Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Rhodemar grinned and clapped Mazael on the shoulder. “Lead on, my lord. We shall be glad of your hospitality. And since we are now brothers by marriage, I suppose we ought to get drunk together.”

  Mazael laughed. “I have no objections.”

  “Brother by marriage?” said Ardanna, blinking her golden eyes. “I do not understand.”

  They looked at her, and her eyes widened.

  “You wed him?” said Ardanna, astonished. “You know what he is…and you wed him?”

  “Why, Mother,” said Romaria. “Mazael took me as wife before the Great Rising. Did you not know?”

  “Surely the Sight must have revealed it to you, High Druid,” said Rhodemar.

  For the first time, Mazael saw Ardanna stunned into silence.

  Alas, he suspected it would not last.

  “Come, High Druid, my lord Champion,” said Mazael. “We have work before us.”

  They rejoined Tanam’s men and headed back to Castle Cravenlock.

  ###

  “I am afraid,” said Sir Commander Aidan Tormaud, “that you are going to have to kill him.”

  “No,” said Gerald.

  He walked with the other exile lords and knights through their camp. Dozens of banners flew over the tents, displaying the sigils of the lords who had fled from Lord Malden. Gerald also saw the blue banners of the Justiciar Order. Many of the Justiciar Knights had rallied to Aidan’s side, though most of the Order still remained loyal to the Grand Master.

  Those damned black daggers had corrupted them.

  “I fear that the Sir Commander is correct,” said Lord Agravain, standing stern and erect despite his age. “Lord Malden has violated his oaths as liege lord of Knightreach, and waged war against both his vassals and his subjects.”

  “I know this,” said Gerald. He stopped to check some of the horses. The squires and knights had tended them well. The men knew their lives might depend upon their mounts in battle. “I intend to remove him, yes…and replace him.” Men would say that Gerald had overthrown his father to claim Knightcastle for himself, the way they whispered that Mazael had murdered both Mitor and Richard Mandragon to claim Castle Cravenlock and the Grim Marches for himself. But if Mazael could endure the calumnies, then Gerald supposed he could, too. “But there’s no need to kill him. He can remain imprisoned for the rest of his days.”

  “After everything he has done?” said Adalar Greatheart, scowling. “He has murdered his own peasants, betrayed his vassals…and permitted Lucan Mandragon to run amok with an army of runedead in his lands.”

  “You are right,” said Gerald. “But I have no wish to kill him.”

  Because Gerald had no family left. One of his brothers had perished in the Grim Marches fighting Richard Mandragon, and still another had died in the war against the Dominiars in Mastaria. Garain had been murdered by the San-keth. Tobias and his mother had both perished in Knightcastle, killed by Lucan’s runedead. Lucan Mandragon bore the responsibility for their deaths, Gerald knew.

  But Lord Malden also carried some blame.

  Yet Gerald could bring himself to do it.

  “You may not have a choice,” said Lord Tancred, grunting.

  “What do you mean?” said Gerald. “Of course I have a choice.”

  “I think what Lord Tancred means,” said Agravain, “is that Malden may not yield. I am an old man, Gerald, even if my health holds. But the temptation to be young again…I am glad Lucan did not approach me. Even at the risk of damning my soul, I am not sure I would have the strength to refuse his offer. Even if you offer your father his life, Lucan’s defeat means that Lord Malden will become a sick old man once more. He may not accept that.”

  “Perhaps he will,” said Gerald. “Maybe he will see reason.”

  “Or not,” said Adalar. “My lord, forgive me for being frank…but you have your wife and sons to consider, in addition to your vassals and peasants. If Lord Malden would not scruple from killing his own wife and son, I doubt yours mean anything to him.”

  “I know,” said Gerald. “We will do what we must to take back our homes and free our lands from the blight of the runedead.”

  And Gerald would do what he had to do to keep his family safe.

  Even if it meant killing the creature his father had become.

  Chapter 10 - Grinning Skulls

  “Nizius,” said Skalatan. “Prepare yourself. The time has come.”

  “I shall gather the others, great Herald,” said the changeling, “and meet you at the appointed place.”

  Nizius departed the tent, and Skalatan reached up with skeletal hands and drew the cowl of his ragged robe over his head. Such an odd affectation, clothing. Still, he saw why the humans required it. Their skins were soft and weak, lacking the protection offered by San-keth scales. An unclothed human was at a crippling disadvantage. And Skalatan’s robe concealed his carrier, since the humans found the sight of a serpent riding an animated skeleton disquieting.

  The humans were his tools…but one had to understand a tool to make effective use of it.

  Skalatan cast a spell, summoning power. He wrapped himself in a spell of illusion, one that would make him invisible to mortal eyes. Another spell shifted both his body and his carrier partway into the spirit world, transforming him into a wraith of mist and shadow.

  He strode through the camp, unnoticed by the Aegonar warriors. Here and there fires burned, the warriors talking and eating, but most of them had retired to sleep. Sentries patrolled the edge of the camp, watching for both raiders and deserters. Skalatan left the camp unseen and came to a patch of woods overlooking the River of Lords. The moonlight rippled on the river, the only sound the water lapping at the bank.

  Had he not been looking for them, even Skalatan would not have seen the seven calibah waiting in the woods. He released his spells, making his form visible and material once more, and the changelings glided to his side without sound.

  “Great Herald,” said Nizius with a bow. “We are ready.”

  “Good,” said Skalatan. “Remain vigilant. I do not expect treachery, but only a fool lowers his guard.” It was unlikely he would face serious threats, but he could only spilt his attention in so many directions, and the calibah were vigilant.

  Skalatan summoned power, gray mist and blue light swirling around him. He focused his will, fighting against the turbulence in the spirit world. But Skalatan had centuries of experience, and he forced his will through the turbulence. A column of mist rose from the forest floor a few yards away. It shaped itself into a gray sheet the size of a doorway. Through the rippling mist he glimpsed rocky hills cloaked in pine trees.

  The mistgate had opened.

  “Are we unobserved?” said Skalatan.

  “Yes, great Herald,” said Nizius.

  “Good.” There was no need for Ryntald and Korvager to know about Skalatan’s plan. Their pontoon bridge might succeed, or it might not. In the meantime Skalatan would pursue his own objectives.

  A wise commander left open many paths to victory.

  “Proceed,” said Skalatan.

  Nizius strode without hesitation through the mistgate. Skalatan saw him through the rippling mist, wavering and indistinct, and the changeling beckoned. Three more calibah moved through the gate, and Skalatan followed them.

  He felt a moment’s spinning disorientation as he stepped through the mistgate, and then he found himself…elsewhere.

  Specifically, on the eastern edge of Greycoast, not far from the border of the Stormvales. The land here was hilly, pine trees studding the hills’ rocky slopes. It was the sort of country that lent itself to bandits, to robber lords setting up strongholds and terrorizing travelers. The San-keth had many temples hidden throughout the Stormvales, though Skalatan had neither the need nor the wish to turn to his brethren for aid.

  They would not understand his vision.

  A large castle with thick walls and squat towers stood atop a hill, torchlight flickering in the narrow windows. A village l
ay below the hill, surrounded by a strong stone wall. Militiamen patrolled the ramparts, crossbows in hand, but they were too far away to see Skalatan or the changelings. Dozens of small farms and vineyards surrounded the village.

  A mile to the north stood another hill, taller than the one holding the castle. A cluster of ruined walls and tower of pale white stone crowned the hill, eerie and gleaming in the moonlight.

  None of the farms came anywhere near the hill with the pale ruin.

  “Welcome, honored archpriest,” said a man’s voice, deep and jovial, “to Castle Rutagne.”

  A fat human man stepped from the shadows beneath a pine tree, clad in the simple clothing of a shopkeeper. He looked calm, but Skalatan tasted the tension of his scent, saw the hidden weapons beneath his coat.

  “First Dagger,” said Skalatan.

  Souther bowed. “May I introduce the honorable Karlam of House Ganelon, Lord of Castle Rutagne?”

  A second man stepped from the shadows. He had a thin, ascetic look to his face, but Skalatan tasted ambition in his scent. The man was a San-keth proselyte, but like many proselytes, he served the serpent god out of ambition, not devotion.

  Still, every tool had its use.

  Lord Karlam went to one knee. “Great archpriest. I am a loyal servant of Sepharivaim, and I await your command.”

  “Rise,” said Skalatan, beckoning with his carrier’s skeletal hand.

  Karlam got to his feet. His face was calm, but the muscles in his temples kept twitching.

  “Have you made the arrangements?” said Skalatan.

  “I have,” said Karlam, looking at Souther.

  The First Dagger smiled. “We are prepared, noble archpriest. Many servants fled the Prince’s Keep after Malaric’s massacre…but now that Hugh has taken the throne, the Lady Consort Adelaide has hired many new servants.”

  “And your assassins,” said Skalatan, “have disguised themselves as servants and infiltrated the castle.”

  Souther smiled. “It is delightful to have a patron who appreciates the…subtleties of our work.”

  Skalatan cared nothing for Souther’s thoughts, but the Skulls of Barellion were useful tools. “I will trust to your servants’ competence.” He rotated his head to gaze at Karlam. “And once Hugh Chalsain and his wife are dead, you will be able to take control of Greycoast?”

  “I am certain,” said Karlam. “The House of Ganelon is an ancient and as noble as the House of Chalsain, more so than any other House in Greycoast. I will be able to claim the Prince’s Keep and assert my right to the Prince’s diadem.”

  “Good,” said Skalatan. “And in exchange for becoming the Prince, do you know what Sepharivaim requires of you?”

  Karlam swallowed, but he nodded. “I will swear vassalage to High King Ryntald of the Aegonar, and allow the seidjar to build temples to Sepharivaim in every town and village in Greycoast. Additionally, I will allow the host of the Aegonar to march to Knightreach, and accompany them in battle against Lord Malden.”

  “Then you understand,” said Skalatan. He doubted that Karlam could take control of Greycoast that easily. Most likely, Hugh’s assassination and Karlam’s seizure of the throne would touch off a vicious civil war between the lords of Greycoast, allowing Ryntald to smash his way through to Knightreach. Or perhaps Karlam was stronger than Skalatan thought, and would gain control of Greycoast. Either way, Skalatan would have a clear path to Knightcastle.

  “Good,” said Skalatan. “First Dagger, you have been paid well, and should you be successful, you will receive additional rewards. Lord Karlam, you have been loyal, and should you maintain your fealty to Sepharivaim, you will be the Prince of Greycoast for the remainder of your life.”

  “Thank you, honored archpriest,” said Karlam. “How else may I be of service?”

  “Wait here,” said Skalatan, looking towards the pale ruin. “I will return shortly.”

  “Archpriest,” said Karlam with alarm. “You mean to enter the old ruin?”

  “Do you question the decisions of the Herald of Sepharivaim?” said Nizius.

  “Of course not,” said Karlam, “but that ruin is dangerous. The wizards say it was once a stronghold of the Dark Elderborn. In my grandfather’s time robbers braved the ruin in search of treasure. And again in my father’s time, and in my own time since I became lord. Not a single one of those men ever returned. Not one.”

  “I would have been surprised,” said Skalatan, “had any of those men returned. The guardians within Urdbaen Tor are potent.”

  Souther blinked. “Urdbaen…Tor? You know the name of this place, noble archpriest?”

  “Indeed,” said Skalatan. “I have been seeking Urdbaen Tor for a long time. Wait here. I shall return presently.”

  Or the guardians within the ruin would kill him.

  Entering the place was a risk. But Lucan Mandragon had grown powerful, and now wielded mighty relics of Old Dracaryl. Skalatan’s power matched Lucan’s, but if it came to a direct confrontation, he did not want to risk a fair battle. He needed an edge against Lucan.

  And that edge lay within Urdbaen Tor.

  Skalatan cast a spell, transforming his physical form into a misty wraith, and headed for the ruin.

  ###

  A short time later Skalatan stood atop the hill, gazing at the pale ruin.

  It had once been a citadel, though with aesthetics alien to both human and San-keth eyes. A human looking at the ruin, Skalatan knew, would feel a headache from the strange angles of the towers and the walls, from the peculiar arches of the doorways and windows. No doubt it contributed to the ruin’s dark reputation among the humans who dwelled nearby.

  Of course, most of the bloody legends about the Dark Elderborn were true.

  Skalatan felt the tremendous dark magic radiating from the vaults beneath the ruin.

  He strode through the gate in the outer wall and towards the jagged white shell that had once been the citadel’s central keep. Pale rubble and weeds filled the keep’s interior, but at its base Skalatan saw a stairwell descending into darkness.

  As he approached, he felt the wraiths draw near.

  He worked a spell, focusing his magic upon them.

  Thirteen of the undead guardians approached, far more powerful than normal shades or even Lucan Mandragon’s runeshadows. Skalatan knew of such creatures, though he had never encountered one before. The Dark Elderborn had created them through the murder of their human slaves, binding a demon spirit into the resultant shade. The wraiths were impervious to normal steel and all but the most powerful spells. Skalatan could have destroyed two or even three, but thirteen would overwhelm him quickly.

  The wraiths drifted closer, and he commanded his carrier to reach into the leather bag hanging at the belt of his robe. He drew out Corvad’s skull, careful not to let it come into contact with his skin, and lifted it high.

  The skull began to glow with crimson light. Skalatan saw the wraiths moving around him, columns of blood-colored fire wrapped in veils of sooty shadow.

  “I command you,” said Skalatan, “to let me pass.”

  The wraiths hesitated. They were demon spirits, but Skalatan held Corvad’s skull…and the skull contained the power of a grandson of the Old Demon. Demonsouled could command Malrags, and the wraiths were essentially Malrag spirits housed within undead shades.

  The wraiths sank into the earth, permitting Skalatan to pass.

  He took the spiral stairs. Darkness swallowed him as he descended and Skalatan lifted his carrier’s free hand, conjuring a ball of blue light. The stairs ended in a large pillared hall carved from the rock of the hill. Scenes upon the pillars and walls displayed the otherworldly yet gruesome art of the Dark Elderborn.

  Human bones carpeted the floor, interspersed here and there with rusted swords and broken armor, no doubt the remains of the robbers foolish enough to enter Urdbaen Tor. Perhaps the wraiths had lured them down here before draining away their lives. Though many of the bones bore claw marks, and several of the
skulls had been smashed. The wraiths killed by draining away life energy through their touch.

  They certainly wouldn’t rend and kill with tooth and claw.

  Skalatan looked up and saw the horror clinging to the hall’s ceiling.

  It was a ghastly hybrid of man and insect, all claws and talons and gleaming carapace. The Dark Elderborn had created it with their sorcery, fusing living men and beasts to create this monstrosity. Such a creature would be immortal, and all but impervious to most forms of attack. Even with the full force of his magic, Skalatan could only slow down the creature.

  Fortunately, he did not need to fight it.

  Skalatan cast a spell, purple flame dancing around his carrier’s hands. The creature on the ceiling shuddered, a keening sound coming from its various fang-filled mouths. Then it went motionless and fell to the floor with a thump.

  The spell would not last long, but long enough for Skalatan to take what he had come to claim.

  He walked around the sleeping guardian and made his way deeper into the ruin.

  Another set of stairs ended in a second hall, larger than the first. It had once been the seat the Dark Elderborn lord that ruled Urdbaen Tor, and a stone throne sat upon the dais at the end of the hall. Before the throne stood a stone pedestal, and atop the pedestal rested a scepter fashioned out of something like white gold. It looked like an elaborate, stylized dragon, the creature’s mouth open in a yawning roar.

  Which made sense, given that the scepter was wrought not of white gold but dragon bone.

  Skalatan felt the tremendous magic imbued within the ancient bone. He had spent centuries searching for it, knowing that would need it before his final confrontation with the Old Demon. The greatest of the Dark Elderborn wizards had created it long ago, before the Dark Elderborn kingdoms west of the Great Mountains had been destroyed by internecine warfare or the swords of humans.

  But the Dark Elderborn had left behind their ruins and their legends.

  And this, the most potent of their artifacts.

  Skalatan took a step forward, and a robed figure appeared from behind a pillar.