Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (34 page)

“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.