighter. If they lived through this, if they survived the journey to Urd Morlemoch and stopped the Frostborn, Ridmark would see to it that Sir Constantine or Dux Gareth made the boy into a knight of Andomhaim.

Another deep orc fell to Morigna’s acidic mist, and four others turned to attack her. Ridmark charged them as they lunged at the sorceress. Morigna shouted and flung out her hands, a ripple going through the solid stone of the floor. The deep orcs stumbled, and Ridmark struck, a blow from his staff shattering a skull and sending the deep orc to the ground. Two others turned to face him, black daggers in hand, and Ridmark sidestepped and swept his staff out. One of the orcs stumbled and fell, and Ridmark thrust the butt of his staff against the deep orc’s temple. Again bone cracked, and the orc toppled. Ridmark reversed his staff and killed another, and Morigna gestured, her tattered cloak flying around her. White mist swirled around the remaining orc, and the warrior staggered forward with a grunt, skin hissing and sizzling as it dissolved. Ridmark slammed his staff against the orc’s temple and put the warrior out of his misery.

He turned, seeking more foes, and saw Kharlacht open the last deep orc from throat to stomach with a vicious slash of his greatsword. The crimson blood that splashed from the ghastly wound was marked with black streaks, and the deep orc staggered and fell at the foot of a cluster of ghost mushrooms.

Silence fell over the cavern.

Ridmark looked around, but nothing else moved.

“Morigna,” he said, wiping some sweat from his forehead.

She cast her detection spell again. “Nothing. We are alone. I think.”

“How did they get so close?” said Calliande. “I thought you could detect them.”

“I did,” said Morigna, scowling at the Magistria. “But I warned you the spell’s range would be limited underground. No more than ten or twenty yards, I think. They were right on top of us before I sensed them. Perhaps you should have been paying better attention, Magistria, and you might have heard…”

“Enough,” said Ridmark. “That you were able to detect them at all saved our lives. They are masters of stealth.”

“What are they?” said Gavin, prodding one of the dead orcs with the tip of his blade. “They look like orcs, but…”

“The eyeless ones,” said Caius, and Kharlacht nodded, his face grimmer than usual.

“The deep orcs,” said Ridmark. “The dark elves changed them with magic, made them better suited to the Deeps.”

“Aye,” said Calliande, her expression pained as she looked at the dead. “They are blind to normal light, but they can see heat. In absolute darkness, we can see nothing, but the heat of our bodies shines like torches to them. Their hearing is sharp, so sharp they could hear our heartbeats from a dozen yards away, and they know how to move in perfect silence.”

“Likely they were waiting for us,” said Ridmark. “If not for Morigna’s spell, they would have taken us unawares.”

Morigna smirked at Calliande. “And how to do you know so much about deep orcs? Have you encountered them before?”

Calliande ignored the sorceress’s mocking tone. “Apparently, I must have.”

“I think the deep orcs were slave-soldiers for the dvargir,” said Caius. He knelt and yanked aside the leather armor of a dead orc. A blocky glyph had been burned into the yellow skin of the warrior’s bony chest.

“They were the guards, then,” said Ridmark.

Caius nodded, straightened up, and made the sign of the cross over the dead orcs. “Most likely the dvargir gave them instructions to kill anyone who entered the cavern.”

“Which means,” said Ridmark, “we killed the guards, and the dvargir do not know we are here.”

Caius nodded again. “That seems likely.”

“This is our best chance to enter Thainkul Dural and have a look around,” said Ridmark. “I will scale the wall and enter through the ramparts. Wait here for the rest of the day. If I have not returned…”

“Actually,” said Caius, “it might be easier to use the secret door.”

“Door?” said Ridmark. “What secret door?”

“The one indicated by the glyphs over the main gate,” said Caius.

Morigna laughed. “Your kindred were very trusting then, were they not? They simply left a sign saying ‘here is the secret door’ upon the wall of their stronghold.”

“Of course not,” said Caius, walking to the gates of Thainkul Dural, the others following him. “The glyphs merely record the date of the founding and the Great Houses that stationed warriors here. But there is a code known only to dwarves of noble birth, a second, hidden meaning in many common words. And that code says there is a secret door right over…here.”

He stopped next to one of the pillars. Then he nodded to himself and started pressing portions of the glyphs seemingly at random. Nothing happened.

“This is…” Morigna started to say.

Ridmark heard a low click, and a portion of the wall slid aside, revealing a narrow doorway that led into darkness.

Caius smiled at Morigna. “You were saying?”

“Easier than climbing up a rope into the rampart,” said Morigna without missing a beat.

“Of course,” said Calliande.

“I’ll go,” said Ridmark. “Wait here until…”

“You are not going in there alone,” said Calliande.

“For once, I agree,” said Morigna. “Without my spell, you cannot find the dvargir if they choose to make themselves invisible. You could blunder into them before you realize it.”

“And if you are attacked,” said Gavin, “you will be quickly overpowered.”

Ridmark started to argue, realized that it was futile, and sighed. “Very well. But for the love of God, no arguing about history or magic or anything else. Keep quiet, and speak only if it is necessary. Calliande and Morigna, keep your sensing spells active, and warn us if you detect anything dangerous.”

“What exactly do we seek?” said Kharlacht.

“Proof that the dvargir raised the undead and launched them upon Moraime,” said Ridmark. “And if not that, evidence of their intentions. Are they raiders seeking captives and booty? Scouts for an invasion? Allies of Jonas and the Red Family?”

Or did they have some other purpose? Ridmark remembered Rjalfur’s words, the repeated warnings that the undead had come to claim him. Jonas Vorinus had come to kill Calliande and take the soulstone. Ridmark had assumed that he had raised the undead, but Coriolus claimed that the dvargir had done so. Perhaps Jonas and the dvargir were allied, and perhaps they were working at cross-purposes.

Either way, Ridmark would find the answers within Thainkul Dural.

He stepped into the darkness, leading the way through the narrow passage.

Chapter 14 - Thainkul Dural

“Here,” whispered Caius.

Calliande stood motionless, her mind divided in several directions. One maintained the pulsing ball of white light that floated over her left palm, throwing back the darkness of the hidden passage. The other worked to hold her sensing spell. She detected the latent power of the wards upon the gate. She also sensed flickers of magical power beyond the wall. Warding spells, she thought, but…sleeping. Inactive. Or simply incomplete.

Were the dvargir stonecasters constructing new wards within Thainkul Dural?

“The door is here,” murmured Caius, squeezing past Ridmark. The dwarven friar could walk comfortably within the passage, but the top of Calliande’s head brushed the ceiling, and Morigna had to keep her head down. Ridmark, Kharlacht, and Gavin all walked stooped. If something attacked while they were in the passage, they were trouble.

“Anything on the far side of the door?” said Ridmark.

Morigna gave a shake of her head. “Nothing that I can detect.” Calliande sensed the swirl of earth magic around the sorceress as the black-haired woman maintained her spell.

“Brace yourselves,” said Caius. “This might be loud.”

He pressed a block in the side of the passage.

The wall ahead opened with a loud grinding noise, followed by a clang. Ridmark whispered a curse and urged Caius forward. The friar disappeared through the doorway, and Ridmark hurried after, staff in his right hand, his orcish war axe in his left. Kharlacht and Gavin when after them, and then Morigna and Calliande.

They stepped into a spacious hall, easily large enough to hold the church of Moraime. Thick, square pillars adorned with images of dwarven warriors and the gods of stone and silence supported the high ceiling. Glowstones shone from the apex of the arches and the tops of the pillars, providing ample light. The dwarves created the glowstones through a bath of chemicals and salts from the Deeps, and they lasted for centuries, even millennia. Likely those glowstones had shone from the ceiling ever since the dwarves had been driven from Thainkul Dural.

Or the dvargir had made their own.

Ridmark moved in a circle, his staff leveled, his hard eyes unblinking. Calliande was struck again by his grace and speed. With a Soulblade in hand, he must have been a terror. Little wonder he had survived the journey to Urd Morlemoch.

But if he was alarmed, then it was best to be ready. Calliande pushed aside her musings and prepared herself to cast a spell.

“Why,” grunted Kharlacht, “was the door so loud?”

“It was a secret door,” said Caius. “The noise keeps foes from entering unseen into the fortress.”

“Foes like us, learned friar?” said Morigna.

Calliande sighed and braced herself for the argument. Morigna had to be the single most disagreeable woman she had ever met.

Fortunately, Ridmark spoke first. Morigna seemed willing to heed him, if no one else.

“It was a risk,” said Ridmark, voice quiet, “but every option is a risk. Wait a moment, and keep quiet.”

They stood motionless, waiting for any sign of movement. Calliande extended the reach of her sensing spell. She detected wards waiting on the floor of the hall, powerful and complex wards, but they felt…incomplete. She saw a flight of stairs descending deeper into the earth from the far end of the hall, but nothing moved.

“Anything?” said Ridmark at last.

“No,” said Morigna. “Nothing.”

“There are wards upon the floor, but I don’t think they’re finished,” said Calliande.

“I can sense them as well,” said Morigna.

Ridmark nodded and took few steps forward.

“You had to know how much noise that door would make,” said Morigna. “Why did you open it anyway?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, staring at the floor. “I thought the hall would be empty. I don’t think there are more than a dozen dvargir in Thainkul Dural.”

“And how did you know that?” said Morigna.

“The footprints,” said Ridmark. “I counted a dozen different boots, but no more.”

Kharlacht snorted. “I should have seen that myself.”

“That, and the dvargir entrusted deep orcs as their guards,” said Caius.

Morigna laughed. “Given how easily we overcame them, the deep orcs seem to have been a poor choice of sentinel.”

“Clearly,” said Ridmark. “Calliande. Morigna. Caius. Come here and tell me what you make of this. Kharlacht, Gavin. Keep watch.”

Calliande and Caius walked to Ridmark’s right, and Morigna moved to his left. Dozens of dwarven glyphs had been carved into the floor, and recently. Their edges were still sharp, and Calliande saw dvargir footprints in the rock dust. Lines of glyphs led from the floor to the pillars, and in places the glyphs had been carved over the reliefs of dwarven warriors.

“Can you read what they say?” said Ridmark.

“They’re the glyphs of stonecasters,” said Caius. “Glyphs of warding and protection. But I don’t think they have been activated or completed.”

“They haven’t,” said Calliande, focusing her spell further.

“And…Gray Knight, those are not dwarven glyphs,” said Caius, pointing at some of the symbols.

“They’re not,” said Calliande.

“You recognize them?” said Ridmark.

“They’re symbols of dark magic and necromancy,” said Calliande. She closed her eyes, reaching into the choking mists that shrouded most of her memory. “I…can’t remember exactly what they do.” That was a relief. What if she had been someone like Talvinius or Alamur in her previous life, a necromancer or an Eternalist?

Or a sneering craven like Coriolus?

“They are…interlocking with the dvargir wards, somehow,” said Morigna. Calliande felt the ripple as Morigna cast her own sensing spell with earth magic. “Yet…yet the whole thing is unfinished. Like a fireplace laid with wood and oil, but missing the spark.”

“Or a crossbow missing a quarrel,” said Calliande.

“Aye, that is a better metaphor,” said Morigna. “A machine missing one final gear. That is the best way to describe this spell. Whatever it is.”

“You cannot guess at its function?” said Ridmark.

Calliande shrugged. “Nothing good, I am sure. Dwarven warding glyphs combined with sigils of dark magic?  I think it is intended as a prison for something. Some creature of dark magic, or some kind of conjured spirit.”

“But it is unfinished,” said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded, as did Morigna.

“Could the dvargir summoning something up?” said Ridmark. “Some kind of spirit?”

“I have never heard of the dvargir attempting magic like that,” said Caius. “Their stonecasters, like ours, limit themselves to warding glyphs. But summoning spirits or elementals? That is the province of the high elves and the dark elves. Neither the dwarven nor the dvargir kindreds have ever attempted magic of that nature.”

“But whatever they are doing,” said Ridmark, “it is best left unfinished.” He lifted his staff. “Come.”

###

The flight of stairs ended, and Ridmark found himself in a smaller pillared hall. Unlike the first hall, rows of stone benches lined the walls, and stone tables stood here and there. There were signs of long-ago battle– the scratches left by dwarven armor and weapons upon the gray stone, a few orcish bones gathering dust in the corner.

And Ridmark saw the impression of dvargir boots in the dust.

“A barracks,” said Caius, once Morigna confirmed that they were alone. “The top hall was the entrance, used for ceremony and defense. Warriors upon duty would wait here, if any alarm came from the main gates or the lower halls.”

“This place is bigger than Thainkul Agon,” said Ridmark.

“Where is that?” said Morigna.

“A dwarven ruin in the Deeps near Dun Licinia,” said Ridmark.

Caius laughed. “Aye, it is. Thainkul Agon was an outpost. Little more than a village. Thainkul Dural seems to have been a good-sized town.”

“I wonder what happened to the dwarves who lived here,” said Gavin, gazing at the bones in the corner.

“I don’t know,” said Caius. “The dvargir, most likely. Or the dark elves or the deep orcs or the kobolds. Or perhaps the urdmordar. The urdmordar destroyed both the high elves and the dark elves, and my kindred paid a terrible price to hold them at bay. The Three Kingdoms were once nine.”

“My entire life,” murmured Morigna, “I have lived near Moraime, and I had no idea that all of this was beneath my feet.”

“And I thought you knew everything,” said Gavin.

Morigna glared at him. “Indeed? Then…”

“Save the fighting for the dvargir,” said Ridmark. “Follow me.”

Another set of stairs descended into the earth, and Ridmark took them with as much silence as he could muster. Not that it mattered. The deep orcs could hear his heartbeat from yards away. Though the senses of the dvargir were not so keen. Perhaps the dvargir lurking within Thainkul Dural had kept all the deep orcs outside to act as guards.

But Ridmark would not lower his diligence.

He heard the splashing of water ahead. Perhaps the additional noise would mask their presence from any listening deep orcs. On the other hand, it might mean the lower levels of Thainkul Dural had flooded.

The stairs ended in a long, high gallery, glowstones flickering in the arches overhead. Dozens of niches lined the walls, each one holding a door of dwarven steel. Square stone tiles, a yard on each side, covered the floor of the gallery. Each tile bore a single dwarven glyph.

The sound of splashing water was louder here, and beads of water glistened upon the doors of dwarven steel. Here and there Ridmark saw discoloration in the stones, the signs of slow leakage. Thick clusters of ghost mushrooms filled some of the niches, and mushrooms required at least some moisture to grow.

He suspected there was a lot of water behind those doors.

“It floods,” said Ridmark.

“A flood?” said Kharlacht.

“The tunnel to the surface,” said Ridmark. “That pond in the outer cavern must swell whenever there are heavy rains. We’re not far from the marshes, and marshes flood as well. Where does the excess water go?”

“Downhill,” said Gavin, frowning.

“Profound,” said Morigna.

“It must drain here,” said Ridmark. “Behind those doors, into a reservoir. And…”

“Oh,” said Caius, blinking. “Oh, that is very bad.”

They looked at him.

“A flood trap,” said Caius.

“Another trap,” muttered Ridmark, remembering the fiendish mechanical devices he had seen in Urd Morlemoch and Urd Dagaash.

“They’re rare. Even my kindred, for all our skill with steel and stone, cannot simply create them. They can only be constructed in places where the local water and terrain allow it. I think Thainkul Dural is one of those places.”

“Let me guess,” said Ridmark, looking at the glyphs upon the tiles of the floor. “We step on the wrong tile, the doors open, the gallery floods, and we all drown?”

“It is worse than that, I am afraid,” said Caius, craning his neck. Ridmark followed his gaze and saw the dark gap within the center of the archway overhead. “Another door awaits above us, and a second one at the far end of the gallery, I suspect. If the flood trap is triggered…”

“The gallery is sealed off,” said Ridmark, pointing at the niches, “the flood doors open, and anyone within is drowned.”

“Aye,” said Caius.

“A cunning trap,” said Ridmark. “And a nearly impenetrable defense. If someone attacks from the surface, the defenders can seal off the gallery. Or if the stronghold is overrun with attackers from the Deeps, the defenders can withdraw to the surface and flood the gallery behind them to block any pursuit.”

“You have the right of it,” said Caius.

“Which means the important question,” said Morigna, “is how to get past the trap.”

“It is,” said Caius, “but the trap might not even be armed. The dvargir have been able to come and go freely.”

“The dvargir are just as skilled at making traps as the dwarves,” said Ridmark. “Likely they knew how to bypass the trap, and left it armed to deal with any unwelcome intruders.” That would explain why the dvargir had felt confident enough to leave their defense in the hands of the deep orcs.

“We had best assume that the trap is armed,” said Calliande.

“Agreed,” said Ridmark. “So. How do we get past it?” He remembered the trap below Urd Dagaash, the blades of dvargir steel erupting from the floor to shred the spiderlings. “I assume we have to step upon the proper tiles?”

“Aye,” said Caius. He stared at the tiles for a moment. “That is the glyph for a welcomed guest, and it is repeated across the pattern. I assume stepping upon it is safe.”

“You assume?” said Morigna. “You do not know?”

“I do not,” said Caius. “The dwarves of Thainkul Dural might have built their trap upon different principles. And it is possible the dvargir have altered the trap so that stepping upon any tile opens the flood doors.”

“There is only one way to find out,” said Ridmark.

Morigna grabbed his wrist. “Surely you do not mean to test the trap yourself?”

“What?” said Ridmark. “Of course not. There was some loose masonry further up the stairs. I’ll throw them upon the tiles and see if they trigger the trap or not.”

“Ah.” Morigna released his wrist, and for a moment she looked embarrassed. “I…should not have assumed that you were a fool. You have shown little enough evidence for it.”

“Then you haven’t known me long enough yet,” said Ridmark. “All of you, get behind the archway in case we trigger the trap and the door closes. Gavin, go get me some rocks.”

The others obeyed, and Gavin clambered up the stairs and returned with an armful of broken masonry. Ridmark leaned his staff against the wall, picked up a broken block, and examined the tile Caius indicated.

Then he flung the rock. It landed upon the center of the tile, and the tile settled perhaps an inch deeper into the floor, but nothing else happened. Ridmark threw more stones, until perhaps about sixty pounds of broken stone sat upon the tile, but still nothing happened. He took a deep breath, lifted his staff, and walked closer.

Then he pressed the staff against the tile, leaning all his weight against it, every muscle tensed to race back if anything happened.

But nothing moved in the gallery.

“It would seem those tiles are indeed safe,” said Kharlacht.

“Or,” said Morigna, “that one is merely broken.”

“That is a possibility,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff. He spotted another tile marked with the glyph for a welcomed guest. “Let us find out.”

Before he could change his mind, he stepped onto the tile, putting all his weight upon it. It sank an inch into the floor, and he felt some mechanism shift beneath the stone.

A stunned silence fell over the others.

Nothing else happened.

“I retract my former statement,” said Morigna. “That was tremendously foolish.”

“He does things like that quite frequently,” said Calliande. “You get used to them after a time.”

The two women looked at each other, blinked, and then laughed.

“If you are quite finished,” said Ridmark, “let us see if we can find the dvargir before they find us. Keep to the tiles with the guest glyph.”

Bit by bit they picked their way across the long gallery, moving from tile to tile. Ridmark alternated between examining the floor and staring at the archway on the far side of the gallery. As they drew closer, he saw that it opened into a large cylindrical chamber. The chamber looked deserted, but Ridmark expected foes to emerge at any moment. They were terribly vulnerable upon the tiles. One crossbow bolt from the dvargir, one even one accidental stumble, and the trap would activate, the gallery would seal, and they would drown.

But nothing emerged from the far chamber.

At last Ridmark crossed through the archway, the others following. The cylindrical chamber was large, about thirty yards across, and the stone floor sloped to a grate of dwarven steel about ten yards across. The sounds of splashing water came from the grate.”

“If gambling were not a sin,” said Caius, coming to Ridmark’s side, “I would wager that drain leads to the trap’s reservoir.”

Ridmark nodded and looked at the gateway on the far side of the chamber. A faint breeze came through it, and he suspected the cavern beyond was far larger. “There’s another door of dwarven steel above that archway. It must close with the trap. And after all their foes are drowned, the residents can open the inner door, let all the waters drain away, and reset the trap.”

“I wonder how this place ever fell,” said Gavin, “if it had such potent defenses.”

“Perhaps their foes came from the Deeps,” said Kharlacht. “Worse things than murrags and dvargir live in the darkness.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark, “and we might meet some of them soon. Keep quiet.”

He walked to the far archway, and stopped to gaze in wonder at the sight before him.

The cavern beyond was the size and shape of a valley, perhaps a half mile across at its widest. The sloped walls had been hewn into terraces, and upon those terraces rose houses and towers in the blocky dwarven style, their walls adorned with elaborate glyphs and reliefs. Massive glowstones shone in a few of the towers, throwing pale light and strange, tangled shadows over everything. The place had a grim beauty. It was not the eerie, alien beauty of the dark elven ruins, with their lines and angles built to please the strange aesthetic tastes of the dark elves. Thainkul Dural spoke of strength and endurance, of an ancient oak that had weathered countless storms.

Yet it had fallen to foes nonetheless.

“A mighty city,” whispered Gavin, his brown eyes wide.

“Aye,” said Caius. “Not as large as Khald Tormen, but perhaps a thousand of my kindred lived here once upon a time.”

“A thousand dwarves,” said Kharlacht, “and a thousand places for a small band of dvargir to hide. Where shall we search?”

“Right there,” said Ridmark, pointing.

At the apex of the valley, overlooking the town, stood a tall stone keep. Ridmark suspected it had once been the seat of Thainkul Dural’s lord. The doors of dwarven steel to the hall stood ajar, and a faint ray of light leaked out.

Firelight.

“This way,” said Ridmark.

He led the way along the street of the highest tier, past the blocky dwarven houses with their doors of bronze-colored steel and their dark windows like empty eyes. Here and there Ridmark saw the gray skeletons of long-dead dwarves, some still clad in battered armor and helmets. Like their steel, the bones of the dwarves were nearly indestructible. Caius made the sign of the cross and mouthed prayers for the dead in silence. Ridmark wondered if the prayers were effective. Caius was the first man of the dwarven kindred to accept baptism. Perhaps the dead dwarves had joined their ancient gods in eternal silence and darkness. Or perhaps they languished in purgatory, and awaited the prayers of righteous men to send them to the Dominus Christus in paradise.

Ridmark did not know, and he had more immediate worries.

Such as keeping his bones and the bones of his friends from joining those of the dwarves.

They reached the keep, and Ridmark heard deep, rough voices, like stone rasping stone.

The dvargir.

Ridmark whispered into Caius’s ear. “You speak their tongue?”

The dwarven friar nodded.

“Come with me,” said Ridmark. “The rest of you, stay here. Get ready to fight or to run.”

They obeyed, lifting weapons and preparing spells. Ridmark and Caius crossed the square before the keep in silence. The firelight grew brighter, and they crawled up the stairs and peered into the hall beyond the doors. Statues of dwarven warriors lined the hall, and a long stone table stood at the foot of the dais.

A dozen dvargir warriors sat at the table, and none of them cast shadows in the firelight thrown from the hearth.

Like the dead dvargir below the monastery, the warriors wore armor of strange black metal that seemed somehow wet while drinking the light. They carried swords and axes of the strange black metal at their belts. Unlike their dwarven cousins, the dvargir shaved their heads – hair, beards, and even eyebrows. Their eyes were utterly black, like spheres of liquid shadow.

They reminded Ridmark a great deal of the Warden’s eyes.

A dvargir sat on the throne atop the dais. His cuirass had been adorned with strange stylized reliefs of red gold, the color bright against his black armor and gray skin, and a diadem of red gold encircled his hairless head. Deep lines marked the skin of his face, and his lips curled in a perpetual sneer.

“A Dzark,” whispered Caius. “Like…a knight, essentially. A warrior and a minor noble.”

Ridmark nodded and listened to the dvargir speak in their deep, rasping voices.

“They are complaining,” said Caius after a moment. “They have been waiting for too long.”

One of the dvargir warriors began gesturing, while the Dzark listened in contemptuous silence.

Caius’s breath hissed in alarm.

“What is it?” said Ridmark.

“They are waiting,” said Caius, “for a ‘yapping dog’ of Shadowbearer’s to return to them.”

Ridmark felt ice trickle down his spine.

“It seems,” said Caius, “they came here at the bidding of Shadowbearer. No. At the command of one of Shadowbearer’s disciples.” He listened for a while, watching the dvargir warrior complain and gesture. “He think it is an insult, a loss of face. The dvargir are the strongest servants of the great void, the most worthy, and Shadowbearer ought to have come to them in the flesh, rather than sending a lackey.”

“They should be careful what they wish for,” said Ridmark.

“Truly,” said Caius. He listened for a moment longer. “He says that it is an insult that Shadowbearer wears the form of a high elf, when he should clothe himself in the flesh of a dvargir.”

The dvargir warrior stopped speaking, and the Dzark stared. The silence stretched on, and the Dzark spoke a single, growling sentence. The dvargir warriors erupted with laughter, pounding their armored fists against the table.

“The Dzark said,” said Caius, “that if Korzdan – the warrior – disagrees with Shadowbearer, Korzdan is welcome to challenge him.”

The Dzark rose from his throne, paced to the edge of the dais, and began to speak. Caius listened for a while, held tilted to the side, and began to translate.

“He says that the dvargir are strong, stronger than any other kindred upon this world,” said Caius. “Shadowbearer’s disciple is a fool and a yapping dog. In time, they shall deal with the disciple as he deserves. Meanwhile, Shadowbearer will see that the dvargir are worthy, and shall give them a high place in the new order when…”

He fell silent.

“When what?” said Ridmark.

“When the Frostborn return,” said Caius.

Ridmark stared at the Dzark, his mind spinning with plans. Gothalinzur had first predicted the return of the Frostborn, and both the Warden and Agrimnalazur had told Ridmark additional details. Yet Ridmark still did not know where, when, or how the Frostborn would return. But if the Dzark knew, if Ridmark could pry the knowledge out of him…

There were thirteen dvargir in the hall, including the Dzark. Could Ridmark and the others defeat them? It seemed unlikely. The dvargir would be tough and brutal fighters, and their ability to turn invisible could prove deadly. Worse, this disciple of Shadowbearer might decide to take a hand. If that happened, the fight would be over quickly.

Better to listen for now. If one of Shadowbearer’s disciples, another man like Alamur of Dun Licinia, was behind the undead, then perhaps the Dzark and his warriors would discuss their plan. Then Ridmark could withdraw, join the others, and decided upon a course of action.

“So be patient,” translated Caius in a low whisper, “for the shape of the world will change when the Frostborn return. The weak shall be ground underfoot, and the strong shall reign forever.”

The Dzark opened his mouth to speak again, and a horrible rattling squeal rang out. It sounded like jagged metal plates rubbing together, accompanied by a tapping noise like the legs of an insect against the floor.

But much, much louder.

“Mzrokar,” said Caius with alarm.

“Mzrokar?” said Ridmark. “What…”

The warriors surged to their feet, and the Dzark began shouting commands. Ridmark did not know their tongue, but he recognized the tone well enough.

The dvargir were preparing for battle. Ridmark and the others had been discovered.

“We should probably run,” said Caius.

Even as he spoke, the dvargir vanished as shadows swirled around them.

Chapter 15 - The Dzark

Morigna readied a spell as Ridmark and Caius sprinted from the keep.

The strange, horrible noise, the peculiar mixture of clashing metal and clacking, rang out again. Ridmark and Caius joined the others at the far end of the square, but Morigna did not see anyone or anything pursuit of them.

That, of course, did not mean anything.

Morigna swept her sensing spell towards the keep. She felt the weight of Ridmark and Caius pull against the stone of the terrace.

And she sensed a dozen unseen pursuers after them.

“Dvargir!” said Ridmark, raising his staff. “Calliande, your dispelling spell!”

“They are in front of the keep!” said Morigna, keeping her spell in place.

Calliande nodded and raised her hands. The familiar pulse of white light washed across the square. Thirteen columns of shadows swirled between Ridmark and the keep.

And for the first time since childhood, Morigna found herself looking at the dvargir.

A shiver of fear and rage went through her.

The dvargir stood motionless in their strange black armor. Their heads had been shaved hairless, and their eyes were like pools of darkness. They carried swords and maces in their hands, as black as their armor. The lead dvargir stepped forward, his armor adorned with red gold, a diadem encircling his gray head.

Morigna growled, hands hooked into claws, and gathered power for a killing spell.

But Ridmark only stepped forward, his staff ready in his hand.

For a moment they stared at the dvargir.

“I assume,” said Ridmark in orcish, “that you speak this tongue?”

“Indeed, human,” said the dvargir in red armor, black eyes fixed upon Ridmark. “It is the language of our slaves, and a skilled master knows how to best drive his beasts of burden.”

“Assuming you do not cut out their tongues,” said Ridmark.

“This is so,” said the red-armored dvargir. “Since you are the intruder, you will give your name first.”

“I am Ridmark, son of Leogrance of the House of the Arbanii,” said Ridmark.

The dvargir gave a short bow. “I thought as much. I am Kzargar, a Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar.”

His eloquence surprised Morigna. In her memory, the dvargir were hulking, black-eyed beasts, draped in cloaks of shadow. She had expected bluster and threats, not polite courtesy.

“You know me, then?” said Ridmark.

The Dzark’s thin gray lips twitched into a smile. “I have been informed of you.” The bottomless black eyes wandered over them. “The yellow-haired female is known as Calliande. The black-haired female is called Morigna.” His eyes moved past Gavin. “The whelp is not known to me.” A smirk reappeared as he looked at Caius. “And you...the apostate prince?”

“A prince?” said Gavin. “You are a prince of the dwarves?”

“The title does not mean the same thing among my kindred,” said Caius, “as it does among the humans. And there are neither rich nor poor nor kings nor peasants in the eyes of God.”

Kzargar laughed. “Indeed? The dwarves call us apostates for following the truth of the great void, for abandoning the ancient and feeble superstitions of stone and silence from our home world. But the great void has made us strong. You choose instead to follow the sheep god of the humans?” A moment of bafflement made its way through the Dzark’s mocking malice. “Why?”

“Because there is no hope otherwise,” said Caius. “The gods of stone and silence offer no hope for mortal lives. Only grim and joyless duty, followed by an eternity of lightless silence. And what does the great void offer you? An endless and brutal scramble for power terminated by a bloody death as the hand of someone stronger?”

“Hope is an empty illusion,” said Kzargar. “The strong embrace life as it is, without yearning for false dreams.”

“It is not a false dream,” said Caius. “The Dominus Christus offers hope and life to all mortals.”

Kzargar laughed. “Us as well? Will you try to convert us?”

“My wish is that you become as I am,” said Caius.

“Given the fate that awaits you, son of the khaldari,” said Kzargar, “I may have to take that as an insult.”

“And what,” said Ridmark, stepping closer to the Dzark, “fate is that?”

“Ah,” said Kzargar, “you haven’t figured it out yet?”

“Not yet,” said Ridmark, “though I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

“See?” said Kzargar, glancing at Caius. “Hope is an illusion. Your hopes are disappointed, Ridmark of the Arbanii. You shall not learn my secrets before you die.”

“I already know many of your secrets,” said Ridmark. “Shadowbearer commanded you to come here, did he not?”

One of the dvargir stepped forward with a snarl. “Speak not the sacred name of the prophet of the great void!”

Kzargar raised a hand, and the dvargir warrior fell silent. “And what else, pray? This is most interesting.”

“You are allied with Jonas Vorinus of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Ridmark.

“The Enlightened are vermin,” sneered the dvargir warrior who had spoken earlier. “The pets of the great prophet of the void.”

“Do go on,” said Kzargar.

“And you were commanded to kill us all,” said Ridmark, “save for Morigna, and to take an object from Calliande.”

“You are more attentive than I expected, for a human,” said Kzargar. “The empty soulstone the yellow-haired female carries? The prophet requires it to inaugurate the new age.”

“I suppose,” said Ridmark, “that you’re going to let us go if we give you the soulstone and Morigna?”

“Not at all,” said Kzargar. “I shall kill you all, and present the empty soulstone to Shadowbearer myself. Shadowbearer desires the soulstone. Shadowbearer’s disciple desires the black-haired female, no doubt for a concubine. But Shadowbearer is the strongest, and his favor is worth far more than the favor of his disciple.”

“A logical conclusion,” said Ridmark.

Again Kzargar offered a small bow. “Thank you.”

“There is a flaw in your logic, though,” said Ridmark.

“That I need to kill you all first?” said the Dzark. “True, battle is ever risky. But there are thirteen of us, and six of you. You have magic, but we have shadow and strength at arms. Come, then. Shall we see which of us is the stronger?”

“Before you do,” said Morigna, stepping forward as she summoned power, “you are going to answer a question.”

Kzargar laughed. “A Dzark of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar does not deign to speak with mere females.”

“You will speak with me,” said Morigna, her ever-present fury hardening further. “And you will answer my questions, dvargir scum.”

Kzargar’s lips thinned, but he gestured. “Well, then, sorceress?” The purple flames crackled brighter around her hands. “Ask. Perhaps you will learn something ere you die.”

“Fourteen years ago,” said Morigna, “dvargir raiders killed a man and a woman living in the hills, a pair of hunters named Litavis and Maria.”

“And?” said Kzargar.

“Did you kill them?” said Morigna, her voice hot. “Does their blood lie upon your hands?”

Kzargar gave an indifferent shrug. “Who can say? There have been so many over the years. Thainkul Dural lies desolate, and many of the Dzarks and Rzarns of Khaldurmar have used it as a base to bring slaves to our city. I have made many trips to the surface in the last century.” He smiled. “Perhaps your mother and father died resisting me. For that is what this is about, it is not? Your long-dead parents? They fought against the slavers who came to take them, and perished?”

“They did,” said Morigna.

“Morigna,” said Ridmark, but she ignored him.

“And you killed them?” said Morigna. “Tell me the truth.”

Kzargar shrugged. “I know not. There have been so many. And if they fought back and died…then they deserved it, for the weak deserve to be brushed aside by the strong.”

“Then see for yourself!” said Morigna, summoning all her power.

She released her spell, and flung out her hands. A wall of white mist plunged into the dvargir, and they rocked back with grunts of pain. Yet by spreading the mist across so many, she had diluted its power, and the spell did little harm to the dvargir. Their strange armor blunted the spell, and shadows sprang from nothingness and wrapped around them, turning aside her magic.

“Ah,” said Kzargar, rubbing at a minor burn across his jaw. “That rather hurt. Kill them all.”

Six of the dvargir warriors charged, while the others vanished anew in columns of shadow.

###

Ridmark sprinted to meet the attack of the dvargir, Kharlacht and Caius at his side. Gavin, as usual, hung back to protect Calliande. Both Morigna and Calliande began casting fresh spells, white light and purple fire throwing their glows across the stone floor. The Dzark and one other dvargir warrior charged at Ridmark. Kzargar himself hung back, the second dvargir moving to Ridmark’s right.

Which gave Ridmark an opening on his left and Kzargar’s right.

Of course, since the dvargir could turn invisible, it was an obvious trap, so Ridmark threw himself into it. His staff blurred out, all his strength and speed behind it, and he felt the weapon’s metal-shod end slam into something hard. A grunt of pain reached his ears, along with the scraping of armored boots against the floor.

Another pulse of white light washed across the square as Calliande cast her spell. The dvargir warrior Ridmark had struck appeared, one hand raised his face, crimson blood streaming from a broken nose.

Kzargar bellowed a command, and the three dvargir charged. Ridmark retreated, whipping his staff back and forth to ward off any blows. He just barely managed to stay ahead of their attacks. The dvargir were skilled warriors, better than the assassins of the Red Family, and knew how to coordinate their attacks properly. Worse, their strange black armor was as strong and light as dwarven steel. Ridmark landed a half-dozen minor hits with his staff, but the black armor deflected his blows.

Only the greater reach provided by his height and the length of his staff kept him ahead of a killing strike.

He jumped out of reach and risked a glance around the square. Caius and Kharlacht fought back-to-back, the dvargir swarming around them. Kharlacht’s longer reach kept them at bay, and a headless dvargir lay upon the floor, blood pooling over the cold stone. Yet both Kharlacht and Caius had taken wounds, and the dvargir could wear them out through sheer attrition. Unless Ridmark thought of something clever, they were going to lose this fight.

Calliande finished her spell.

More white light flared, and Ridmark felt her magic close around him, making his legs and arms faster. Morigna gestured, and a ripple went through the ground. It flowed around him, but knocked the Dzark and his warriors from their feet. Ridmark attacked with spell-enhanced speed, and hammered his staff down with both hands. The weapon slammed into a dvargir’s temple with a hideous crack, and the warrior went motionless, blood leaking from his ears and nose. The other dvargir got to their feet, but Ridmark struck again before they could recover, killing another warrior. Kzargar snarled in fury and attacked, but with the speed of Calliande’s spell, Ridmark drove the Dzark back on his heels, and the dvargir retreated towards the keep. He saw Kharlacht and Caius going on the attack, saw Gavin strike down a dvargir with a quick thrust of his sword. For a moment, the battle had gone their way.

But the dvargir still had greater numbers, and if they caught their balance…

Kzargar shouted a command in the dvargir tongue, and the remaining warriors sprinted for the keep. Ridmark hesitated, intending to pursue them, but stopped.

Why were they retreating? They had the advantage.

The others stopped as well, breathing hard, and Calliande rushed forward to heal their wounds. As she did, the dvargir retreated into the keep, closing the doors behind them with a resounding clang.

###

Calliande gripped Kharlacht’s arms and gritted her teeth as waves of agony washed through her. The big orc had taken wounds upon his right arm and leg, and for a terrible, endless instant, she felt those same wounds in her own flesh, felt the blades slicing through skin and muscle, and it took every ounce of control not to scream in pain.

But she endured it, and the agony faded.

Actually bearing the wounds in her own flesh would have hurt far more. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

“Thank you,” rumbled Kharlacht.

Calliande took a deep breath, nodded, and stepped back, her limbs feeling a bit weak. Healing always sapped her strength.

Fortunately, the dvargir had fled.

“Why did they run?” said Gavin. “They were winning.”

“We should withdraw at once,” said Caius. “Back to the surface, if at all possible. I think…”

Again Calliande heard that metallic screeching combined with the strange insect-like clicking.

“That noise,” said Ridmark. “What is it?”

“It’s how the dvargir knew we were here,” said Caius. “It smelled us.”

“Smelled?” said Ridmark. “You called it a mzrokar. I thought it was a warding glyph.”

“It’s not,” said Caius. “It is a creature of the Deeps, one that rarely comes this close to the surface. And if the dvargir have one, we need to turn back. They are exceedingly dangerous, and…”

A dark shape appeared around the edge of the keep.

The shape flowed around the corner, and kept coming and coming, the noise growing louder.

“God and his saints,” said Gavin, shaken, “it’s as bad as the spiderlings.”

The thing looked like a colossal centipede, as thick as two grown men and as long as three oxen. Scores of thin legs jutted from its sides, pulling the creature forward. Its body had been armored in an exoskeleton of black dvargir steel, making it look like a giant shadow. A pair of enormous pincers jutted from the creature’s mouth, a dozen slender antennae waving back and forth above its head. The stench of rotting meat surrounded it, like fumes rising from the marshes above.

A wave of loathing and fear went through Calliande. The creature was as grotesque as the male urdmordar they had fought in the catacombs below Urd Arowyn. Yet the female urdmordar had their own terrifying, alien beauty. But there was no beauty to this thing or the black steel plates grafted to its hide.

Or to the scores of slender legs lined with razor edges.

“What in God’s name is that?” said Kharlacht.

“That,” said Caius, “is a mzrokar. Scavengers. They lurk in the lower Deeps and eat carrion, and anything too slow to escape them. Sometimes the dvargir turn them into fearsomely effective war beasts.”

The mzrokar went motionless as only insects could. For a moment Calliande wondered if somehow it had failed to notice them. Yet the huge pincers turned in their direction, the antennae twitching.

“So Kzargar retreated,” said Ridmark, “to let his pet monster kill us all.”

“Essentially, yes,” said Caius. “It’s time to run.”

“Go!” said Ridmark

The mzrokar loosed its horrid metallic shriek and charged in a tide of black steel and stabbing legs.

Chapter 16 - Pincers

Ridmark realized he had made a very serious mistake.

He had expected the mzrokar to be slow and clumsy, yet the huge creature moved with quick, fluid grace, its legs propelling it forward with terrifying speed. Likely the creature could move with the speed of a galloping horse, and in the broad streets of the highest tier of Thainkul Dural, it would run them down with ease.

Fighting the beast was not an option. Its long legs gave it a longer reach than even Ridmark’s staff, and its large body meant they could not hit it hard enough to kill it. Taking off its head would likely work, but not even Kharlacht could hew through the thick body with a single blow, and the mzrokar would kill him before he could take a second.

They had to escape.

“This way!” said Ridmark, changing direction.

A house overlooked the square before the keep, two stories tall, its front carved with glyphs and reliefs of dwarven warriors battling dark elves while the gods of stone and silence looked on with grim approval. The house had square windows, and one door in the center.

A narrow door.

Ridmark paused as the others ran through the door. The mzrokar moved through the square so fast it seemed to blur

He cursed and threw himself through the door after Morigna. A moment later the mzrokar slammed into the wall with such force that the entire house shook, dust falling from the ceiling. A pair of legs lashed at Ridmark, the creature’s pincers snapping a few inches from his back. He lost his balance and fell into Morigna, driving them both to the floor. He landed atop her, and for a moment her black eyes, wide and shocked, stared up into his.

Ridmark jumped back to his feet, rock chips flying from the doorway as the mzrokar began to push itself through, the plates of black steel grinding at the stone frame. Kharlacht lopped off a pair of legs with a single swipe of his greatsword. The mzrokar screamed in pain, and Kharlacht jumped back as the pincers snapped.

“It’s squeezing through!” said Gavin.

He was right. The mzrokar was oozing through the door like a rat squeezing itself through a pipe.

“I think,” said Morigna, climbing to her feet, “I think I might be able to control it.”

“How?” said Ridmark.

“You saw what I can do with birds,” said Morigna. “This creature is just a large animal, is it not? I think…”

“Do it,” said Ridmark, edging back as the mzrokar heaved forward, cracks spreading through the wall.

###

Morigna set herself, drew on her magic, and concentrated.

She felt the mzrokar’s mind, such as it was. Ravens and dogs and cats were clever. The mzrokar was not. The creature’s mind was all instinct and reflex, nothing but ravenous hunger and an endless urge to reproduce. Yet the same instincts made it a scavenger, not a hunter. The mzrokar hated and feared light and anything strong enough to fight, and the glowstones of Thainkul Dural should have been enough to force it to flee.

Yet still it came, filled with mindless rage, and Morigna commanded it to stop.

The mzrokar froze, but its legs lashed like whips, its pincers opening and closing.

She felt spikes of magic within the creature’s puny mind, goads of rage and fury and obedience that drove it forward.

“It is enspelled!” shouted Morigna, feeling sweat pour down her face. “I can’t control it.”

A glimmer of white light flashed as Calliande worked her sensing spell. “Glyphs on the interior of its armor plating.” She cast another spell. “I can’t undo them all. There are too many. I…”

The rage filling the mzrokar’s mind surged, and the creature started moving again, pushing itself through the door like pulp squeezed from a fruit. Morigna growled and redoubled her efforts, her head pulsing with pain.

Ridmark grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “Too late. Run!”

They sprinted for a set of stone stairs at the far end of the empty room, and Morigna followed, the mzrokar’s presence fading from her thoughts.

###

Ridmark scrambled to the mansion’s second story, and saw another flight of stairs leading to the roof. Idly he wondered why the house’s builders had even bothered with a roof. It never rained in the Deeps. Perhaps it was less work than tunneling into the walls of the cavern.

He could ask Caius later, if they lived through this.

Ridmark ran up the flight of stairs to the roof and pushed open a trapdoor of dwarven steel. The roof was flat, with a stone post that had likely once held clotheslines. A few empty chests of dwarven steel stood here and there, but the roof was otherwise unoccupied.

And only a narrow gap separated the house from its neighbor.

“Hurry,” said Ridmark, urging the others forward. If Calliande couldn’t dispel the binding upon the creature, and Morigna couldn’t control it, then their best bet was to escape entirely. They couldn’t outrun the beast, but perhaps they could outwit it.

The others jumped over the gap to the next roof, and Ridmark followed. He risked a glance back and saw the mzrokar still squeezing its way into the house. With any luck, they could be halfway through the flood trap before the creature realized what had happened.

And if the creature blundered into the trap after them…well, Ridmark doubted even a mzrokar could survive immersion in a hundred thousand gallons of water. And if the Dzark and his men had raised the undead, they would be sealed behind the flooded gallery. Ridmark hoped that would mean the disciple of Shadowbearer would be trapped underground with Kzargar and his men.

They jumped across to a third house, and to a fourth, and still the mzrokar forced its way into the first house. Ridmark saw the entrance to the drain chamber draw near, and he felt a flicker of hope. Just three more houses, and they could return to the gallery…

A horrible tearing shriek rang through the cavern, so loud the walls of Thainkul Dural reverberated with them.

In one smooth motion, the mzrokar ripped its way free of the house, its antennae-studded head rotating to face them.

“I think we annoyed it,” said Gavin.

“Keep running!” said Ridmark.

The façade of the first house collapsed into shattered ruin, the cavern ringing with the echoes. The mzrokar scrambled up the wreckage and onto the roof, and Ridmark feared the creature would leap over the rooftops and run them down.

Instead the mzrokar scrambled up the wall and ran along the ceiling, hanging upside down.

It was simply going to drop down and crush them.

Ridmark saw another trapdoor leading into the house beneath them.

“Down!” he shouted, yanking on the trapdoor. Thankfully, the hinges of dwarven steel did not rust, and the heavy metal door slid open as smoothly as if it had been oiled yesterday. Gavin urged Calliande down the stairs, followed by Morigna and Kharlacht and Caius. The carrion stench of the mzrokar flooded his nostrils, and Ridmark hastened down the stairs, closing the trapdoor over their heads.

“Now what?” said Morigna. “We have run like rats into a trap.”

“To the ground floor,” said Ridmark, “hurry.”

They started down the stairs, and as Calliande reached the ground floor, Ridmark put his foot upon the top step.

Right about then the ceiling exploded.

###

Calliande rolled back to her feet, coughing from the rock dust in the air.

The ground floor of the dwarven house had been reduced to a ruin in a second. Parts of the ceiling lay in pieces across the floor, and a web of cracks covered both the remains of the ceiling and the walls. She heard the mzrokar thrashing across the second floor, and knew it was only a matter of time before the beast forced its way down the stairs and killed them all.

She saw Ridmark lying on the floor, blood in his close-cropped black hair, and for a terrible instant Calliande was sure he had been killed, that one of the falling chunks of rock had shattered his skull.

But he stood up, staff in hand, blood trickling down his jaw.

“Into the street,” he shouted over the roar of the mzrokar thrashing above. “Quickly!”

“It will simply run us down,” said Morigna, her voice tight. “We…”

“Wait!” said Caius. “I have an idea. Follow me!”

Ridmark followed him, and Calliande shrugged and did the same. Caius led them through a door to a small room off the main floor. A single stone object dominated the room, a hollow box with a round hole cut on the top.

Morigna frowned. “What is that thing?”

“A latrine,” said Calliande.

“Oh.”

“Help me push this,” said Caius, and Ridmark and Gavin and Kharlacht moved to help. Calliande looked over her shoulder and saw the dark shape of the mzrokar squeezing itself down the stairs. The entrance to the second floor was only wide enough for one dwarf at a time, but the mzrokar could shove itself through and kill them all.

A shudder went through the ceiling, more dust falling.

Or the ceiling would simply collapse and crush them.

The stone latrine slid aside with a rasp, revealing a dark tunnel running beneath the house.

“A sewage tunnel,” said Caius.

“I’ll go first,” said Ridmark.

###

Ridmark dropped into the darkness of the sewage tunnel.

There was no smell, of course. Thainkul Dural had been ruined for centuries, even millennia. The stench would have faded away long ago. Yet a trickle of water still went down the tunnel, splashing against Ridmark’s boots. Ridmark found himself marveling at the engineering skill of the dwarves. In a human ruin, the water would have worn away the structure long ago.

He stepped forward, and the others dropped into the tunnel.

“No light,” said Kharlacht.

“Here,” said Calliande, raising her hand. A ball of harsh white light appeared over her palm, throwing back the gloom.

“Will the mzrokar not follow us?” said Gavin.

“The creature hunts by scent,” said Caius, another crash echoing out from above. “Perhaps it cannot smell us in the water.”

“Let’s not give it the chance,” said Ridmark.

He hurried down the tunnel, boots slapping against the damp stone. The others followed single-file through the narrow tunnel, Calliande’s light throwing mad shadows across the wall. A dim circle of light shone overhead as they passed beneath another latrine. Ridmark counted the circles as they passed. He suspected this drainage tunnel went all the way to the flood trap’s reservoir, and if they went too far they would find themselves trapped between the waters and the mzrokar.

As if his thought had summoned the creature, the latrine they had used to enter the tunnel exploded behind them. The dark mass of the mzrokar came into sight, the creature squeezing itself through the hole, its legs gripping the tunnel wall to pull itself along. For a moment Ridmark hoped the beast would get stuck, but he realized that was unlikely. The mzrokar could compress its body to an incredible degree, even with the enspelled armor plates of dvargir steel. It would force itself into the tunnel and pursue them.

“Here,” said Ridmark, stopping beneath the last circle of light. He propped his staff against the wall and made a stirrup with his hands. Caius scrambled up and pulled himself through the hole. Calliande followed suit, and then Morigna, and then Gavin and Kharlacht. Ridmark went last, gripping his staff and thrusting it up through the hole. Kharlacht and Gavin seized the staff and pulled him up.

As they did, he saw the mzrokar crawling towards him, sparks flashing from the steel plates scraping against the stone wall of the tunnel. A stroke of luck – the creature could compress its body, but the rough armor plates dragged against the wall and slowed its advance.

Then Kharlacht and Gavin lifted him through the latrine, and Ridmark got his feet beneath him.

“Escaping through the sewer,” said Gavin. “It’s like a tale.”

“I never liked stories,” said Morigna.

“Come,” said Ridmark, and they ran onto the street. They had reached nearly the end of the tier, not far from the entrance to the drain chamber. From there they could pass through the trapped gallery and return to the barracks. Barring the mzrokar from pursuit would be a simple matter of triggering the flood trap behind them.

But if the mzrokar caught them in the trapped gallery, they were finished. The creature could not distinguished between the tiles, would blunder after them, trigger the trap, and drown itself.

And Ridmark and his companions would drown with it.

Ridmark hurried through the drain chamber and into the trapped gallery. The doors of dwarven steel lining the niches remained closed, though the sound of splashing water remained as constant as ever.

“Take care,” he said, stepping onto the nearest tile with the glyph for a welcomed guest. “Follow me. Go as quickly as you can, but do not stumble.”

Ridmark moved from tile to tile as fast as he dared. He did not look back at the others. Either they would keep their balance, or one of them would stumble and they all would die. Yet no one stumbled. On and on they went, their boots clicking against the stone tiles.

They were a third of the way across the gallery when the sound of tearing rock echoed through the chamber, followed by the furious roar of the mzrokar.

The creature had torn its way free from the sewer tunnel.

###

Morigna stared back at the drain chamber.

“We must stand and fight,” said Kharlacht.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ridmark. “The minute the mzrokar steps on the wrong tile, the gallery will flood. And with a hundred legs, it will step on all the wrong tiles at once.”

“No,” said Calliande. “Keep going. I can try to break the spells upon the armor plates. If I do, the mzrokar might flee.”

“Or it might flee toward us,” said Morigna, “and kill us all. No. I have to take control of its mind.”

“You couldn’t before,” said Calliande.

The click of dozens of legs upon the stone floor reached her ears.

“I have no choice in the matter now,” said Morigna.

“You stopped the mzrokar before,” said Ridmark. “You held it in place. How long can you do that?”

“I don’t know,” said Morigna. “I suppose I am about to find out, am I not?”

A cold sense of doom settled upon her. She had believed herself so strong, but her strength had failed against both Jonas’s dark magic and the nightmarish creature charging toward her. She had not even been strong enough to kill those damned dvargir. And for all her pride, she had never even left Vhaluusk.

She had not seen so much of the world.

She had become as crabbed and narrow-minded as the Old Man himself.

“Can you run and cast the spell at the same time?” said Ridmark.

Morigna shook her head. “It requires too much concentration. I suggest you go.”

“If someone carried you,” said Ridmark, “could you still work the spell?”

Morigna blinked. “I…I do not know. I have never tried.”

“You’re about to find out,” said Ridmark, stepping to her side as he handed his staff to Gavin. “Go, all of you. Go! Get to the far end as fast as you can. We’ll rejoin you soon.”

Calliande hesitated, opened her mouth, closed it, and then nodded. “Don’t take too long.” She started across the tiles, and Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius followed her.

“What are you planning?” said Morigna.

Ridmark started to answer, and then the mzrokar appeared at the far end of the drain chamber. Rock dust covered its armor plates, but the creature looked otherwise unharmed. It shrieked again and surged forward, legs clicking against the metal grating.

“Now!” said Ridmark.

Morigna drew on her magic and cast the spell. Again her thoughts reached out, touching the simple, enraged mind of the huge creature. She commanded it to return to the keep and kill every last dvargir it found.

It ignored her commands.

But it went motionless within the drain chamber, quivering a few yards from the trapped tiles.

Morigna threw out both her hands, her will and magic straining against the power of the wards on the creature.

“Let’s go,” said Ridmark.

“I…I can’t,” said Morigna, fresh sweat beading on her forehead. “I…I can’t walk and do this at…”

Ridmark nodded, put one arm around her shoulders, another behind her knees, and scooped her up as easily as if she were a child.

So that was what he had meant.

He started across the tiles, and Morigna felt her connection to the mzrokar waver.

“See it!” she gasped. “I have to see it for this to work!”

Without breaking his stride, Ridmark shifted her, slinging her over his shoulders like a freeholder carrying a sack of grain. Morigna bounced once, twisted her head, and flung out her right hand, keeping her eyes locked upon the trembling mzrokar. She had controlled animals through her magic since she had been a child, and the mzrokar’s mind was so simple that she should have been able to command the creature to tie itself into a bow.

But the dvargir wards were too strong, and she felt their power pushing her magic out of the mzrokar’s puny little mind.

“You,” wheezed Morigna, sweat dripping into her eyes as she felt the muscles of Ridmark’s arms wrapped against her shoulders and legs, “you had better hurry. I can’t…I can’t…”

Ridmark started to run, hurrying from tile to tile. Morigna cursed and poured all her power into the spell. The mzrokar took a staggering step forward, went motionless, and then another.

Ridmark kept running, and a burst of white light shone around him. Calliande’s magic augmented his speed, and Morigna’s tattered cloak rippled around them in the wind of his passage. How he avoided the trapped tiles in his haste, Morigna had no idea. Yet he did, even as she felt the pressure of the wards in her mind.

She screamed in frustration and pain…and her spell unraveled.

The mzrokar surged forward, its legs clicking against the tiles.

Against the trapped tiles.

“Ridmark!” shouted Morigna. “Too…”

A horrendous clang echoed through the trapped gallery, and every single one of the flood doors opened. Torrents of water erupted from them in a white spray, engulfing the gallery and the mzrokar alike.

The wall of water thundered towards her, and Morigna screamed.

A sheet of dwarven steel appeared a few inches in front of her nose, as if it had sprung out of nothingness. She turned her head, and realized that a massive door of dwarven steel had sealed off the gallery. The door trembled, and the roar of the flooding waters had only gotten slightly softer, but the massive slab of steel held against the floodwaters.

And the waters had taken the mzrokar with them.

Morigna let out a long breath, and realized that she was still slung across Ridmark’s shoulders.

“You can let me down now,” she said, putting a hint of acerbity into her voice. “I have perfectly fine legs.”

For some reason that made her face flush. She decided to attribute it to exhaustion from fighting the wards.

Ridmark grunted. “I know. Given that your knee has been digging into my arm.” He swung her back down, and Morigna found her feet, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

Then she stepped back, feeling the heat in her face.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that was very clever.” She turned and saw that Calliande, Kharlacht, Caius, and Gavin had made it out alive. The dwarven friar looked amused, damn him.

“I suppose it was,” said Calliande with a smile. “Given that we are alive, thanks to both of you.”

“I told you,” said Ridmark, “that if you knew me long enough that you would see me do something foolish.”

Morigna laughed. The unsteadiness in her voice was annoying, but since she had come within a few inches of death, she could forgive herself for the display of weakness. “Clearly, three days was all that was necessary.”

“Clearly,” said Ridmark, looking at the door as Gavin handed him his staff. “Come. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Kzargar coming to take revenge for his slain retainers.” He rapped his staff against the door. “At least for a few hours. Or until the dvargir leave the ruins and find another exit from the Deeps. And with Kzargar and his men trapped in Thainkul Dural, they won’t be able to raise any additional undead to aid Jonas Vorinus.”

“Aye,” said Morigna. “Do you think we will be able to find him?”

“I think we will come for us,” said Ridmark. “Shadowbearer wants the soulstone, and Shadowbearer’s disciple wants you. Shadowbearer isn’t the sort to tolerate failure, so likely both Jonas and the disciple will come for us.” He paused for a moment in thought, tapping his staff against the door once more. “Or Jonas is the disciple.”

“Kzargar though very little of the disciple,” said Caius.

“Jonas inspires that reaction,” said Morigna.

Ridmark nodded. “And even if he runs all the way back to Coldinium, well…he won’t trouble the people of Moraime any longer. Not after we warn them against him. Let’s go.” He rubbed his neck with his free hand. “It will be good to see the sun again.”

“Agreed,” said Kharlacht and Caius in unison.

Morigna looked at him, watching his gray cloak hang against his back. She knew the measure of Jonas Vorinus, and now that she knew the measure of Ridmark Arban, and she was certain that Ridmark would find and kill Jonas.

And what then?

Morigna would not go back to the Old Man, not after she had learned how much Coriolus had kept from her over the years.

But where else would she go?

She looked at Ridmark and had an idea.

“Morigna?” said Calliande. “Do you need healing?”

“No,” said Morigna, “no, I am fine.”

She followed the others up the stairs to the barracks.

###

Ridmark took one step into the entry hall and stopped.

“Someone has been here,” he said.

There were fresh footprints in the rock dust. Not many – only two or three people had come through the chamber since Ridmark and his companions had passed through. And as far as he could tell, none of the new footprints went to the barracks below.

“Morigna, Calliande,” he said. “Check your…”

But both Morigna and Calliande shouted in alarm and began casting spells.

Ridmark turned, seeking foes, and every last dwarven glyph carved into the floor and the walls blazed with ruby-colored light. The arcane sigils began to glow as well, shining with an eerie crimson radiance of their own.

“Run!” said Calliande. “All of you…”

The light blazed brighter, and Ridmark realized what the massive warding spell had been designed to do. It wasn’t built to hold a summoned creature, or to shield Thainkul Dural from attack.

It had been a trap for Ridmark and his friends all along.

And they had walked right into it.

Sheets of translucent crimson light erupted from the floor and slammed into the ceiling. Pain erupted through Ridmark, and his muscles locked into place, holding him immobile. He growled in fury and tried to step forward, tried to move, but his legs refused to obey him. He managed to turn his head, and saw the others pinned in place by the spell.

Like flies trapped in amber.

“Calliande,” Ridmark grated. “The spell. The…”

Calliande stood motionless, sheathed in a cocoon of red light, as did Morigna.

A familiar voice cut into his thoughts.

“Ah, splendid. You are all here. We can begin, finally.”

Ridmark forced his head to turn, and saw a figure clad in a long, hooded gray coat standing near the gleaming gates. The figure drew back the hood, revealing a lined face with watery blue eyes and wispy white hair.

The Old Man.

Chapter 17 - Prizes

“Surprised?” said Coriolus. He made a flipping gesture with one hand. “Oh, go ahead and speak. You can talk, but you cannot move. A useful aspect of this particular spell. It makes interrogations so much easier.”

His voice was the same, but the cringing resentment and fear had vanished. The wariness in his face had evaporated, and in its place Ridmark saw utter confidence and surety, the kind of confidence than sprang from decades of wielding great power.

It reminded him of Agrimnalazur in the moments before their final battle in Urd Arowyn. That cheered Ridmark – Agrimnalazur had perished in the end.

Of course, she could just have easily killed them all.

“You are,” said Ridmark, “quite a skilled actor.”

Coriolus offered a mocking little bow. “Why, thank you. I have had much practice over the centuries. Tell me, how much of my little tale did you believe?”

“None of it,” said Ridmark. “I was sure you were lying.”

Coriolus wagged his finger like a teacher chastising a pupil. “I was sure of that, too. But deception is only one possible purpose of a lie. Misdirection is another.”

“Such as,” said Ridmark, “making us believe that you had nothing to do with the dvargir.” Kzargar’s complaints flashed through his mind. “Or keeping us from realizing that you are a disciple of Shadowbearer.”

“Oh, you are as clever as I was warned,” said Coriolus, moving closer to the edge of the magical trap. A few quick steps, and Ridmark could have crushed the Old Man’s skull with a blow from his staff. But the bands of crimson magic held his limbs fast. “A pity you weren’t just a little cleverer. Then you would not be here. But that would be bad for me.”

“And that, above all,” said Ridmark, “is your primary concern.”

“Of course,” said Coriolus.

“Except for heeding the wishes of Shadowbearer,” said Ridmark.

He expected the Old Man to take umbrage, but Coriolus only smiled.

“The fools in the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Coriolus, “worship strength. Oh, they are right to do so, do not mistake me. But they make an error. Every last Enlightened and Initiated assumes that one day, he will become the strongest of all. That he will rule and dominate. But they fail to understand the true nature of strength.”

“And that is?” said Ridmark.

“There is always something stronger,” said Coriolus. “A man must serve someone.” He waved a thin hand. “After all, you and the dwarf and the orc and the so-called Magistria claim to follow the Dominus Christus and his God. They are illusions, of course, but the principle is the same. You have chosen to serve a master. I have merely chosen to serve a more effective and powerful one.” He turned his head. “Isn’t that right, Initiated of the Second Circle?”

Boots scraped against the floor, and Jonas Vorinus came into sight, still wearing chain mail. His strange shadow-magic had healed the burns from the explosion, and he looked healthy as ever, though his hair and one of his eyebrows had not grown back.

“You’re looking less charred than I expected,” said Ridmark.

Jonas spat. “You’re in no position to gloat, fool.” He started to draw his sword. “Let’s hear you gloat when I…”

Coriolus sighed and gestured. The floor beneath Jonas’s boots rippled, and Jonas fell to the floor. He scrambled backward, glaring at the Old Man with hatred.

And more than a hint of fear.

“The Dux will be wroth if you kill me!” said Jonas. “I am the Dux’s favored servant!”

“I care nothing for the good opinion of Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Coriolus. “However, the Dux cares nothing for what happens to you, and neither does Shadowbearer. They prefer results, not excuses. Killing unless necessary is so wasteful. Annoy me again, however, and you may make me reconsider.”

Jonas got to his feet and took several steps back.

“So,” said Ridmark. “You were the one yanking Jonas’s leash, I take it?”

“I am an Initiated of the Second Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel!” said Jonas. “I am no man’s dog.”

“I let Jonas have his chance,” said Coriolus. “Though my intent was to drive you here all along. I raised the undead to draw you to Moraime. I knew the fools in the town would blame me, and you would investigate. And once you spoke with me, I would blame the dvargir. And after the dvargir forced you to retreat, I would lure you here…and my trap would take care of the rest. Though if you died at any time, it would be simple to retrieve the empty soulstone, which is what Shadowbearer really wants.” He craned his neck, looking behind Ridmark. “I see you triggered the flood trap. Kzargar must have been more enthusiastic than I instructed. I would chastise him for disobedience, but since he is trapped behind the flood at the moment, I suppose I shall simply have to keep his promised payment.”

“They it is safer to snatch a cub from a lioness,” said Ridmark, “than to cheat a dvargir.”

Coriolus smiled. “Kzargar and his thugs do not concern me.”

“Such an elaborate game,” said Ridmark, seeking for some flaw in the trap, some way to escape. Perhaps if he delayed long enough, Calliande or Morigna would find a way to break the spell. “Wouldn’t it have been easier just to kill us and take the soulstone?”

“Immensely,” said Coriolus. “But I have not lived this long by failing to take opportunities when they present themselves. Shadowbearer wants the soulstone, true.” A cold smile spread over his bearded lips. “But he would not object to having the Magistria in his grasp. And you, Gray Knight, have the enmity of the Dux of Caerdracon. Since the Dux will rise high in the new order, there is no harm in doing him a favor now by capturing you alive.”

“But I captured him!” said Jonas. “I…” Coriolus looked at him, and Jonas fell silent.

“So you are one of the Enlightened of Incariel?” said Ridmark.

“Not at all,” said Coriolus. “The Enlightened are a relatively modern order, little more than a century old. I am older by far.”

Ridmark stared at the old wizard, and something clicked into place.

“You’re one of the Eternalists,” said Ridmark, “are you not?”

Coriolus smiled. “Clever indeed.”

“Is that your original body?” said Ridmark.

“My fourth, in truth,” said Coriolus. “I was one of the first of our Order.” His smile was almost wistful. “We had grand dreams of overthrowing the Magistri and ruling the realm of Andomhaim ourselves. Alas, the hour was not yet ripe. We were not strong enough. I foresaw that the Magistri and the Swordbearers would destroy us. The others did not, the prideful fools, and the Eternalists were crushed.”

“But you fled,” said Ridmark, “and have lurked near Moraime ever since.”

“Well, not ever since,” said Coriolus. “Only for the last few decades. I find it necessary to change bodies every so often.” He sighed and rolled his shoulders. “And this one…this one is nearing its end.”

“So you’re going to claim a kobold’s body?” said Ridmark. “Like Talvinius, perhaps?”

Coriolus blinked. “Talvinius? You knew him?”

“Not personally,” said Ridmark, “but he died after his spirit possessed the body of a kobold of the Deeps. Perhaps that will be your fate as well.”

He expected the Eternalist to take offense, but Coriolus threw back his head and roared with laughter, so loudly that even Jonas looked surprised.

“What is so funny?” said Jonas.

“Talvinius had to possess the body of a kobold?” said Coriolus. “Ah, but that is delightful. He was terrified of snakes, lizards, anything with scales. It was his own fault, I suppose. The idiot did not apply himself diligently to the practice of magic, and never mustered the skill to take another human body for his own. Little wonder he had to settle for a kobold.”

“That’s what this is about,” said Ridmark. “You need a new body.”

“Indeed,” said Coriolus, “and it’s time to proceed. But first, I want to enjoy a little reunion.”

He stepped past Ridmark and faced Calliande.

###

Calliande struggled against the magic holding her fast.

But it was futile. The magic of the elaborate warding spell was too strong. If she had been outside the trap, she could have broken it. But inside, it was as if both her limbs and her magic had been sheathed in steel chains. She could not cast a spell. She could not move.

She could not even open her mouth to speak.

Had Coriolus wished it, she knew, he could have commanded her lungs to stop, and she would asphyxiate in short order.

She fought against the spell with all her strength, but it was useless. She heard Ridmark taunting Coriolus, heard the voice of Jonas Vorinus, but it barely registered. She had to break free. She had…

Coriolus stepped before her, standing just beyond the wall of ruby-colored light. Jonas trailed after him, glaring at Ridmark. For a moment Coriolus simply stared at Calliande, his expression distant.

He crooked a finger.

“You can speak, Calliande,” he said. “It has been such a long time.”

“You…know me, then?” said Calliande, her voice hoarse.

“Not well,” he said. “Not as well as some of the other Eternalists. They always looked down upon me, thought I was weaker.” He smirked. “But they are all dead and I am not. He who laughs last laughs best, does he not?”

“But you know who I am?” said Calliande.

“I saw you speak,” said Coriolus, his eyes distant. “The day you addressed the assembled Magistri and Comites and Duxi in the hall of the High King in Tarlion. Ah, such grand words you spoke! You convinced them. You even convinced me for a time.” He tilted his head to the side. “You…do not remember? Any of it?”

Calliande said nothing, hoping to draw him out. Sometimes in her dreams she saw herself speaking to an assembly of old men and women in the white robes of the Magistri, but whenever she tried to grasp the memory, it faded away.

“The Master said that she had lost her memory entirely,” said Jonas.

“Indeed,” said Coriolus. “And while Shadowbearer is by no means infallible,” Jonas scowled at that, “it appears he was entirely correct. She doesn’t know who she is. Or what.”

“Are you so certain of that?” said Calliande, hoping to shake the Old Man’s smug confidence.

“I was certain you were dead,” said Coriolus. “You convinced them with your fine speech, that your mad plan would work…after all, your first mad plan had worked. But when your splendid rhetoric wore off…it really was just a foolish plan, wasn’t it? To sleep away the centuries? I was sure you were dead. The Tower of Vigilance burned in 1388, and the Vigilant were slain and forgotten. You were forgotten.” He shook his head. “Of all the fates that might have awaited Calliande of Tarlion, the thought that you might be utterly and completely forgotten…that never even occurred to me. And that you will die never remembering who you are…ah, but Shadowbearer’s cruelty is almost artistic in its profundity.”

“And your speech,” growled Ridmark, “is certainly tedious in its pomposity.”

“True,” said Coriolus. “Ever a failing of mine. I do like to talk, and there has been so little opportunity for it in the last century.” He grinned and spread his hands. “And now that I have a captive audience, how can I resist?”

“You like to talk, fine,” said Calliande. “Then talk. Tell me who I am, if you claim to know.” If she kept him talking, perhaps Ridmark would figure out something clever, or Morigna might break free of the spell. She considered asking Coriolus about Dragonfall, but stopped herself. Perhaps he knew of Dragonfall, but did not know of its importance. If she brought it to the forefront of his mind, then he might go there after she died.

Because he was likely to kill them all…and then he would take the soulstone and present it to Shadowbearer.

“I admit it would bring me great pleasure,” said Coriolus, “simply to see the look of consternation upon your face. But, alas, I must refrain. I think Shadowbearer will reserve that pleasure to himself, and only a fool would cross him. And I have my own affairs to conduct.”

“Such as?” said Calliande.

Coriolus’s smile widened. “You met Talvinius?”

“Briefly,” said Calliande. “As Ridmark told you, his spirit was trapped in the flesh of a kobold shaman.”

“And he tried to possess you, I take it?” said Coriolus.

“He did,” said Calliande. “It did not end well for him.” The realization came to her. “Your body is old and failing. You need a new one, one with magical ability, and so you lured me here to claim mine, just at Talvinius did.”

“You are,” said Coriolus, “half-right. I only need one more thing from you.”

He gestured, and Calliande’s jaw clamped shut. The Old Man stepped into the ruby light, and for a moment Calliande hoped it would trap him. But Coriolus’s own spell would not touch him. He plucked the pouch containing the empty soulstone from Calliande’s belt.

Then he stepped out of the trap and gazed at Morigna with a predatory smile.

###

Morigna fought against the spell with impotent fury.

She tried to summon magic, but the trap disrupted her power. She tried to move, but the crimson light held her fast.

Once again, her strength had been insufficient.

Coriolus stopped a few paces away from her, weighing the pouch in his right hand.

“Dear little Morigna,” he said. “How I have waited for this day.”

Morigna realized she could speak.

“And what day is that?” she spat. “A day for betrayal?”

“Betrayal?” said Coriolus. “Hardly. How is this a betrayal?”

“You ought to know,” said Jonas, “given that you betrayed Nathan to his death.”

Morigna glared at him. “Be silent when your betters are speaking.”

Jonas growled and started to draw his sword again, but Coriolus looked at him.

“You really ought to take her advice, Initiated,” he said.

Jonas flinched and released his sword.

“That’s better,” said Coriolus, turning back to Morigna. “And this is not a betrayal. Does a freeholder betray the pig when he leads the beast to the slaughtering block?”

A chill went through Morigna. “What do you mean?”

“Who do you think you are, Morigna daughter of Litavis?” said Coriolus. “My adopted daughter? Perhaps a surrogate niece? My student? No. You are none of these things. You are,” he paused for a moment, searching for the word, “my fattened calf. And the hour of the feast has come at last.”

Morigna sneered. “So you are going to kill and eat me, then?”

“Not at all,” said Coriolus. “Well. Perhaps in a metaphorical sense.”

“Say what you mean, old fool, without the needless words,” said Morigna.

“Absolutely not,” said Coriolus. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing the expression on your face when you learn the truth for fourteen years…and I am going to savor this. You see, I came to Moraime twenty years ago, seeking a new host. The Old Man already lived in the hills. A failed initiate of the Magistri, living in fear of an order that had forgotten him years ago.” He glanced at Ridmark. “The story I told you was mostly true, by the way. It was only about the previous owner of this body. I expelled his feeble spirit from this flesh and claimed it for my own. But the Old Man was already old, and even with my skill at necromancy, I would need another body within a few decades. A young one, a healthy one, a body that would last me for many years. And one with strong magical ability.”

“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 intention 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.”

For a moment the shadow said nothing, and Morigna felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps Coriolus had overstepped himself, and Shadowbearer would kill both him and Jonas. Maybe she could yet escape…

“Well,” said Shadowbearer at last. “Ambition and competence rarely go hand in hand. Isn’t that right, Jonas Vorinus?”

“Master,” said Jonas. Unlike Coriolus, he simply looked terrified. “I will do as you bid.”

“But you have done well, Coriolus,” said Shadowbearer. “The Gray Knight and the Magistria are far more dangerous than you know.”

“Forgive me, Master,” said Coriolus, “but like you, I knew Calliande in the days before the defeat of the Frostborn. I knew just how dangerous she was, and I did not take her threat lightly.”

“It appears not,” said Shadowbearer. “You have pleased me, Coriolus. Soon I shall join you, and you will present the empty soulstone to me. And if you have indeed imprisoned Ridmark Arban and Calliande as you said, I shall reward you most richly.”

“And if I have not,” said Coriolus, “my life is forfeit?”

“I am pleased that we understand each other.”

“He could not have done it without my help, Master!” said Jonas. “I lured Ridmark Arban into his path, I…”

“I am sure you were most effective,” said Shadowbearer, a mocking note in that twofold voice. “Tell me. Of the six brothers of the Red Family who accompanied you to Moraime, how many yet live?”

A muscle worked in Jonas’s jaw. “One. Maybe. I am…uncertain what became of Rotherius. He might have survived.”

“Indeed?” said Shadowbearer. “I care only for results. But the Red Family might grow a touch irritated with you, Jonas. The Dux paid a great deal of gold to those assassins. I imagine both the Matriarch of the Family and the Dux will be quite annoyed with you. But fear not. I am sure they are most forgiving of weakness.”

Jonas said nothing, the muscle still twitching.

“I shall do as you say, Master,” said Coriolus.

“Your new host,” said Shadowbearer, and Morigna’s skin crawled. She felt an unseen presence focusing upon her. A malignant will and power, regarding her with eyes wrought from something other than flesh. “I see you have not claimed her yet.”

“No, Master,” said Coriolus. “It seem only proper to inform you of my victory before claiming the spoils.”

“Indeed,” said Shadowbearer. “Let us take a closer look, shall we?”

Coriolus’s shadow rotated and fell over Morigna.

She screamed. She had loathed the touch of Coriolus’s fingers upon her bare skin as he painted the sigils upon her legs and stomach. But the shadow felt worse, far worse, as if some vast creature of nightmare was staring at her through a keyhole, a creature that would snuff her out like a candle if it could just open the door.

Coriolus was strong, but he was nothing next to Shadowbearer’s power.

Part of her mind marveled at the power, and wondered what she could do if she wielded it herself, and for a moment she heard the shadow whispering in her ears…

“So you are the next vessel?” said Shadowbearer. “It is almost a pity you are about to claim her, Coriolus. If you could but see the shadows her past throw upon her future…ah, indeed.”

“With all respect, Master,” said Coriolus, “I am afraid I must insist upon claiming her as my vessel.” Jonas gaped at him. “If she has some quality you require, I will of course seek out another individual possessing that quality after I have claimed her.”

“Have no fear, Coriolus,” said the double voice, the strange shadow sliding off Morigna’s skin. She closed her eyes and shuddered in relief, grateful that the terrible thing was no longer touching her. “I have no wish to claim your prize. Clothe yourself in new flesh, and await my coming.”

“It shall be as you say, Master,” said Coriolus.

His shadow rippled and stretched, and then shrank back to normal.

“I cannot believe that you dared to be so impudent to the Master,” said Jonas, getting to his feet once more.

“That is because you are young and weak,” said Coriolus, raising his white eyebrows. “If you manage to survive long enough, you will come to understand that Shadowbearer cares only for success. Anything that furthers his goal of reshaping the world is worthy. Anything that hinders it…is to be removed.”

Jonas scowled, but nodded.

“Maintain watch,” said Coriolus. “I do not anticipate interference, but the amount of magical power I am about to summon may draw unwelcome attention. The corporeal undead and the wraiths should be more than capable of dealing with any intruders, along with my newest creation.”

“It is a…formidable creature,” said Jonas. “And after? Once you take your new body? What then?”

“We shall await Shadowbearer,” said Coriolus. “The Frostborn are soon returning, and the shape of the world will change. The Enlightened of Incariel shall rise high…along with those who have proven themselves to Shadowbearer. Perhaps even you, Jonas Vorinus, if you learn from your mistakes. Now do as I have commanded.”

Jonas hesitated, nodded, and then departed.

“How very gracious of you,” said Morigna. “I thought you would kill him.”

Coriolus shrugged. “Even the wisest man was once a young fool. And he may be useful to me in the future. Though if he annoys me too much I will simply kill him.” He picked up his pot and brush. “Meanwhile, I have work before me. Ah, but my knees ache. It will be good to be young again.”

He began painting a fresh row of sigils upon her stomach and arms. Morigna did not even bother to struggle. She knew it was over. He would expel her spirit from her flesh, and then take her body like a man donning a new suit of clothes.

What would happen to her then? Perhaps her spirit would dissipate into oblivion. Or perhaps Caius and Calliande were right in their faith, and her spirit would join her parents and Nathan and the Dominus Christus in paradise.

She rather doubted that. And even if it was true, she had hardly led a just life.

Morigna closed her eyes and waited for the end.

Chapter 19 - Riddles

Calliande drifted in her sleep, and her sleep she dreamed.

And as ever, the dreams frustrated her.

She saw things, but could never recall them.

A white city sitting by the sea, its walls and towers tall and strong and proud, the red dragon banner of the Pendragons flying from the ramparts. A great domed chamber of white and gold, a well of light at its heart. An old woman, kindly and wise, a staff of twisted oak in her right hand. A man, short and ugly and scarred, but a warrior with the courage and might of a dozen lions, and a voice like a trumpet that rallied armies to his shout.

He reminded her of Ridmark. Or did Ridmark remind her of him?

Sometimes those images brought joy and grief to her mind, though she knew not why.

But she saw darker things at well, and those images brought neither joy nor grief.

Only dread.

Giants clad in armor the color of gray ice, their skin like crystal, their eyes glowing with blue flame. Legions of twisted creatures marching before them, worshipping the icy giants as their gods. Cities burning to ash as snow fell upon them, and men and women and children freezing, collapsing as their blood turned to ice.

She would stop it, she vowed. She would make sure it never happened again, no matter what she had to do, no matter the cost to herself…

And then she saw the shadow.

It followed her thought the mists of the past, long and black and strong. It had hunted her across the centuries. It would never stop hunting.

“Calliande,” hissed the shadow, and she recognized that eerie double voice.

Shadowbearer.

“You are mine,” said Shadowbearer. “He said he had trapped you, but I believed him not. Yet here you are at last.”

Terror filled Calliande, and for a moment she quailed, remembering when the Mhalekite orcs had held her naked and helpless before him. But her courage rallied. She was done running. She would help Ridmark stop the Frostborn from returning, and then she would defeat Shadowbearer once and for all.

“You cannot,” he said. “Once, that was within your power. But you maimed yourself. You made yourself weaker. And now you cannot stand against me.”

The fury filled Calliande.

“Come and face me, Incariel!” said Calliande. “I stopped you once before, and by God and the Dominus Christus, I shall stop you again!”

“No,” said Shadowbearer. “You shall not.”

The dream shivered and shattered into a thousand fragments.

When they reassembled, Calliande found herself standing alone upon a plain of featureless gray mist. It stretched endlessly in all directions, rippling and undulating.

No. Not alone.

She turned and looked upon the Watcher.

The spirit gazed back at her, his heavy eyes sad beneath gray eyebrows. He wore the white robe of the Magistri, tied about the waist with a black sash. He had left a message for her in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, and had spoken in her dreams after her magic returned. He had warned her of the dangers of Urd Arowyn, of facing Agrimnalazur in battle.

“Watcher,” said Calliande.

The old man sighed. “You do have a knack for getting into trouble.”

“Apparently I have not changed from my previous life,” said Calliande, “when you knew me yet.”

“About that,” said the Watcher, “I cannot say.”

The Watcher could tell her of the present, and speak of generalities from the past. But he was forbidden from speaking about her past, specifically.

Apparently Calliande herself had forbidden him before she had gone into her long sleep, though she could not remember it.

“It was a perfect trap for you,” said the Watcher. “You could never turn aside from those in need. It seems that your Gray Knight cannot either. The undead to lure you in. The terrified townsmen asking for your protection.”

“And there was Coriolus, waiting for us,” said Calliande.

The Watcher nodded, his gray beard rusting against his shoulders. “I fear so.”

“I knew him,” said Calliande. “From before. Did I not?”

The Watcher said nothing, which was as good as an actual answer.

“Tell me about him,” said Calliande.

“You know I am forbidden to speak of your past,” said the Watcher.

“But the Eternalists arose after I went into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance,” said Calliande. “Therefore I know nothing of them, and you are free to speak.”

The Watcher bowed. “Fortunately, Calliande, your recklessness is matched only by your cleverness. Little wonder you are so taken with the Gray Knight. You have finally found someone whose recklessness is a match for your own.”

“Tell me of the Eternalists,” said Calliande. This was not the time to consider the twinge she felt whenever she thought of Ridmark.

“They are fools,” said the Watcher. “All men will one day die and face the judgment of their creator. The Eternalists denied this truth, and sought to use magic to change the nature of man, to make themselves immortal and eternal. Magic can extend life, true. So can sober living and regular exercise. But no magic can conquer death. The Eternalists sought to do this, and instead of immortality, they created horrors.”

“They tried to extend their lives, didn’t they?” said Calliande.

“They did so at first, successfully and in secret,” said the Watcher. “But no corporeal body lasts forever. In time, their mortal flesh started to fail…and so they had to claim the bodies of others.”

“As Talvinius did to that kobold, and tried to do to me,” said Calliande.

“Aye,” said the Watcher. “Some were more skilled than others. Talvinius, as you saw, could not manage to possess another human body, and had to claim a kobold. Others were more powerful. They grew reckless and desperate, fearing that death would claim them, and their experiments became bolder. Finally they drew notice, and the High King and the Magistri and the Swordbearers joined forces to expel the cancer from Andomhaim. The Eternalists were mostly killed, and those that survived fled into the Deeps or the Wilderland. It was a proud moment for the realm, when it was still strong to defend itself from foes within the walls.” The spirit slumped, as if weary. “But then the Enlightened of Incariel took root. The old High King died and the war of the five Pendragon princes began. And the Tower of Vigilance burned and I perished within it.”

“You’re telling me about my past now,” said Calliande.

“Not your past,” said the Watcher. “My past. You were asleep for that part.”

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande. “All that you say, the civil war and the Enlightened and the Eternalists…were they the work of Shadowbearer?”

“Yes,” said the Watcher. “Forgive me, Calliande, but you should not have gone into the long sleep. Shadowbearer has labored unceasingly for centuries while you slept. If you had not entered into the sleep like…”

“What?” said Calliande. “What would have done?”

“Forgive me,” said the Watcher, “but I cannot tell you. You…”

“Have forbidden it with my own words, yes, I know,” said Calliande. She thought for a moment. “The spell to claim the body of another. How does it work?”

“I do not know for certain, and am glad of that,” said the Watcher. “Nevertheless, I understand some of the general principles. It requires a tremendous quantity of magical power, more than most wizards can summon unaided. Additionally, it is extremely difficult to sever the bonds between the soul and the flesh without killing the new body. I suspect that is why Talvinius was able to possess a kobold, but not a human. Kobold souls have a different…geometry, for lack of a better word, than human souls. Likely Talvinius could master one kind of geometry and not another. Like a student able to learn one arithmetical equation but not two.”

“And that is why Coriolus killed Morigna’s parents and raised her,” said Calliande. “To…prepare her for a transference. To make solving the equation easier.”

“I fear so,” said the Watcher. “His crimes against the dark child are immense. He taught her magic, not to benefit her or to protect her, but to augment her magical ability so it would be easier to possess her. The dark child possesses strong magic, but insufficient skill to defend herself from Coriolus’s attack. You, too, would make a suitable host for the Eternalist, which is why Talvinius tried to possess you. But you have recovered the full powers of a Magistria, and you know how to use them. If Coriolus tried to possess you, he would be repulsed and likely killed.”

“You call her the dark child,” said Calliande. “Why?”

“Because she is dangerous, and you should not trust her,” said the Watcher. “She has much magic but little conscience. The only thing that has kept her from abusing her power has been a lack of opportunity. She would turn on you in a moment, I am sure, to increase her own magic.”

Calliande frowned. “She is what she is because of Coriolus’s blight upon her life. And she has seen him for the liar that he is.”

“A rabid wolf did not choose its affliction,” said the Watcher, “but is dangerous nonetheless.”

“Enough,” said Calliande. “I do not like her, I admit that. But she does not deserve this. She did not deserve to have her parents murdered, and did not deserve to be turned into an empty vessel for a scoundrel like Coriolus. If it is within my power, I will save her.”

The Watcher shook his head. “I suspected you would say that. Ah, Calliande.” He smiled. “Your heart blazes like a torch, like a brand in the darkness. Fearlessly you risk yourself, even for those who do not deserve it.”

“Fearlessly?” said Calliande. “Perhaps you do not know me that well. I am terrified.”

He smiled. “But you do not flee.”

“Not that it matters,” said Calliande. “I have no way to help Morigna. I cannot even break free of Coriolus’s damned trap.”

The Watcher gazed into the mists for a moment.

“Do not,” he said, “be so sure of that.”

“You can help me?” said Calliande. “You have magic that can break the trap? Or you can show me how to do it?”

“Neither, I fear,” said the Watcher. “But I can tell you this. The Eternalist will have to go to a place of power to work his spell, someplace to magnify and focus the dark magic he will summon…”

“The standing circle,” said Calliande at once. “Where Sir Nathan Vorinus died.”

“There,” said the Watcher, “you will find Morigna and the Eternalist. But you must reach them before midnight. The thirteen moons will soon reach the exact configuration he requires, and he will claim her flesh for his own.”

“Then I know where to go,” said Calliande, “but not how to get there.”

“I do not think,” said the Watcher, “that will pose a problem.”

“Why not?” said Calliande, but before the spirit could answer, the dream vanished in a blaze of golden fire.

###

Dark visions floated before Ridmark’s eyes.

He saw himself facing Gothalinzur, the ancient urdmordar gathering villagers to serve as her larder before the Frostborn returned. Ten years before Agrimnalazur and Aranaeus, and he had known. The Frostborn had been destroyed centuries ago, defeated by the Dragon Knight and the last Keeper of Avalon. Yet somehow they would return.

He did not know how. He did not know when. He only knew it would be soon.

His mind drifted through memories. Meeting Aelia for the first time in the great hall of Castra Marcaine. The first time he had fought Tarrabus Carhaine at arms practice, the arrogant young heir to Caerdracon just as strong and skilled as Ridmark. The wedding in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, when Ridmark had taken Aelia’s hands and pledged to honor and love and defend her until the end of his days.

He had.

At least until the end of her days.

The darker memories came then. The Mhalekite horde coming down from the Wilderland. The treachery at the foot of the Black Mountain, and the shattered armies rallying under Ridmark’s command. The great victory at Dun Licinia, and Ridmark’s pursuit of Mhalek himself to Castra Marcaine.

Aelia’s screaming, her blood pooling across the black and white tiles of the great hall.

No, Ridmark did not want to remember that…but he saw it every time he closed his eyes.

Then he saw again his long journey to Urd Morlemoch, the quest he had undertaken for the high elven archmage Ardrhythain in hopes of gaining enough renown to win Aelia’s hand. Suddenly Urd Morlemoch itself floated before his eyes, a vast, half-ruined fortress of white stone, its angles and lines pleasing to dark elven sensibilities but alien and strange to humans. Three ribbons of blue flame writhed around its massive central tower and lashed at the black sky, dancing across the darkness.

For it was always night near Urd Morlemoch.

The image blurred, and Ridmark saw the highest tower rising from the heart of the ruins, and atop that tower stood the Warden.

The Warden was tall and gaunt, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves over black trousers and a tunic. His head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside his long, lean face, a diadem of blue steel encircling his brow. His eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than the eyes of the dvargir, darker than the shadows that had swirled around Jonas Vorinus. Rings of blue dark elven steel glittered upon his long, bony fingers.

The Warden stood in a ring of standing stones atop the massive tower, gazing into an archway of rough stone. Images flickered and danced within the arch, showing the past and the present and the future.

“Disappointing,” said the Warden, his voice deeper and more melodious than any human. He turned to regard Ridmark, his long blue coat rippling in the cold wind rising from the sea. “I thought you would be the one, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Instead you shall die in the darkness alongside your friends.”

“Tell me,” said Ridmark. “You said the Frostborn were returning, that the omen of blue fire was a herald of their return. Tell me how.”

The Warden laughed his wild, thunderous, mad laugh. “How should I know? This is only a dream, a mosaic of images dredged up from your memory. You are talking to yourself.” He walked to the altar at the center of the stone circle. A massive blue soulstone sat there, glowing and pulsing in time to the ribbons of azure flame dancing across the sky, a ring of lesser soulstones surrounding it.

“A very specific dream, then,” said Ridmark.

The Warden waved a dismissive hand, the rings of blue steel glinting upon his thin fingers. “Or the spell of that petty rodent of a necromancer disconnected your mind from your flesh, and since I was watching you anyway, we are having this conversation. Or you are simply dreaming. It is no concern of mine.”

“The Frostborn are returning,” said Ridmark.

“So determined,” mused the Warden. “Tell me. Do you think such dedication will bring back your dead wife? Or honor her memory? After all, even if you defeat the Frostborn and save the rotten shell of Andomhaim, she will still be dead and you will still blame yourself.”

“I asked,” said Ridmark, “about the Frostborn.”

“Such zeal,” said the Warden. “But I suppose I cannot blame you. Given that I planted the seed in your head.”

“Enough word games,” said Ridmark. “Tell me how they will return.”

“No,” said the Warden. “This is just a dream. If you want the truth, you shall have to confront me once more.” He looked at the black sky and the writhing ribbons of flame. “Meanwhile, you are about to wake up.”

“Tell me…” started Ridmark, and then golden light consumed the world.

###

Ridmark’s eyes shot open, the strange dream dissolving into nothingness.

He still stood within the entry hall of Thainkul Dural, curtains of ruby light blazing from the glyphs of Coriolus’s trap. Yet the ruby light sputtered and flickered, and a few heartbeats later it winked out entirely with a crackle and a puff of smoke.

And he could move again.

Ridmark took a deep breath and turned, his staff coming up as he prepared to attack Coriolus and Jonas.

But they were gone, as was Morigna.

Belatedly Ridmark realized he did not know how long he had been unconscious.

He turned and saw the others. Calliande shook her head, blinking. Caius took a deep breath and looked around, while Gavin had his shield raised and his sword out as he looked for foes. Kharlacht held his greatsword ready, though he looked groggy.

“What happened?” said Kharlacht, blinking.

“Perhaps Shadowbearer has come to take us,” said Gavin.

“No,” said Ridmark. “He wouldn’t have released us from the spell.” He looked at Calliande. “You must have figured out how to break it.”

“No,” murmured Calliande, rubbing her face. “No, I did nothing.”

“Perhaps the trap was flawed, then,” said Caius.

“It was not,” said a tremendously deep voice, so deep that the floor vibrated beneath Ridmark’s boots. “This one broke the corrupted magic upon the sigils, man of water.”

Ridmark turned his head as the trolldomr Rjalfur rose from the stone floor like a man surfacing in a lake. The massive gray figure looked down at them, the golden fires in his eyes shining.

Golden fire, Ridmark thought, like the golden light that had dissolved the strange dream.

“You broke the entrapment spell,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

It was hard to read expressions on the alien, rocky face of the trolldomr, but Rjalfur seemed amused. “Of then ten lepers, man of water, you wish to be the one to give thanks?”

Ridmark shrugged. “What is the point of a lesson if you do not follow it?”

“This is so,” said Rjalfur.

“While we are grateful for your aid,” said Ridmark, “I am curious. Did you not say that your kindred refuse to interfere in the affairs of others, save for self-defense?”

“This one did say that,” said Rjalfur. “And it is so. But this one remains curious about your kindred, about why the orc and the dwarf carry the sign of the cross. So this one followed you, man of water, and watched as you were deceived. If the bearer of the great shadow kills you, then this one will never understand the mystery. So this one shattered the spell of the corrupted one and set you free.”

“Thank you,” said Caius. “I am pleased we have piqued your curiosity.”

“I would not want to fall into the hands of Shadowbearer once more,” said Calliande.

A deep rumbling filled the hall, so loud that Ridmark feared the ceiling was about to collapse.

But Rjalfur was growling.

“The trolldomr prefer to keep to themselves,” said Rjalfur. “But the bearer of the great shadow is the enemy of all. The trolldomr listen to the song of the earth, the groan of the mountains and the pulse of her molten heart. The bearer of the great shadow would end the song before its appointed hour, and bring darkness and silence and death everlasting. That is another mystery this one does not understand, the riddle of the corrupted one.”

“The corrupted one?” said Ridmark. “You mean Coriolus?”

“This one did not understand him,” said Rjalfur. “The Old Man dwelled in the hills for many years, and then he changed. But now this one understands. The spirit of the corrupted one entered him. But why?”

“He fears death,” said Ridmark, “and so will do anything to prolong his life.”

“But why?” said Rjalfur again, and for an absurd moment Ridmark felt like he was talking to a giant stone child, a child that repeated the same question over and over again. “It is the nature of mortal men to die, man of water. To deny this is simply absurd. As well say that the sun does not exist, or that the world does not have thirteen moons circling overhead.”

“We men of water,” said Ridmark, “are quite good at deceiving ourselves.”

“And why does he choose to serve the bearer of the great shadow?” said Rjalfur. That seemed to agitate the trolldomr more than anything else. “The great shadow is the enemy of all things. Why would he serve it? As well might a sheep choose to serve a wolf.”

“Perhaps he thinks,” said Gavin, gazing up at the trolldomr, “that the wolf will eat him last. My father…I fear my father thought that way for many years.”

“It is folly,” said Rjalfur, “and this one does not understand. Nor does this one understand why you follow the Dominus Christus. Yet that inspires you to boldness and bravery.”

“Like the missionary you saw die,” said Ridmark.

“You understand, man of water,” said Rjalfur. “This one does not understand why you follow the Dominus Christus or why the corrupted one follows the great shadow…but his devotion inspires only treachery and death.”

“Because he serves himself, perhaps?” said Calliande. “He wants to live forever. Most likely he sees his service to Shadowbearer only as a means to an end.”

“But he will not live forever,” said Rjalfur. “He may extend his life for many centuries, but all things mortal one day end. Surely he must know this. Man of water, can your kindred deceive themselves so thoroughly?”

“We can, alas,” said Ridmark.

“And the mystery of evil is a great mystery indeed,” said Caius. “All mortals have evil in their hearts, yet we must resist it. The great saints and the great tyrants are made from the same material.”

“A mystery indeed,” said Rjalfur. “This one will watch you further, and perhaps gain wisdom. What course of action will you take now, man of water?”

“I shall go after Morigna and Coriolus,” said Ridmark, “and stop Coriolus, if I can.”

“And we must retrieve the empty soulstone,” said Calliande. “It cannot fall into the hands of Shadowbearer, for if it does, he will use it to work tremendous evil.”

“The one you call Morigna is a child of dark magic,” said Rjalfur, “and while saints and tyrants may both be made of common men, this one suspects she has more of the tyrant within her.”

“Nevertheless,” said Ridmark. “She is what she is because Coriolus made her that way. I will not let Coriolus destroy her, not while it is in my power to stop him. And Jonas Vorinus is a traitor to his family and his neighbors. They must be warned against him.”

“The corrupted one is far stronger than you, man of water,” said Rjalfur. “You may not be able to defeat him.”

“He might kill me,” said Ridmark, “but perhaps I will take him off guard and kill him. But I will not abandon Morigna to him.”

“Then you believe,” said Rjalfur, “that your strength gives you a duty?”

“It does,” said Ridmark.

“This one understands,” said Rjalfur, “and your words have given this one much to consider.”

“Before you go,” said Ridmark, “how long were we imprisoned?”

“Not long,” said Rjalfur. “Perhaps five of your hours. Go, man of water, and face the task to which you have set yourself. Perhaps your God will indeed watch over you.”

He turned, sank back into the floor, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Silence fell over the hall.

“Well,” said Gavin at last. “It’s a good thing that he likes us.”

“Truly,” said Calliande. “If he had not freed us, we would have been helpless before Shadowbearer.”

“Then let us depart before Shadowbearer arrives,” said Ridmark. He thought for a moment. “Coriolus will likely have taken Morigna back to his cottage to prepare his spell. If not, perhaps we can follow his trail to…”

“That will not be necessary,” said Calliande. “I know where he is going.” Ridmark looked at her. “He will have to perform the spell at the standing stones north of his cottage.”

“As Vlazur tried to do with you,” said Kharlacht.

“Aye,” said Calliande. “He’ll need the standing stones to focus and summon the amount of power he needs to work the spell. I am certain he is there.”

“And I am certain,” said Ridmark, “that he will have guards. More undead, and Jonas and his tricks with shadows.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Walking corpses and a mad wizard. It cannot be any worse than walking into a dark elven ruin ruled by an urdmordar and her spiderlings.”

“We had best hurry,” said Calliande. “Coriolus will likely start the spell when the moons reach a specific position in the sky.”

Ridmark nodded, turned toward the doors, and stopped.

“What is it?” said Kharlacht.

He heard the clatter of boots upon the stairs leading back to the barracks. But how? The flood trap had sealed off the gallery, and nothing could get past it, unless…

“Caius,” said Ridmark. “How long did you say it would take to drain the flood trap?”

“I don’t know,” said Caius. “But depending on the design…five hours might have been enough.”

“Then defend yourselves,” said Ridmark, gripping his staff. “Kzargar and his warriors are coming for us.”

And this time, they did not have Morigna to detect the invisible warriors.

Chapter 20 - Breach

Calliande braced herself, summoning magic to dispel the shadow-granted invisibility around the dvargir. Without Morigna’s ability to detect them, Calliande would not know where to direct the dispelling magic. She would have to guess, would have to cover as large of an area as possible…

But her worries were unnecessary.

Kzargar of the Great House Tklathar of the city of Khaldurmar walked into the hall, followed by seven of his warriors. The Dzark carried a fearsome-looking war helm under his right arm, wrought in the shape of a snarling, fanged skull. His warriors had already donned their helms, and looked like short, solid statues of black steel.

Ridmark stepped forward, and Kzargar stopped a dozen paces away. Calliande’s mind worked, wondering what spell to cast. She could ward her friends against attacks, but dvargir steel was more resistant to magic than normal weapons. Perhaps she could make her companions stronger and faster instead. But the dvargir were skilled and strong, and used to fighting in a group. They had almost lost to Jonas and the Red Brothers below Coriolus’s cottage, and only Ridmark’s cunning had snatched a victory from certain death.

Did he have another trick up his sleeve?”

“Dzark,” said Ridmark at last.

“Gray Knight,” said Kzargar in orcish. “You killed my mzrokar.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” said Ridmark. “I walked into the flood trap, and your pet followed me in. It is hardly my fault the beast triggered the trap.”

Harsh laughter came from a few of the dvargir warriors, and even Kzargar smiled. Briefly.

“True,” said Kzargar. “And the beast was an expensive nuisance to maintain. Useful in fighting in the tunnels of the Deeps, though.” His smile returned. “And it was most enjoyable to watch you flee in terror from my mzrokar.”

“I’m sure,” said Ridmark.

Kzargar craned his neck. “I see no trace of Coriolus. Am I to assume that you actually managed to slay the disciple of the prophet?”

“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “How much did you know of his plan?”

“All of it,” said Kzargar. “We have come at his bidding before, for the prophet commanded it of us. Yet the disciple is an odious, cringing fool, arrogant and brash. We dvargir are the strongest, the worthiest, yet the disciple had the temerity to treat us as lackeys.”

Ridmark took another step closer, and Calliande saw that familiar glint in his cold blue eyes.

He had an idea. She hoped it was a good one.

“I take it,” said Ridmark, “that you did not approve of his plan?”

“And why should I tell you?” said Kzargar.

“Because,” said Ridmark, “you want to know what happened here. Perhaps we can trade information before we kill each other. A man should not die curious.”

“True,” said Kzargar. “Very well. I thought that the disciple’s plan was idiocy. The prophet of the void wanted the empty soulstone and the rest of you dead, and the disciple wanted his foolish apprentice so he could transfer his spirit into her flesh. So the disciple concocted this ridiculous scheme with undead and false trails and a trap upon the floor. Better simply to enter Moraime unseen at night, murder you in your sleep, and take the soulstone. Then the prophet could receive the soulstone, and the disciple could take his new body at leisure.”

“That…would have worked,” said Kharlacht.

Kzargar made an impatient gesture. “Obviously. I told him, but the proud fool would not listen. He was too ambitious. He thought to trap you alive and present both you and the soulstone to Shadowbearer. So he hired us, and raised the undead to lure you in here. We were to let you pass. Once you entered Thainkul Dural, the disciple would come and activate the trap. Then we would drive you back to the entry hall, and you would blunder into his spell.”

“I see,” said Ridmark.

“Now,” said Kzargar. “What happened here? Where is Coriolus?”

“He left,” said Ridmark. “We blundered into his trap, as you said. Coriolus gloated for a few moments, then took Morigna and left.”

“He left?” said Kzargar, and for just a moment his voice rose. Then he mastered himself once more. “How did you get out of the spell?”

“I’m afraid,” said Ridmark, “that information will cost you a bit more.”

“He left,” said one of the dvargir warriors to the Dzark. “He left without paying us a single copper coin!”

“Did he leave payment?” said Kzargar.

Calliande could not believe that the Dzark had actually just asked Ridmark that. But it matched what she knew of the dvargir. They were merciless and ruthless, worshipping strength as fervently as did any other servants of the great void. Yet they admired order, and enforced laws with just the same fanaticism as their dwarven cousins.

If Coriolus had indeed promised to pay the dvargir, and he had broken his word, they could use that to their advantage.

Suddenly Ridmark’s plan began to come clear. What was the proverb he had quoted? Safer to deprive a lioness of her cub than to cheat a dvargir?

“He seemed relieved, if anything,” said Ridmark. “He said the flood trap meant he would not have to deal with you.”

“What?” said Kzargar, his anger growing.

“Apparently,” said Ridmark, “he did not think the flood trap would drain so quickly. I suspect he plans to possess Morigna, take the soulstone, and depart before you can find him.”

“He betrayed us!” thundered one of the dvargir. “The wretch took our money and left! I told you, Dzark! I told you he would…”

“Be silent,” said Kzargar. “He could be lying to us.” His malevolent black eyes turned to Ridmark. “Are you lying to us?”

Ridmark shrugged. “You have no way of knowing. But you have eyes, and you can see the truth for yourself. We are here, and free of the trap. Coriolus and Morigna are gone. And there is no payment, and once Coriolus clothes himself in Morigna’s flesh, I somehow doubt he will descend into the Deeps to settle accounts with you.”

For a long moment Kzargar stared at Ridmark.

Then the dvargir spat a furious phrase in his native tongue. Calliande did not speak the dvargir language, but she could guess at the meaning easily enough.

“We have been betrayed,” said Kzargar to his warriors. “The wretched disciple has broken his contract with us.”

A rumble of displeasure went up from the warriors. Calliande wondered why Kzargar was still speaking in orcish. Then she saw that gleam in Ridmark’s eye.

Oh, but he was clever.

“I assume the dvargir kindred regard a betrayal of contract as a grave matter?” said Ridmark.

Kzargar growled. “Indeed we do, Gray Knight. The gravest matter. The dvargir are always true to their given word. And the penalties for betraying a contract are most severe.”

“Such as?” said Ridmark.

Kzargar’s smile showed teeth and absolutely no mirth. “Death.”

Calliande thought it ludicrous that Ridmark could turn Shadowbearer’s servants against each other so easily. Yet it made a twisted sense. Shadowbearer taught his followers to revere strength, that the strongest had the right to take what they wanted.

Little wonder Coriolus had been willing to deny the dvargir their payment.

And little wonder the dvargir were willing to kill Coriolus for it.

“So you’re going to kill Coriolus, then?” said Ridmark.

“We shall,” said Kzargar. “One does not betray a contract with the dvargir without the direst consequences.”

“As it happens,” said Ridmark, “I have a quarrel or two of my own to settle with Coriolus.”

Kzargar showed his teeth. “Do you propose to hire us, Gray Knight? That would require a contract, and we would expect payment promptly.”

“Not at all,” said Ridmark. “I have nothing to pay you with in any event. But since we are attacking the same man, we may as well cooperate. We tried to kill each other, true…but we have not broken contracts with each other.”

“True, you are an enemy of the great prophet of the void,” said Kzargar, “but Coriolus’s betrayal is a more serious matter. I see no reason why we cannot…stay out of each other’s way.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “Then let us proceed at once. The sooner we find Coriolus, the less likely it is we’ll have to kill him twice.”

“Indeed,” said Kzargar. “I assume you know where he is?”

Calliande started to open her mouth to answer, but Ridmark spoke first.

“I do,” said Ridmark, “though as you yourself have said, Dzark, everything has its price.”

Again Kzargar showed his teeth. “And what price might you require for this information?”

“Simply that after we slay Coriolus,” said Ridmark, “we agree to a truce. We shall not lift our hands against each other for three days after Coriolus falls.”

“Very well,” said Kzargar.

Calliande shook her head in stunned relief. She had thought that the dvargir would kill them, but instead Ridmark had talked them around into becoming tentative allies.

At least for now. They were still servants of Shadowbearer, and Calliande had no doubt they would try to take the soulstone for themselves.

“Of course,” said Kzargar, “for all his folly, the disciple has considerable magical power. He might well kill us all.”

Ridmark shrugged. “Everyone dies.”

The dvargir laughed, and they strode from the entry hall.

###

A short time later Ridmark stepped back into the valley, his friends and the dvargir following him.

He let out a long breath. They had almost died in the darkness below the hills. Ridmark had no fear for his own fate. But he did not want to lead Gavin and Kharlacht and Caius to their deaths. And he did not want Calliande to fall. If he could have left her behind in Dun Licinia, he would have. Dying without ever learning the truth of her past seemed a particularly cruel fate.

He remembered Aelia’s death. He had failed to save one woman, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

Of course, if Calliande had stayed behind at Dun Licinia, then Ridmark would likely have died at Urd Arowyn.

He pushed the tangle of thought and emotion out of his mind. He could brood upon it later, assuming they survived the next few hours.

“Too damned bright,” muttered Kzargar, shading his black eyes.

It was, in fact, almost sunset, the light fading and shadows falling over the steep hills. Ridmark saw no trace of any watchers upon the rocky hills or hiding among the pine trees lining their slopes.

Coriolus had not bothered to leave any guards behind. Not surprising, given that he thought Ridmark and the others imprisoned within his spell and the dvargir sealed behind the flood trap.

He doubted the standing stones would be left unguarded.

“The ring of dark elven standing stones to the south of here,” said Ridmark. “That is where we are going. Coriolus will need to cast his spell there.”

Kzargar grunted. “Very well. Watch, Gray Knight, and learn the consequences of betraying the dvargir.”

Ridmark nodded. Given word or not, he strongly suspected that Kzargar planned to kill both him and Coriolus, and then to take the empty soulstone and present it to Shadowbearer.

So be it. Ridmark doubted he could defeat Coriolus without help, and Kzargar was willing to fight against the ancient Eternalist.

“He will likely have raised undead to guard the hill,” said Ridmark.

Kzargar laughed. “The dvargir are no strangers to necromancy. Our weapons are proof against undead, even immaterial undead. Coriolus’s walking corpses will not save him.”

“I hope not,” said Ridmark, and he led his friends and the black-armored dvargir from the valley.

###

Morigna could not stop shivering.

The air grew colder as the sun vanished behind the hills to the west, but that was only part of it. Coriolus had covered every inch of her exposed skin with those painted sigils, and they crawled with dark magic. That chill she felt against her mind and heart, not her flesh, and she shivered beneath its touch. It felt horrible, and she could only imagine what it would feel like to wield that dark power.

“How can you do this to yourself?” whispered Morigna through her trembling jaw. “It…it…”

Coriolus glanced down at her. “One final lesson, child. There is no power without pain.”

He lifted his hands and began to speak a spell, his voice rising into a chant. Green fire burned around his fingers, and Morigna felt the dark magic swirling around him, stronger and stronger. His voice echoed across the circle, as if the standing stones were chanting a counterpoint to his incantation. Morigna felt as if some malevolent, malignant presence had awakened within the stones, a cruel will that now regarded her with unseen eyes.

The Old Man’s voice rose to a shout, and he clapped his hands.

Green fire blazed to life upon the menhirs, illuminating the glyphs and reliefs carved into their sides. The dark magic around Morigna doubled, and then doubled again, and she felt like a fly pinned within a web of spells.

“Excellent,” said Coriolus, his lined face ghostly in the green light. “Only a few more steps, now.”

He stepped to his table, raised his hand, and cut his left palm with a dagger. Blood dripped from his hand, and he caught the droplets in the golden chalice, the rubies adorning its sides gleaming sickly in the light of the menhirs. Coriolus healed the wound upon his hand, and then cut Morigna’s palm. The pain burned through her arm, and her blood fell into the chalice to mingle with his before he healed the wound.

“You wouldn’t want a new body with a wounded hand,” spat Morigna, flexing her fingers.

“Of course not,” murmured Coriolus. “But we are almost finished.” He began to add powders and elixirs to the chalice, consulting the scroll upon the table from time to time. “I shall drink of your blood, and you shall drink of mine. And then my spirit shall populate your flesh, and yours shall be expelled into nothingness.” He smirked at her. “Perhaps the tattered ghosts of your mother and father await to escort you into paradise, surrounded by choirs of singing angels.”

Morigna spat at him and missed. Coriolus only laughed.

She slumped against the altar, trying not to weep. Perhaps Coriolus had been right after all. The strong did as they chose, and he had been strong enough to kill her parents, deceive her, defeat Ridmark, and take her flesh for his own, all without suffering any consequences.

Because he had been strong enough to do as he pleased.

She closed her eyes, shivering.

“What?” said Coriolus.

Morigna opened her eyes and saw a flash of white light.

Chapter 21 - Dead Flesh

“I hope,” said Caius, “that we are not too late.”

Ridmark nodded, gazing at the hill.

Or, more specifically, at the green light that blazed around the menhirs crowning the hill.

The standing stones formed a double circle, the larger one encircling the smaller. A low mound rose from within the center of the inner circle, a block of black stones and a few smaller menhirs atop it. All of the black stones glowed with an eerie green flame, illuminating the grisly scenes and sigils carved upon their signs. The nights in this part of the Wilderland were chilly in spring, yet it felt cold, terribly cold at the foot of the hill.

A side effect of the dark magic Coriolus had summoned.

Ridmark saw a dark figure moving around the altar. Coriolus himself, perhaps? Their best hope for victory was to take the Eternalist off-guard before he could bring his potent magic to bear against them.

But the shapes moving along the hillside would make that difficult.

Dozens of undead orcs prowled the hill and guarded the path leading to the standing stones, their empty eyes dancing with blue fire. Ridmark saw the shadowy forms of a half-dozen wraiths as well.

“It appears,” Ridmark said, “that Coriolus was not such a fool as to abandon all precautions.”

Kzargar spat upon the ground. “If he was not a fool, then he would have paid us.”

“Truly,” said Ridmark.

“He’s almost ready, Ridmark,” said Calliande, her voice strained as she cast the spell to sense the presence of magical power. “His spell…it is even more potent and complex than the one in Thainkul Dural. It’s almost in alignment. He just has to wait for the moons to take their proper position, and then he can cast the spell.”

Ridmark looked at the night sky. Seven of the thirteen moons were out tonight. Depending on which moons rose, the night sky could shine with blue light or green light or light the color of blood, but tonight their glow mingled together to create a pale white radiance. Each moon influenced or enhanced a different aspect of magic, and combined together they could create potent effects.

Such as ripping Morigna’s soul from her body and installing Coriolus’s in its place.

“If we are to save her,” said Calliande, “we must do so quickly.”

“I have no interest in saving the disciple’s dupe,” said Kzargar.

“I expected nothing less,” said Ridmark, his fingers tightening against his staff.

“We shall need a plan,” said Caius.

“I would be glad to hear of it,” said Kzargar with a sneer.

“There’s no way we can take Coriolus unawares,” said Ridmark.

“My kin and I can turn invisible,” said Kzargar.

“But you know that Coriolus can sense your presence, even when invisible,” said Ridmark. “So we have to attack. Calliande can enspell our weapons…”

“She will not,” said Kzargar, “touch us with her filthy high elven magic.”

“She would not want to touch you with her fingers,” said Calliande, “let alone her magic.” Both Kharlacht and Gavin chuckled.

“She can enspell our weapons,” said Ridmark before the discussion could degenerate into violence, “and make them effective against the undead. Your weapons require no such enhancement, and you can also make yourselves unseen. Does your power work against the undead?”

“No,” said Kzargar. “The sight of the undead extends into the shadow realm, the place your Magistri call the threshold. They will see us regardless of what we do.”

“Not unless their attention is elsewhere,” said Ridmark.

“Explain,” said the Dzark.

“My companions and I will attack the corporeal undead,” said Ridmark. “Undoubtedly Coriolus instructed them to guard the hill. Once we have their attention, you can circle around and attack the wraiths. Then we can make for the top of the hill, and hopefully overwhelm Coriolus before he kills us all.”

Kzargar considered this. “A solid plan. I see how you outwitted my mzrokar.”

“Hardly a compliment,” said Caius. “A mzrokar is not that bright.”

“Indeed,” said Kzargar with a thin smile. “Your plan is sound, Gray Knight. Shall we?”

“One more thing,” said Ridmark. “Coriolus likely has Morigna restrained. If possible, free her. Her magic is strong…and she has motivation to fight against Coriolus.”

Kharlacht grunted. “Understatement.”

“Very well,” said Kzargar. “We shall await your attack.”

He donned his skull-masked helm, and gestured. Shadows swirled around him and the other dvargir warriors, and together they vanished. The grass rustled and a few pebbles bounced as they moved toward the hill, but Ridmark otherwise saw no trace of the dvargir.

“Do you think they will betray us, sir?” said Gavin.

“Probably,” said Ridmark. “But they want Coriolus dead, and they can’t do it without our help. Once we stop Coriolus, they will likely try to kill us to claim the soulstone.”

Of course, even with the help of the dvargir, they might not be able to overcome the Eternalist.

“Come,” said Ridmark, raising his staff.

###

Calliande took a deep breath and summoned magic, gathering the power of the Well.

She dared not cast her spell too soon. She did not know how much of Coriolus’s concentration had to go to his mighty spell, but she suspected most of it. Yet he might have enough power left to sense her spell, enough power to strike back at them.

Then the undead saw them.

Dozens of blue-burning eyes turned in their direction, and the undead orcs raced down the slope, ancient weapons in their skeletal hands. Behind them Calliande saw the dark, rippling shapes of the wraiths, flowing like smoke.

Ridmark raised his staff and Kharlacht lifted his greatsword, and they were out of time.

Calliande thrust her palms and cast the spell. The white light appeared with a brilliant  flash, and it sprang from her hands and wrapped around the weapons of the others. As always, she felt the weight of maintaining the spell, but she had grown accustomed to the strain, and worked another, sheathing her friends in a protective ward.

Then the clash of battle filled her ears, and she focused on maintaining the twin spells.

###

The first undead came for him, and Ridmark swung his staff. The glowing weapon cut a white line in the darkness, and the impact knocked the orc’s tusked skull from its rotting neck. The blue flames winked out, and the skeletal creature collapsed into a pile of bones. Around him Kharlacht hewed the undead into pieces, and Caius smashed skulls with his dwarven mace. Gavin used his shield as a weapon, rocking the undead, and landing blows with his orcish sword before they recovered.

The undead orcs were dangerous, but Ridmark and the others had overcome them before, and the creatures were not nearly as skilled as the brothers of the Red Family or the dvargir warriors.

Ridmark waded into their midst, striking right and left. He forced a path through the undead, breaking up their charge, and Kharlacht and the others destroyed any that got past him. Ridmark tripped one undead with his staff, and then shattered the creature’s skull before it caught its balance. Another thrust at him with an ancient sword, and Ridmark dodged, swept aside the second thrust with his staff, and then whipped his weapon around in a tight circle. Again his blow shattered a skull, and the undead went down.

They broke through the mass of orcish undead, leaving smashed bones and rusted weapons in their wake. The path leading to the top of the hill was clear, the green light in the standing stones brightening. Then a wave of darkness swept across the path, resolving into the shapes of a half-dozen wraiths.

Ridmark raised his glowing staff. Already he felt the horrible, life-stealing chill radiating from the shadowy creatures. If he stood it in for too long, it would kill him, and with six of the wraiths, he doubted he could endure their aura for more than a few moments. The wraiths rushed toward him, as if drawn to the magic around his staff.

Then a deeper darkness swirled behind the wraiths, and the dvargir stepped out of nothingness.

The wraiths started to turn, but it was too late. The skull-masked dvargir attacked, the glyphs upon their weapons seeming to bleed black light. The dvargir struck in unison, and three of the wraiths disintegrated into smoke, ripped apart by the dvargir attack. Ridmark charged into the chaos, Kharlacht and Caius at his side, and raked his staff through the ghostly form of a wraith. The creature hissed, and Kharlacht and Caius swept their weapons through it. The wraith unraveled into nothingness, and the terrible chill started to fade.

Ridmark whirled and ripped his staff into another wraith, and Gavin slashed, plunging his sword into the creature’s immaterial chest. The wraith shrieked in fury and melted away, and then Ridmark and the others were alone with the dvargir. He heard Calliande run up behind them, but his eyes remained on the black-armored warriors. For an instant he was sure that Kzargar would attack them…

“A good fight,” said Kzargar.

“Aye,” said Ridmark, “but it is not done yet. Not until we find Coriolus.”

“Agreed,” said Kzargar. “Let us find that traitorous scoundrel.”

They turned, and the hillside started to shake.

###

Morigna blinked as another burst of white light flashed at the base of the hill.

Coriolus frowned, put down his goblet, and walked to the edge of the mound. The sounds of fighting reached her ears, of swords crunching into the bones of the corporeal undead.

For a moment the Old Man stood motionless, the green glow playing across his features.

“Impossible,” he muttered.

“Coriolus!”

Jonas sprinted toward the altar, sword in hand, shadows spinning around the blade.

“It’s him!” said Jonas. “The Gray Knight and his followers.”

“Impossible,” said Coriolus. “Nothing could have broken out of that trap.”

“Then someone has cast a remarkably convincing illusion,” said Jonas.

Coriolus closed his eyes and whispered a spell, and then his eyes opened wide.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Morigna felt a tiny flicker of hope. Had Ridmark and Calliande found a way out of the trap? For a moment she could not make sense of it. If they had broken free, why had they come here? Why not continue on to Urd Morlemoch to finish their quest?

Had they come for her?

For a moment the thought so overwhelmed her that she almost started to cry.

“Damn it!” spat the Old Man. “There are dvargir with them. How did they get through the flooded gallery? It should have taken days to drain. And how did Calliande get out of my trap? No one has the arcane power to break the spell from within, no one! Unless….” For the first time a glimmer of fear went over his face. “Unless she has recovered her memory.”

“Perhaps,” said Morigna, “you are not as clever as you believed yourself.”

Coriolus bellowed in fury and slapped her across the face. Her head bounced off the altar, and she spat some blood from her mouth. Jonas gaped at the Old Man, looking back and forth between them.

“Very clever,” said Morigna. “Now when you possess me, you can wake up to a mouthful of blood.”

“Just as well,” said Jonas, “that you reported your success to Shadowbearer. You…”

“Do not dare to mock me, fool boy,” spat the Old Man, his voice iron. “The Gray Knight and Calliande wish a fight? Fine! I shall give them a fight. I shall show them what death truly looks like.”

“Then you had better act now,” said Jonas, looking down the hill. “They are winning.”

“Let us see,” said Coriolus, “if they can win against this!”

He flung out his hands, shouting a spell, and blue fire rippled around his fingertips.

The hill shuddered, and a rasping roar rang over the slopes.

###

“What was that?” said Kzargar.

The cry came again, a hideous, brassy bellow full of agony and insane rage. Ridmark had heard it before when the swamp drake had attacked them in the marshes. But this cry sounded wrong, twisted.

“Swamp drake,” said Ridmark.

The hill trembled again, and a shape from a nightmare came lumbering down the path with terrifying speed.

And suddenly Ridmark knew just what had happened to the carcass of the swamp drake they had killed upon the causeway.

The undead drake staggered down the path, lacking the serpentine grace it had possessed in life. Yet it moved even faster. An iron collar glowing with sigils of blue fire bound its wedge-shaped head to its neck, which explained how Coriolus had reattached the beast’s head to its body. More rings of iron encircled its arms and legs, glowing with sigils of their own.

“Stand fast!” said Kzargar, and the dvargir lined up around him, raising their weapons. “Let us teach the disciple that…”

“No!” shouted Calliande, and the glow faded from Ridmark’s staff as she began casting a spell. “No, don’t, it’s…”

The drake’s legs flexed, and the creature sprang into the air like a colossal insect and landed amongst the dvargir. Two of the black-armored figures went down at once, crushed by the drake’s clawed forelegs, and a third died an instant later when the drake bit off his head in a spray of crimson blood.

The battle might have been over then and there, but Calliande cast a spell. A lance of white flame slammed into the drake, throwing the creature back. The drake landed upon its back with a scream of fury. Its head reared back, and then darted forward, breathing a blast of flame in her direction. Ridmark cursed, hoping to push her out of the way, but Calliande gestured. A dome of white light flared into existence before her, and the flame rebounded from it.

“Attack!” roared Kzargar. “Take its legs!”

The surviving dvargir scattered around the undead drake, lashing with their weapons, and Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin followed suit. Ridmark’s staff could not penetrate the creature’s heavy scales, so Ridmark dropped his staff and snatched the orcish war axe from his belt. The drake bellowed its rage and started to turn, but there were too many foes for it to track at once. The undead were often strong and fast, but usually mindless and stupid, unable to think beyond the bounds set by their masters.

The drake, for all its strength, was no different. Ridmark swung with both hands, and the heavy steel blade bit into the drake’s left foreleg. The creature shuddered, ripping the blade free from its leg, and its head whirled to face him. Ridmark threw himself to the path and rolled as a blast of searing flame shot over his head, so hot it made his eyes water. He jumped back to his feet as the others attacked, landing blow after blow.

But nothing they did slowed the creature at all. Even as Ridmark struck again, he saw the first wound he had carved into the drake’s leg closing. The creature could heal itself faster than they could damage it. Calliande flung another blast of brilliant white fire into the drake. It rocked back several steps, shrieking, and trembled as it did so. For a moment the wounds did not close as fast, and Ridmark went into a frenzy, hacking at its neck in an effort to sever its head before the creature recovered.

But the drake snapped its head around, and the side of its neck slammed into Ridmark’s chest. He fell backwards, and only just managed to roll to the side before the drake’s claws raked at the ground. Calliande’s magic was powerful, but not strong enough to destroy the necromancy binding the monster. Coriolus must have infused his most powerful spells upon the drake.

Ridmark’s eyes went to the metal rings around the drake’s legs, and the collar behind its head. Kharlacht had severed the beast’s head, but Coriolus had reattached it with that collar.

So what would happened if someone took off the collar?

It was time to find out.

Ridmark sprinted forward, and the drake bellowed and opened its mouth, spraying flames as it whipped its head back and forth. The blast caught two of the dvargir and threw them back, their armor smoldering as it fought to hold back the flame. Calliande responded with another blast of white fire. The creature reared back with a scream of pain, stumbling as Calliande’s magic fought against the necromantic sorcery binding its undead flesh.

Ridmark flung himself upon the creature’s back, catching one of the bony spines with his left hand. He heaved himself forward, driving the axe into thin gap between the collar and the drake’s head. The orcish blade sank deep, and the drake threw back its head and screamed. Ridmark ripped the axe free as the drake heaved and drove it down once more.

The drake’s head struck the ground and bounced away, black slime and flame spurting from the stump of its neck. The body snapped like a bowstring, and Ridmark fell from its back, the axe tumbling from his hand. He rolled away to avoid the blurring lash of the drake’s tail, and saw the iron collar fall from the bloody stump.

A blast of white flame drilled from Calliande’s hand and struck the collar. It writhed and twisted like a leaf thrown into a bonfire, and then crumbled into ash.

The drake’s headless corpse twitched once and went motionless.

Ridmark staggered to his feet as Calliande ran toward him.

“Are you all right?” she said, grabbing his arm.

“Splendid,” said Ridmark, coughing. The stench of the drake’s blood, hot metal mixed with rotting flesh, filled his nostrils. “Never better.”

“I wish we didn’t have to kill that thing twice,” said Kharlacht.

“A fierce beast,” said Kzargar, looking at the carcass. “Why did you kill it twice?”

“It attacked us in the marshes, maddened by Coriolus’s undead,” said Ridmark, “and it appears Coriolus thought to turn it into his champion.”

“You have wounded,” said Calliande, looking at the injured dvargir. Some had taken slashes from the undead drake’s talons, and others had been burned. “Let me heal them. I…”

“No!” said Kzargar, the Dzark’s voice hardening. “You will not touch us with your corrupt magic.”

“Corrupt?” said Calliande. “That…”

“No,” said Ridmark. “If the Dzark doesn’t want your help, fine. There will be more than enough need for your magic in the next few moments.”

Calliande nodded and took a deep breath. “Very well.”

“Come,” said Ridmark to Kzargar. “Let us finish this.”

He looked at the glowing crest of the hill. Because they would finish this in the next few moments.

Either Coriolus would die…or he would kill them all and take Morigna’s body.

###

“It didn’t work,” said Jonas, a whine of fear in his voice. “It didn’t work! What are we going to do?”

The flicker of hope in Morigna’s breast grew brighter. Ridmark had defeated the undead? Could he yet free her from the altar and end this?

The Old Man stepped into her sight, and her hope faded.

“Why have you not paid heed to the teaching of the Enlightened?” said Coriolus, his voice dripping with amusement. “Strength is only demonstrated through struggle. And I shall demonstrate my strength when I crush the Gray Knight and the Magistria.”

“I thought you said she had regained her memory,” said Jonas.

“She didn’t,” said Coriolus, his confidence plain. “Otherwise we would already be dead. Now, watch, fool – and you shall see power.”

Green fire blazed around his hands, and his shadow grew longer and black, rotating around him like the shadow of a sundial.

Jonas stepped back in shock. “How…how you are doing that? You’re not one of the Enlightened, but those are the powers of an Initiated of the Fifth Circle…”

Coriolus laughed. “I learned these powers before the Enlightened even came into being, from Shadowbearer himself! Calliande could not defeat my native magic. When I call upon the shadow, I shall crush them utterly.”

Morigna strained against her bonds. She had to break free, had to find a way to help Ridmark and the others.

But she could not move, and Coriolus summoned death in his hands.

Chapter 22 - Eternity

Ridmark stopped at the edge of the outer circle.

Fingers of ghostly green light crawled up and down the black menhirs, outlining the grotesque carvings. The air here was even colder, and a malignant presence seemed to radiate from the standing stones. Within the circle stood another, smaller ring of menhirs, also ablaze with green fire. A low mound rose within the ring, topped by a few more standing stones and an altar of black stone.

Morigna lay naked upon the altar, bound wrist and ankle. Lines of crimson sigils had been painted up and down her legs and arms, stark against her pale skin. Her head turned, and her black eyes widened as they saw Ridmark. In that moment, he was unable to look away from her.

Guilt flickered through him as he thought of Aelia and, oddly, Calliande. Ridmark pushed the thought out of his mind.

The very real possibility that they all were about to die made it easy to do so.

He watched as Coriolus strode to the edge of the inner circle. The Eternalist still wore his ragged, long coat, his watery eyes serene in his lined face. Jonas walked at his side, and the Initiated of the Second Circle looked anything but calm. His sword rested in his right hand, shadows swirling around the blade, his face a study in feral rage.

For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

“Tell me,” said Coriolus at last. “How did you break my trap?”

“The shoddy workmanship, of course,” said Ridmark.

“No,” said Coriolus. “The trap was perfect. How did you get out of it?”

Ridmark shrugged. “I could not say.” That was truthful enough.

“Likely not,” said Coriolus. “Did the dvargir release you? The miserable traitors. I know you are there, Kzargar. Do not think to hide from me in the shadows.”

Columns of darkness swirled at the edge of the outer circle, and Kzargar and his remaining warriors appeared.

“You miserable traitors,” said Coriolus. “You dare to defy the will of Shadowbearer? You will pay. You…”

“The will of the great prophet,” said Kzargar, “is that the empty soulstone come into his grasp.” Ridmark tightened his grip upon his staff. “The prophet cares nothing for you or your wretched life, and you were foolish enough to betray us. You promised payment, worm, and you dared to cheat us!”

“You blind, miserly fool,” said Coriolus. “The world is about to change, and you whine about gold? Stop wearying my ears with your nonsense! You want gold? There is a chest of it hidden beneath the hearth of my cottage. Go and claim it, and bother me no more.”

“Indeed?” said Kzargar. “I have a better idea, traitor. We will kill you and climb over your corpse to claim the gold and the soulstone. Then I shall keep your ugly head as a warning to those who cross the dvargir…”

“Idiot,” said Coriolus. “The Frostborn are returning and the new order comes, and you haggle over a few coins?”

“This is the pride of the dvargir!” said Kzargar. “You dare to insult us! Then you will suffer for it! You shall…”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Coriolus, his bloodshot eyes turning back to Ridmark. “I will give you one chance, Gray Knight. Turn around and leave. Or stay and die alongside these dvargir fools.”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Release Morigna, and return the soulstone to us.”

Coriolus laughed. “And you think I would do either? She is the next step on the path to my immortality, and…”

“You’re not immortal,” said Calliande, her quiet voice cutting into his tirade.

He glared at her. “I have lived as long as you have, Calliande of Tarlion, and I shall live on long after you are dead.”

“Maybe you will,” said Calliande. “Maybe you’ll live for another thousand years. But it doesn’t matter. It will never be enough. You can live for ten thousand years, but you only need to die once. And you’ll always be afraid of it. You’ll always know that it will only take one mistake, one error, to turn you from an immortal to a corpse.” She smiled at him. “Maybe even something as simple and foolish as refusing to pay the dvargir out of sheer spite.”

“I will kill the others,” said Coriolus, his voice soft. “You, I will keep alive, just so I can see that icy pride melt when I present you to Shadowbearer.”

“Enough talk!” said Kzargar. “If you are going to kill us, stop talking and do it, you preening fool.”

“As you wish,” said Coriolus. The Eternalist flung out his hands, and Jonas charged.

Darkness erupted from the earth within the circle.

###

Morigna strained against her bonds, cursing her helplessness.

A score of wraiths rose from the earth at Coriolus’s command, images of black smoke and eerie blue light. They looked as if they had once been orcish shamans, their heads shaved, their chests and faces and arms adorned with bronze rings and elaborate tattoos. Coriolus gestured again, and the wraiths attacked the dvargir and Ridmark and the others.

She wondered how Ridmark had managed to talk the dvargir into fighting Coriolus.

The Dzark and his warriors bellowed cries in their native tongue and attacked the wraiths, their weapons bleeding darkness. Kharlacht and Gavin and Caius charged with them, fighting alongside the black-armored shapes, and Morigna lost sight of Ridmark in the mayhem. Brilliant white light flared around Calliande as she began casting spells.

But Coriolus began another spell of his own, darkness and green flame dancing around him, and Morigna felt power of the Old Man’s magic.

She fought against the ropes, cursing herself for her weakness. Bound to a mad sorcerer’s altar, and waiting for a knight to save her! She was like the insipid heroines in the sort of songs that an oaf like Gavin would enjoy.

But Ridmark needed her help, and Morigna tested both her ropes and the spell inhibiting her magic, seeking for any weaknesses.

But there were none.

###

Calliande drew upon the magic of the Well, filling herself with as much power as she could hold.

She would need every bit of it.

Coriolus was not as strong as Agrimnalazur, nor as potent as Shadowbearer. But he was still strong, and he could wield the magic of the Well alongside dark magic and the earth magic Morigna used. Worse, he was skilled and experienced. Summoning that many wraiths would be a strain on any necromancer, yet Coriolus still had enough power left to direct an attack her way.

If she made a single mistake, he would crush her.

Calliande cast a spell, imbuing the weapons of her friends with magic to oppose the wraiths, and Coriolus attacked.

A gout of pale blue flame raked from one hand, a spell to suck away her life and leave her a withered, crumbling corpse. Calliande blocked the attack with a ward, an aura of white light shuddering and sparking around her. Coriolus followed with a burst of shadow similar to the one Jonas had used, one to disrupt her concentration and leech away her magic. But she knew how to turn aside the spell, and poured more power into her ward, head ringing with the effort of it.

She struck back with a lash of white flame that attacked the shadows swirling around the Old Man, the magic of the Well straining against the power of the void. Coriolus hissed and staggered back, his gray coat billowing around him. Yet the power of his dark magic held against her assault, even with his concentration divided in so many different directions.

He struck her again, a combined barrage of blue flame and writhing shadows, and it took all of Calliande’s concentration to hold her wards in place. She stumbled, caught her balance, and gathered more power.

From the corner of her eye she saw another flicker of shadow.

Jonas Vorinus stood next to one of the menhirs, hand raised as shadows gathered in his palm. He was about to repeat the attack he had used against her before, the lance of shadow to break her control and disrupt her magic. If both Coriolus and Jonas struck her at the same time, she doubted she could withstand their attacks.

Jonas gestured at her, and then a gray blur shot between her and at the Initiated of Incariel.

###

Ridmark drove his glowing staff for Jonas’s head, intending to land a killing blow.

He almost did. At the last moment Jonas jerked back, and the staff’s edge clipped his right temple. Jonas stumbled with a bellowed curse, and Ridmark reversed his weapon and jabbed, but Jonas ducked behind the nearest menhir. Ridmark’s staff bounced off the standing stone, and the weapon grew hot in his hand as Calliande’s magic struggled against the menhir’s dark power.

He stalked after Jonas as the younger man caught his balance. Around them chaos reigned as the screaming dvargir threw themselves at the wraiths. Kharlacht and Caius fought in their midst, striking with mace and sword. Ridmark had lost sight of Gavin, and hoped that the boy was safe. Calliande held Coriolus’s full attention, the Magistria and the Eternalist hurling spells at each other, the air between them crackling and snarling with magical power. With Coriolus focused upon Calliande, perhaps Ridmark could get close enough to land a surprise blow.

But first he had to keep Jonas from interfering with Calliande.

“Come, Sir Jonas,” said Ridmark, lifting his staff as Jonas retreated. “Shall we not settle this?”

“Do not think to challenge me,” said Jonas. “I am a knight, and you are a ragged vagabond with a coward’s brand! I am an Initiated of the Enlightened of Incariel, and you are nothing. Nothing!”

“Then,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff, “it should be all the easier to kill me, should it not?”

Jonas screamed in fury, and shadows boiled from his hands. They wrapped around him like a translucent second skin, sinking barbed veins into his flesh. His screams turned to ones of pain, and Ridmark seized the opening to strike.

But Jonas’s sword snapped up, moving inhumanly fast, and blocked Ridmark’s swing. Ridmark stepped back to prepare another blow, but Jonas went on the attack, moving with greater speed and power.

The shadows, it seemed, had given him strength.

###

Calliande gritted her teeth as a torrent of shadow rippled around her. At last the attack ended, and she struck back with a lance of white fire. Coriolus crossed his arms before his chest, and the darkness hardened around him, his magic blunting the force of Calliande’s attack. His ward winked out, and the Old Man began another spell of his own. Yet he looked exhausted, his face gray, his hands trembling. The battle had taken its toll on even his strength. For that matter, the effort of preparing the spell to possess Morigna must have been immense. Yet Calliande was just as exhausted. The last few days had been draining, and the battle with the Eternalist was a tremendous strain. Sooner or later her strength would falter. Yet she dared not weaken her wards, and she dared not release the spell upon the weapons of her friends. Without aid, the wraiths would overwhelm the dvargir, and then Coriolus would kill them all.

So she kept fighting, trying to summon power through the exhaustion.

###

Jonas swung, and Ridmark raised his staff in a high parry.

It almost ended his life.

The thick wood of the staff blocked the sword, but the shadowy halo had augmented Jonas’s strength to superhuman levels. The sheer power of the blow forced Ridmark’s legs to buckle, and he landed on his knees before Jonas. The Initiated howled with glee and raised his sword, and Ridmark threw himself to the side. The steel blade slammed into the earth, and Ridmark scrambled to his feet. Jonas kept after him with inhuman speed, the sword weaving a blur before him.

“Do you see the power of Incariel?” screamed Jonas. “I am the strongest! Lie down and die!”

Ridmark backed away as the melee raged around him. The dvargir and his friends struggled against the wraiths, while Calliande and Coriolus flung blasts of power at each other. The Eternalist seemed stronger, and the fury of his attacks were wearing down Calliande bit by bit. If she did not receive some assistance soon, Coriolus was going to kill her.

But the wraiths occupied the others, and Jonas pursued Ridmark with fury.

Jonas struck, the shadow lending his limbs inhuman speed, and Ridmark barely stayed ahead of the blows.

###

Morigna tried to test the spell binding her magic, watching the furious battle as she did so.

Jonas Vorinus dueled Ridmark, his shadow-wreathed sword and Ridmark’s glowing staff a blur of light and darkness. Blue and white fire snapped back and forth between Calliande and the Old Man, the air burning with the fury of their magic. The wraiths swarmed around the dvargir, and Morigna saw Kharlacht’s greatsword rising and falling in mighty sweeps.

The Old Man had to be vulnerable with all his power focused upon Calliande.

Yet Morigna was bound here like a goat trussed for slaughter.

She cursed in fury, and a dark shadow fell over her. A shadow in mail, a shield upon his left arm and a heavy orcish sword in his right…

A shadow with curly brown hair and wide brown eyes.

“Gavin?” said Morigna.

“Yes,” said Gavin, his eyes desperately turning back and forth as he tried not to look at her. She wondered what was wrong, and then remembered that she had no clothes. “The Gray Knight said to cut you loose, and…”

“Then stop talking and cut me loose!” said Morigna.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Gavin. He lifted his sword, and she started to admonish him to take care. But his flustered state had not affected his hands, and in four quick slashes he cut the ropes holding her to the altar. Morigna pushed away from the altar and got to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs with elation and terror.

And as she did, she smudged the sigils the Old Man had drawn upon her forehead and jaw. The spell blocking her magic wavered and died, and once more she felt the power of the earth beneath her feet.

“Gavin,” said Morigna, glaring at the Old Man.

“Aye?” said Gavin. He had forgotten about her already, and was watching the battle.

“Thank you,” said Morigna.

He nodded.

“Can you keep the wraiths away from me?” she said.

“I think so,” said Gavin.

“Then,” said Morigna, “I have a score to settle with the Old Man.”

She started forward, and Gavin raised his shield and followed her.

###

Ridmark dodged another blow, then another.

And in Jonas’s fury he saw a weakness.

Jonas could use his shadow magic to make himself stronger and faster, but he could not use it to improve his skill with the sword. Ridmark had dueled with the master swordsmen of the High King’s court in Tarlion, had studied under the finest blademasters his father’s gold could hire, and had fought and learned in the Northerland, facing pagan orcs and kobold raids and dvargir attacks.

And he had even sparred against Tarrabus Carhaine and come out on top about half the time, and Tarrabus was the best swordsman Ridmark had ever seen.

Jonas did not even come close.

But he was much faster and stronger than Tarrabus. Ridmark’s hands and arms ached and throbbed from the effort of deflecting Jonas’s strikes, and his breath came hard and fast. Jonas was not even winded, his shadowy shell driving him forward with terrific speed. But he had fallen into a pattern with his attacks, repeating the same series of thrusts and swings over and over.

It was sloppy. As a younger man, Ridmark would have been embarrassed to have been hard-pressed by such a poor swordsman. Of course, as a younger man, he could have used Heartwarden’s magic to make himself stronger and faster.

But now all he had was his staff.

Jonas repeated his attack, and Ridmark saw the opening. He thrust, and Jonas easily avoided the blow, laughing. He dodged exactly as Ridmark expected, putting his feet where Ridmark knew he would place them.

And as he did, Ridmark sidestepped, sweeping his staff around with all his strength. Jonas’s sword plunged past his shoulder, but Ridmark’s staff slammed into Jonas's right knee. Ridmark heard the hideous crack of snapping bone and tearing muscle, and Jonas screamed in agony. Ridmark jabbed his staff at Jonas’s face, and the knight reacted on instinct, stepping back.

Putting all his weight upon his damaged knee.

Jonas screamed again, his right leg buckling, and Ridmark brought his staff around once more.

It struck the crown of Jonas Vorinus’s head with another hideous crack.

All Ridmark had was his staff, but that was more than enough. As he had learned long ago, a skilled man with a staff could defeat a man with a sword.

Even a swordsman aided by dark magic.

Jonas slumped dead to the ground, blood pouring from his ears and nose, and the shadows around him vanished.

Ridmark raised his staff, preparing to force his way through the wraiths and attack Coriolus.

But there was no need. All the wraiths had been destroyed. Kzargar and four of the dvargir were still on their feet, darkness swirling around the blades of their weapons. Kharlacht and Caius stood side by side, weapons ready, while white light burned around Calliande. Ridmark looked for Gavin, and found him walking from the altar mound, his sword and shield ready.

Morigna followed him, her black hair loose and ragged around her shoulders, her pale limbs and torso marked with elaborate crimson sigils. She looked wild and fierce, and for a strange instant Ridmark could not look away from her. She looked back, and something electric seemed to pass between them.

But more urgent matters forced him to look away.

For Coriolus stood surrounded in the ring of his foes. Shadow and fire crackled around the hands of the Eternalist, his fingers hooked into claws, his lips curled into a sneer. Morigna looked fiercely beautiful, but Coriolus looked enraged, like a rabid bear brought to heel by a pack of hunting hounds.

“It’s over,” said Ridmark.

“Do you think so, gray vagabond?” said Coriolus.

“Lie down and die with dignity,” said Kzargar, raising his sword. “Do not think to grovel.”

“And what of you, my dear Morigna?” said Coriolus. “I raised you, and you turn on me now? Ungrateful, ungrateful child…”

“Shut up,” said Morigna. Ridmark would have expected rage, but her voice was low and cold and deadly. “I have had a lifetime to listen to your poisoned words. In fact, we both have.”

“And why is that?” said Coriolus.

“Because your lifetime,” said Morigna, “is about to end.”

“Oh, is it?” said Coriolus. “Is that what you think is about to happen?”

Despite his vast magical power, Coriolus could not prevail against all of them. He would kill several of them, certainly, but in the end he would be overwhelmed and defeated.

“You cannot win, Coriolus,” said Calliande.

“Let me guess,” said Coriolus, smiling. “You will kill me, eh? Perhaps darling little Morigna will rip off my head in vengeance for her brutish parents. And then you’ll stride over my corpse and retake Shadowbearer’s prize.” He reached into his coat and withdrew the leather pouch holding the soulstone. “Let me spare you the trouble. Go ahead, take it.”

He tossed the pouch, and Calliande caught it.

“If you think to escape while we fight over the soulstone,” said Kzargar, “do not trouble yourself. We will kill you, and then we will kill the Gray Knight and claim the soulstone from his companions.”

“Actually,” said Coriolus, “neither of those things will happen. First I will kill you all. Save for you, dear Morigna. You were raised as a fattened calf, and you shall meet your fate. And then, when I wear your flesh as mine, I shall stride over your corpses, take the soulstone, and present it to Shadowbearer myself. What do you think of this plan, hmm?”

“You shall not live,” said Morigna, the cords in her neck and arms standing out as she flexed her hands, purple flames curling around her fingers, “to see this plan come to fruition.”

“Are you so sure of that?” said Coriolus. His shadow started rotating around him, darker and faster. “Did Jonas’s little tricks disturb you? The little fooleries of an Initiated of the Second Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel?”

“Jonas is dead,” said Ridmark. Perhaps he ought to strike before Coriolus could finish his spell. Coriolus would strike him down, but Calliande and Morigna could unleash their magic while he was distracted. “I doubt yours will serve much better.”

“Mine,” said Coriolus, “are not tricks. I understand the great void, Ridmark of the Arbanii and Calliande of the Magistri. Jonas learned what he knew from another fool like himself. I learned the truth of the great void from Shadowbearer.”

“And that truth, Old Man?” said Morigna. “What truth is that?”

“That the darkness allows us to transcend our limitations,” said Coriolus, “to ascend beyond them.”

Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again. On the mound behind Coriolus, seven menhirs stood around the altar.

There had been only six a moment earlier.

And the new menhir was gray, the same gray as a trolldomr’s skin.

Rjalfur had come.

Would the trolldomr interfere in the battle? Or would he simply observe and ponder, much as he had all those centuries ago when the missionary had perished in the orcish village?

Ridmark didn’t know, but he suspected that he was about to find out.

“And what limitations are those, Old Man?” said Morigna, her white teeth bared in a snarl in her painted face. Ridmark’s tutors had told him that the ancient Celts of Old Earth had gone into battle naked to show their courage, painting their bodies with elaborate designs. In that moment, Morigna reminded Ridmark of that ancient tale. “The folly of your feeble wits?”

Coriolus laughed, long and loud. “Observe, then.”

His shadow swirled around him once more, and then seemed to shrink into him.

“Stop him!” shouted Calliande. “He’s going to…”

And as she spoke, Coriolus changed.

He swelled in size, in an instant standing twice the height of a man, and then thrice. His pale skin hardened and darkened, and soon a carapace of gleaming, razor-edged obsidian covered him from head to toe. Extra limbs sprouted from his sides, their length covered in cutting edges. Three heads erupted from his neck, each one looking like a ghastly mixture of insect and squid, barbed tentacles lashing back and forth. Yet his human face remained embedded in the center of his chest, mouth open in a combination of a laugh and a scream. Great black wings of shadow sprouted from his side.

It was perhaps the single most ghastly creature Ridmark had ever seen. The urdhracos he had fought in Urd Morlemoch had been deadly, and Gothalinzur and Agrimnalazur had both been terrifying. Yet all three had possessed a peculiar beauty, alien and terrifying and lethal, but beauty nonetheless. The thing that Coriolus had become was utterly hideous, an abomination to the eyes.

But Ridmark was sure it was no less deadly than the urdmordar.

“Behold!” all three of the alien heads shrieked in buzzing, grating unison. “Behold the might of the darkness!”

“Impossible,” breathed Kzargar, taking a step back. “You cannot take the form of a Great Herald of the Void. You cannot!”

The human face embedded in the creature’s chest grinned, and the alien heads rotated to look down at Kzargar.

“You should have run,” thundered Coriolus, “when you had the chance!”

He moved forward in a blur of darkness and shadow. Calliande and Morigna both flung spells at the creature, and Ridmark struck with his staff, but Coriolus barely seemed to notice.

Kzargar bellowed and attacked, but Coriolus struck first. His clawed limbs wrapped around Kzargar, and a moment later bloody pieces of the Dzark fell to the earth. Kzargar’s head tumbled free from his skull-masked helmet and rolled away, his black eyes glaring up at the night sky. The other dvargir attacked Coriolus, but he moved through them in a blur, his arms sweeping like a farmer’s scythe.

A few heartbeats later, the remaining dvargir were dead.

“Now!” boomed Coriolus, turning towards Morigna. “Let us…”

Ridmark charged to attack, and struck his staff against Coriolus’s left leg. The white light of Calliande’s magic flared brighter around the weapon, and the hulking creature hissed in sudden fury. Little wonder the dvargir had not been able to stand against Coriolus. The same shadow magic that infused their weapons also empowered Coriolus, and fire could not fight fire. But Calliande’s magic, the magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart, was opposed to the darkness of the void.

Coriolus spun, snarling in fury, and Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin rushed into the fray. Kharlacht’s greatsword carved a deep gash into Coriolus’s armored carapace, the orc’s black eyes flaring red with battle fury. A hammer blow from Caius’s mace cracked against Coriolus’s side, while a swing of Gavin’s sword severed some of the clawed fingers.

Yet Coriolus spun again, and one of his armored legs slammed into Ridmark and threw him to the ground.

He rolled away from a slash of black claws...and as he did, an idea came to him.

###

Calliande struck at Coriolus again and again, the white fire drilling into the hideous thing that the Old Man had become. Every blast caused the creature pain, the armored carapace crackling and sizzling in the fury of her magic, the aura of shadow around him flickering and writhing.

But none of it did him lasting harm. The shadows swirled around him, growing thicker and darker, and the wounds carved into his armored exoskeleton shrank and closed. Kharlacht had cut off one of his arms, but a new one, wet and shining, forced its way free from his flesh.

Her wards had turned aside Jonas’s attack, and she knew how to hurt Coriolus.

But Calliande lacked the power to kill him. Her magic was not strong enough, and her magic was the only weapon they had that could wound the transformed Eternalist. If one of them had carried a Soulblade, the power of the enchanted weapon would have been enough to kill Coriolus.

But they had only Calliande’s magic, and her strength was starting to fail. The effort of maintaining the spell upon the weapons had grown, and she felt a stabbing pain behind her eyes. She could not maintain this pace for much longer.

And even her full strength had not been enough to defeat Coriolus.

She forced herself to summon more magic, trying to think of a way to stop him.

But no ideas came.

###

Morigna flung her full strength at Coriolus, a wave of acidic mist washing over him. The gleaming black plates of his carapace sizzled and crackled, and he screamed in fury, all three of his heads shrieking metallic cries. Kharlacht and Caius and Gavin swarmed beneath the misshapen creature’s legs, hacking and stabbing and swinging.

But creature’s wounds healed as fast as they could deal them, and not even Kharlacht’s heavy sword dealt lasting injuries.

Coriolus was going to kill them all.

Morigna felt herself snarl, her fear replaced by fury. She would not give him the chance to take her flesh, she vowed. She would force him to kill her. He might have murdered her mother and father, might have blighted her entire life with his deceptions. But he would not live on through her body. Let him find another host.

She drew herself up, preparing to fling herself at the creature and attack it with her bare hands, magic crackling around her fists…

Then Ridmark darted around Coriolus and ran to her side.

“Come with me,” he said, “now.”

“What?” said Morigna. “Why…”

“He wants you,” said Ridmark. “Killing us is only secondary. But if he wants you, he’ll have to chase you. Run!”

He pushed her forward, and Morigna had no choice but to run. They raced into the inner circle and up the grassy mound, past the menhirs, and back to the altar. Morigna’s skin crawled with revulsion at the sight of the thing, at the golden chalice Coriolus had intended to hold her blood.

She heard the furious roar, felt the weight of his gaze as Coriolus realized what had happened.

“Get behind the altar,” said Ridmark.

“Why?” said Morigna. “It…”

“Do it!” he said, his voice iron, and she moved behind the altar before she knew what had happened. Ridmark sprang atop the altar, staff and orcish axe in hand, the gray cloak billowing behind him.

“Coriolus!” he shouted. “Coriolus, you cowardly rat! Come here!”

All three of the alien heads rotated to face him, and the creature raced up the mound.

###

Ridmark made himself stand motionless, his expression contemptuous. Every instinct screamed for him to attack the misshapen horror racing up the hill, or to run and flee until his heart burst.

He wondered if Coriolus would hesitate, or if the creature would simply kill him.

But Coriolus hesitated. The Old Man had not survived for all these centuries by taking foolish risks, and Ridmark’s actions implied confidence. The creature stopped at the edge of the mound, towering over the altar and Ridmark like a pillar of shadow and talons.

“It’s over, Coriolus,” said Ridmark.

“Oh?” boomed the creature. The human face embedded in the Eternalist’s chest grinned like a madman. “Is it?”

“It is,” said Ridmark. “I defeated Agrimnalazur. I slew Gothalinzur. I went to Urd Morlemoch and returned, and defeated the Mhalekites in the shadow of the Black Mountain.”

The others scrambled up the mound, ready to attack, but Ridmark waved them away. He saw the exhausted tension on Calliande’s face, the battle fury on Kharlacht’s. If this went wrong, hopefully they could get away.

“Did you indeed?” said Coriolus. He circled the altar, the ground shaking beneath his clawed feet. Ridmark turned to keep him in sight, sweat trickling down his back. “And why recite this litany to me, gray vagabond?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “you are next.”

Coriolus roared with laughter. “Am I? How will you slay me, fool? You have no magic that can kill me. A Soulblade could have slain me, but you are an exile and an outcast.”

“This is true,” said Ridmark.

“And you, Morigna,” said Coriolus, one of his heads pivoting to look at her. “Hiding behind the stone like a little child? Do you think to beg?”

Morigna glared up at him. “I will cut my own throat before I let you touch me again!”

“Actually, there is no need for you to kill yourself,” said Ridmark. He eyed Coriolus. Just a little farther… “Coriolus will never touch you again.”

“And why is that, hmm?” said Coriolus, circling the altar once more. A hint of impatience had entered his tone. Perhaps he had realized that Ridmark was bluffing. “Because you will slay me?”

“Yes,” said Ridmark, watching as Coriolus took another few steps, moving with deadly, serpentine grace despite his armored bulk.

A gloating note entered the inhuman voice. “And how will you do that?”

“Because,” said Ridmark, “I know something you don’t.”

The others stared at him. He saw their tension, their confusion.

“And what,” hissed Coriolus, “is that?”

“The menhir at your right,” said Ridmark, “isn’t actually a menhir.”

One of Coriolus’s heads turned, while the other two gazed down at him.

Then all three snapped to the right.

“What?” roared Coriolus. “How did you…”

The gray menhir shifted, and resolved into the form of an ancient old man. Rjalfur’s golden eyes opened, and the trolldomr started to speak, but Coriolus acted first. His clawed arms came up, and shadows and blue flame erupted from his talons and exploded into Rjalfur with terrible force. A gale of hot wind swept over the standing circle, and Ridmark braced himself, cloak billowing around him.

The glare and the wind faded away, leaving Rjalfur untouched.

Coriolus backed away, his limbs twitching.

“You should not have attacked this one,” said Rjalfur, raising his stony hand.

Golden light washed over the hilltop, and Coriolus screamed. The darkness around him unraveled, shredding away like soap dissolving in water. Coriolus’s black-armored form shrank, and then he became a gaunt old man in a gray coat once more, trembling with fear and shock, hands raised in a warding spell.

Yet the golden light blazed over him, pinning him in place. Coriolus tried to move, but the golden light held him. He flung an attack of shadows at the trolldomr, but the golden light scattered it like dust.

“Why did you attack this one?” said Rjalfur.

“What did the Gray Knight promise you?” said Coriolus. “What do you want? I can pay you more, I have the ear of Shadowbearer himself, I…”

Rjalfur growled, and for the first time the trolldomr sounded angry. “Do not speak of the bearer of shadow! The Gray Knight gave this one nothing. He did not lift his hand against this one, as you did.”

“I…I…” Coriolus sputtered, staring at Rjalfur, and then glared at Ridmark. “He tricked me! He tricked me into attacking you. Strike against him, not me!”

“The Gray Knight only spoke the truth,” said Rjalfur. “Long has this one pondered the mystery of humankind. They are mortal and must die, yet some give away their lives freely, even joyfully. Why?”

“You dare not lift your hand against me!” said Coriolus. “You will earn the wroth of Shadowbearer! You…”

“And from you, this one at last understands,” said Rjalfur. “It is for love that they sacrifice their lives. Love for their kin, their God, their friends in arms.” The burning eyes of gold shifted to Ridmark. “It is why the Gray Knight risks himself again and again, for he believes himself unworthy of the love of his lost wife.”

Morigna and Calliande both looked at him, and Ridmark said nothing.

“Listen to me,” said Coriolus, “I can…”

“It was for love of him that the others followed the Gray Knights,” said the trolldomr, ignoring Coriolus’s frantic pleas, “and this one understands you well, disciple of the bearer of shadow. There is no love in you, save for yourself.”

“Let me go,” said Coriolus, “and I will trouble you no further. I will not lift my hand against you, I…”

“This one will let you go,” said Rjalfur, “for the trolldomr do not kill. But you have done terrible evil, Coriolus of the Eternalists. You have used dark magic, and twisted yourself and others. There is no love in your mind, and your heart is blighted. You will not repent, even after this one could have slain you, and you will continue your wicked course until you are at last stopped.”

A crafty look came over Coriolus’s face. “But you will let me go?” The fear started to fade, and he grinned at Morigna.

“This one will,” said Rjalfur. “But you lifted your hand against this one. The trolldomr only fight in self-defense. Therefore this one shall undo the magic you have worked, the crimes you have committed against the song of the earth. All of them.”

A surprised hiss went through Morigna’s teeth.

“Very well,” said Coriolus, still smiling. “I accept. You…”

And then he understood, and his eyes went wide with terror.

“No,” he said, “no, no! Stop! Stop! Stop…”

Rjalfur closed his fist, and the sheet of golden light tightened into a blazing shaft that pierced the Old Man’s chest.

Coriolus screamed as his spells were unraveled, his wards collapsed.

Including the spell that bound his spirit to his stolen body.

He was already old, but he aged before Ridmark’s eyes, fifty years passing in a heartbeat, another fifty a moment after that. The golden light winked out, and Coriolus looked impossibly ancient, his body nothing more than rags of skin draped over bone, a few wisps of hair still clinging to his wrinkled scalp.

He turned toward Morigna, his eyes filled with horror, and took one staggering step.

Then he collapsed onto his back and did not move again, his unblinking eyes gazing at the moons of the night sky.

The green fire of the menhirs faded away, and darkness fell over the hilltop at last.

“You killed him,” whispered Morigna, gazing at the withered corpse.

“This one did not,” said Rjalfur. “This one merely unraveled the damage he had caused with his dark magic. Some of that damage had extended his life to unnatural length.” The trolldomr paused. “It would have been better for him if he had died long ago, before he could darken his soul with so many crimes.”

“Yes,” said Morigna, “yes, it would have.”

“You should learn from his fate, child of dark magic,” said Rjalfur. “It could yet be yours.”

Morigna scowled, but said nothing.

“Thank you for your aid once again,” said Ridmark. “Without it, he would have killed us all.”

“Perhaps he was right,” said Rjalfur, “and you did trick this one into aiding you.”

Ridmark shrugged. “I spoke no word that was untrue. And had he left you alone, you would not have intervened.”

But Ridmark had been fairly sure that Coriolus would panic and attack the trolldomr.

And he had been right. It had been a hideous gamble…but he had been right once again.

“This is so,” said Rjalfur. “He was the author of his own destruction. Thank you, Gray Knight. You have given this one much to think on.”

The trolldomr turned and vanished back into the ground.

Ridmark let out a long breath and turned to the others.

“It seems,” said Caius, lowering his mace, “that the Lord has seen fit to grant us victory once again.”

“You have the soulstone?” said Ridmark.

Calliande nodded. “Here.” She patted the pouch at her belt. “I cannot believe he simply threw it at me.”

“As the Gray Knight said,” rumbled Kharlacht. “The wizard’s arrogance was his undoing.”

“That was good work,” said Ridmark to Gavin, “untying her.”

Gavin shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. And you did tell us to free her if we could.”

“We should to return to Moraime now,” said Ridmark. “Abbot Ulakhur and Sir Michael will want to know that the undead have been defeated and the farmers can return to their fields.”

“In the morning,” said Caius. “It has been a long and trying day, and some rest would be welcome.”

“Just not here,” said Gavin, glancing at the menhirs.

“Agreed,” said Calliande, turning toward Morigna. “But we should find your clothes first.”

But Morigna had already vanished.

Chapter 23 - Omens

“He died when the trolldomr broke his spell,” said Ridmark.

Old Abbot Ulakhur shook his head, his tusks jutting from his white beard like daggers rising from a fall of snow. “An astonishing tale.”

“I would scare believe it myself,” said Sir Michael, his voice heavy with grief, “if I had not seen the undead for myself. And it explains much of Jonas’s…erratic behavior these last few months.”

They had reached Moraime by afternoon, and had gone at once to the monastery of St. Cassian. The brothers had escorted them to the abbot’s austere study, and there Ulakhur and Michael Vorinus had listened as Ridmark had told them the tale of their fights, with occasional comments from Calliande and the others.

“It was all about us,” said Ridmark. “The Old Man was sworn to Shadowbearer, and Shadowbearer wanted Calliande dead for escaping his grasp in the past. The undead were raised to draw me in, and the Old Man prepared his trap for us.”

“A wicked plan,” said Ulakhur. “Several innocent men and women of Moraime died in the attacks of the undead, and a half-dozen brothers when the undead burst from the crypts below the monastery.”

“It is our fault,” said Ridmark. “I fear that we brought this evil upon you.”

“No,” said Michael with some heat, his face angry and flushed behind his beard. “No, it is not. You knew nothing of your peril, and you came to our aid without asking reward, a fact both the Old Man and my wretched brother knew to exploit. The blame is my brother's. He lied to us for years, all while he was plotting with that old sorcerer in the hills and worshipping that demon Intar…Instar…”

“Incariel,” said Calliande, voice quiet.

“Yes, that…that thing,” said Michael. “My own brother, worshipping that demon in the shadow of our monastery.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Lying to our faces for all those years…God, it makes me furious!”

“Remember, praefectus,” said Ulakhur. “Wrath is a sin, and I fear Sir Jonas faces judgment from authority higher than our own.”

“Indeed,” said Michael. “But those ‘merchants’ he brought up from Coldinium…assassins of the Red Family? I thought they were but legend. Jonas brought those men to walk around our town, to sleep in our inn…” He sighed, paced back and forth a few times. “Shall we close our gates to all strangers?”

“I would not advise that,” said Calliande. “There are many honest men and women in Coldinium, I am sure. But I would exercise great vigilance. The Enlightened seem to be a power in the High King’s realm, and they may send men to learn of Sir Jonas’s fate. Best to be on your guard.”

“We know to do that, at least,” said Michael. “Our ancestors left the High King’s realm and the High King’s protection, so we know how to fend for ourselves. But Jonas and his hired murderers lurked right under our noses.”

“Then we shall have to be more vigilant,” said Ulakhur.

“Yes,” said Calliande, her voice distant. She had slept for centuries beneath the Tower of Vigilance, but the Order of the Vigilant had been destroyed long before she had awakened.

Their vigilance had not been enough.

“You have our thanks, Gray Knight,” said Ulakhur. “I assume you shall continue your journey to Urd Morlemoch?” Ridmark nodded. “Then we shall equip you with supplies and horses, whatever you need or require.”

“That would be most welcome,” said Ridmark. “It is a long way to Urd Morlemoch, and the supplies shall be useful.”

“You are of course welcome to stay here, all of you,” said Ulakhur, “for as long as you like. In truth, your aid would be welcome. But I doubt I can dissuade you.”

“I fear not, lord abbot,” said Ridmark. “My mind is set.”

“And we mad fools,” said Kharlacht, “will follow him.”

Ridmark looked at them, at Calliande and Caius and Kharlacht and Gavin, and felt a wave of gratitude. For love of him, Rjalfur had said, they followed him to Urd Morlemoch. He wished they wouldn’t, wished he had found a way to persuade them to stay behind.

But he was grateful for their presence nonetheless.

“So be it,” said Ulakhur. “I expect you will depart in the morning.”

Ridmark nodded. “After a good night’s rest.”

Michael grunted. “Lord abbot. There is one other matter to discuss.”

“Yes.” Ulakhur sighed. “The matter of the witch of the hills, the Old Man’s apprentice.”

“What of her?” said Ridmark.

“Do you know where she is?” said Ulakhur.

“No,” said Ridmark. “She fled as soon as Coriolus was slain.” He was not sure why. Perhaps the death of the Old Man had been too much for her, and she would vanish into the Wilderland, preferring a life far away from humans and orcs and dwarves or anyone else.

“Suspicious,” said Michael.

“You suspect her further?” said Calliande. “Most likely Coriolus arranged your brother’s death. He used that stone circle for his ritual, and it would not surprise me if he commanded the urvaalg to kill Sir Nathan.”

“No,” said Michael. “I fear I did her an injustice, but only in that. The Old Man was responsible for Nathan’s death, the cruel bastard.” He took a deep breath. “But from this day forward Morigna is forbidden from ever setting foot in Moraime again.”

“Why?” said Ridmark.

“She was hardly welcome before this,” said Calliande, a touch of anger in her voice. Ridmark had not expected Calliande to speak in Morigna’s defense.

“Indeed not,” said Ulakhur, “but I fear we must think of the town. She is dangerous.”

“She helped defeat Coriolus,” said Calliande.

“The Old Man trained her,” said Ulakhur. “Trained and shaped her from youth. To be a vessel to save his soul from its inevitable and well-deserved damnation, but a mirror image of himself nonetheless. To be blunt, I fear her, and I fear what she may yet become.”

“Does not the Dominus Christus forgive all who repent?” said Caius with a frown.

“He does,” said Ulakhur, “but I suspect Morigna will not repent.”

“It is your decision,” said Ridmark, though it annoyed him, “and we have no right to gainsay it.” Morigna had been deceived all her life, yet for all that she was brave, facing the undead and the dvargir both without flinching. She deserved more than this.

But perhaps she knew it had been inevitable. Perhaps she had gone off into the Wilderland to make a new life for herself elsewhere, free from the dark burden of her past.

Ridmark wished her well.

“So be it, then,” said Calliande, though Ridmark could tell she was not pleased.

“Very well,” said the abbot. “Please, join us in the hall tonight for dinner before you continue your journey.”

“We shall be glad of it,” said Ridmark, “but first we must warn you.”

“Of what?” said Michael. “The dvargir? Did the Old Man have another student?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “The Frostborn.”

Both the abbot and the praefectus looked at him in silence.

“They are returning,” said Ridmark. “I don’t know how yet. If I return from Urd Morlemoch, hopefully I can tell you more. But they are returning, and Moraime and the monastery of St. Cassian must be ready.”

“The Frostborn were destroyed,” said Michael, but there was doubt in his voice. “By the Dragon Knight and the Keeper of Avalon, two and a half centuries ago.”

“Once I would have agreed with you,” said Ridmark. “But I have seen too much. I have heard urdmordar speak of their return. The Warden himself was certain of it. And Coriolus said that they would return, that the Enlightened of Incariel are involved somehow, that a new order is rising and the Frostborn are the heralds of it.”

“Coriolus was a lair,” said Ulakhur.

“He was,” said Calliande, “but he acted as if the Frostborn were returning, my lord abbot.”

Ulakhur and Michael shared another look.

“You have persuaded me, Gray Knight,” said Ulakhur. “We shall be vigilant.” Calliande stirred at the word. “We shall keep watch for any sign, any sign at all, of the return of the Frostborn, and if we have news we will send it to you at once.”

“Thank you,” said Ridmark. He was glad they believed him. No one in the realm of Andomhaim had. “But do not send news to me. This is the one thing I ask of you, lord abbot, save for the supplies. If you learn of the Frostborn, send word to the realm of Andomhaim. To the Dux of the Northerland, Gareth of the House of the Licinii. Or to my father, Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand. They will both listen and prepare.”

“We shall,” said Ulakhur, “do as you ask, I swear it. Is there anything else you would ask of us?”

“Only,” said Ridmark, “a meal and a bed.”

###

That night Calliande returned alone to the women’s guest cottage and took a bath, enjoying the hot water as she scrubbed away the grime of their journey through the marshes and the Deeps.

She wondered what had happened to Morigna. Part of her was relieved the sorceress had departed. She was dangerous, and Calliande feared the effect she would have on Ridmark. He was prone to grim, fatalistic moods, to throwing his life away to atone for the death of his wife five years past. She could only imagine the effect Morigna would have upon him when he was in one of his dark moods.

Another part of her felt guilty over her relief. Morigna was prickly and unpleasant, but the Old Man had done that to her. Coriolus had indeed twisted her life, lying to her every day for over fourteen years. No one deserved that.

And a small part of her, a very small part, whispered that it was good Morigna had left, that she would not draw Ridmark’s attention away from Calliande…

She rebuked herself for the thought. For all Calliande knew, she had a husband sleeping below another ruin of the Order of the Vigilant. And Ridmark was mourning for his dead wife. If she walked up to him and kissed him this very night, she knew he would gently push her away and say something polite, all while his blue eyes took on the pained look they gained whenever he thought of Aelia.

Calliande shoved aside the tangle of emotions with disgust. The Frostborn were returning, and such maudlin ruminations were a wasteful luxury. She finished her bath and went to bed, sighing as she pulled the warm blankets close.

It might be a long time before she could sleep in a proper bed once more.

Calliande slept, and the Watcher appeared in the gray mist of her dreams.

“Watcher,” said Calliande.

The old man smiled at her. As ever, he looked tired and sad. But there was a gleam of something in his eye that had not seen there before.

Hope, maybe?

“You have done it again, Calliande,” said the Watcher. “Coriolus was one of the strongest Eternalists, and the list of his crimes would have filled many books. You did well to stand against him.”

“I thought,” said Calliande, “that you wanted me to stop interfering with the problems of others, to devote myself to finding Dragonfall.”

The Watcher shook his head. “I still wish that. But you are who you are, Calliande. You could no more turn aside from someone in need than a river could choose to flow uphill. And the Eternalists were a blight upon the realm, a precursor of the Enlightened of Incariel. To rid the world of Coriolus’s evil was a noble deed.”

“It was Ridmark’s victory, not mine,” said Calliande. “He talked the trolldomr into aiding us, and he fooled Coriolus into striking against Rjalfur.” They had survived by only the thinnest of threads, but once again Ridmark had snatched victory from certain defeat, just as he had done in Urd Arowyn against Agrimnalazur.

Just as he had done against Mhalek and his horde before Calliande had even met him.

“Perhaps,” said the Watcher, “but he could not have done it without you.”

“I suppose not,” said Calliande. “But if not for him, Vlazur would have killed me upon the Black Mountain. Or Shadowbearer’s kobolds would have slain me at the ford of the Moradel.”

“I would not have wished,” said the Watcher, “for your fate to have become entangled with such a man, but so be it.”

“Why?” said Calliande, growing angry. “Because of his coward’s brand? He does not deserve that and you know it.”

“Because he seeks death,” said the Watcher. “And he might bring you to your death as well. Freeing the villagers of Aranaeus and defeating Coriolus were noble deeds, yes, and you should not regret them. But if you are slain, there will be no one to stop the Frostborn from returning.”

Calliande made an exasperated noise. “Then just tell me where Dragonfall is already.”

The Watcher closed his eyes. “I cannot, because…”

“Because I forbade it of you, before I went into the long sleep below the Tower,” said Calliande. She thought for a moment. “Why?”

The Watcher blinked. “Mistress?”

“Why?” said Calliande. “Why did I forbid you to tell me of my past when I awoke? It was a foolish and stupid thing to do. Can I rescind my command?”

“Not until you find Dragonfall and claim your staff,” said the Watcher.

“A stupid plan,” said Calliande, rubbing her forehead. “But…I must have thought that when I woke up, the Order of the Vigilant would still be there. I thought someone would be there to tell me what to do, where to go, how to find Dragonfall and my staff.” She looked back at the Watcher. “But the war of the Pendragon princes burned the Tower…and you told me that Shadowbearer instigated that war.”

The Watcher nodded.

“As he created the Eternalists and the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Calliande.

Again the Watcher nodded.

“Why?” said Calliande.

“To kill you and destroy the Order of the Vigilant,” said the Watcher.

“But why?” said Calliande. “My death is the means to an end, but what is the end? What does he seek?”

“You forbade me to tell you,” said the Watcher.

“I know,” said Calliande, thinking hard. “The Frostborn. It has something to do with the Frostborn. He knows I would try to stop the Frostborn from returning. So that is why he is trying to kill me, why he destroyed the Order of the Vigilant. He wants the Frostborn to return.”

The Watcher said nothing. He often did that when Calliande had reasoned something out on her own, something that was true but that he could not confirm.

And all at once, it clicked.

“And that is why,” said Calliande. “My lost memory…it has something Shadowbearer needs or fears. Some power, some spell, some knowledge of magic. Something he would either destroy…or claim and wield for himself.” She felt her hands curl into fists. “That is why I removed my memories. They hold dangerous knowledge, and I was afraid that Shadowbearer would claim them and kill me the moment I woke up. He tried to do it, too, when he found me at the Tower.”

“You removed your memory, mistress,” said the Watcher, “for good and proper reasons.”

“Which means that in my memory,” said Calliande, “is either the means to defeat Shadowbearer…or to allow the Frostborn to return.”

Again the Watcher said nothing, and suddenly red light flared in the gray mists.

“Shadowbearer,” said the Watcher. “He must have learned of Coriolus’s death. Now that Coriolus has failed, he will send new servants after you…and ones more dangerous than the Eternalist. You must be ready, Calliande. You must find Dragonfall and reclaim your staff. Only then can you hope to prevail against Shadowbearer. Though as you draw nearer to Urd Morlemoch, you may gain a respite from Shadowbearer’s servants.”

“Why?” said Calliande, watching the blood-colored light flare and burn in the depths of the mists.

“Because,” said the Watcher, “the only thing Shadowbearer fears more than your memory is the Warden of Urd Morlemoch.”

Calliande sank into a dreamless sleep then, but did not feel rested when she awoke the next morning.

###

Ridmark walked through the western gate of Moraime and looked behind him.

The town seemed peaceful behind its walls, the monastery of St. Cassian standing atop its crag. He hoped it would remain that way.

But he knew it would not. The Frostborn were returning, and if they were not stopped, the world would freeze even as the cities of men burned.

Still, for now, Moraime was safe, and the undead would trouble it no further.

“Are donkeys all such stubborn beasts?” said Gavin, grumbling as he tugged at the reins of their baggage train. Michael had given them a pack train of eight donkeys, laden with food and useful supplies. The beasts would slow their progress, unfortunately. But the further west they went, the harder it would be to find supplies. And in the spell-haunted wastes of the Torn Hills in the shadow of Urd Morlemoch’s towers, there was no food or drink to be had. At least none that was safe for mortal men to consume.

Ridmark remembered that well.

“I fear so,” said Caius. “Donkeys are stubborn and willful beasts, and require a strong hand and firm discipline. Much like mortal men in our fallen state.”

“You would turn everything into a sermon,” said Kharlacht.

“Our eyes must be ever toward God,” said Caius.

“True,” said Kharlacht, “but you could give the boy some useful advice.”

“Such as?” said Caius.

“That donkeys bite.”

Gavin jerked forward as the donkey’s teeth snapped shut a few inches from his arm, and Kharlacht and Caius laughed, while Calliande smiled and shook her head.

“Where is the path now, Ridmark?” said Calliande.

“Northwest,” he said, pointing. In that direction rolled the fields and pastures of the townsmen of Moraime, but beyond them rose the dense and ancient forests of the Wilderland. “We’ll pass through the forests, and then come to the foothills of the mountains of the Three Kingdoms. Perhaps we’ll see some kindred of yours, Caius.”

“Pagan orcs raiding down from Kothluusk is more likely,” said Kharlacht.

“Then onto the Torn Hills, haunted by the ghosts and spells of battles long past,” said Ridmark. “Another three weeks, I think, and we shall see the walls of Urd Morlemoch.”

And then at last he would have some answers.

Or the Warden would kill them all.

“Then may God lend our limbs strength and speed,” said Caius, “for our cause is just.”

“Let us hope he sends us warm beds and dry roads as well,” said Kharlacht.

“Come,” said Ridmark, and he led the way from Moraime.

Chapter 24 - Ravens

Thirty-seven days after it began, thirty-seven days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark rose from his blanket, walked past the smoldering coals of their dying campfire, and looked at the morning sky through the gap in the trees overhead.

He stared at the sky for a while, watching and listening. He heard Caius rise, the dwarven friar beginning to sing the twenty-third Psalm in Latin as he did every morning.

A little later he heard the rustling as Caius’s singing woke the others, as Gavin started to prepare breakfast. Then he felt a presence next to him.

“What is it?” said Calliande, looking at the sky. “Birds?”

Ridmark nodded and watched the black speck circling overhead.

“Just birds?” said Calliande, flexing her fingers. “Not wyverns? Drakes? Or, God forbid, an urdhracos?”

“No,” said Ridmark. “Ravens, in fact.”

Calliande frowned.

“I think,” said Ridmark, “we shall have a visitor today.”

“Perhaps we should move, then,” said Calliande.

“No need,” said Ridmark. “With her spells, she could find us anyway. To say nothing of Caius’s singing.”

“Perhaps we should convince him of the virtues of silent prayer,” said Calliande.

Ridmark laughed, and a surprised smile spread over Calliande’s face. “Perhaps. But, for now, it is no use. We have been found. And I am curious to see what she shall do when she shows herself.”

They broke camp and continued northwest, making their way through the trackless forest of the Wilderland. Few dwelled in this part of the Wilderland. The forest often served as a battleground between the orcs of Vhaluusk and the orcs of Kothluusk and the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, and the creatures of the dark elves lurked in the trees, ready to feast upon the unwary. There were entrances into the Deeps, and old, undead-haunted ruins left from many ancient wars.

But for now the trees were quiet, and the late spring weather was pleasant and mild.

Ridmark saw a raven fly overhead and perch upon a tree, and raised his hand for a halt. The others stopped, Gavin muttering threats at the donkeys, and Ridmark looked at the raven. The bird gazed back at him with an unblinking black eye.

“You may as well come out,” said Ridmark. “I know you’re there.”

For a moment nothing moved.

Then Morigna appeared from behind one of the trees. She wore her previous costume of leather and wool, a dagger and a variety of pouches at her belt. In her right hand she carried a long staff that had been carved with a number of odd sigils. Her black hair had been pulled back by a ring of bone, and her black eyes were stark in her pale face.

She stopped a dozen paces away from Ridmark and took a deep breath.

As if she was nervous.

###

Morigna stared at Ridmark Arban.

She could not tell if he was glad to see her or not. His hard face gave away nothing, his cold blue eyes unblinking. Caius seemed pleased to see her, and Kharlacht indifferent. Gavin alternated between scowling at her and at the donkeys.

She was reasonably certain that Calliande was not happy to see her.

“How did you know that I was following you?” said Morigna.

“Your ravens,” said Ridmark.

“There are many ravens in the forest,” said Morigna.

“This is true,” said Ridmark. “It is also true that the same raven tends not to fly in a circle over a group of travelers over and over again.”

Morigna sighed. “One would suppose that rather gave the game away.”

“And what game is that?” said Ridmark. “I assume you followed us for a reason?”

Morigna hesitated, trying to find the words for what she wished to say.

“Is it because of what happened in Moraime?” said Calliande. Morigna still did not like the woman, but found that she could respect the Magistria. Few would have had the strength to survive that long in a battle of spells with the Old Man, but Calliande had.

“What happened in Moraime?” said Morigna. “Did the Old Man work some evil there before Rjalfur slew him?”

“No,” said Calliande. “Abbot Ulakhur and the praefectus have forbidden you from the town.”

Morigna nodded, indifferent. “No matter. I have no desire to return to Moraime for any reason.”

“Then what do you want?” said Ridmark.

“I…” Morigna opened her mouth, closed it, and started speaking. “I left the hill, after Coriolus died, because…I did not know what to do next. It was all…simply too much.”

“That is understandable,” said Caius.

Morigna did not want sympathy from him or anyone. “I intended to leave Vhaluusk entirely, to make my way across the realm and see it with my own eyes. I know how to hunt and move through the wilderness, and with my magic I can go anywhere I wish.”

Ridmark nodded. “So why didn’t you?”

Again Morigna did not know how to answer.

“Because,” said Calliande, her voice quiet, “you are lost. You trusted Coriolus for most of your life, and he betrayed you.”

“I am not lost,” snapped Morigna. She would be damned before she would show weakness before Calliande. Though all of Ridmark’s companions had seen her naked and tied to that altar. How much more weakness could she show than that? “I know exactly where I am.”

“But you are uncertain,” said Ridmark, “of what to do next.”

“Yes,” said Morigna. “I thought about retreating into the Wilderland, but I confess the life of a hermit holds no appeal for me.”

“This from a woman who spent years living in the marshes?” said Ridmark.

“I prefer to spend most of my time alone,” said Morigna, “but that does not mean I never wish to hear another voice.”

“Then I suppose you have a chance that few ever receive,” said Calliande, “to make of your life whatever you will.”

“If you like,” said Ridmark, “I could write to the Dux of the Northerland, and ask him to find you a place.”

Morigna said nothing. She had hoped that he would ask her to come with him, but he would not ask anyone to come with him, believing that he would die on the journey to Urd Morlemoch. Likely Calliande and the others had invited themselves along.

“That is…that is kind,” said Morigna, “but when I said I did not know what to do next, I was not entirely truthful. There is something I must do first. I have a debt I must pay.”

“To who?” said Ridmark.

He truly didn’t know? “To you.”

“You owe me nothing,” said Ridmark.

“You saved my life,” said Morigna, “and you defeated Coriolus.”

“Rjalfur did that,” said Ridmark.

“The trolldomr would have done nothing but philosophize and watch as Coriolus possessed me,” said Morigna, “had you not intervened.” She shook her head. “You didn’t have to help me, either. You could have continued to Urd Morlemoch, and no one would have blamed you. Instead you came back for me.” She swallowed and forced herself to say the next words. The Old Man would have believed them an admission of weakness…but he was dead and she was not. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” said Ridmark.

“I would not stand by and let an Eternalist possess an innocent victim,” said Calliande.

Kharlacht shrugged. “Where the Gray Knight goes, I follow.” Caius and Gavin nodded their agreement.

“And this is how I shall repay my debt to you,” said Morigna. “I will come with you, and help you succeed in your task.”

Ridmark met her eyes, and she forced herself not to look away. Odd that his gaze had such an effect on her.

“You know where I am going,” said Ridmark. “Even Coriolus was frightened of Urd Morlemoch, and in this if nothing else, he was right. There is a very good chance the Warden will kill us all.”

“I know this,” said Morigna. She lifted her chin. “You face certain death, this is so. But with my help…perhaps you will have a chance of survival.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his hard face. “Miniscule.”

“Indeed,” said Morigna.

“You are set on this, then?” said Ridmark.

Morigna nodded.

Ridmark sighed. “I set out for Urd Morlemoch alone, and now I have a…a…”

“Party,” said Caius.

“Warband,” said Kharlacht.

“Retainers,” said Gavin.

Calliande smiled. “Friends.”

“So be it,” said Ridmark. “One condition, though. You will do as I say, and you will not instigate fights with the others. Is this understood?”

“Those are two conditions, but they are understood,” said Morigna. Though if she had to act for Ridmark’s own good without his knowledge, Morigna had no qualms about that.

“Very well,” said Ridmark. “One question. What is that staff? You didn’t have it before.”

“I made it,” said Morigna, “some time ago, from the wood of an elderoak. The high elves, the Old Man told me, could make staves from the wood with magical properties. He took the staff when I made it, claiming it was dangerous, but I know that was a lie. With it, I suspect I will have command over trees and perhaps even items of wood.”

“That could be useful,” said Kharlacht, “when facing bowmen.”

“Indeed,” said Ridmark. He glanced at the sky. “Let us be on our way. Even with the pack beasts, we should be able to make another eight miles today.”

He led the way, and the others followed. Morigna fell in with them, and Calliande nodded at her. She nodded back, the staff smooth and cool against her fingers. She would repay her debt, she vowed. She would see Ridmark safely into Urd Morlemoch and back, to continue his quest against the Frostborn.

She would find enough power to make it so.

###

Ridmark considered their new companion as he walked.

Morigna was dangerous, but they were going to a dangerous place. And if they were to go into Urd Morlemoch and succeed in wresting any knowledge from the Warden, Ridmark would need help.

He would have gone alone, had he the power to manage it…but it seemed the he did not.

And for all that, he was grateful for the others nonetheless.

They walked on through the forest, drawing ever closer to the Torn Hills and Urd Morlemoch beyond them.

Epilogue

Tarrabus of the House of the Carhainii, Dux of Caerdracon, stood upon the dais in the great hall of the Iron Tower and listened as the assassin Rotherius gave his report.

Other than Tarrabus and Rotherius, there were two other men in the hall. The first wore the armor of a knight of Andomhaim, gleaming steel plate beneath a surcoat adorned with the heraldry of Caerdracon, a black dragon’s head upon a field of blue. He had black eyes and brown hair and mustache he styled and trimmed every day. Sir Paul Tallmane was both the Constable of the Iron Tower and a fool. Nonetheless, he was loyal fool, and had no qualms about doing whatever Tarrabus asked of him, no matter how bloody. He was much like the Iron Tower itself, Tarrabus mused – the castra was far from Caerdracon, but Tarrabus had put it to good use.

The Enlightened of Incariel housed many of their secrets, treasures, and useful prisoners within the Iron Tower’s vaults.

“And that was it,” said Rotherius, kneeling before the dais. The Red Brother had removed his skull mask, and beneath it he had a narrow face beneath a tangle of graying yellow hair. “The fool Jonas led nearly all my brothers to their deaths. I returned to report our failure to the Matriarch, and she bade me to bear the news to you, my lords.”

Tarrabus held Rotherius’s gaze for a moment, and then looked to the second man.

Of course, the second man wasn’t really a man at all.

The high elf wore black boots, trousers and tunic beneath a long, black-trimmed coat the color of blood. His skin was the grayish-white of a corpse, and black veins throbbed beneath his hands and face, like fingers of corruption digging into rotting flesh. His bloodshot eyes were the color of mercury, of quicksilver, and whenever Tarrabus looked in his direction, he saw his distorted reflection in the irises of the high elf’s eyes.

The creature had many names, but Tarrabus’s father had called the high elven wizard Shadowbearer, and Tarrabus used that name. It had been Tarrabus’s father, the Dux Samothus Carhaine, who had introduced Tarrabus to both Shadowbearer and the teachings of the Enlightened of Incariel. The strong would rule over the weak, Samothus had said, and Tarrabus would be strong, not matter how cruel the lessons, no matter how much torment it took.

Or else.

But Tarrabus had learned his father’s lessons well.

So well, in fact, that he had murdered the old tyrant and taken the title of Dux of Caerdracon himself shortly before Mhalek’s invasion of the Northerland. His father had been right. The old faith and the old morality were deluding lies, and the strong ruled and the weak suffered. Tarrabus had never doubted this, never wavered in his faith in the new order.

Except for when he spoke to Aelia Licinius and watched her tend to the orphans and widows of Castra Marcaine.

She had made him question.

His sword hand curled into a fist. Even now, after five years, he still felt pain and rage at her death.

She never should have married Ridmark Arban. The wretched Swordbearer had been too weak to save her, in the end.

“You are displeased, my lord Dux?”

Shadowbearer’s strange voice was deeper and more resonant than any human voice, yet carried a strange, reverberating echo. As if two voices were trying to speak through the same mouth at once.

Tarrabus realized that his thoughts were wandering, that a scowl had come over his face, and he smoothed his expression back to calm. He was the Dux of Caerdracon, and the Dux did not show his emotions before lesser men.

As did the High King. And within the next two years, Tarrabus Carhaine would be High King of the realm of Andomhaim, once the decrepit Pendragon and his foolish sons had been consigned to the grave.

The first steps had already been taken.

“No,” said Tarrabus, turning his mind to the task at hand, “no, I am not displeased.”

“You are not, lord Dux?” said Rotherius. “The Red Family failed to kill the exile.”

“Disappointed, if not surprised,” said Tarrabus, descending from the dais toward one of the hearths. It was cold this far north, even in the end of the spring. “The exile is a formidable foe, even without a Soulblade. Perhaps you are fortunate to be alive at all.”

Rotherius scowled. “Aye, my lord Dux. That trickery with the marsh gas…clever business. But fear not, my lord. Ridmark Arban has slain too many of our brothers. He has earned the lasting enmity of the Red Family, and the Matriarch has decreed that we shall hunt him down.” He paused. “With no additional charge to you, my lord Dux.”

“How very gracious,” said Tarrabus, his voice dry. “Go about your business.”

Rotherius bowed and left the hall of the Iron Tower. Tarrabus stood in silence for a moment, Paul waiting at his right hand. A distant, faint scream rang out from the depths of the Tower’s dungeons. The Enlightened of Incariel kept many prisoners here, those too useful to kill. Many of Tarrabus’s personal enemies had ended up in the dungeons below the fortress

Given that he was the Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened, his enemies were their enemies.

“I thought you said,” said Tarrabus, “that this wretched Eternalist of yours would prove more than a match for Ridmark and Calliande.”

“I did,” said Shadowbearer, walking from the dais. “Alas, it seems my faith was misplaced. Victory was in his hand…and then he neglected to pay his hirelings. A simple, foolish, spiteful mistake, but enough to ruin all.”

“Now what?” said Tarrabus. “We must have that empty soulstone for the new order to arise. Otherwise the next opportunity will not arrive for another century and a half.” He fully intended to be alive then, of course, but he had no wish to wait that long. “Can’t you simply find another?”

“No,” murmured Shadowbearer, his shadow pointing in the wrong direction as he approached. “I barely stole that one from the caverns of Cathair Solas. Ardrhythain will not allow the lapse again. It must be the soulstone Calliande carries.”

“You should have killed her yourself,” said Tarrabus, “when you had the chance.”

Paul flinched. No one else would dare to speak to Shadowbearer like that. But the Enlightened of Incariel were Tarrabus’s to command, and he would soon be the High King of Andomhaim. He would not display weakness before anyone, not even Shadowbearer himself.

“Plainly,” said Shadowbearer. Paul let out a relieved sigh. “Even I am not infallible, Tarrabus Carhaine.” He looked to the east. “Not yet, anyway. Alas, at the time Ardrhythain was hunting for me, and this would be a most inconvenient time to die. He continues his hunt for me, and I must move on.”

“Here?” said Tarrabus. “He is coming here?”

A ripple went through the ancient wizard’s shadow.

“Indeed,” said Shadowbearer, “and you will be glad that I shall lure him elsewhere, for the battle between us would turn the Iron Tower to smoking slag. But fear not. I shall return, and there is yet a year to open the way.”

Without another word, he turned and disappeared in a swirl of darkness.

“The wizard is…mercurial,” said Paul at last.

“He is,” said Tarrabus. “And we must have that soulstone, Sir Paul. The new order cannot arise without it. Ridmark Arban will die for his crimes, of course, and we shall dispose of that…tattered anachronism that calls herself Calliande. But all things in due time.” Ridmark had spent five years warning of the return of the Frostborn. Let him see the depths of his failure. Let him know the utter dregs of final despair before death. “But first we must have the soulstone.”

“But how, my lord Dux?” said Paul. “If Shadowbearer fears to confront Calliande, and his minions have failed to overcome Ridmark…how shall we obtain the soulstone?”

“Main force has failed,” said Tarrabus, “so the soulstone shall be stolen away.”

Paul frowned. “That would require the skill of a master thief.”

“Yes.” Tarrabus glanced at his right hand, where his signet ring had once been. “And I know just where to find one.”

Another scream rang out from the dungeons.

THE END

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Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: THE MASTER THIEF

An excerpt from the chronicles of the High Kings of Andomhaim:

In the Year of Our Lord 538, Malahan Pendragon and the Keeper of Avalon led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm through a magical gate to a new world, a world far from the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here Malahan founded the new realm of Andomhaim and raised his citadel at Tarlion, and in time his new kingdom spread far and wide.

And the knights of Andomhaim encountered the kindreds of this new world, the orcs and the manetaur, the dark elves and the dvargir, and waged many wars against them.

Yet not all the kindreds they encountered were foes.

For the orcs and the dark elves kept the halflings as slaves. Slender and short of stature, the halflings were nimble and stealthy, yet lacked the strength of men and orcs and dwarves. Therefore they were easily enslaved, and the pagan kings of the orcs kept vast numbers of halflings to toil in their fields and serve in their citadels.

Yet the High King overthrew the orcish kings of Khaluusk. And in joy and gratitude, the halflings of Khaluusk swore solemn oaths to the High King and his nobles, to serve forever as free servants in their fields and houses. Thus were the men of Andomhaim free to pursue war against the many foes that threatened them.

And so the halflings joyfully labor for their masters to this day, grateful to serve their liberators.

CHAPTER 1 - WINGS

Forty-one days after it began, forty-one days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban moved alone through the forest.

Something felt wrong, and he wanted to have a look around.

The forest was quiet, the gray light of dawn just brightening the trees. It was the end of spring and the beginning of summer, and new green leaves whispered in the breeze. He moved in silence through the trees, his boots making no sound against the forest floor, his heavy staff ready in his right hand. The forest was quiet, but it did not mean it would stay that way. Warbands of pagan orcs might come down from the hills of Vhaluusk to the north or the mountains of Kothluusk to the west. Packs of lupivirii prowled the forest, and bands of dvargir and kobolds raided from the Deeps in search of captives and loot.

And there were older dangers in the woods. The wild forest had been the site of many wars over the centuries, battles amongst the tribes of orcs, between the orcs and the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms, between the men of Andomhaim and the urdmordar.

Between the men of Andomhaim and the Frostborn.

Ridmark looked northwest. He saw nothing but trees in that direction, trees and boulders and fallen leaves.

But he knew what waited for him to the northwest. The spell-haunted Torn Hills and the massive ruined citadel of Urd Morlemoch, the fortress rising like a tower of bones jutting from the earth. The undead Warden, ancient and mighty and cruel.

And the answer Ridmark had sought for so long.

The secret of the return of the Frostborn.

But he could not learn the secret if some creature in the forest killed him first.

So Ridmark kept going, remaining watchful.

Something uneasy rattled in his mind. Of course, he was never at ease, not really. Not since the day he had pursued Mhalek to the great hall of Castra Marcaine, had seen Aelia’s blood spill upon the black and white tiles of the hall…

He pushed that out of his mind. This was not the time to dwell upon it.

Given that a more immediate danger might lie at hand.

Ridmark had spent the last five years wandering from one end of the Wilderland to another, seeking answers about the Frostborn and finding very little. Yet he had grown familiar with the forests of the Wilderland, and this one felt wrong.

Too quiet, and no sign of any animals. Ridmark could think of any number of reasons for that, and none of them were good. The creatures of the dark elves haunted the woods, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse things. If Ridmark encountered one, he would die. He had no weapon that could harm a creature of dark magic. Once he had carried the soulblade Heartwarden into battle, but he had lost that, too, through his own folly. Though there were any number of more mundane predators that would frighten away animals – fire drakes, swamp drakes, wyverns, manticores, and others.

He stopped and stood in silence, listening.

Perhaps he was simply being paranoid.

But he had not survived this long by ignoring his instincts, and his instincts told him that something was wrong.

Ridmark needed a better look around, and he knew where to find one.

He moved at a quick, silent run through the trees, weaving around boulders as the ground grew rockier. The terrain sloped upward, and the trees cleared to reveal a tall, stony hill jutting from the earth. Atop the hill rose a half-ruined tower of rough stone. Ridmark had no idea who had built it. Perhaps an orcish war chief had used it as a stronghold. Or maybe a group of fleeing dwarves had constructed it as a hasty, temporary refuge. Or perhaps the knights of Andomhaim had raised it in the past as a stronghold against the dark elves or the urdmordar or the Frostborn.

But whoever had built the tower had been dead for centuries, and it stood abandoned atop the hill. Yet its crumbling shell still had a commanding view of the surrounding forest.

Ridmark made his way up the path to the top of the hill, staff ready in his hand. The tower had been abandoned when he had last passed here, but someone or something might have claimed occupancy since. Yet the tower remained undisturbed. Flowering bushes grew around its base, and the interior was empty. Half-rotted timbers slumped against the walls, covered with lichen and mushrooms, and a rough stone staircase wound its way to the tower’s top. Ridmark climbed the stairs, taking care to keep his balance upon the uneven stones. It would be a grim joke to have survived Urd Morlemoch, two female urdmordar, a renegade Eternalist, and a crazed orcish shaman only to trip and break his neck upon a loose step.

He reached the tower’s top and found that he could see for miles, the green forest spreading like a mottled carpet over the ground. To the northeast he saw the distant grim shapes of the mountains of Vhaluusk. Kharlacht had shown little interest in ever returning to his homeland, and having visited, Ridmark could not blame him. To the west he glimpsed the massive, white-crowned shapes of the mountains of Kothluusk. The pagan orcs of Kothluusk lived among the vales and slopes of those mountains, while the dwarves of the Three Kingdoms maintained their fortresses beneath the mountains, forever at war with the orcs.

And to the northwest, Ridmark just made out a faint white haze.

The mist rolling through the spell-ravaged lands of the Torn Hills, haunted by spirits and urvaalgs and worse things.

Urd Morlemoch waited beyond those hills.

It was not much farther now. Another ten days to Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark thought. Then they could enter the ruined citadel and confront the Warden. For all his power and magic, the Warden was imprisoned within Urd Morlemoch, and the Warden was bored. He enjoyed games, lethal, cruel games. Ridmark had survived one of the Warden’s games, and he thought he could so again.

Just as he had thought he could save Aelia from Mhalek.

Ridmark stood motionless, watching the sun rise.

There was no sign of anything unusual.

Then why did he feel so ill at ease?

Ridmark scratched as the stubble on his jaw in irritation, and then started back down the tower. It was past time to get back to camp. He had left Kharlacht on watch, and he trusted the orcish warrior. But Brother Caius would soon rise to greet the dawn by singing the twenty-third Psalm, as was his custom. Morigna would complain at the noise, and she and Gavin might start quarreling. Calliande would take Gavin’s side, and the entire thing would degenerate into an argument.

If not for his presence, Ridmark suspected, his companions would all be at each other’s throats within a day.

A flicker of guilt went through him. They followed him. He had saved each of them at one point or another, and in gratitude they would follow him to Urd Morlemoch. He wished he could have dissuaded them, convinced them to remain behind.

Especially Calliande.

Ridmark reached the base of the tower and stopped. A flash of color caught his eye among the gray stones of the tower’s foundation. Staff ready in hand, he stepped closer. A small green bush flowered at the foot of the tower, dotted with deep red berries.

He blinked in surprise, went to one knee next to the bush, and plucked one of the berries. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, and then put the berry into his mouth. Surprise flooded through him at the sweet taste, and he smiled.

Well. He had expected to find an urvaalg or a next of rock drakes, not this. Ridmark drew a dagger and cut the berries from the bush, securing them in a pouch. He straightened up and looked around one final time.

It still seemed too quiet.

The sooner he returned to camp, the sooner they could depart, and hopefully leave behind whatever was making his instincts twitch.

He started down the hill.

###

Calliande tended the campfire, lost in thought.

To her surprise, she knew how to make a fire. As it happened, she knew how to do a great many things. She knew how to tend to the donkeys Sir Michael Vorinus had given them. She knew how to treat wounds, how to use herbs and roots to make medicines to treat numerous illnesses. She could speak Latin and orcish and the dark elven tongue, among other languages.

And she knew how to wield the magic of the Magistri, how to heal and ward and drive back creatures of darkness.

But she could remember learning none of those things.

She remembered nothing that had happened before the last forty-one days, before the day the blue fire had filled the sky. Before she had awakened in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, alone in the silent darkness.

A Tower that had been burned and abandoned ninety years past.

Calliande had no idea how old she was.

She didn’t even know who she was.

But she had learned some things. A spirit called the Watcher spoke in her dreams, giving her what counsel he could. She needed to find her staff at a place called Dragonfall, and once she found the staff she could recover her memories. And she had to recover her staff and her memories, because without them she could not stop the return of the Frostborn. It was her responsibility, her duty, and she would not flinch from it.

That was why she followed Ridmark to Urd Morlemoch. The Warden had warned him about the omen of blue flame, nine years before it had happened. The Warden would know how the Frostborn would return and how to stop them.

And if they learned how to stop the Frostborn, then perhaps Calliande could find Dragonfall, her staff, and her true identity.

She moved alone through the camp, humming quietly to herself as she tended to the donkeys. Ridmark had gone to scout alone, as he often did. The others had been concerned about leaving Calliande alone in the camp, but she had calmed their fears. In truth, with her magic, she had a better chance of defending herself than did the others.

Especially if Shadowbearer came for her.

Her humming faltered as a chill went down her spine, and her hand strayed to the pouch at her belt that held the empty soulstone. Shadowbearer had tried to kill her and bind her power within that soulstone. Ridmark had saved her from that, but Shadowbearer and his servants had pursued her and the soulstone. Her friends were brave, but they could not stand against the power of Shadowbearer’s magic.

Even Calliande could not stand against the wrath of Shadowbearer’s spells.

At least if he came for her this morning, she would be alone.

“Morbid thought,” muttered Calliande.

Well, work was the best cure for worry. She brushed down the donkeys and made sure they were fed, and then turned to the fire. Kharlacht and Morigna were confident they could bring back a deer, and the fresh venison would be welcome. Still, they had an ample supply of sausages from Moraime, and Calliande could fry them up with the mushrooms Gavin had found last night.

She turned back to the donkeys, intending to retrieve a pan, and Ridmark appeared out of nowhere.

The man could move like a ghost through the woods. And his gray cloak had been given to him by the high elven archmage Ardrhythain himself, in gratitude for saving the bladeweaver Rhyannis from the pits of Urd Morlemoch.

“Ridmark,” said Calliande.

“Did I startle you?” said Ridmark. “I fear stealth is a hard habit to unlearn.”

She smiled. “Only a little.”

He did not smile back. He hardly ever smiled. He was tall and strong, with close-cropped black hair and eyes like shards of blue ice, cold and unyielding. The brand of a broken sword marred the lines of his left cheek. He did not deserve that, no more than he deserved the burden of guilt he carried, but it was there nonetheless.

“Where are the others?” he said. “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing,” said Calliande. “Morigna’s ravens spotted a deer. She and Kharlacht thought they could catch it, and Caius and Gavin went with them.”

He frowned. “They left you alone?”

Calliande shrugged. “I am safe enough. As safe as I can be, I suppose. With my magic I can defend myself better than any of us. If Shadowbearer comes for me, I don’t think it will matter if I am alone or not.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, his frown unwavering, “they should not have left you alone.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are one to talk. Where did you wander off?” He opened his mouth, and she pointed at him. “And don’t tell me you know what you are doing. I might have stayed in the camp alone, but you are the one who has walked into a nest of drakes, challenged an urdmordar, lured a mzrokar into a trap, and God knows what else.”

He snorted. “I suppose I cannot argue that. I wanted to have a look around. This section of the forest is too quiet for my liking.” He rubbed his chin. “It heartens me that Morigna’s birds saw a deer.”

“You think something like an urvaalg frightened the animals away?” said Calliande.

“Perhaps.” Ridmark shrugged. “Or maybe I am overcautious. That reminds me.” He reached for the pouch at his belt. “I have something for you.”

“Really,” she said.

“Have you ever had a stoneberry?”

Calliande shook her head. “Not that I recall.” She sighed. “Which is hardly conclusive. But I don’t remember having eaten one.”

“Not surprising,” said Ridmark, drawing a number of red berries from the pouch. “They mostly grow in the south, along the banks of the River Moradel near Tarlion and Taliand. I have never seen one this far north. Try one – they’re quite pleasant.”

Calliande gave the berry a dubious look. “It does not look…healthy.”

To her surprise, Ridmark laughed. “They do look poisonous. But I imagine that’s to scare off scavengers.” He ate one of the berries. “Try it. I suspect you will like it.”

“You only suspect? You’re not sure?” said Calliande, but she grinned as she said it. “Very well.” She took one of the berries from his callused hand and popped it into her mouth. The sweet, sharp taste flooded her tongue. “That’s…not bad. It would…”

She staggered back, her eyes widening.

“Calliande?” said Ridmark. He grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, “I…”

Images burned through her mind, a memory ripped from the past. It often seemed that her memory was a landscape cloaked in a thick mist that never lifted. Sometimes Calliande caught glimpses of shapes from her past, like mountains draped in fog, but never more than outlines. It often frustrated her to the point of rage.

But now, for just an instant, she remembered things.

The River Moradel lapping at its blanks, broad and wide as it flowed into the southern sea.

White towers rising on the far side of the river, the High King’s proud citadel upon its crag, the red Pendragon banner flying from its ramparts.

A middle-aged man, his face kindly and seamed from the sun, a coil of rope in his hand and a set of scaling knives at his belt.

She sat next him on a dock, her feet dangling in the water as they ate berries together…

The very same berries she now tasted upon her tongue.

“Ridmark,” whispered Calliande. She grabbed his arms for balance and looked up at him. “I…I remember these…”

“From before, you mean,” he said.

“Yes,” said Calliande. “My father…I think he was a fisherman. The…the stoneberries, I would pick them for him, and then…and then…”

She closed her eyes, trying to pull more from the mist choking her memory.

Nothing came. She remembered her father, the berries, the dock as they ate together.

But nothing else.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s all I can remember. My father’s face.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ridmark.

“No, don’t be,” Calliande said. “I can remember my father’s face. Ridmark, I couldn’t remember anything else before.” She let out a deep, shuddering breath. “If I can remember that…maybe I can remember more.”

“The berries,” said Ridmark. “They must have been a strong memory for you. Enough to pull the recollection from your mind, regardless of what has happened to you.”

Calliande nodded, for a moment too overcome to speak.

Her father’s face. How could she have forgotten that? She had done it to herself, or so the Watcher claimed. But how could she had forgotten something so important?

“If the berries triggered a memory,” said Ridmark, “then in time perhaps other things will recall additional memories to your mind.”

Calliande worked moisture into her dry mouth. “Maybe I ought to wander around the forest eating things at random.”

A faint ghost of a smile flickered over his lips. “I would not recommend that.”

Calliande laughed. “Nor would I. But, Ridmark…thank you.”

“For what?” said Ridmark. “The memory? That was not my doing.”

“But you brought me the berries,” said Calliande. “That was…that was kind of you, even if you could not know what would happen. And I can remember my father’s face again. I had lost everything…but I can at least remember a piece of my past now. Thank you.”

“You will get your memory back,” said Ridmark. “After we return from Urd Morlemoch, after we stop the Frostborn. We will find Dragonfall and your staff.”

“I have more confidence of that now,” said Calliande.

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, the stubble rough beneath her lips.

Ridmark stared down at her without blinking.

She realized that she was still holding on to his arms, that he had not released her either. They were alone in the camp, and the others would likely not return for some time.

And as her heart hammered against her ribs, she realized that none of those things troubled her.

“Ridmark,” she said, her voice a faint whisper, and then he pulled her close and kissed her.

Calliande went stiff, and then melted against him, her lips parting to accept the kiss. Her heart beat faster, a warmth spreading from her chest and into her arms and legs. Some small part of her mind realized that this was a bad idea, that Ridmark was poisoned with grief from his dead wife, that for all Calliande knew she had a husband and children asleep beneath some other ruined tower.

But right now she did not care about anything but the taste and feel of his mouth against hers.

She broke away from him with a little gasp, still breathing hard. Ridmark stared down at her.

“Calliande,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I…”

She never found out what he intended to say.

A harsh metallic scream drowned out his words.

For a furious, irrational moment Calliande wanted to curse in frustration.

And then her mind caught up to her ears, and she realized that they were likely in deadly danger.

Ridmark was already moving, his staff in hand as he turned in a slow circle. Calliande summoned power, preparing spells to ward against harm or to drive off creatures of dark magic, her hands glimmering with white light.

Again that terrible brassy scream rang out, farther away than before.

“Fool,” muttered Ridmark, “fool, fool, fool.”

For a moment she was stung, and then realized that he was rebuking himself.

“I should have realized,” he said, looking at the sky, “that’s what scared all the animals away. They have better noses. Smelled it a ways off.”

Again the metallic scream filled Calliande’s ears. “Is that a drake?” she said, remembering the fire drakes on the slopes of Black Mountain and the swamp drake they had fought near Moraime. The drakes’ cries had sounded a bit like the metallic screams.

“No,” said Ridmark. “Not a drake.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Calliande, watching the trees for any sign of movement.

“A wyvern,” said Ridmark.

Calliande blinked. Wyverns were some of the most dangerous predators of the Wilderland, and preyed upon both humans and orcs with ease. Even the dark elves had not always been able to tame wyverns and use them as war beasts, and more than one proud dark elven wizard had met his end beneath the talons of an irritated wyvern.

“That’s much worse,” said Calliande.

“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Helped kill a wyvern, once. Hunting party from Castra Marcaine, when I was still a Swordbearer in the Dux’s court.” He shook his head. “The beast took down three men before we killed it. And that was only a young male.”

Calliande heard another shriek, so close she looked over her shoulder, fearing that the wyvern had somehow crept up behind her. “What do we do?”

Ridmark looked at the sky again. “They only scream when trying to flush out prey.” The donkeys stirred, tugging at their tethers as they tried to flee. “It likely scented the donkeys. Get ready to run. Once a wyvern decides to take a kill, it kills anything that gets in its way. The pack animals are not worth your life.”

“And if it decides to come for us instead of the donkeys?”

“Then we’ll have to fight,” said Ridmark, one hand straying to the orcish war axe slung at his belt. “We’ll have only one chance. Eyes and the throat are its weak points. The scales get stronger as it ages. If I can’t kill it immediately, we’re finished.”

Calliande nodded. “I will use a spell to enhance your speed, and…”

A black shadow fell over the clearing, and the wyvern soared overhead.

The creature was enormous. The fire drakes nesting upon the Black Mountain had been the size of large dogs, and the swamp drake near Moraime had been horse-sized. The wyvern dwarfed them both. Its body had the bulk of an adult ox, the limbs heavy with muscle and topped with razor-edged talons. Its wings spread like the sails of a ship, and fierce yellow eyes gazed from a head crowned with a bony crest. Its greenish-black scales looked as tough as steel, and the wyvern’s long, thick tail ended with a barbed stinger glistening with black slime. A wyvern’s poison was one of the most lethal substances in the world, and could kill a strong man in moments. Though given the creature’s size, strength, fangs, and talons, the poisonous stinger seemed redundant.

At least the wyvern could not breathe flames as a drake could.

The beast swooped over the clearing and rose higher, its massive wings flapping. Calliande wondered why Ridmark had not tried to put an arrow into the creature, and then realized her folly. His arrow could not penetrate the thick scales. The wyvern might not even notice the attack.

Or the arrow would just draw its attention.

The wyvern screamed again and banked over the clearing, moving with terrible speed as the donkeys brayed in terror. Ridmark tensed, and Calliande expected the wyvern to swoop upon the donkeys. Yet the beast flew away to the east, its head turning back and forth upon the long, serpentine neck.

And it kept going.

“Why didn’t it attack us?” said Calliande, puzzled. “We would have been easy prey. The donkeys are even tethered.”

“Because,” said Ridmark, watching the wyvern’s receding shape, “it must have spotted something else. Something easier. They’re predators, but they’re not above scavenging. Or driving wolves or cougars away from their kills. It must have smelled blood. Fresh blood, and…”

She came to the realization at the same time that he did.

“Morigna’s deer,” said Ridmark.

“She shot it, the wyvern smells the blood, and it’s coming after them,” said Calliande.

“We’d better run,” said Ridmark, and he ran into the trees, Calliande following.

Follow this link to continue reading Frostborn: The Master Thief.

Other books by the author

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants, Soul of Serpents, Soul of Dragons, Soul of Sorcery, Soul of Skulls, and Soul of Swords, along with the short stories The Wandering Knight, The Tournament Knight, and The Dragon's Shadow. Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One.

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father’s library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother’s treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind...even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read  Child of the Ghosts for free. Caina's adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames, Ghost in the Blood, Ghost in the Storm, Ghost in the Stone, Ghost in the Forge, Ghost in the Ashes, Ghost in the Mask, and Ghost in the Surge, along with the short stories Ghost Aria, Ghost Claws, Ghost Omens, The Fall of Kyrace, Ghost Thorns, Ghost Undying and Ghost Dagger. Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One.

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing for free. Rachelis's trials continue in The Assassins, The Blood Shaman, The High Demon, The Burning Child, The Outlaw Adept, The Black Paladin, and The Tomb of Baligant. Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One and The Third Soul Omnibus Two.

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world…or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest, followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight, Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife, and Frostborn: The Undying Wizard, along with the short stories The Orc's Tale and The Mage's Tale.

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds…

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade, A Wizard of the White Council, and The Destroyer of Worlds.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page.

Table of Contents

Description

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Fire and Stone

Chapter 2 - Tombs

Chapter 3 - The Sorceress

Chapter 4 - Moraime

Chapter 5 - The Monastery

Chapter 6 - The Abbot

Chapter 7 - Dark Magic

Chapter 8 - Scouts

Chapter 9 - Sons of Mhor

Chapter 10 - Shadows

Chapter 11 - Ancient Stone

Chapter 12 - The Old Man

Chapter 13 - Silence

Chapter 14 - Thainkul Dural

Chapter 15 - The Dzark

Chapter 16 - Pincers

Chapter 17 - Prizes

Chapter 18 - New Flesh

Chapter 19 - Riddles

Chapter 20 - Breach

Chapter 21 - Dead Flesh

Chapter 22 - Eternity

Chapter 23 - Omens

Chapter 24 - Ravens

Epilogue

Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: THE MASTER THIEF

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