Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  It was a peculiar sensation, but not an unpleasant one. Her Sight seemed clearer, far clearer, and she saw the potency of the dark magic bound within the black dagger.

  And she saw the black thread flowing away to the northwest.

  “You see it.” Riothamus’s voice echoed inside her head. She saw him sitting at the end of the table, eyes closed, sweat dripping down his face. “You see the link. Follow it with your Sight.”

  Romaria focused, following the dark cord…and shot from the tent with tremendous speed. For a terrifying instant she thought she had been thrown into the air, but realized it was a vision. She hurtled through the army, out of the camp, and over the plains of the Grim Marches. She saw the Justiciar host and the runedead at the Northwater, crossing the bridge and preparing for battle.

  Still she followed the dark cord, flying northwest. Plains and forests and hills and mountains blurred past her in a storm of shadows. At last she slowed, and she found herself staring at a great city of stone, ringed by strong walls that shone with the pale light of ancient wards.

  “Barellion,” said Riothamus.

  Darkness surrounded the city, and Romaria saw runedead, tens of thousands of runedead, in siege position around the walls. Living men labored in camps out of bowshot, building ladders and towers and catapults, and Romaria knew that soon the runedead would use the war engines to assail Barellion.

  And through the camp she saw hundreds of the black threads, each terminating in a black dagger carried by a proud-faced knight or armsman. Romaria glimpsed the stolen life force within the men, like vultures gorged on carrion flesh. She followed the threads to the center of their web.

  “There,” said Riothamus.

  For the first time since he fled Castle Cravenlock with the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock beheld Lucan Mandragon.

  Or, rather, the thing that Lucan Mandragon had become.

  Mighty necromantic spells bound his flesh, rendering him immortal and invincible, undead and unfeeling. The Banurdem rested upon his head, and dark magic swirled around it like a shadow. The thousands of dark threads centered upon Lucan, feeing the stolen power to him like a spider lurking in the center of its web.

  No, not to him – to the ghostly image of a black sword that hovered near him. Romaria recognized the Glamdaigyr, wrapped unseen in Lucan’s magic, ready to respond to its master’s call.

  “Look deeper,” said Riothamus.

  She did, and saw the final cord. A huge black cord rose from the Glamdaigyr, like a river of darkness, and headed to the south.

  “Knightcastle,” said Romaria, “it’s going to Knightcastle. All those people he has killed, all the power he has stolen, he’s sending it to Knightcastle for some reason.”

  “We need to follow it,” said Riothamus. “If we can see where he has sent the power…”

  Romaria stared at Lucan. Even with his undead state, even with the dark magic that blazed from him like a torch, there was something…else wrong with him.

  Something even worse than what she had already seen.

  Then she saw it.

  “He has a second shadow,” said Romaria.

  She could just see it. It flowed from Lucan like a ragged cloak, like a tattered funeral shroud. Yet at the same time it curled around him like armor. And as Romaria stared, she saw the shadow reaching into Lucan’s mind.

  As if it had removed something.

  Lucan turned, his dark eyes fixing on her, and the shadow hissed at her.

  ###

  Lucan felt the presence.

  He cast the spell again, and detected faint wisps of power. The Sight, he realized, the ability to see into the spirit world. He had never learned it, and as he searched Randur Maendrag’s memories, he realized the high lords of Old Dracaryl had never possessed any skill with it. Lucan could work wards against it, but a clever wielder of the Sight could find ways around it.

  Then he remembered where he had last sensed this power.

  “So,” he said. “The Guardian of the Tervingi.” He remembered his battle with the Guardian atop Swordgrim’s Night Sword Tower. “You think to spy upon me? It will do…”

  “No.”

  The voice did not reach his ears, but echoed inside his mind.

  The woman’s voice.

  “Who are you?” said Lucan. The Guardian of the Tervingi had been a woman, but she had died with Lord Richard at Stone Tower. Her successor had been a man, but had he perished in battle?

  “You know me, Lucan Mandragon,” said the woman, her voice full of rage and loathing. “You remember me.”

  A stirring of memory went through Lucan, accompanied by sudden horror.

  “Tymaen?” he whispered. No, no, that couldn’t be. And the voice was wrong, too strong, too confident…

  “Ah,” he said, straightening up in his saddle. “Romaria Cravenlock. I did not expect you to have the Sight.” Some of Randur’s memories flashed through his thoughts. “The Elderborn half of your soul, of course. And I assume the Guardian is guiding you at Mazael’s bidding? They failed to stop me before, and they will not stop me now.”

  “They did stop you,” said Romaria, “before you finished the Great Rising.”

  Lucan opened his mouth to rebut her…and then paused. Why was he even arguing with her? She could not stop him.

  Yet it had been a long time since he had conversed with anyone but dupes and fools.

  “If they had understood my purpose,” said Lucan, “then they would not have stopped me. They would have aided me.”

  “To kill all the Demonsouled,” said Romaria.

  “You ought to aid me,” said Lucan.

  She laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “You know the suffering a Demonsouled can unleash,” said Lucan. “You fell in love with Mazael Cravenlock…and what has that brought you? The Old Demon struck you down, and from what I have heard, that idiot Malaric almost slew you when he tried to kill Mazael.”

  “The Old Demon killed me, not Mazael,” said Romaria, “and Malaric poisoned me, not Mazael."

  “Even if they are not his doing, he caused them,” said Lucan, “simply by virtue of the dark power in his blood.”

  “By that logic,” said Romaria, “you should have never gone anywhere near Tymaen Highgate.”

  A shiver of rage went through the black ice of Lucan’s mind. “You know nothing of that.”

  “Oh?” said Romaria. “You took her on your mad quest to work the Great Rising, and she died because of it.”

  “Be silent,” said Lucan.

  “Wait, that’s wrong,” said Romaria. “She didn’t die because of you. She died trying to stop you. Mazael told me what happened atop Swordgrim. She broke that black staff and unraveled the Great Rising. She died to stop you, Lucan, died to keep more innocents from perishing in your idiotic plans…”

  “I said to be silent!” said Lucan. “You are too blind to see the truth! You all are! The Demonsouled are the source of all the evil in this world. Of all my suffering! The Old Demon trained Marstan, and Marstan made me into what I am. That cost me Tymaen. I will destroy the Demonsouled forever, I shall rid the world of their blight…”

  “Marstan might have cost you Tymaen’s hand in marriage,” said Romaria, “but you took her life, Lucan. She died trying to stop you.”

  Lucan shivered with fury…but found that he did not have an answer for her.

  She was right.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. She died because of me. I deny it not. It was my fault. I should…I should have explained, I should not have let Mazael interfere, I…”

  He found that he could not speak.

  “You can still finish her work,” said Romaria, and her voice was not quite as hard as it had been.

  “What work?” said Lucan.

  “She stopped the Great Rising,” said Romaria. “She saw that it was evil, and she acted to stop it.”

  “She stopped it because she could not see what I was doing,” s
aid Lucan, “because I failed to explain to her what was at stake.” He shuddered with anger. “Because Mazael interfered.”

  “Even if Mazael hadn’t interfered,” said Romaria, “would Tymaen have done nothing?”

  Again Lucan fell silent.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  “You do,” said Romaria. “She would have turned against you, even if Mazael had never confronted you. And you know what you’re doing now is madness. Stop it.”

  “It’s far too late for that,” said Lucan.

  “It’s not,” said Romaria. “Look at what you’ve done. You unleashed the runedead. You’ve turned Lord Malden and the Justiciar Order into monsters, and you’ve sent armies of the runedead to invade Greycoast and the Grim Marches! What good can come from this?”

  “You don’t understand,” said Lucan. “I have to do this. Yes, I have killed innocent people, more than I could count.” Tymaen’s face floated before his eyes. “But they will not have died in vain. I am going to destroy the Demonsouled, now and forever. There will be a new world, free of the Demonsouled, and countless generations yet unborn will never suffer at their hands.”

  “You will have slaughtered thousands in pursuit of a phantasm,” said Romaria.

  “Not a phantasm!” said Lucan. “It can be done. I will rid the world of the Demonsouled, Tymaen will not have died in vain, I…”

  “Do you not see,” said Romaria, “how you have been manipulated?”

  Lucan froze. For a moment her words did not make sense, as if she had started spouting gibberish.

  “Manipulated?” said Lucan. “I…no, that’s impossible. I did this of my own free will.”

  For some reason the image of a ruined city of black stone flickered through his mind.

  “Maybe you’re sincere,” said Romaria. “Maybe you truly do want to kill the Demonsouled and make a better world. But you’re trying to find a way into Cythraul Urdvul to reach the power of the Demonsouled, aren’t you?”

  Part of Lucan’s mind informed him that giving her any information was a very bad idea. She would tell Mazael, and Mazael was the sort of man who could turn any advantage into a dangerous weapon.

  But the rest of his mind was frozen.

  Manipulated…

  “No,” he said.

  “If you open a way into Cythraul Urdvul,” said Romaria, “others can follow.”

  Lucan managed a laugh. “Who, then? Skalatan? You think I am Skalatan’s puppet? I do not dance on the serpent’s strings.”

  “Not the serpent’s strings.” Was that pity he heard in her voice? Contempt? Both? “The demon’s.”

  His laughter died in his throat. “What?”

  “The Old Demon,” said Romaria. “Mazael’s father.”

  “I have never seen the Old Demon,” said Lucan.

  Again the black city flashed through his thoughts, a dragon circling overhead, blood-colored fire pouring from its maw…

  “He’s been manipulating you,” said Romaria. “The San-keth dislike direct confrontation and prefer to use puppets…but the Old Demon makes them look like clumsy children. He wants to go to Cythraul Urdvul and transform himself into a god.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Lucan. “I would know if I was manipulated on that level.”

  “Would you?” said Romaria. “Can you see the shadow wrapped around you?”

  “The shadow?” said Lucan. He ought to be angry, he knew, at her clumsy attempt to manipulate him. Yet he felt nothing but a tremendous unease, as if he had forgotten some vital fact of grave importance. “What shadow?”

  “Can’t you see it?” said Romaria. “It’s…taken something out of you, cut away something, and…”

  Lucan opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out.

  A wave of darkness swallowed him.

  ###

  Romaria watched as Lucan fell from his horse and collapsed motionless to the ground.

  “What just happened?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” said Riothamus. The web of black threads still centered on Lucan, the vast black cord stretching from the Glamdaigyr to Knightcastle. The strange shadow curled around Lucan, its tendrils sinking into his head…

  “Go!” Morebeth’s voice rang inside Romaria’s skull, and for the first time Romaria heard fear in those cold tones. “Go, before he sees you! He’ll…”

  And then, suddenly, Romaria saw the man that cast the shadow around Lucan.

  The creature.

  A man of middle years appeared a short distance away, clad in a simple black robe belted around the waist. He had a lean, hawkish face, with gray-shot brown hair and a close-cropped beard. His eyes were like sheets of hammered steel, and they were the same shape and color as Mazael’s and Molly’s eyes.

  Save for the deep crimson glow in their depths.

  A frisson of fear went through Romaria, and she reached for her weapons, only to remember that it was only a vision.

  “You,” said Romaria.

  “Ah,” said the Old Demon. “You do remember me. How delightful!”

  “You killed me,” said Romaria.

  “A technicality,” said the Old Demon, “given that you are standing before me now. In a sense.” He titled his head and grinned at her, the crimson glow in his eyes flashing brighter, his teeth like jagged, crooked fangs. “My fault, really. I should have been more thorough. I have killed more humans and Elderborn than I can remember. Still, I had never killed a half-breed Elderborn before. I should have foreseen the possibility that you would come back.”

  “What did you do to Lucan?” said Romaria. Every fiber of her body screamed for her to flee, to put as much distance between herself and the ancient horror the Tervingi called the Urdmoloch. She had faced him once before, and he had broken her.

  Yet he was their real enemy, and if Romaria could glean any useful information…

  “What did I do to Lucan?” said the Old Demon. “I didn’t do anything to Lucan. He did this to himself, all of it, by his own free will.”

  “I saw that…shadow wrapped around him,” said Romaria.

  “Oh, I might have made the path a touch…easier for Lucan, perhaps,” said the Old Demon. “But he did it to himself. Every bit of it. The Great Rising, the black daggers, all of it. Do you think he is my puppet, dancing on my strings? How trite! I shall share a secret with you, my dear. The key to victory is not to win the game. The key, my daughter, is to arrange the game so you are victorious no matter who wins.”

  “I am not your daughter,” said Romaria.

  The Old Demon shrugged. “You married my son, did you not? My wayward, troublesome son.” His grin widened, the fires in his eyes flashing. “The last time I killed you, it turned him against me. Since he’s already my foe, I have nothing left to lose. And killing you would bring him pain…which I would find most enjoyable.”

  “It would be difficult to kill me,” said Romaria, “since I’m not really here.”

  “Neither am I,” said the Old Demon, “but that won’t stop me.”

  He lifted his hand, and a sigil of blood-colored fire blazed to life on his palm.

  Agony hammered through Romaria, and she screamed.

  ###

  Riothamus cursed and summoned his own power.

  He had not thought the Urdmoloch could harm Romaria. The Old Demon was powerful, but he was bound by the rules of the spirit world, and he could not attack a mortal unless he was first attacked. But Romaria must have attacked him at some point in the past.

  Through his Sight he saw the Old Demon summon power.

  In the tent, through his eyes of flesh, he saw Romaria stiffen, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  Riothamus cast a spell, golden fire flaring around his fingers, and disrupted the flow of power around Romaria. The Old Demon’s dark magic was like a river of molten iron, a sea of blazing flame, and Riothamus barely had the strength to sever it.

  The blazing sigil flared and went out, and the Old Demon’s glow
ing eyes shifted to Riothamus.

  “The Guardian of the Tervingi,” said the Old Demon. “Do you really think you can challenge me? That staff you bear? I remember the civilization that created it. I remember the great wizards of the High Elderborn, their spells that could turn the seas to land and flatten mountains into valleys. I saw their cities of glass and crystal, their towers that climbed into the sky. I saw this, Guardian…and I set their kingdoms to burn, and now all that remains of them is dust, rubble, and a few tribes of painted savages lurking in the trees. Dust…and that little carved stick you bear. And you think to overcome me?”

  “I don’t need to overcome you,” said Riothamus. “I need only to get Mazael close enough to run you through with Lion. You see, Urdmoloch…the High Elderborn wrought that sword, too, but you forgot to mention that, didn’t you?”

  The Old Demon snarled in fury, crimson fire erupting from his fingers, hammering at the wards Riothamus had worked around Romaria.

  The vision shimmered, and shattered into nothingness.

  ###

  Romaria’s eyes popped open, the pain fading from her limbs. For a wild moment of disorientation she could not remember where she was or what had happened.

  “The dagger!” shouted Riothamus.

  Romaria looked at the table.

  The dagger’s sigil glowed white hot, fingers of green lightning crawling up and down the blade. The table caught fire, and the dagger itself began to melt. Her Sight saw power flowing through the weapon, too much power. The dagger’s link to the Glamdaigyr had not been designed to handle the competing magic of the Old Demon and the Guardian…

  “Run!” said Riothamus, grabbing her arm in one hand and his staff in the other.

  They made it out of the tent an instant before the dagger exploded. A pillar of green flame devoured the tent, and the canvas vanished in a spray of glowing embers. Riothamus swept his staff before him, and white mist coated the burning wreckage, drowning the flames in a thick layer of frost. Men ran from the nearby tents, gaping at the spectacle.

  For a moment Romaria and Riothamus stood in silence, breathing hard.