Free Frostborn: The Undying Wizard by Jonathan Moeller Page B

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