Ultorin laughed, wild and deep. "Fool! You cannot stop me!" He lifted his sword, the crimson light flickering within its halo of darkness. "This was forged in the blood of Amalric Galbraith! He was unconquerable, and his power belongs to me now!"
"I slew Amalric Galbraith, upon this very blade," said Mazael, "just as I will slay you."
Ultorin screamed in fury. "I will slay you and feast upon your heart! I will raze the walls of Deepforest Keep and bathe in the blood of the city's women! And then I will march, I will march until all the world is a charnel house!"
"Only if you kill me first," said Mazael.
Ultorin attacked, roaring.
Mazael twisted around the blow, giving himself into his battle rage, to the speed and strength it offered him. He dared not go too far, dared not give himself to the Demonsouled madness within his heart. But in this...in a struggle against a monster like Ultorin, a fight against a man who had butchered thousands of innocents, Mazael could put his Demonsouled nature to good use.
Ultorin swung, and Mazael parried, Lion straining against the bloodsword.
Ultorin brought the bloodsword around in a high two-handed sweep, and Mazael ducked, Lion digging a groove in Ultorin's hip.
The pain drove Ultorin into a rage, and he went into a frenzy, hacking and slashing as Mazael danced back. The bloodsword's tip scraped at Mazael's armor, digging grooves in the steel plate. But with every blow, Ultorin left himself open, and Lion lashed out, carving smoking cuts in gray flesh. Ultorin's momentum played out, and Mazael went on the offensive, Lion flying through a barrage of swings and thrusts. The bloodsword's carvings blazed, and Ultorin stumbled back, yellow eyes widening with panic.
Then he broke away, and Mazael knew what he intended. Ultorin planned to kill the nearest Malrag, use its tainted life force to restore his wounds.
Lion shivered in Mazael's hands.
But what if Ultorin drank something other than Malrag life force through the bloodsword?
Ultorin wheeled and buried his sword to the hilt in the belly of an Ograg. The bloodsword blazed, and the Ograg shriveled and shrank as the bloodsword drank its life.
Mazael raced forward and plunged Lion into the Ograg's thigh, the sword's azure flame pouring into the creature's flesh.
And the bloodsword drank Lion's blue fire, pulling it into Ultorin.
Ultorin wailed, screamed as Mazael had never heard anyone scream, his eyes wide with shocked agony. Cracks of blue light spread along the bloodsword's blade, and sapphire flames glowed within Ultorin's black veins. He stumbled back, shrieking, arms and legs jerking, both hands clenched around the bloodsword's hilt.
Mazael hammered Lion down with all his strength behind it. The blade sheared through Ultorin's wrists, and both Ultorin's hands fell to the earth, the bloodsword clanging to land a dozen feet away.
"No!" wailed Ultorin, falling to his knees, smoke rising from the charred stumps of his wrists. "No! Give it back! Give it back!" He looked up at Mazael, terror in his yellow eyes. "Mercy. Mercy!"
"I will give you," said Mazael, voice quiet, "the same mercy you promised the people of my lands."
Ultorin screamed.
Lion swung in a flash of blue flame, and Ultorin's head rolled to join his severed hands.
Mazael stepped over the black-armored corpse and stood over the bloodsword. Blue flame struggled against blood-colored light in the sword's sigils, the veil of darkness swirling and twisting.
He raised Lion and brought the point down onto the bloodsword. The black sword trembled, and shattered with a scream and a flash of crimson light. For a moment a towering black shadow reared over the broken sword, seeming to take the shape of Amalric Galbraith.
Then the shadow dissipated like smoke, and nothing but ash and twisted steel remained of the bloodsword.
At that moment a quiver went through the gathered Malrags. Even as Mazael watched, an Ograg turned, striking down two Malrags, howling with glee. The Malrags turned on each other, hacking and slashing with abandon, ignoring even the traigs in their midst. The power of Ultorin's bloodsword had kept them in line, but with Ultorin dead and the bloodsword shattered, the Malrags had returned to their usual impulses, and now preyed upon each other.
A hundred thousand Malrags, packed below the walls of Deepforest Keep, more concerned with killing each other than the humans and the Elderborn...
Mazael grinned at the thought.
His smile faded. It was not over, he knew, until they found Malavost and the San-keth, and he hurried to find Romaria.
Chapter 31 - The Betrayal
Rachel huddled behind the window, watching the Garden of the Temple in terror.
She watched Gerald and his men fight the Malrags. The air filled with screams and roars, and the earth shook and heaved as the Malrag shamans called down their bolts of emerald lightning. Then Mazael arrived, and Romaria and the Seer emerged from the well in the center of the Garden. The Seer's magical wrath ripped apart the shamans, and Romaria became a great black wolf, killing every Malrag in sight.
Then they left, racing away to the north. To the gates, Rachel guessed. They might have stopped the Malrag infiltrators, but the Malrags outside the walls continued their assault. For a moment she considered joining Gerald at the walls, or returning to the Champion's Tower, but rejected the idea. Mazael had killed most of the Malrags in the streets, but more might lurk in the alleys and the cellars. One lone woman, armed with only a dagger, would make for easy prey.
So she huddled behind the window, watching the Garden of the Temple, weeping as she listened to the distant sounds of the battle. How could Mazael and Gerald possibly prevail? Rachel knew that if Mazael killed Ultorin, the Malrag host would turn on itself. But Ultorin had to know that as well, and surely he would not be so foolish to expose himself to risk.
And Aldane. Her son was with Sykhana, somewhere in that Malrag horde. What would happen to Aldane if Mazael killed Ultorin and the Malrags went berserk? She had heard the stories, back at Castle Cravenlock, how the Malrags enjoyed torturing children.
How could this day end in anything but despair and death?
The traigs in the Garden of the Temple started to move.
At first Rachel thought her eyes had failed her, or that the horrors of the day had driven her mad. But the traigs kept moving. Dozens of them, then hundreds, all moving north towards the gate. A moment later Mazael and Romaria raced through the Garden of the Temple, following the Great Traig, which moved faster than Rachel could have imagined.
They vanished from sight, and the sounds of the battle changed. She heard men cheering, heard the Malrag war cries dwindle. More traigs moved through the street, chasing down Malrags, crushing them with stone maces, or simply ripping them apart.
Rachel blinked, her heart hammering with sudden hope. She had seen hundreds of the traig statues scattered through Deepforest Keep, and hundreds more standing in the hills. If Romaria and Mazael had somehow found a way to awaken them, to bring them to life...then perhaps they might yet defeat Ultorin and the Malrags.
And perhaps Rachel might see her son again.
She got to her feet. If the traigs were tearing apart the Malrags, she would go in search of Aldane. Of course, she had to first find a way out of this house. The building had been damaged by the Malrag lightning blasts, and she might have to climb down a pile of rubble or a ruined wall first.
A flicker in the Garden caught her eye, and Rachel took one last look out the window.
She froze in terror.
A San-keth cleric stood in the garden, looking back and forth. The creature rode on an undead human skeleton, like the other San-keth clerics Rachel had seen. Besides the cleric stood a tall man in the long black coat of a wizard, with pale blue eyes and a ragged shock of white hair. This must be Malavost, Rachel realized, the wizard who had aided Ultorin.
Malavost turned towards the well in the center of the Garden, and Rachel's hands flew to her throat.
Her son rested in the croo
k of the wizard's arm.
###
Sykhana crouched in the bushes, trying to focus through the terror.
She had every right to terror. She had seen hundreds the things, all moving with tremendous speed, killing any Malrags they could catch. No doubt they were some ancient magical defense of the Elderborn, awakened to fight off the Malrags.
Malavost had erred. Badly.
Sykhana had to get out of the city. The Malrags were terrifying fighters, and each Ograg was strong as a dozen normal men, but black axes were no use against living statues. Malavost's plan would fall apart when the traigs ripped off his head. Sykhana had to find Aldane and get away, get far away. True, Aldane would not live forever in power and glory. But she would raise him as a normal child, as her son, somewhere far from Deepforest Keep and Knightcastle.
That would not be so bad.
That thought alone gave her the courage to move forward, creeping from bush to bush.
Malavost's voice reached her ears.
Malavost? Here? How had he eluded the traigs?
Sykhana risked a glance around the trunk of a massive oak tree. A shaman's lightning had sundered the tree, and several of its heavy branches lay broken and smoking upon the ground. She saw Malavost standing at the edge of the wide stone well, Skaloban at his side, and her heart soared to see Aldane resting safe in the wizard's arm.
Sykhana almost called out to them, almost rose to join them.
But something in Malavost's icy eyes made her wait.
“As I promised,” said Malavost, pointing to the well. “The entrance to the caverns, and the path to the temple. And the Door of Souls.”
“You have done well, wizard,” said Skaloban. The cleric stepped past Malavost, gazing into the well. “You shall be well-rewarded, when Sepharivaim is reborn and the new order arises.”
“Of course,” said Malavost, reaching for his belt. “Honored Skaloban, I promised to bring you here, did I not? You should have had more faith in my judgment.”
“Perhaps I should have,” said Skaloban. “You are wise and clever, for a human. Truly you have proven a worthy servant of Sepharivaim...”
In one smooth motion, Malavost drew a dagger from his belt and rammed it into the base of Skaloban's skull.
“You should have had more faith in my judgment,” agreed Malavost, “but putting faith me personally...why, that was a dreadful mistake, honored Skaloban.”
The San-keth writhed, smashing the undead skeleton to pieces, flopped upon the grass, and went motionless. Malavost stooped, filled a vial with the San-keth's blood, and straightened up.
He gazed at Skaloban's corpse for a moment, and then laughed.
“That's all I ever needed from you, Skaloban,” said Malavost. “Just a vial of your blood. And enduring your whining was certainly a heavy price.” He glanced at Aldane. “And that's all I ever needed from you, young lord. Just a vial of blood.” His pleased smile got wider. “Or, rather, all of your blood.”
The words struck Sykhana like a thunderbolt.
Malavost wasn't going to transform Aldane into Sepharivaim reborn. He wasn't going to make Aldane into a living god.
He was going to kill Aldane.
Sykhana gripped her poisoned daggers and straightened up.
###
The battle was all but over.
Lucan leaned against the battlements, the bloodstaff flickering in his hand. The traigs continued their slaughter, killing every Malrag in sight. Not that there were many Malrags left to slaughter any longer. Like the traigs, the Malrags were efficient killers. They had torn each other apart with enthusiasm, even as the traigs slew them. And if Lucan walked to the southern walls, he knew, he could watch the Malrag host upon the foothills tear itself apart.
The battle was all but over.
But what had happened to Malavost?
Lucan had expected the renegade wizard to throw his considerable strength into the fray, to intervene in the fight between Mazael and Ultorin. Yet Malavost had not appeared, had allowed Mazael to strike down Ultorin. Perhaps Malavost was already dead, killed when the traigs attack. Or maybe the wizard had seen no further use for Ultorin, and slipped into the city.
Impossible. Potent wards layered Deepforest Keep's walls. Malavost would not have been able to enter, not without the druids knowing, unless...
Lucan looked at the ruined gate.
Unless the wards had been damaged.
Unless Malavost was already in the city, abandoning Ultorin and the Malrags to distract the defenders.
Lucan cursed, looked around, but all the druids had left, joining the slaughter below the gates.
He ran for the Garden of the Temple as fast as his legs would carry him.
###
Rachel saw Sykhana step out from behind a damaged tree.
Anger exploded through her. If she had a bow, she would have shot the changeling dead. If she had been a wizard like Lucan and Timothy, she would have thrown a blast of power to burn Sykhana to ashes, to make the changeling pay for having dared to touch Aldane...
Yet through her rage, something strange caught her expression.
Sykhana looked furious, her poisoned daggers in her hand.
###
“Malavost!” called Sykhana.
The wizard turned to face her, white eyebrows lifted in an expression of polite surprise.
“Ah,” he said. “You survived.”
Sykhana paused. The rational part of her mind, the cold part of her mind, knew that she should dissemble. That she should feign ignorance, and steal Aldane away from Malavost at the first opportunity.
But the thought of Malavost harming Aldane filled her with such fury that she did not care.
“You killed Skaloban,” said Sykhana.
Malavost's smile faded, his face settling into a cool mask.
“You saw that, did you?”
“I did,” said Sykhana. “What are you going to do to Aldane?”
“You know the answer to that,” said Malavost. “As I promised. Aldane will become a god, will...”
“Don't lie to me!” said Sykhana. “I heard what you said to Skaloban. What are you going to do to Aldane?”
Malavost sighed.
“Well, why not?” he said. “Why should you now know the truth, in the end? When I put this plan into Skaloban's head, years ago, I told him the spell would only work with a special child. The child of an apostate, the flesh and blood of one who had abandoned Sepharivaim. But that was only half true. Sepharivaim is dead, and the San-keth worship an empty memory that cannot save them. Sepharivaim is dead...but his power remains, imprisoned in the spirit world. His power remains, and can be claimed by anyone with the boldness to take it.”
“You,” said Sykhana.
“Me,” agreed Malavost. “I needed only three things. Someone to destroy Deepforest Keep, so I could reach the Door of Souls of safety. The blood of a San-keth, to open the Door and draw Sepharivaim's power to me.” His smile took on a cruel edge. “And the blood of a child of a human apostate, under a year old, to draw the power into the world and into me. All of the blood, as it happens.”
“You'll kill Aldane!” shouted Sykhana.
Malavost shrugged. “A small price to pay to become a living god, no?”
“I will not allow it!” said Sykhana.
Malavost laughed at her. “You will not allow it? How will you stop me, foolish child? I will give you one chance. Walk away, and you shall live. Or stay and serve me, and receive rich rewards once I come into my power. Decide now.”
“You will never touch Aldane again!” said Sykhana.
She raced at Malavost, one arm drawn back to throw a poisoned dagger.
Malavost flicked a finger, just one.
And a wall of invisible force slammed into Sykhana with the force of an avalanche. She heard a dozen loud snaps, and realized that she was hearing her bones break. The spell threw her into the damaged oak tree with crushing force, and a fresh explosion of pain erupt
ed through her. All the strength drained from her legs, yet she remained upright, somehow.
She looked down, saw three feet of jagged oak jutting from her stomach, thick as her arm.
“Aldane!” she cried, reaching for the baby, her precious one. “Aldane!”
Malavost turned away, Aldane still in his arm.
“Aldane,” whispered Sykhana, and blackness swallowed her.
###
Rachel watched Malavost and Sykhana speak, saw Malavost strike down the changeling with a single spell.
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 115
