Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  And then he would reduce the Grim Marches to ashes.

  Hadraine’s mouth opened and closed, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Hadraine!” said Caldarus. “Find…”

  Hadraine took a step back, eyes wide, and started running.

  Caldarus cursed, turned, and saw the mammoth bearing down on him.

  Something hissed, and three arrows sprouted from his flesh, the obsidian points sinking into his neck and hip and right leg. He staggered backwards, blood pouring from his throat, and landed hard upon the ground.

  He tried to stand, reaching for his black dagger. A simple enough matter to find one of his traitorous knights and steal enough life force to heal his wounds.

  But his right leg would not work.

  The musky stench of the mammoth filled his nostrils, the beast towering over him.

  Caldarus heard himself screaming, the blood gurgling in his throat.

  The last thing the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order saw was the bottom of the mammoth’s massive foot descending towards his face.

  ###

  Mazael cut down another fleeing Justiciar armsman, and saw the shock go through the runedead.

  In an instant the runedead horde transformed from an army, attacking the shield wall with relentless tenacity, to a thousand separate bands, each moving with its own purpose. Some continued to throw themselves at the shield wall, but the men held the line. Others turned to attack the cavalry, but most turned and began fleeing to the west, only to meet the trampling feet and bladed chains of the war mammoths.

  Caldarus was dead, and the control Lucan had given him over the runedead had broken. Lucan must have instructed the runedead to return to Knightcastle if Caldarus fell in battle.

  “Aulus!” shouted Mazael, finding his standardbearer. “Sound the charge. Everyone in the host, everyone still able to carry a weapon and fight. Pursue the runedead. The more of them we destroy now, the fewer we’ll have to fight later.”

  Aulus nodded and blew the signal on his war horn.

  ###

  The runedead facing Molly faltered, and she jumped back a step, wondering what had distracted it.

  Then the creature turned and fled.

  They all turned and fled.

  Molly stared after them in bewilderment, her tired mind struggling to catch up with her eyes. Everywhere she looked, the runedead broke away from the shield wall and fled, only to run into the path of the mammoths, whose drivers send them stampeding through the undead with glee.

  “Caldarus,” said Molly, realizing. “Caldarus is dead.”

  The blast of a war horn rang out, followed by a dozen others taking up the call. It was the signal to charge, to run down the fleeing enemy.

  Molly grinned and strode forward as the men of the shield wall charged with a hoarse yell, eager to repay their tormentors.

  And trapped between the mammoths and the footmen, the fleeing runedead fell like leaves.

  ###

  The sun dipped lower to the west, painting the plains the color of blood, and Mazael yanked off his helmet.

  Gauntlet stood on the eastern bank of the Northwater, chunks of ice floating past. All around him lay the shattered wreck of the Justiciar host. Runedead beyond count carpeted the plains, their bodies withering into dust. Slain Justiciar knights and armsmen and their horses lay everywhere, the blood soaking into the soil, either killed in the rout or trampled beneath the mammoths. Mazael’s army stood scattered in a score of groups across the river’s bank, their charge exhausted. They had cut down runedead after runedead and slain Justiciar after Justiciar, the enemy trapped between the footmen and the mammoths. Some had fled across the river, others falling beneath the cracking ice to drown.

  Not many of his foes had escaped across the Northwater.

  Mazael looked over the battlefield. His plan had been a tremendous gamble…but it had worked.

  The carnage was a horrifying sight.

  Yet some part of him still found it beautiful.

  Mazael shook his head, pushed aside his dark musings, and rode away from the bank. His exhaustion could wait, and there was much work to be done. He had to reform his army and prepare for the march west. He bade Aulus to raise his banner, and waited for the lords and knights to arrive.

  They came, one by one, picking their way over the dead.

  “A great victory, hrould,” said Earnachar, his eyes shining with a wild light. “A great victory. Worthy of even mighty Tervingar himself.”

  “The Tervingi fought valiantly,” said Mazael.

  Later Gerald arrived with Romaria, the lords of Knightreach following.

  “Gods, Mazael,” said Gerald. “It worked.”

  “It was a gamble,” said Mazael.

  “And it paid off,” said Gerald. “I confess…I did not see how we could prevail against such a host. But we were victorious. It is like Tumblestone and the Dominiars all over again.”

  “Amalric didn’t have ninety thousand runedead with him,” said Mazael.

  “You broke the Dominiar Order,” said Sir Commander Aidan, wiping dried blood from his forehead, “and now the Justiciar Order. I wonder what songs they’ll make of that.”

  “I shudder to think,” said Mazael.

  “A great victory,” said Earnachar again.

  “Aye,” said Gerald. “But Caldarus and the runedead were only tools. This isn’t over until we deal with Lucan and my father.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “It isn’t.”

  He looked to the west, towards his true enemy.

  Towards the Old Demon.

  Chapter 22 - Urdmoloch

  Night fell, and Mazael walked alone with Romaria along the banks of the Northwater.

  He had given most of his army the night and all of the next day to use as they pleased. His men had endured a hard march and a brutal battle, and they needed rest, more rest than he could spare for them.

  There was also a tremendous quantity of loot. The Justiciar remnants had abandoned their baggage train, and both the Justiciar knights and the armsmen had carried the finest armor and weapons. The lords and the headmen had gathered the spoils, distributing them to the men who had displayed valor in the fighting.

  At dawn on the second morning, Mazael intended to march for Knightreach.

  “It was a great victory,” said Romaria. “Few men could have led an outnumbered army to triumph against a foe like the runedead.”

  Mazael smiled. “It was a great gamble. But if we sat back and let Caldarus besiege us, then we would have lost anyway. If Caldarus had been a little smarter, if he had arrayed his scouts more intelligently, we would have lost…but if we had done nothing, we would have perished anyway.”

  Bonfires blazed here and there as men set up camp…but the crackle of the flames could not drown out the cries of the wounded. Wounded men littered the field, both Justiciar and Tervingi and men of the Grim Marches. Men with long daggers prowled the plains, giving the mortally wounded the gift of mercy, and taking those who might live to the tents of the wizards and the priests.

  “So many dead,” said Mazael, voice quiet, “by my hand. Or by my doing.”

  Romaria frowned. “Will you blame yourself for it again? Lucan raised the runedead, not you, and Caldarus brought the runedead to the Grim Marches.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “No, I will not blame myself. You are right. Caldarus brought the runedead to the Grim Marches. Lucan raised the runedead…but he did at the bidding of the Old Demon, even if he knew it not. I blamed myself for the Great Rising, but all this…all this is my father’s doing.” He shook his head. “Even if I had heeded you and Molly and slain Lucan, some other disaster would have come. My father would have found another puppet to work his will. Or he would have stepped back into the shadows to plot another evil.” He looked at the dead. “This is his doing. His quest to become a god. All this blood was poured on the altar of his mad ambition.”

  “I am glad,” said Romaria, “that you understand that.”
r />   “How many times has this happened over the centuries?” said Mazael. “Battles like this, orchestrated by my father? Thousands of men dead and maimed at his doing? How many has he killed? It will end, Romaria. I will make it end. I will find him and stop him, no matter what the cost to myself…”

  “No,” said Romaria.

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “I must do this. You heard Morebeth. Molly and I are the last of the Demonsouled, and I bear the sword forged to face the Old Demon. There is no one else to stop him.”

  “I know,” said Romaria, “but I will fight with you until the end.” She took both of his hands. “The Seer prophesied that we would save each other, do you remember? You have saved me twice now…and I will save you, if I can.”

  Mazael smiled. “You did save me, when you stopped me from listening to my father.” His smile faded. “And you paid a steep price for that.”

  “I did,” said Romaria, “but it was worth it. You would have become the Destroyer, and the Old Demon would have devoured you. Think of all the harm Amalric and Morebeth and Malavost would have wreaked, if you had not been there to stop them.”

  “She is right.”

  Mazael turned his head, saw Morebeth standing at the edge of the water, her dark gown rippling in an unseen wind.

  “Morebeth,” said Mazael.

  “I did great evil in my folly,” said Morebeth, voice quiet, “and I would have done much worse, had you not slain me in battle.” She looked over the battlefield, and a hint of some strange emotion went over her bloodless face. “This, brother…this is indeed a great victory. I was right to choose you over Amalric. Our father is right to fear you, and he was right to send Caldarus and the runedead to destroy you.” Her lip curled in contempt. “Even if Caldarus proved too much a fool to succeed in his task.”

  “What task was that?” said Mazael.

  “To delay you,” said Morebeth. “Lucan Mandragon has nearly finished our father’s work in Knightcastle, and he sent Caldarus to delay you, lest you interfere. I think he expected you to fall back and endure a siege, not to sally forth and crush the enemy.”

  “What is Lucan doing now?” said Mazael. “Do you know?”

  Morebeth shook her head. “Not entirely. My ability to manifest in the mortal world is limited. I know Lucan suffered a grave defeat. I suspect he attacked Greycoast in order to harvest more life force with his black daggers, but he was repulsed.”

  “Good,” said Mazael.

  “Yet…our father is pleased,” said Morebeth. “Something that happened today pleased him.”

  Mazael frowned. “Did he want us to destroy the runedead?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” said Morebeth. “I think it angered him. Yet…he also seemed pleased.”

  “Explain,” said Romaria. “How do you know this? Did he tell you?”

  “He doesn’t know I exist in this form,” said Morebeth. “I am bound to Cythraul Urdvul, and can only manifest near Mazael. But our father often comes in spirit to Cythraul Urdvul, to gaze upon the power at its heart.”

  “Like a man looking at his trophies,” said Mazael. He had seen the pillar of crimson light pulsing in Cythraul Urdvul’s black heart, the gathered power of the Demonsouled slain over the centuries, the essence of the Old Demon’s children and grandchildren.

  “You understand,” said Morebeth. “I can see him in Cythraul Urdvul when he comes to gaze upon the gathered power. He talks to himself, since he thinks no one can hear him. He was furious that Caldarus had been defeated, that Lucan had been defeated in Greycoast…but he did not care overmuch. Like the defeats were annoyances and nothing more. And he seemed pleased. As if the battles had taken him one step closer to claiming the power.”

  “How?” said Mazael. “Do you know how?”

  “I do not,” said Morebeth. “I can see into the material world, occasionally, using what you would call the Sight. Knightcastle is shrouded in darkness, and I cannot see it. Though sometimes I can glimpse the future, for spirits are not anchored in time as the living are.”

  “And what do you see?” said Romaria. “Has anything changed?”

  “Nothing,” said Morebeth. “In every potential future, I see shadows devouring the world…and I see your death, Mazael. I see your death at the hands of our father.”

  Mazael looked at the corpses strewn across the battlefield. The Old Demon would work worse harm if he was not stopped. The Old Demon would enslave the world if he became a god, and subject it to torment simply for the delight of it.

  “Let him try,” said Mazael.

  ###

  “Here,” said Riothamus, pointing with his staff. “There’s another one.”

  Molly grunted. “Looks like…an axe did for him. Right to the back of the head. Idiot shouldn’t have taken off his helmet during the battle.” She flipped the dead Justiciar knight onto his back, the corpse’s plate armor rattling, the stench of drying blood filling Riothamus’s nostrils. “There we go.”

  She pulled the black dagger from the dead knight’s belt, careful to keep it in its sheath, and dropped it into a satchel.

  “How many more of these damned things?” said Molly. “I want to sleep for a week.”

  “No more than seven or eight,” said Riothamus, adjusting his own satchel. “I think most of the knights with black daggers escaped over the river before it thawed. They all had horses. Those who lost their horses,” he gestured at the dead men around them, “ended up here.”

  “Remind me again why we have to do this?”

  “Because,” said Riothamus, reaching for the Sight. He saw a node of darkness a dozen yards away, a slender thread rising to the west. “I don’t want any of the men to pick up one of these things by accident. Stolen life force is…addictive. Look what happened to Lord Malden and Caldarus.”

  “You and your damned conscience,” said Molly, but she grinned as she said it. “It’s not the first time you’ve cheated me out of a night’s sleep.”

  “Soon,” said Riothamus, walking to the corpse with the dagger. The man had been crushed, probably beneath a mammoth’s foot. Yet Riothamus recognized what remained of the man’s elaborate armor.

  “What is it?” said Molly.

  “That’s Caldarus.”

  Molly grinned. “Caldarus? You mean Caldarus got crushed by a mammoth?” She laughed. “I can imagine the battle-hymn your kinsmen will make out of that.”

  “And I’m sure Earnachar will sing it while drunk,” said Riothamus. He took a deep breath and poked at the mess. The squishing noise made his stomach clench. “There.” He pushed aside a piece of twisted steel, and lifted Caldarus’s sheathed black dagger from the gore.

  “What are we going to do with them?” said Molly.

  Riothamus turned over the sheathed dagger. “Destroy them.”

  She frowned. “Lucan said the Glamdaigyr couldn’t be destroyed. Though I suppose he might have lied about that, too.”

  “He didn’t,” said Riothamus. “But these daggers are not the Glamdaigyr. It will take some effort to destroy them, but I…”

  He paused. Within the dagger, the dark magic pulsed and writhed beneath his Sight, like the tentacle of some strange beast.

  “Riothamus?” said Molly. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Riothamus. “I…”

  The full power of his Sight flared to life in response to the dagger’s necromantic power, and Riothamus felt a vision fall upon him.

  His Sight blurred to the west, as it had when he had used Romaria’s Sight. Again he flew over forests and mountains, over hills and villages. The vision surged through him like a wild river, a torrent of rushing water, and Riothamus struggled to control it.

  The blurring images slowed, and Riothamus beheld a hillside overlooking a forested valley. The scene looked peaceful enough, and after a moment Riothamus realized it was somewhere in northern Knightreach, not far from the border with Greycoast.

  He turned, intending to direct his Sight towards Knightca
stle, and froze.

  Far to the south, he saw a massive pillar of darkness rising into the sky. Green flames flickered and danced at the pillar’s edges, and more pulsed within the pillar’s depths.

  Knightcastle. The pillar was coming from Knightcastle. And even from this distance, Riothamus felt the tremendous magical power gathered there.

  “A remarkable sight, is it not?”

  Riothamus turned, and saw a gaunt figure in a black robe standing a few feet away.

  The Urdmoloch.

  “Lost?” said the Old Demon. “You should be careful with the Sight, boy.” He stepped closer. “Sometimes you look at something…and it can look back at you.” He grinned. “It can look all the way into you.”

  Riothamus lifted the Guardian’s staff. “You can only harm me if I first attack you, and I have not yet attacked you.”

  The red light in the ancient creature’s eyes brightened. “You attacked me when I confronted your liege lord’s troublesome wife.”

  “Incorrect,” said Riothamus. “I disrupted the flow of magical power you used to attack her. That does not constitute an attack.”

  For a moment the Old Demon said nothing, and then his thin lips twitched into a smile. “Clever. I see why Molly likes you. She always liked clever men, my granddaughter. I suppose she’ll pick another clever one, once you are dead. Perhaps I’ll choose one for her.”

  “I’m sure Nicholas Tormaud was clever,” said Riothamus, “before you had Corvad kill him. And Molly knows you for what you are.”

  “Really, the girl ought to be grateful,” said the Old Demon with a hint of asperity. “If she had let Corvad transform her into a Malrag Queen, she would have lived for centuries. Of course, I doubt she would have enjoyed the experience.”

  “You call me clever?” said Riothamus. “I stand insulted. You could not sell water to a man on fire.”