Read Frostborn: The Undying Wizard for Free Online

“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