Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Malaric,” said Skalatan, “was simply a fool.”

  “Had he commanded his army with greater skill at Castle Bridge,” said Ryntald, “he could well have smashed our host, and would reign supreme in Greycoast today. Instead he betrayed the Herald of Sepharivaim, and threw away both his army and the loyalty of the lords of Greycoast. The great Herald offered to make him Prince of Barellion even before he returned to Greycoast, and Malaric still betrayed him. The man was incapable of abstaining from treachery in the face of even the slightest chance of greater power, and brought ruin upon his own head. Had Malaric accepted Agantyr’s suzerainty, he would still rule in Barellion.”

  “And that is what you offer me?” said Hugh. “The chance to become your vassal?”

  “Not my vassal,” said Ryntald, “but my ally. The High King of the Aegonar and the Prince of Barellion, setting aside their differences in the face of a far greater foe.”

  “Lucan Mandragon,” said Hugh.

  Ryntald nodded. “You understand, then.”

  “He cannot be allowed to reach Knightcastle,” said Skalatan. “If he does, he will unleash a disaster beyond your capacity to comprehend, a catastrophe that will make even the Great Rising seem like a tavern brawl. Worse, even with all my magic, even with the power of the seidjar, I doubt the assembled army of the Aegonar could defeat his runedead in direct battle. Therefore I must use any tool necessary to defeat him.”

  “Including,” said Hugh, “making an alliance with your enemies.”

  Ryntald rubbed his jaw. “When the lion and the wolf face the dragon, they must lay aside their differences or burn.”

  “How poetic,” said Hugh. “But a waste of breath. I will not swear to become your vassal, and I will not convert to the worship of Sepharivaim.”

  “I already said that I have no wish for you to become my vassal,” said Ryntald, “and no desire to force you to become a follower of Sepharivaim.”

  “You…don’t?” said Hugh.

  He had not expected that, either.

  “Lucan Mandragon is the greater threat,” said Skalatan. “All other considerations can wait until he is defeated. Furthermore, the runedead host is vulnerable to attack while arrayed around the walls of your city. If we strike at once, we can break the siege and drive the enemy back into Knightreach.”

  “Your army is at least two days away from the city,” said Hugh. “Even if you leave immediately, I doubt you will arrive in time to alter the outcome of the siege.”

  “I will come to aid you myself,” said Skalatan. The robe rippled as the serpent within shifted. “I have means of rapid travel…and magic to match the might of Lucan Mandragon.”

  Hugh felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Lucan possessed power, tremendous power. The man had worked the Great Rising. But if Skalatan could match him, and the two of them fought…

  This might be the chance Hugh needed to save Barellion. A slim chance.

  But better than nothing.

  “What guarantee do I have,” said Hugh, “that you simply won’t turn on us at the first chance?”

  Ryntald drew himself up. “I, Ryntald, High King of the Aegonar, swear on the name of great Sepharivaim that the Aegonar nation shall fight faithfully and honorably at the side of the Prince of Barellion. There shall be no hostilities between us until Lucan Mandragon is defeated, or we are both slain and our heirs take our titles.”

  “Until Lucan is defeated, eh?” said Hugh. “The wolf and the lion kill the dragon, and then kill each other?”

  Ryntald grinned. It was not a pleasant expression. “I am glad you understand, Prince of Barellion.”

  Hugh turned away, paced across the room, and found himself at the window. He looked at the plaza, at the armsmen and militiamen hurrying about their business. At the wounded men, carried to the Knights’ Inn. At the women and children laboring in the hope that their efforts would keep their husbands and fathers and sons and brothers alive.

  All those people, looking to him for protection.

  Hugh closed his eyes.

  “You know,” he said, not turning around, “I think there are proverbs about the dangers of picking up a poisonous snake to use as a weapon against your enemies.”

  “Wise words.” Skalatan’s voice hissed like dry leaves rattling across the floor of a tomb. “But when a dragon is about to devour your people…a serpent’s venom may be the only thing to save them.”

  The damned San-keth was right. Hugh’s people were going to die if the runedead breached the gates.

  And Lucan might simply kill Skalatan, and Hugh would still have no way to save them.

  “Gods save me,” said Hugh, turning around. “So be it. You shall have your alliance against Lucan.”

  “Good,” said Ryntald. “You were a clever opponent. I look forward to fighting at your side.”

  “Look to the north, Prince of Barellion,” said Skalatan. “Aid shall come from there.”

  The air rippled, and the images of the archpriest and the High King vanished.

  Hugh let out a long breath and hoped that he had not just made a terrible mistake.

  ###

  Lord Karlam Ganelon leaned back from the wall, cursing under his breath.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “Problems?” murmured the man at his side. Mather was in his middle twenties, with the broad muscles and rough, smiling face of a good-natured farmhand.

  He also wore the dark leather armor of a master assassin of the Skulls. Several other men in the armor of the Skulls waited nearby, motionless as spiders in their webs.

  “Keep your voice down!” hissed Karlam. “And, yes, we have a problem.”

  Or, at least, Karlam had a serious problem.

  When Hugh had slipped into the Knights’ Inn, Karlam had seen his chance come at last. The Skulls secretly owned the Knights’ Inn, used it to lure unsuspecting targets to their doom, and the Lady Consort had left the servants in place. It would be simple to kill both Hugh and Adelaide and cast the blame on the Aegonar or the San-keth or anyone Karlam chose.

  Instead, the Skalatan had appeared to Hugh…and offered to ally with him.

  Karlam could not believe the betrayal. He had been loyal to the San-keth for years, had kept their secrets, had disposed of their enemies. And then Skalatan had cast him aside in favor of Hugh, a man who did not even worship Sepharivaim…

  Karlam stiffened, his resolve returning.

  This was a test. Karlam had delayed too long, leaving Skalatan with no other choice but to act. Or Skalatan was testing Karlam, seeing if he was bold enough to serve Sepharivaim well.

  Or, more likely, Skalatan had set up multiple plots to gain control of Barellion, and now would step back to see which one succeeded.

  Regardless of his reasons, Karlam had only one choice.

  “Hugh Chalsain must die immediately, before he leaves this Inn,” he told Mather and the other Skulls. “Lady Adelaide as well. Kill any witnesses. We’ll lay blame for the murders on…oh, someone or another.”

  “As you wish, my lord Prince,” said Mather with a bow that held an edge of mockery. Karlam set his teeth. Someday, he would make Mather regret that. Someday, anyone who had ever crossed him would regret it.

  But first, he had work to do.

  Karlam strode for the door.

  ###

  Hugh stepped into the hall, thinking.

  The best plan, he decided, was to hold until Skalatan and the Aegonar host arrived. Once they assailed the runedead, he could lead the men of Greycoast from the city in a sortie. If their combined armies broke the runedead, well and good. If Ryntald and Skalatan proved treacherous, then Hugh could retreat to Barellion and let his foes fight it out while he watched.

  He stopped, blinking.

  Karlam Ganelon stood in the doorway of the next bedroom, his face hard, his surcoat crisp and immaculate over his gleaming armor.

  “Lord Karlam?” said Hugh. “Are you injured?”

  Karlam opened his
mouth to answer.

  And as he did, the sound of horns filled the Inn, horns blowing from every rampart and tower in the Outer Wall.

  The runedead had launched their assault.

  Chapter 19 - The Grand Master

  Mazael stared at the army of dead men.

  Caldarus’s host had crossed the Northwater before the men of the Grim Marches could arrive, and now stood in battle array on the river’s eastern bank. Tens of thousands of runedead waited in rows, the crimson sigils upon their foreheads shining like a field of blood-colored candles. Ten thousand living footmen in chain mail waited behind the runedead, and mounted Justiciar knights held position on the wings of the runedead line.

  “His tactics are plain enough,” said Lord Robert Highgate, squinting at the enemy ranks. “The runedead will attack in a single massive wave and pin us in place. While we try to hold, he’ll send his horsemen to circle and hit us from behind. Our lines will shatter like glass, and the runedead shall hunt us down for the rest of the day.”

  “And I fear the burning wizards will harass us the entire time,” said Riothamus. “I sense their presence.”

  “How many?” said Mazael. Even one of the undead wizards had proven a challenge for Riothamus.

  “At least fifty,” said Riothamus. “Maybe more.”

  “Caraster had about seventy-five disciples,” said Gerald. His armor gleamed, his blue surcoat crisp and clean, but dark rings encircled his eyes. “Lucan likely raised most of them as runedead.”

  “Agreed,” said Mazael. “I suspect Caldarus will pin us in place with the runedead, let his wizards hammer at us, and then unleash his knights to finish us off. The infantry will wait as a reserve or to deal a final blow.”

  “A fairly simple strategy,” said Lord Tancred, scowling.

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “Simple, but effective.”

  Caldarus had ninety thousand runedead and fifteen thousand living men. Mazael had thirty-five thousand living men. With those kind of numbers, Caldarus didn’t need to be subtle or clever. He simply needed to pound his foes into submission.

  “Array the cavalry on our wings,” said Mazael. “Knights, horsethains, and mounted armsmen alike. Spearthains, swordthains, and footmen, I want formed into a half-circle shield wall facing the foe, with a second line in reserve. The runedead will try to envelop us, and a curved line will help us meet them.”

  “But it will break all the easier,” said Lord Robert.

  “I know,” said Mazael, keeping the doubt from his voice. “Rhodemar, I want your spearmen in the shield wall, and the remaining Elderborn archers behind the footmen. Their arrows can harass the runedead, once Lion’s fire is spread to them, and they’ll be useful against the living men.”

  Rhodemar frowned. It struck Mazael how much he looked like Romaria. “They will be useful there…but it seems inevitable that the runedead will break through the shield wall. The Elderborn will not be as effective then. Especially since you sent half their numbers away.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Mazael.

  “What of the wizards and the Elderborn druids?” said Lord Astor Hawking. “Their powers might be useful against the runedead wizards.”

  “They will wait behind the archers,” said Mazael, “with the skythains, until the burning wizards reveal themselves.”

  “The skythains?” said Lord Robert. “You have a plan for them?”

  “Of course,” said Mazael. “It will either bring us victory, or get us all killed.”

  Robert snorted. “Reassuring.”

  “Have Sir Hagen give the commands,” said Mazael. “I…”

  A blast of trumpets rang out. The runedead ranks stirred, the Justiciar horsemen shifting. For a moment Mazael thought that Caldarus had ordered the attack, that the vast front of undead would advance.

  But instead a group of riders emerged from the runedead lines, clad in shining steel armor and blue surcoats. The leader carried a lance with the blue banner and eight-pointed star sigil of the Justiciar Order. The horsemen reined up halfway between the two armies.

  “Ah,” said Mazael.

  “What is this?” said Riothamus.

  “He’s going to invite us to a parley,” said Mazael.

  Riothamus nodded. “Like two champions exchanging boasts before a battle.”

  “Or,” said Romaria, “like two wolves circling each other before a fight.”

  “Or two drunkards bellowing at each other before passing out,” said Molly.

  Mazael laughed.

  That sounded more pleasant than was what to come.

  “Hear me!” boomed a herald from the Justiciar horsemen. “I speak in the name of Caldarus, Grand Master of the Justiciar Order! People of the Grim Marches, the Justiciar Order has come to purge your land of tyranny and cleanse your homes of wickedness!”

  A harsh laugh came from the lords and knights of Knightreach.

  “Let the Demonsouled tyrant Mazael Cravenlock lay down his title and submit himself to the judgment of the Grand Master!” said the herald. “Let the lords and knights lay down their arms and return home! Open your castles and towns to the knights of the Justiciar Order, and they shall ferret out any wickedness that lurks within! Let Mazael Cravenlock approach the Grand Master to discuss terms for surrender!”

  “Is he serious?” demanded Earnachar son of Balnachar. “Truly he cannot think that we will submit to such insulting demands.”

  “Men terrified by the runedead might do so, in hopes of gaining peace,” said Mazael. He noted the calculating gleam in Earnachar’s eye. “But I would not recommend it. I doubt Caldarus has a high opinion of an invading nation from the far side of the Great Mountains. If we submit to him, he will scour the towns and villages of the Grim Marches…and he will kill every Tervingi he can catch.”

  Earnachar spat and thumped his chest. “The Tervingi will never submit! And certainly not to these wielders of the black daggers, these fools who use sorcery to transform themselves into living tomb-wights.”

  “I’m glad we agree,” said Mazael.

  The Justiciar herald repeated his challenge.

  “Gerald,” said Mazael. “Is that Caldarus with the herald? I haven’t seen him since he grew…younger.”

  “Aye,” said Gerald. “There, surrounded by knights.”

  “Let’s go talk to him,” said Mazael.

  “Why?” said Romaria. “What would you possibly gain by speaking with that butcher?”

  “A few moments of delay,” said Mazael, and she nodded as she understood. Both she and Riothamus were the only ones who knew Mazael’s entire plan for the coming battle. “And, who knows? Perhaps I can make him see reason, make him realize that he’s become Lucan’s puppet.”

  And, in turn, the Old Demon’s puppet.

  “I doubt that, my lord,” said Aidan Tormaud. “Once the Grand…once Caldarus sets his mind to something, he does not change it. And the power of the black dagger is addictive. It would be difficult for a pure-minded man to give it up, and I fear that Caldarus was ever too interested in the acquisition of land and power.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Mazael, “the attempt must be made.” And it would gain at least a few moments of delay. “Lord Gerald, Sir Commander Aidan, with me. Lucan unleashed the runedead on your father’s lands and corrupted your Order, so you should have a part in this. Lord Robert, Lord Astor, Sir Tanam, accompany us – you will represent the lords of the Grim Marches. Riothamus, as well, for the Tervingi nation, and to warn us if the burning wizards attempt anything.” Earnachar muttered something under his breath, and Mazael realized he would need at least one Tervingi headman with him. “Earnachar as well, to speak for the headmen and holdmistresses of the Tervingi nation.” Earnachar grunted, seeming to inflate with pride. “And Rhodemar to represent the folk of Deepforest Keep.”

  “Are the Elderborn to have no voice at this meeting?” said Ardanna, her voice imperious and aloof.

  “Lady Romaria is half-Elderborn,” said Mazael. Ardanna’s g
olden eyes narrowed. “And you, High Druid, will be needed with the skythains, along with the other druids. You said you came north to fight the evil that infests our lands…well, the hour has come. Prepare yourself.” Ardanna’s sour expression did not change, but the Elderborn woman nodded. “Sir Hagen! Array the host for battle as I have commanded. The rest of you, proceed to your commands.”

  “What if this is a trap, my lord?” said Adalar Greatheart, clad in chain mail and plate. “Caldarus has cast aside all honor and…and sanity, even. He might have invited you to a parley simply to murder you.”

  “I doubt that,” said Mazael. “Caldarus thinks of himself as an honorable man, and honorable men do not murder their foes at parleys.” He shrugged and adjusted Gauntlet’s reins. “And if he attacks us at the parley…then we’ll just kill him then and there. Come!”

  Mazael rode from the lines of the army and made for Caldarus’s embassy, the others clustered around him. Sir Aulus Hirtan rode at his side, the Cravenlock banner flying overhead. Romaria and Riothamus and Molly followed, while the other lords and knights fanned after them.

  Mazael reined up a dozen paces from the Justiciar party and scanned the waiting knights. The men looked young and healthy and strong…and carried the black daggers at their belts. The Justiciars glared at Mazael, contempt on their faces…but just a hint of fear, as well.

  They knew his reputation.

  “Good morning, sir knights,” said Mazael, smiling. “I heard your Grand Master wishes to exchange words with me. Well, here I am. What would he like to say?”

  The knights parted, and a horseman in elaborate steel plate armor rode forward. A crisp blue surcoat covered his gleaming steel armor, and a flowing blue cloak hung from his shoulders. He looked strong and vigorous and no more than twenty years old, but had the cold gray eyes of a much older man.

  “Mazael Cravenlock,” said Grand Master Caldarus.

  “Caldarus,” said Mazael. “You look younger.”

  “You look older,” said Caldarus. “But not surprising, given that you murdered your brother and Richard Mandragon to claim Castle Cravenlock and the liege lordship of the Grim Marches.”