Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  The Old Demon grinned. “Indeed? There’s no challenge to it. To sell water to a man drowning…now that is a pleasure.”

  Riothamus hesitated. The Old Demon could not harm him unless Riothamus attacked first. And he doubted that the Old Demon had summoned him. The Sight had brought him here, not the Urdmoloch. Mazael had told him that sometimes the Old Demon simply liked to talk, no doubt enjoying the sound of his own voice.

  Perhaps Riothamus could learn something useful.

  “A challenge?” said Riothamus. “Is that why you’re here? To take vengeance for the defeat at the Northwater?”

  “You sought me out,” said the Old Demon. “Your Sight found me. Annoying, really. As was Caldarus losing all those runedead at the Northwater.” He sighed. “It’s so hard to find useful tools.”

  “We defeated you at the Northwater,” said Riothamus, “and we will defeat you at Knightcastle.”

  “Me?” said the Old Demon. “I was nowhere near the Northwater.” He grinned, his teeth like twisted fangs. “And it was inconvenient…but not terribly so. All those Justiciars you killed, all those black daggers you’ve harvested from the field? The Justiciar used them before you slew them. They killed and killed with those daggers…and they harvested life energies.”

  “And you are going to use those energies to open the way to Cythraul Urdvul,” said Riothamus.

  “Obviously,” said Old Demon. “It took you that long to figure it out? With a Guardian like you, the Tervingi are indeed doomed.”

  “Though I am curious,” said Riothamus, “how you plan to reach Cythraul Urdvul, given that it is impossible to enter the spirit world in the flesh.”

  “Oh, not impossible,” said the Old Demon, “if one has the right tools. The right doorway, as it were.” He laughed. “I know what you’re doing, you know.”

  “Indeed?” said Riothamus.

  “You’re talking,” said the Old Demon, “in hopes of getting the doddering old man to reveal his secrets. To let slip something he shouldn’t, yes? That’s not a very good idea.”

  “Why not?” said Riothamus.

  The ancient demon’s grin widened. “Why, because Aegidia tried the very same thing when she found me. And nine months later she gave birth to Ragnachar…and Ragnachar almost destroyed the Tervingi nation.” He took a step closer. “It makes me wonder…how can I use you to harm the Tervingi?”

  Riothamus took a step back despite himself. “You cannot harm me unless I first attack you.”

  “Bother. Why should I harm you at all? Do you know why I am telling you this? Why I am being so very honest with you?” He laughed again. “You cannot stop me.” He stepped to Riothamus’s side and pointed at the column of darkness rising from Knightcastle. “Use your Sight. Look upon the power that Lucan has gathered for me. Do it. Do it now. I won’t stop you. I want you to see this.”

  Riothamus focused his Sight upon the darkness.

  A series of images flashed through his mind.

  Corpses, tens of thousands of corpses, lying below the walls of Knightcastle, pillars of green flame erupting from the ground.

  Mazael Cravenlock lying dead upon a floor of black marble, Molly motionless at his side.

  A shaft of blood-colored fire erupting from Knightcastle itself, the great castle crumbling into ruin, and then…and then…

  A horror beyond imagination rose from the bloody fire.

  Riothamus heard himself screaming.

  “You see?” whispered the Old Demon. “I have seen it, too. Every choice, every option, every single decision you make leads to that future. You cannot stop it. The world is mine.” His laughter echoed in Riothamus’s ears. “Now and forever.”

  The vision shattered around him.

  “Riothamus! Damn it, Riothamus!”

  Riothamus blinked, clearing his eyes, and found himself back on the battlefield, Molly shaking his shoulders.

  “Riothamus!” she said, a hint of fear on her face.

  “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here. The dagger…it trigged the Sight. I had a vision.”

  “Of what?” said Molly.

  “The Urdmoloch.”

  Her expression hardened. “What did he say?”

  “The usual threats and nonsense,” said Riothamus.

  Yet it had still left him shaken.

  His Sight had not lied to him when it showed him the coming catastrophe. But he was still Guardian of the Tervingi, and he would not despair, not while he still had life left.

  Even if the Old Demon’s victory seemed inevitable.

  And yet…

  “I cannot shake the feeling,” said Riothamus, “that he told me something important. Something he did not intend to share.”

  “What?” said Molly.

  “I don’t know,” said Riothamus.

  ###

  Two sunrises later, Mazael gave the command, and the army broke camp and marched west to face Lord Malden and Lucan Mandragon, to put an end at last to the author of the Great Rising and the ravages of the runedead.

  Or so most men in the army thought.

  But Mazael knew in his bones that his father awaited him at Knightcastle.

  And at long last, they would settle things between them.

  His hand clenched around Lion’s hilt as he rode.

  Chapter 23 - The Last Throw

  The creature that some men called the Old Demon stood upon the hillside, gazing into the forested valley.

  He shook his head in annoyance. Riothamus was a capable foe, and the Old Demon could not corrupt him the way he had corrupted, however briefly, the previous Guardian. But the Old Demon had dealt with dozens of Guardians over the centuries. He had faced the great wizards of the High Elderborn, the wizards who had created the very staff Riothamus carried.

  They were all dead now.

  The Old Demon was not.

  He strolled along the hillside, seeking. Once he claimed the power in Cythraul Urdvul, he would be invincible, the demon god of old reborn, and able to act in the mortal world without restriction.

  Without any restrictions at all.

  The mortal world, and all its inhabitants, would belong to him…and how he would make them howl!

  His smile faded a bit.

  His victory was inevitable, yes, but it would still be wise to take…precautions.

  Caldarus had failed. His invasion of the Grim Marches had slowed Mazael, but only by a few days. The army of the Grim Marches would now be marching on Knightcastle. That army was no threat to the Old Demon.

  But Lion and the staff of the Guardian…yes, those were threats.

  And Skalatan, too, was a threat. Perhaps even more dangerous than Lion and the Guardian’s staff, for those weapons were in the hands of Mazael and Riothamus, and Mazael and Riothamus were children. Skalatan was eight hundred years old. A child compared to the Old Demon, true, but nonetheless wise enough to prove a threat.

  A pity Lucan had not slaughtered the population of Barellion. That would have provided enough power to activate the Door of Souls. More than enough power, actually. Even the little bit harvested by the doomed Justiciars had almost activated the Door.

  The Old Demon needed only a little more.

  And he knew just how to get it.

  The Old Demon kept walking, his head craning back and forth, and then he stopped.

  “Ah,” he said. “There you are.”

  He strode into the shadows. Darkness swallowed the world, and he reappeared on a rocky slope a few miles away.

  Lucan Mandragon lay facedown on the ground, the Glamdaigyr near his outstretched right hand.

  He was dead.

  Of course, he had been dead for some time now.

  The Old Demon kicked Lucan onto his back.

  “Up, now,” said the Old Demon. “No rest for the wicked. And certainly not for you.”

  Half-healed burns covered Lucan’s face and arms. The Old Demon probed the necromantic enchantments upon Lucan. The spells that maintained Lucan’s undead s
tate were still functional, but they had been badly weakened.

  “Dragon fire,” he mused. “Clever.” Skalatan was indeed dangerous. The Old Demon had thought all the drachweisyrs destroyed long ago.

  Lucan’s spells were rebuilding themselves, but too slowly for the Old Demon’s liking. He summoned magic, and fed more power into the spells. Lucan shuddered, and the burns began to shrink.

  “That’s better,” said the Old Demon. “You’re almost used up, aren’t you? No matter. I have a little more work for you. Just a little more work…and then you can burn with the rest.”

  He stooped, gripped Lucan’s hair, and whispered a few sentences into his ear. Then he let straightened up and stepped away.

  His eyes fell upon the Glamdaigyr. It had been such a long time since he had seen that sword. Randur Maendrag had carried it away into Morvyrkrad to work the Great Rising, so certain that he was about to become a god, so proud of the knowledge he had stolen from the great and terrible Old Demon in order to work the spell.

  Knowledge that the Old Demon had permitted him to steal.

  He felt the sword’s bottomless hunger as he stared at it.

  “Soon,” said the Old Demon. “Very soon now, your purpose will be fulfilled.”

  And the world would be his.

  The Old Demon strode into the shadows, leaving Lucan to his work.

  ###

  Dark visions drifted through Lucan Mandragon’s mind.

  The cold, unchanging mask of his father’s face, never smiling, always weighing, judging, calculating, considering how best to make Lucan into a tool of his rule.

  Toraine’s endless cruelty.

  The lessons of Marstan, the necromancer slowly shaping Lucan into a vessel for his power.

  Marstan shrieking as the shades dragged him into the spirit world.

  Toraine’s scream as Lucan drove the Glamdaigyr through his chest.

  The screams of the men outside Barellion as the dragon fire devoured them.

  And Tyamen’s shocked silence as the shard of the Wraithaldr drove through her heart…

  Lucan’s eyes shot open, and he sat up.

  Sunlight filled his eyes, the wind rustling in his ears. For a moment he could not remember what had happened, or how he had come to this quiet hillside. He stood, surprised that he felt no pain, or anything at all…

  His eyes fell on a black sword lying upon the ground, its pommel carved in the shape of a dragon’s skull, sigils of green flame burning upon its blade.

  The Glamdaigyr.

  The memories came rushing back. The Great Rising and the destruction of Swordgrim. Caraster and the runedead. Lord Malden and the army.

  And Skalatan and the dragon.

  Lucan stood motionless for a moment, trying to regain his bearings.

  Things had not gone according to plan.

  How had the attack upon Barellion fallen apart so badly? He had been certain, so certain, that Lord Malden’s runedead would take the city and supply him with the necessary harvest of life force. Indeed, the city had been on the verge of falling when the dragon had appeared…

  “Skalatan,” said Lucan.

  He had underestimated the San-keth archpriest. And he had also made a grievous mistake by trying to use the Glamdaigyr to absorb and redirect the dragon fire. The sword had worked perfectly, absorbing the dragon fire’s magic and transferring it to Lucan. Unfortunately, that magic had almost incinerated him from the inside out. The Glamdaigyr would absorb any magic it touched…including, it appeared, magic harmful to its bearer.

  A design flaw.

  Randur Maendrag had not been so clever after all. Though given that he had failed to work the Great Rising and had become a revenant, perhaps that truth should have been apparent to Lucan.

  A finger of ice touched his mind.

  He, too, had failed to work the Great Rising and become a revenant.

  Terrible doubt filled him.

  Had he made a mistake? His plan had seemed so simple. Work the Great Rising and destroy the Demonsouled. Instead Tymaen had been killed, and Lucan had been transformed into a revenant. He had intended to destroy Barellion and harvest the necessary life force to enter Cythraul Urdvul, but instead Skalatan had defeated him and almost destroyed him.

  He had made so many mistakes.

  So many people had died.

  Lucan stared at the Glamdaigyr.

  So many people had died…and save for Tymaen, their deaths did not trouble him at all.

  Again he felt that terrible doubt, that strange image of the ruined black city and the dragon dancing through his mind…

  “No,” growled Lucan.

  He dared not turn back now. Too many people had paid too much. If Lucan abandoned his mission now, all those sacrifices would have been in vain.

  The responsibility of ridding the world of the Demonsouled, of destroying their power once and for all, belonged to him.

  And with that certainty, fresh plans rose in his mind, almost as if some outside force had put them there.

  Yes, Lord Malden had been defeated and was likely dead. But that was irrelevant. The Door of Souls still waited below Knightcastle. It would not need much more stolen life energy, and there were other ways to gather the necessary power. And for all he knew, Caldarus had been victorious, his knights rampaging across the Grim Marches. They would gather the power Lucan needed in short order.

  And if not, there was another way…

  Lucan picked up the Glamdaigyr, the black sword’s hilt familiar in his hand, and worked a spell. The sword vanished, shunted partway into the spirit world, waiting for him to summon it once more. Another spell, and a curtain of gray mist rose up. Lucan waved his hand, parting the mist to reveal the pathway wending through the spirit world.

  He entered the path, and the runeshadows attacked him at once. Dozens of them, the sigils within their chests flaring as they approached, their voices hissing with rage and pain.

  But this time Lucan was ready for them.

  He gestured, and a shell of snarling green flame appeared around him. The creatures flung themselves at him, only to perish at the touch of his fiery armor. Still they came at him, driven by their madness like moths to a flame, and Lucan strode through them unharmed.

  “I regret the necessity,” said Lucan, “of what I had to do to you. But it was necessary. And your deaths shall build a new world free of the Demonsouled.”

  That hardly mollified the runeshadows, but Lucan strode through them untouched, his magic keeping them at bay.

  ###

  A few hours later he stepped out of the spirit world and returned to Knightcastle.

  Both the castle and the town were in a state of panic.

  The gates of Castle Town were shut, crossbow-armed militiamen patrolling the walls. The gates of Knightcastle had likewise been closed, and Lucan saw runedead with sigils of fire upon their foreheads upon the battlements. Between the castle and the town stood a host of runedead, waiting as motionless as statues. Thirty thousand, he guessed. Certainly no more than thirty-five thousand. All that remained, it seemed, of the ninety thousand that had marched into Greycoast with Lord Malden’s host. A group of living men encamped below the walls of Knightcastle, the banners of the House of Roland flying from their tents. Five thousand men, more or less.

  All that remained of the armies of Knightreach.

  Malden must have had survived. Else his surviving household knights and minor vassals would have flocked to join Gerald. Or they would have degenerated into petty warlords and left Castle Town as a pile of ashes.

  Even as Lucan considered the matter, he saw a group of about twenty runedead join the others. Odd, that. Had Malden sent them to patrol the countryside? Perhaps he no longer trusted his men to warn him of danger. Defeat had a way of cooling a vassal’s loyalty to his lord.

  Then he saw another group, and another, dozens of small bands of runedead making their way to join the main host. Surely Malden would not have sent out such erratic patrols
. Unless…

  “Ah,” said Lucan, as the realization came to him.

  Caldarus had been defeated.

  Lucan had commanded the Grand Master’s runedead to return to Knightcastle for further instructions if Caldarus died. And since the Grand Master was not the sort of man to lead his soldiers from the front, Lucan guessed that he had been defeated and killed.

  Lucan had not entirely expected that Caldarus would defeat Mazael, and he would not miss the man. Yet it presented a problem. Lucan had not anticipated that Caldarus would meet defeat so quickly. And now Mazael was likely on his way to Knightcastle with an army.

  Just as Skalatan and the Aegonar would be marching from the north. Lucan wondered if Skalatan had burned Barellion to the ground, or if he had convinced the lords of Greycoast to join him as allies. It was the sort of thing the old serpent would do, but it hardly mattered. With or without the armies of Greycoast, powerful foes were coming to Knightcastle.

  And they might just set aside their differences long enough to fight him. Skalatan and Mazael, at least, knew what he intended, and the rest of the world saw him as a monster of myth, the dark wizard behind the Great Rising. He had become the sort of man that would transform mortal enemies into allies.

  Why did that not trouble him?

  Lucan pushed aside the thought and strode towards Knightcastle. His enemies were irrelevant, as were the nagging doubts. One thing mattered – opening the Door of Souls, entering Cythraul Urdvul, and destroying the power of the Demonsouled.

  ###

  A short time later Lucan stood in the ancient vault below Knightcastle, examining the Door of Souls.

  He was so close.

  The Door of Souls was a pointed arch, ten feet wide and thirty tall, and it radiated magical power. The sigils carved into the stone danced with flickering silver light, and from time to time a sheet of pale silver light crackled within the arch.

  It was almost ready. A little more energy, and Lucan could push it open and enter Cythraul Urdvul in the flesh. But he had to act quickly. If he delayed too long, the Door’s power would drain away, like water from a leaky bucket, and he would have to start all over again.