Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Karlam frowned, titled his head to the side, and then his eyes widened.

  Hugh’s men had encamped at the edge of the river bank, and every last one of them drew their swords. The low moaning filled the air, and a cold wind picked up, rustling the grasses and making the river ripple.

  “Wizard’s oil!” yelled Hugh. “Quickly, all of you!”

  He yanked the small flask from his belt.

  Runedead were immune to normal steel, so every man in the armies of Greycoast carried a flask of wizard’s oil. When coated on a blade and set aflame, it allowed a sword to harm a runedead, if only for a few minutes. Most of the runedead had been cleared from Greycoast, but bands of the undead still lurked in lonely places, and the men carried flasks of wizard’s oil with them.

  Which was just as well, since they needed the wizard’s oil to face this new threat.

  Hugh spilled a few drops upon his sword and rubbed it over his blade, and as he did, the first shadow appeared.

  The creature, whatever it was, looked like a shadow fashioned of gray mist and darkness. An arcane symbol of green fire burned in the center of its chest. A constant low groaning, the moan of a man in dying agony, came from the shadow. Through the gathered men Hugh saw a dozen more of the gray shadows appear, the sigils flickering within them like pale green candles.

  “Fight!” shouted Hugh, and the camp broke into chaos.

  He ignited the wizard’s oil upon his blade, and pale white flames sheathed his sword. The shadow near him flowed to the right, towards one of the armsmen in Lord Bryce’s service. The armsman backed away, eyes wide with fear.

  The shadow touched the armsman, and the man screamed. One moment he was a healthy man of about thirty. The next a withered, ancient corpse in gleaming armor collapsed to the ground, his life drained away by a single touch of the shadow. Hugh lunged, his sword a blur of white fire, and slashed the blade through the shadow’s gray form.

  It dissolved like smoke upon the wind.

  Hugh turned, seeking more foes, but the fight was already over. A half-dozen men had fallen to the gray shadows, but the camp blazed with the white glow of wizard’s oil. One by one the burning swords winked out.

  Hugh sighed, let the wizard’s oil burn out from his blade, and sheathed his sword.

  Montigard and Maurus hurried over, smoke still rising from Maurus’s fingers.

  “How many did we lose this time?” said Hugh.

  “Seven in total, I think,” said Maurus. “Mostly wounded men and those taken off-guard when the shadows manifested.”

  “It could have been worse,” said Montigard.

  “But it was still too damned many,” said Hugh.

  “At least,” said Bryce, voice quiet, “they’re troubling the Aegonar, too. Whatever they are”

  Hugh saw the chaos in the Aegonar warbands on the other side.

  “That’s the third attack in the last fortnight,” said Hugh. He looked at Maurus. “Do you have any idea what those things are?”

  “None, my lord Prince,” said Maurus. “They are a form of undead, that is plain, but the…creatures leave no remains to study. Our best guess is that they are connected to the runedead. The symbol that glows within the shadows is similar to the one that burns upon the brows of the runedead. We suspect the shadows might be a sort of echo, perhaps, created by the destruction of a runedead.”

  “An echo?” said Karlam with disdain. “Echoes cannot kill, wizard.”

  Hugh looked at the dead armsmen. “It seems that they can.” He shook his head. “Sir Philip, Lord Bryce. Tell the men to move the camp away from the river. I doubt they’ll want to sleep here, now that the shadows have appeared again. Leave sentries to guard the bank in case the Aegonar make trouble.” He looked at the chaos on the far side of the River of Lords. “But I doubt they’ll be in a festive mood.”

  Montigard nodded and spat over the bank. “Damn shadows.”

  “And what, might I ask,” said Karlam, “will we do tomorrow, my Prince?”

  His words were polite, but Hugh heard the challenge in them.

  “We will break camp,” said Hugh, “and withdraw to Barellion, along with the other bands scattered along the river.”

  Karlam’s eyes were cold. “And then we will huddle behind Barellion’s walls and wait for the Aegonar to pass?”

  “No,” said Hugh, “we will resupply and prepare to cross the River of Lords ourselves. If Lord Mazael returns to join us, we will welcome his aid. But we will not wait for the lords of the Grim Marches to save us, and we will drive the Aegonar from Greycoast.”

  He only hoped he would not lead his men to their destruction.

  ###

  That night Lord Karlam Ganelon sat alone in his tent, gazing at his lantern.

  That damnable boy.

  Why couldn’t have Malaric have been more thorough? Malaric had wiped out Everard Chalsain and his sons, and then Mazael Cravenlock had killed Malaric. Everything had been in place for Karlam to seize Greycoast for himself.

  But Hugh had survived, somehow, thanks to sheer dumb luck. That would not have been an insurmountable difficulty. Karlam had several daughters, and any one of them would have been capable of seducing the fool boy.

  But instead Hugh had wed Alberon Stormsea’s bastard daughter.

  Karlam felt his teeth grind. It had been almost perfect. With the House of Chalsain destroyed, he could have taken Greycoast with ease.

  And then he could have presented the land as a gift before the feet of the Aegonar High King.

  Or, more precisely, as a gift before the coils of Skalatan, archpriest of Sepharivaim.

  For Karlam had kissed the serpent long ago in exchange for promises of immortality and power. And so far the San-keth had kept their bargain. He was one of the highest nobles in Greycoast, with lesser lords and knights at his call.

  But he wanted more.

  And he would have it. He wanted to rule Greycoast as Skalatan’s regent, to reign forever, immortal and invincible.

  The tent flap rustled, and his squire entered. “A…guest for you, my lord. He said he was invited.”

  Karlam straightened on his camp stool. “Send him in.”

  The squire bowed and departed, and a stocky man entered the tent, clad in a heavy brown cloak.

  “Show me your face,” said Karlam.

  The stocky man complied and drew back his cowl, revealing the broad, ruddy face of a successful innkeeper or merchant. The man looked like a generous peasant farmer or perhaps a kindly rural priest.

  Karlam was not fooled.

  “You received my invitation?” he said.

  “Indeed I did,” said the guest, his voice genial and warm. “And I was so intrigued I came in person. It is not often that the First Dagger of the Skulls receives such a…bold request.”

  Karlam kept the unease from his expression. The Skulls were Barellion’s brotherhood of assassins, paid killers who lurked in the shadows. Their deeds were cloaked in dark legend, and their leader was the most feared man in the city. The Skulls often accepted contracts from the proselytes of the San-keth…and the San-keth priests themselves sometimes used the Skulls to dispatch the disloyal.

  The Skulls had aided Malaric in his rise to power, and after Malaric’s fall, had disappeared back into the shadows. Some said that Mazael Cravenlock, his mad daughter, and his pet barbarian wizard had destroyed the Skulls utterly.

  Karlam knew better.

  “First Dagger,” said Karlam, “I am glad you could come.”

  “Please, my lord,” said the First Dagger. “I am a simple man. Do call me Souther. I assume your lordship’s time is valuable, so let us be blunt, hmm? How can I be of service to you?”

  Karlam felt his throat go dry. “I wish to purchase a death.”

  “Oh?” Souther lifted his thick eyebrows. “That is easily arranged.”

  “Two deaths, to be precise,” said Karlam.

  “A rich sacrifice of blood for your serpent god,” said Souther.
/>   Karlam gave him a hard look. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Souther smiled. “Of course. Might I ask who you wish to die?”

  Karlam told him.

  Souther did not look in the least surprised. “Difficult, my lord, but it can be done.” His smile widened. “Let us haggle."

  Chapter 6 - Sight and Shadows

  Riothamus frowned. “You have been seeing glimpses of the future?”

  Romaria nodded.

  They stood outside the walls of Castle Cravenlock. It was a little past dawn, and already the rising sun painted the grassy plains the color of blood. Romaria preferred to rise before dawn and hunt, whether with bow and arrow or the wolf’s form. Mazael was indifferent to hunting, and usually spent the morning attending to the business of governing, so Romaria usually hunted alone.

  But sometimes she hunted with Riothamus. His knack for it surprised her, but upon reflection it made sense. Riothamus had been Aegidia’s apprentice, and had spent his youth traveling from one end of the old Tervingi homeland to another with her.

  And even the Guardian needed to eat.

  “And you saw this…spirit?” said Riothamus. “This Demonsouled foe of Lord Mazael’s?”

  “Aye,” said Romaria. “Morebeth Galbraith.”

  Riothamus sighed. “Then I fear you are correct, my lady. You have indeed developed the Sight.”

  Romaria looked at him. She could see the tremendous power of the bronze staff strapped to his back, the aura of crackling magic that waited at his command. And if she concentrated, she saw hints of his own aura – the pain from the death of his parents and Aegidia’s murder, the weight of his responsibilities, his fear for the future.

  His fierce love for Molly.

  She concentrated and pushed away the strange visions.

  Yet the visions still shimmered at the edge of her consciousness.

  “How?” said Romaria.

  Riothamus shrugged. “I don’t know. I suspect we can thank your Elderborn heritage. You know more about the Elderborn that I do,” he reached back and tapped the staff, “but some of the past Guardians knew more about the Elderborn than either of us. Most of the Elderborn have a minor degree of facility with the Sight. Those who embrace the ability and train can reach heights no human could match.”

  “The Seer,” said Romaria, remembering. He had set her upon the path that led her to Mazael.

  Though he had not foreseen his own death at Malavost’s hands.

  “Indeed,” said Riothamus. He pointed at the grass. “A trail.”

  Romaria saw the trail as easily as reading script from a page. She nodded, and they followed it.

  “Why now?” said Romaria. “I’m thirty-six years old. If the Sight was going to manifest in me, I thought it would have done so by now.”

  “For all we know you could be young yet,” said Riothamus. “I understood that it was…rare for Elderborn half-breeds to live past their thirtieth year, since the magic of their Elderborn souls would consume them.”

  “Yes,” said Romaria, shivering as she remembered how close she had come to that fate. “That was why I left Deepforest Keep.” That, and she hated her mother. Ardanna believed the Elderborn superior to humans, and certainly superior to half-human, half-Elderborn half-breeds. “I wanted to see as much of the world as I could before I lost myself. And then I…”

  “You mastered yourself?” said Riothamus.

  “Not entirely,” said Romaria. “I…that was the problem. I was trying to conquer myself. But that wouldn’t work. Like an ocean trying to turn itself to sand. I was trying to keep the wolf at bay, but I was the wolf all along. I am the wolf, and the wolf is me. I had to accept it.” She shrugged. “I did…and now I have no idea how long I will live.”

  “No one knows that,” said Riothamus. He carried a short hunting bow, the arrow notched. “Lucan Mandragon could kill us all tomorrow. Or I could trip and shoot myself in the throat. Or I could choke on a biscuit at breakfast.” He shrugged. “No one knows how much longer we have left.”

  Romaria laughed. “You’re too young to be so wise.”

  “Wisdom,” said Riothamus, “is only knowledge gained from learning something the hard way. And I have learned more things the hard way than I care to remember.” He shook his head. “But that is a digression. I think the Sight was always latent in you, and your brush with death, and the magic necessary to sustain you, awakened it.”

  Romaria nodded, lifting her face to feel the direction of the wind. She changed direction, and Riothamus followed suit. She heard the rustling of the grasses and the soft whisper of the wind, and smelled wet soil and the scent of distant crops.

  And the musky smell of the red deer’s fur.

  “It never seems to go away,” said Romaria. “From what you’ve said, the Sight comes upon you in visions, or when you consciously summon it. But for me, it’s always there. I can ignore it, or I can go deeper into it, but it never goes away.”

  “I think it will always be with you,” said Riothamus. “For me, the Sight is like a…oh, a closed window. If I choose, I can open the shutters and look outside. Or if a vision comes upon me, the vision will batter its way through the shutters and present itself to me. But either way, I must first open the window. For you, I think, the Sight is like having a third eye.”

  “What do you mean?” said Romaria. The deer’s track was plain now.

  “Your two eyes show you light and shadow and color,” said Riothamus. “But now you have a third eye, one that is always open. And that eye shows you the currents of magic, the flow of time, the shape and hue of auras, and perhaps glimpses of the past and the future.”

  “So it seems,” said Romaria. “Will I be able to use the Sight as you do? To see far-off places, or into the past?”

  “Most likely not,” said Riothamus. “I suspect your facility with the Sight isn’t as powerful as that of the Guardian. That said, it offers some advantage. You don’t need to summon it, which means it will give you better warning of danger. And it doesn’t appear to cause you any physical drain.” He looked over the plains. “Whenever I use the Sight, I feel as if I just ran ten miles while carrying a forty pound sack of flour. The Sight does not seem to exert you at all.”

  “No,” said Romaria. She had not considered it that way. “No, it doesn’t exhaust me.” She shrugged. “So far, at least, it’s been no different than listening to someone speak. I might not like what I hear, but the simple act of listening isn’t tiring.” The deer’s trail shifted to the left, and Romaria followed. “Though I wish I could direct it better. I’ll look at someone and see…things, images, flashes of their aura. Or maybe the past or the future. I don’t know for certain.”

  “I can help you,” said Riothamus. “You have a different level of the Sight than the Guardian, but it is still the Sight. The same principles would apply.”

  “I would appreciate that,” said Romaria. “If we are to face Lucan and stop him, we will need every advantage.”

  And as she thought of Lucan Mandragon, something glimmered before her Sight. A grinning shadow, a hooded form standing atop an altar and laughing, a horror rising from burning rubble.

  “You see it too,” said Riothamus, voice quiet, “don’t you?”

  “The grinning shadow?” said Romaria. “Yes.”

  “I think it is the Urdmoloch,” said Riothamus.

  “The Old Demon,” said Romaria. “He is behind Lucan, I am sure. He is our real enemy. Lucan is merely…ah.”

  She held up her hand.

  The red deer stood some yards upwind. It had not yet seen or scented them. Riothamus nodded and stepped to the left. Romaria took one step forward, and then another.

  And as she did, she changed. Her torso swelled, fresh muscle cording her arms and legs. Black fur sprouted from her skin, her clothing and weapons vanishing as the magic of her Elderborn soul took hold. In a moment she had transformed into a great black wolf, faster and stronger than a normal man.
/>   Her senses sharpened, and she heard the rustling of the grass, smelled Riothamus’s sweat and the odor of the deer, saw the deer’s fur rippling in the wind.

  She circled through the grasses, moving without sound, and lunged. The deer took flight at once.

  Riothamus’s arrow slammed into the center of its chest, and the animal stumbled and collapsed motionless to the ground. The scent of blood flooded Romaria’s nostrils, and she heard the deer’s heartbeat falter.

  And then it stopped.

  She flowed back into human form.

  “Good shot,” she said.

  Riothamus nodded. “Thank you. Though it is quite simple when you drive the beast right towards me.” He knelt, tied the deer’s legs together, and heaved it over his shoulders with a grunt. “I never saw a red deer before I came to the Grim Marches.”

  “They don’t like trees,” said Romaria. “They stay on the plains, on the Grim Marches and the Burning Hills, occasionally on the High Plain, but…”

  A dark shape appeared behind Riothamus, and Romaria reached for her sword. Riothamus turned, one hand coming up for a spell, and Romaria saw a woman in a black gown, her blood-colored hair stirring.

  “Morebeth,” said Romaria.

  “You must come at once,” said Morebeth. “There is great danger.”

  “Why?” said Romaria. “What’s happening?”

  “I do not know,” said Morebeth, a hint of frustration in her cold tones. “I have never seen anything like this. A shadow…perhaps? Echoes of slain runedead. I do not know. But they are coming for Mazael.”

  “She is there?” said Riothamus, voice quiet.

  “Aye,” said Romaria. “If Mazael is in danger, we’ll return to the castle at once. But you must warn him.”

  “I cannot,” said Morebeth. “The shadows have gathered too thickly about him. He will not be able to see me. But you must go! The shadows come for Mazael, and they will try to kill him!”

  The spirit vanished.

  “What did she say?” said Riothamus.

  “Something is about to attack Mazael,” said Romaria. “We need to return to Castle Cravenlock at once.”