Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Man or Elderborn,” said Mazael. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Caldarus had a few spies hidden among the defectors.”

  “That makes sense,” said Gerald. “I will have Aidan keep close watch over the defectors.”

  Mazael nodded. “Just keep them separate from the others. But it’s not a grave concern. Caldarus outnumbers us three to one. He doesn’t need to be clever. He just needs to roll right over us. Like a man pushing his way through a hedge, really.”

  Gerald said nothing as Mazael took another drink. If he had despaired…

  “Do you think we can win?” said Gerald.

  Mazael blinked, took another drink, and grinned. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “No matter how well you prepare, no matter how many men you put into the field, no matter how favorable the land…a battle is a gamble. Throw the dice and see what happens.” He gazed at the fires scattered throughout the camp. “Though I prefer to the load the dice.”

  Gerald laughed. “Dishonest, but I approve.”

  “Caldarus has the superior force,” said Mazael. “We’ll need to be a bit dishonest. And that’s our advantage. Caldarus has so many runedead he doesn’t need to be clever. Oh, I doubt he’ll turn into an idiot, but he’ll try to overwhelm us with force. Simply roll over us and have done with it.”

  “You think overconfidence will be his weakness,” said Gerald.

  “I know it will,” said Mazael. Suddenly he laughed.

  “What is it?” said Gerald.

  “We always seem to find ourselves in these one-sided battles,” said Mazael. “The runedead.”

  “That dragon outside of Arylkrad,” said Gerald, gesturing at Mazael’s armor.

  “Or the Malrags,” said Mazael. “Both at the battle at Castle Cravenlock and the siege of Deepforest Keep.”

  “And the Dominiars,” said Gerald.

  Mazael laughed. “Which time? When we faced Amalric outside the walls of Tumblestone?”

  “That was almost as desperate as when we fought Sir Commander Aeternis in Mastaria,” said Gerald.

  “Or when we fought Skhath and the San-keth, or Straganis at Tristgard,” said Mazael.

  Gerald found himself grinning. “Or when we outwitted that bandit chief when I was a boy. What was his name again?”

  Mazael barked a laugh. “Recarred the Fist. Gods, I haven’t thought about that in years.” He shook his head. “That was fifteen years ago. I hadn’t a coin to my name. I had my horse, my sword, my boots, and that was all. And those damned boots were in bad shape.” He shook his head again and waved a hand at the vast camp around them. “And now…this. Thirty-five thousand men ready to follow me into battle. Where did I go wrong?”

  “Perhaps you went right,” said Gerald.

  “How so?” said Mazael. “If I had killed Lucan when I had the chance, none of this would have happened.”

  “If you hadn’t come to Knightreach, the Dominiars would have conquered Knightcastle. Rachel would have remained a San-keth proselyte, the Malrags would have destroyed the Grim Marches and Deepforest Keep, and Skalatan would have turned himself into a god,” said Gerald. “That Lucan did such grievous evil was his fault, not yours.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael.

  He stared into the camp, face distant.

  “When you left the Grim Marches, twenty years ago,” said Gerald, “did you ever think that you would return? That you would be the liege lord, one day?”

  Mazael laughed. “Gods, no. I thought I would end up knifed in some Barellion whorehouse. Or dead on a battlefield somewhere. Then I happened to save your father from Recarred the Fist, and I thought I would die as one of his household knights.”

  “Then,” said Gerald, “you met Romaria.”

  A smile came to the older man’s hard face. “That I did.” He took another drink of wine. “And I met Rachel again…and now instead of a violent vagabond, I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches. I suppose a man can change.”

  “Instead of dying upon the floor of a brothel,” said Gerald, “you can die upon the field of battle in a few days.”

  He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but Mazael only laughed. “Perhaps. We might well die in two days. Or I might die when this miserable wine poisons me.” He took another drink. “Or we might not. All men die, Gerald. I suppose we can choose to flee from it, and have it overtake us anyway…or to face it as men, and perhaps win another day.”

  “Or die,” said Gerald.

  “Or die,” agreed Mazael. He sighed. “I suppose it is harder to face death now, when we have more to lose.”

  “Romaria and…Molly, I suppose,” said Gerald.

  “She is…spirited,” said Mazael. He held out a hand, and Gerald passed him the wineskin. “But I love her. And Romaria. I have already lost her once…and almost lost her a second time to Malaric’s poison. And if I live long enough, I suppose I will lose her again. Perhaps the priests are right, and those who are righteous and put their trust in the gods will be reunited in the next life.”

  “They are right,” said Gerald. “I believe this. It is a comfort, in these dark times.”

  “Nor one I would deny you,” said Mazael. “But even if nothing but oblivion awaits us after death, I will not turn back. The lands and people of the Grim Marches are under my protection. I will not suffer Caldarus to harm them…and I certainly will not allow Lucan to harm them again. And if I have to take Knightcastle and make you the liege lord of Knightreach to do it, then so be it.”

  “As you did with Hugh Chalsain,” said Gerald.

  “Do you know him?” said Mazael, refilling his cup and passing the skin back.

  “I met him as a boy, when we were both squires,” said Gerald. “Some tournament or another at Knightcastle, I forget which one. Not since then.”

  “You would get on well, I think,” said Mazael. “He was a youngest son, too, and never expected to become the Prince of Barellion. Then the Aegonar came…and Malaric did, too. His wife is a steely young woman. She’ll do well as the Lady Consort, I think.” He rubbed his jaw. “Once we settle with Lucan, I intended to march for Barellion and aid Hugh. The lords of Greycoast are hard-pressed against the Aegonar, and I owe Skalatan a debt for his crimes.”

  “Then you are certain,” said Gerald, “that we will prevail against Caldarus?”

  “I am certain of nothing,” said Mazael, “Save that if we do nothing, then our foes will prevail. So we shall fight them to the end of our strength.” He blinked. “And speaking of that…”

  Two figures approached, and as they drew closer Gerald saw Romaria and the Guardian of the Tervingi. Romaria wore her usual leather armor and green cloak, bastard sword and composite bow slung over her back. The Guardian wore chain mail and leather, the staff of bronze-colored wood in his right hand. The sigils cut into the staff were dark now, but Gerald had seen the raw power of the barbarian wizard.

  It heartened him. Perhaps the Guardian could stand against Lucan Mandragon’s dark magic.

  “Is it done?” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said Romaria, “I found a good path.”

  “And the mammoths have moved away,” said the Guardian.

  Gerald frowned. “You sent the mammoths away? I thought the Tervingi war mammoths would be our greatest advantage.”

  “Only if used properly,” said Mazael. “They spook too easily, and once they’re frightened, they’re impossible to control. A terrified mammoth is more dangerous to us than it is to the enemy.”

  “I hope you are right,” said Gerald.

  “As do I,” said Mazael. He finished the wine and stood. “I suggest we get some sleep. Soon we’ll reach the Northwater…and I suspect we shall find Caldarus and the runedead awaiting us.”

  Chapter 17 - The Guardian and the Swordbearer

  “Are you ready?” said Riothamus.

  Romaria nodded, watching Mazael walk away. She saw the coiled power of the Demonsouled within him, the same dark power all the Demonsouled wielded. Yet he had it
under control. When she had first met him, the dark power had threatened to consume him, to turn him into either a bloodthirsty maniac like Corvad or a ruthless tyrant like Amalric.

  He had become something more now.

  “You see it,” murmured Morebeth’s voice in her ear. The spirit had not appeared to her in some time, but Romaria heard her voice nonetheless. “The power, the strength. You see why men will follow him to death.”

  “My lady?” said Riothamus.

  Romaria shook her head, dismissing Morebeth’s voice. “Nothing.” She needed to concentrate on the task at hand.

  The dangerous task at hand.

  “I am ready,” said Romaria.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to tell Mazael?” said Riothamus.

  “He has put himself into enough peril at my account,” said Romaria. “It is time I returned the favor.”

  “Very well. This way,” said Riothamus.

  He led her through the vast camp to the tents of the Tervingi thains. Riothamus walked to his tent and opened the flap. For all his status and influence among the Tervingi, the Guardian kept austere quarters. Romaria saw only a bedroll, a low table, and a rack for Molly’s weapons and armor. The only light came from a lantern in the corner.

  “Where’s Molly?” said Romaria.

  “Cheating at dice and cards with the knights, I assume,” said Riothamus. He shook his head in amusement. “Had I betrothed a normal Tervingi woman, I would dread the thought of her walking alone through so many soldiers. Instead I am concerned about what she might do should someone annoy her.”

  “Fear not,” said Romaria. “They are far too frightened of her to annoy her.”

  “That will serve them well, come the battle,” said Riothamus.

  Romaria nodded. “Better that she is on our side than the foe’s.”

  “And speaking of the foe,” said Riothamus, reaching under the table. He gestured, and Romaria sat cross-legged on the ground. The Guardian sat at the other end, and drew out a cloth-wrapped bundle.

  He unwrapped it, and Kadarius’s black dagger clattered against the table.

  Romaria stared at the weapon. The sigil carved into the base of the blade flickered with green fire, growing brighter as she gazed at it. Her Sight plunged into the weapon, and she saw the infinite darkness and the endless cold at its core, an icy void that yearned to devour all the warmth and life in the world.

  And her Sight also revealed the thin black thread that stretched from the dagger, presumably to wherever Lucan Mandragon was.

  “It’s like a piece of the Glamdaigyr,” said Romaria.

  Riothamus nodded. “That was my thought. Lucan has linked this weapon, and all the ones like it, to the Glamdaigyr. From what you and Mazael have described, the Glamdaigyr drains the life force of its victims and bestows the stolen power upon its wielder. But killing one man at a time to harvest power is inefficient. With those black daggers in the hands of the Justiciars and Lord Malden’s household knights, he has the means to harvest the lives of hundreds or even thousands of people at once.”

  “Why?” said Romaria.

  “Ah,” said Riothamus. “That is a good question.” He drummed his fingers on the table, staring at the dagger. “Almost every man in this camp thinks the battle to come is about Caldarus and Lord Malden, about Lucan and runedead. You and I and Mazael and Molly know the truth. This is about the Old Demon and the Demonsouled.”

  “About the Old Demon killing the Demonsouled for all these centuries,” said Romaria, “and preparing to make himself into a god.”

  Riothamus nodded and lifted his staff. “This, I believe, is the ultimate purpose of the Guardian’s office. To fight against the Demonsouled, yes…but in the end, to stop the Old Demon from becoming a demon god. It is why he seduced Aegidia and fathered Ragnachar upon her, an attempt to keep the Guardian from threatening him.” He lowered to staff. “And to become a god…he apparently needs these daggers. Somehow.”

  “And that,” said Romaria, “is what we need to discover.”

  Riothamus nodded.

  “Perhaps he needs to harvest additional life force to become a god,” said Romaria, “and so set Lucan to creating the daggers.”

  “I doubt it,” said Riothamus. “More than enough power has been gathered in Cythraul Urdvul for the Old Demon to ascend. So why hasn’t he claimed it already? Something must be blocking him, keeping him from accessing the power. This,” he pointed at the dagger, “must be what he needs.”

  “That makes sense,” said Romaria, watching the cold aura flicker around the dagger. “Maybe he needs to gather enough power to work a spell that will allow him to claim the strength of the Demonsouled.”

  Riothamus nodded. “And we need to discover what he intends to do.”

  “Which, I assume,” said Romaria, “is why you need my help.”

  “My Sight is stronger than yours,” said Riothamus, “but yours is far more…focused. I suspect it is an aspect of the Elderborn half of your soul, of the magic that gives you the ability to take the shape of a wolf. You are a hunter, and your Sight gives you the ability to seek, to find.”

  “And you want me,” said Romaria, “to try and find what Lucan is doing with those daggers.”

  “Yes,” said Riothamus. “Neither one of us could do it by ourselves. But if we combine our Sight, and I guide the vision …we might be able to trace the spells upon the dagger to their source. And if we are fortunate, we will learn what the Old Demon intends.”

  “Is this dangerous?” said Romaria.

  “Considerably,” said Riothamus.

  Romaria nodded. “Then let’s begin at once. What do you need me to do?”

  ###

  Riothamus laid the staff of the Guardian across his knees.

  “Focus your Sight upon the dagger,” he said.

  Romaria gazed at the black blade, her face going still, the green sigil reflecting in her eyes.

  “Keep looking at it,” said Riothamus, and summoned his own Sight.

  The tent rippled around him, and visions flashed before his eyes. He saw the black shadow surrounding the dagger. He saw the aura of power within Romaria, the strength of her Elderborn soul, magic as wild and uncontrollable as a rushing river. Once she had sought to suppress and control that half of her soul, but now she was at one with it.

  He saw the faint image of her wolf form superimposed over her like a veil of gauze.

  Riothamus focused upon her, reaching for her Sight.

  Romaria stiffened, and the image of the wolf around her grew more solid.

  “It is only me,” said Riothamus. “There is no need to struggle.”

  She relaxed…but the image of the wolf remained tense. Had he threatened her, he knew, the wolf would have become real and torn him to shreds.

  Fortunately, he intended her no harm.

  Riothamus focused, reaching with his Sight and his magic…and all at once he could see through Romaria’s eyes.

  Could see through her Sight.

  It was…different than his own, more primal. His was disciplined and trained, intended to seek out distant locations and give warning of future dangers. Hers was the Sight of a predator, a hunter, watching the auras and moods of those around her for weakness.

  “That…is a most peculiar feeling,” said Romaria.

  “Indeed,” said Riothamus. Seeing through his eyes, his Sight, and her Sight at the same time was giving him a sharp headache. But the discomfort was necessary. “Let us see what we can learn.”

  He turned Romaria’s Sight upon the dagger, his experience and knowledge guiding her vision.

  ###

  Lucan sat atop his horse and stared at the walls of Barellion.

  It was almost midnight, but the darkness did not trouble his undead eyes. No lights shone in the towers and battlements of Barellion’s massive Outer Wall, but that was to the defenders’ advantage. Torchlight would spoil their night vision, and with the crimson sigils upon their foreheads, the runedead co
uld hardly sneak up to the wall.

  No, the fighting would not begin in earnest until daybreak.

  Malden had sent forces of runedead to seal off each of Barellion’s three gates. The sounds of hammering and sawing rose from the camp as Lord Malden’s men went to work assembling ladders, siege towers, and war machines. The men approached their work with enthusiasm – they might build the towers and the ladders, but the runedead would use them.

  Better to build a siege ladder than to die upon it.

  Tomorrow, the probing attacks would begin, and then the battle would start in earnest. Lucan expected the city to fall within a few days. Then Malden and his knights would break into Barellion, and the slaughter of its citizens and defenders could begin.

  And the sooner it was over, the better.

  Lucan looked to the north, considering.

  Malden’s scouts had not reported any sign of the Aegonar army, but Lucan had no doubt that the serpent-worshippers were coming. The entire host of Greycoast had withdrawn into the walls of Barellion, leaving the River of Lords unguarded. The Aegonar could cross at will, and Skalatan would make directly for Barellion. Worse, Skalatan could travel faster than his army. If the archpriest surprised and destroyed Lucan, the San-keth would have a far easier time claiming Knightcastle and the Door of Souls for himself.

  Lucan would need to be on his guard. Best to take Barellion, gather the necessary life force, and return to Knightcastle as soon as possible…

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt the faint tingle of a spell.

  Lucan spun his horse around, raising his fingers and beginning a warding spell. Yet he saw no one nearby, no sign of any threat. He worked the spell to sense the presence of magic, and detected the old wards upon the Outer Wall, the few minor spells raised by the wizards accompanying Lord Malden’s host.

  And nothing else.

  Yet the tingle continued, and Lucan realized that he was being watched.

  ###

  Romaria felt her Sight lift from her body, felt as if she was floating in the tent.