Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “What?” said Lucan.

  “This,” said the robed figure, lifting his right hand, the fingers closed. “Call it a reward for service well-done, if you like.”

  He opened his hand. A tiny sphere of blue light hovered over his palm. It, too, looked familiar.

  “What is it?” said Lucan.

  “Conscience,” said the robed man. “And memory.”

  He snapped the fingers of his left hand…and the sphere of blue light darted forward and sank into Lucan’s chest.

  Lucan staggered, raising his hand to cast a ward…but nothing happened. As far as he could tell, the little sphere of blue light had done nothing to him.

  “Lucan Mandragon,” murmured the robed man, and for a moment his gleeful expression reminded Lucan of Toraine before his older brother had played one of cruel jokes. “Who am I?”

  “The Old Demon,” said Lucan, “and you…”

  A shudder went through his entire body, his fingers digging into the Glamdaigyr’s hilt.

  The Old Demon’s grin widened.

  “And you…”

  “Yes?” said the Old Demon. “Do go on.”

  “And you…” said Lucan, a vise squeezing his mind, “and you…you…”

  Suddenly he remembered.

  All of it.

  He remembered his imprisonment in the spirit world, remembered the Demonsouled corruption hunting him through the blasted landscape and the ruins of the black city. The Demonsouled corruption had almost destroyed him, but the Old Demon had offered to save him in exchange for his conscience.

  And Lucan had accepted the bargain.

  Then the Old Demon had come to him at Castle Cravenlock and taken his conscience, along with his memories of the pact. And then Lucan had done…he had done…

  “No,” he whispered, “no, no, no.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said the Old Demon, his tone jovial.

  Lucan screamed.

  His memories shifted, a horrible light new falling over them, free of any deception. He had set out to destroy the Demonsouled. And to do that, he had betrayed Mazael Cravenlock, who had saved his life. He had unearthed ancient necromancy from Old Dracaryl and unleashed an army of runedead upon the world, murdering his brother in the process. He had risen from death as an undead horror. He had twisted and corrupted Lord Malden and Grand Master Caldarus, and sent them forth to kill in his name. He had killed uncounted thousands.

  He had cost Tymaen her life.

  And all of it, every last drop of blood, had been for absolutely nothing.

  He had gotten Tymaen killed for nothing.

  No, not for nothing. He could see his true purpose now, free of the lies he had told himself. His purpose had been to slay the Demonsouled, allowing their power to gather in Cythraul Urdvul, and to open the way for the Old Demon.

  All so the Old Demon could become a god.

  And everything Lucan had done, all the horrors he had wreaked, all the blood he had spilled, all the lives he had taken…all of that would be as nothing compared to what the Old Demon would do.

  And it was his fault.

  He head someone screaming, realized it was him.

  After a moment he found himself leaning on the Glamdaigyr like a cane, his body shaking like a banner in the wind.

  He looked up and saw the Old Demon staring at him.

  “I have always heard,” said the Old Demon, “that knowledge is better than ignorance, but I suppose that’s just another lie, isn’t it? I think you much rather would have remained in ignorance. I could have destroyed you without telling you the truth,” for an instant his eyes shimmered with hellish light, his teeth shifting to fangs, “but this way was much more amusing.”

  “You did this to me,” spat Lucan. “You made me do this.”

  “Did I?” said the Old Demon. “I made you do nothing. I just put you on the path and gave you a little shove. All of it…the Great Rising, the Door of Souls…all of it was your work. I just happen to be the beneficiary. And now it’s over, and I’ve won.”

  Lucan closed his eyes, still shuddering. How could he have been so blind? He had become something worse than the high lords of Old Dracaryl, even worse than his old teacher Marstan. His pride and folly had handed victory to the Old Demon, had condemned the world to uncounted eons of torment and slavery…

  His eyes opened.

  “No,” he said, straightening up.

  “No?” said the Old Demon, his voice calm, but the red glow in his eyes brightened.

  “No,” said Lucan. “It’s not over yet. You still need the Glamdaigyr…and I have it.”

  The Old Demon said nothing.

  “You need it,” said Lucan, voice quiet, “to take the power. That’s why you had Randur Maendrag create it. That’s what this was all about. So someday you could dupe some fool into opening the Door of Souls for you…and you could use the Glamdaigyr to steal the gathered power.”

  “You do understand,” said the Old Demon. “For all these centuries, Lucan. For all these millennia. I have worked to this moment, the hour of my ascension…and it is at hand at last.”

  “It’s not,” said Lucan.

  “Oh?” said the Old Demon, tone soft. “Why not?”

  “Because of this,” said Lucan, pointing the Glamdaigyr at the Old Demon. “I have the Glamdaigyr, and you are not…”

  The Old Demon sneered. “You think I cannot hurt you because I am half-spirit? You are mistaken.” He lifted his hands and crimson fire flared around his fingers. “You sold yourself to me, Lucan. I can do whatever I want to you. And you will give me the sword.”

  “No,” said Lucan. “You made me into your instrument…but you did your work too well. I have the Glamdaigyr. I have the Banurdem…and as a revenant, I think I am your match in arcane power.”

  “Prove it,” snarled the Old Demon. “Match your power against mine, if you think you can!” The bloody flames around his hands blazed brighter, and the shadows thrown by the Door’s silvery light twisted and flowed towards the Old Demon. Lucan sensed the power the ancient creature gathered, magic potent enough to blast Knightcastle to smoking ashes. Despite Lucan’s boasting words, he couldn’t possibly work magic to stop the Old Demon’s attack.

  He couldn’t even work enough magic to slow it down.

  So he didn’t try.

  Lucan threw himself forward and took his last gamble. His undead strength drove his limbs, and he gripped the two-handed sword as he had been taught as a boy long ago, before his magical talent had manifested. He just had time to see the shocked surprise on the Old Demon’s face, and then he plunged the Glamdaigyr’s blade into his chest.

  The sword erupted from the Old Demon’s back.

  Lucan gripped the hilt with both hands. The fire faded from the Old Demon’s hands, his face slack with shock and pain. Lucan braced himself for the current of burning power to flow through the sword. He knew firsthand the corrupting taint of Demonsouled power, and the power he stole from the Old Demon would be vastly stronger than that he had taken from Mazael. Lucan would steal the power and destroy himself, taking the Old Demon’s strength into oblivion with him.

  He deserved death for everything he had done…but perhaps he could rid the world of the Old Demon as well.

  He prepared himself to accept the power.

  Nothing happened.

  Lucan looked at the sword in puzzlement, and then at the Old Demon.

  The Old Demon winked at him.

  And in that single terrible instant, Lucan realized he had been fooled one last time.

  “Hold still,” said the Old Demon.

  The Banurdem burned hot on Lucan’s forehead. The Banurdem, created by Randur Maendrag long ago.

  Created using knowledge the Old Demon had given him.

  Power pulsed through Lucan, and he found himself unable to move, unable to speak. He remembered standing paralyzed in the Garden of the Temple in Deepforest Keep, Malavost using the Demonsouled corruption to control him.

&nb
sp; And now it was happening again.

  Lucan would have screamed, if his lips could have moved.

  “Ah,” said the Old Demon, stepping backwards, the blade pulling out of his chest with a slithering noise. “That stings, doesn’t it? You should have known better, Lucan. I taught Randur to make the Glamdaigyr. I gave him the knowledge to forge the sword.” He rubbed the blade with a finger, and the sword made a horrible metallic chiming noise.

  It reminded Lucan of a dog cringing at the feet of its master.

  “Do you really think,” said the Old Demon, “that I would have let Randur make a weapon he could use against me?”

  Lucan could say nothing. He fought against the magic holding him, struggled with every piece of his mind and spirit. But the Banurdem’s power held him fast.

  “We’re finished here,” said the Old Demon. “And my victory would not have been possible without your help. Think on that, Lucan Mandragon, as you die for the final time.”

  He tapped the Banurdem with two fingers.

  And the diadem caught fire and began to melt.

  A blast of power shot through Lucan and flung him across the room, the Glamdaigyr clattering against the floor as he slammed against the stone wall. Rivulets of molten metal ran down his face and neck as the Banurdem disintegrated, and he felt the spells binding his undead flesh unravel. He fought to stand, fought even to move as his flesh sizzled and his clothing caught fire, but the Banurdem’s grip was too strong.

  But then the diadem broke apart entirely, and for an instant, Lucan was free to summon power.

  Not much power, not enough to harm or even annoy the Old Demon.

  One final spell…in the desperate hope that he could undo at least some of the damage he had wrought.

  Lucan cast the spell, and then everything went black.

  ###

  The creature that the Elderborn called the Hand of Chaos and the men of the Grim Marches called the Old Demon gazed at the smoking husk that had been Lucan Mandragon.

  Wisps of smoke rose from the charred flesh, a few flames dancing over the ragged remnants of his clothing. The Old Demon smiled to himself. There had been no reason, no reason at all, to tell Lucan the truth before he died for the final time.

  Save that it had amused the Old Demon to do so.

  And it had indeed been most amusing.

  But it was time to attend to business.

  He picked up the Glamdaigyr. The burning sigils upon the black blade pulsed in response to his touch, and again the sword made that keening metallic noise. The weapon recognized the hand of its master. Randur Maendrag had borne the Glamdaigyr, as had Corvad and Lucan Mandragon. But they had been the weapon’s bearers, not its masters.

  Again the Old Demon stroked the blade with a finger.

  “It has been such a long time,” he said, “hasn’t it?”

  He turned his back on Lucan’s corpse, and a quick stride through the shadows took him to the Door of Souls. The silver light played over his face, and through the haze filling the arch he saw the black stone and crimson glow of Cythraul Urdvul.

  “At last,” he murmured.

  It had been over thirty centuries since he had last entered Cythraul Urdvul in the flesh, three thousand years since the Dark Elderborn in their pride and folly had tried to use another Door of Souls to summon and bind a demon god. The Door had been shattered, the demon god destroyed, and Cythraul Urdvul shunted into the spirit world…but the ruined temple had remained a magnet for the power of the Demonsouled, drawing their strength to itself.

  And now the Old Demon would seize that power for himself.

  He cut his left palm on the edge of the Glamdaigyr and let the blood well forth. It was not enough to merely open the Door of Souls. Anyone passing through the Door would need Demonsouled power to pull them to Cythraul Urdvul, like offering up iron to a powerful lodestone.

  Fortunately, he had Demonsouled power to spare…and soon he would have much, much more.

  All of it.

  The Old Demon stepped through the Door of Souls and left the mortal world behind.

  Chapter 29 - The Door of Souls

  Mazael tapped his heels against Gauntlet’s flanks, urging the big horse to greater speed. The outer curtain wall of Knightcastle loomed before them, the gates in the barbican closed.

  “Riothamus!” shouted Mazael. “The gates!”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Riothamus lift his arm, the staff of the Guardian glowing. A wave of blue-white mist rippled over the massive gates, and Mazael saw the iron hinges and bolts of the door turn orange with rust. An instant later they shattered, and the wooden doors collapsed into splintered ruin on either side of the curtain wall. Mazael steered Gauntlet through the wreckage and into Knightcastle’s lower courtyard. The castle had always bustled with activity, but now it was deserted, with no trace of either servants or armsmen.

  “Lord Gerald will be wroth that you broke his door,” said Molly, glancing at the splintered boards.

  “If we don’t find Lucan and the Door of Souls,” said Mazael, looking around the courtyard, “then Gerald will have far greater problems than a broken gate. Riothamus. Can your Sight find the Door?”

  “Perhaps,” said Riothamus, peering at Knightcastle’s great stone bulk. “It is…somewhere below the castle. But I cannot be more specific.”

  “I can,” said Romaria. “To my Sight it’s like…like a bonfire atop a mountain. Though I don’t know how to get into these Trysting Ways you told me about.”

  “I do,” said Mazael, swinging down from Gauntlet’s saddle. “There’s an entrance…”

  Morebeth appeared before him.

  “You must hurry,” she said, her voice low and urgent.

  “Yes, I know,” said Mazael. “Lucan has opened the Door of Souls.”

  “Who the devil are you talking to?” said Molly, looking around.

  “The spirit of Morebeth Galbraith,” said Romaria. “One of the spirits of the dead Demonsouled bound in Cythraul Urdvul.”

  “Truly?” said Molly. “Grandfather has nothing kind to say about her.”

  “How reassuring,” said Morebeth. “But you must make haste. The Door of Souls has opened…and our father has entered Cythraul Urdvul.”

  A fist closed around Mazael’s heart. “Already?”

  Morebeth nodded, her black gown stirring. “He will make his way to the Chamber of Blood at the heart of the temple.” She reached for him. “He cannot become the new god! He will tyrannize the world as he ruled Amalric and I, transform all mortals in monsters as he does with the Demonsouled. You must fight him in Cythraul Urdvul, for I cannot.”

  “What of Lucan?” said Mazael. “Did the Old Demon take him into Cythraul Urdvul? Or is he standing guard over the Door of Souls?”

  “I know not,” said Morebeth. “I cannot manifest near the Door. The spiritual turbulence is too great.” A desperation he had never seen in her before twisted her features. “Go! If he becomes a god, I will never be free of him. No one will ever be free of his cruelty! Go, quickly!”

  She vanished into nothingness.

  “You heard her,” said Mazael.

  “Actually, no, we didn’t,” said Molly.

  “But I suspect we can guess,” said Riothamus, “what she said.”

  “This way,” said Mazael, striding towards one of the entrances to the Trysting Ways.

  ###

  Skalatan’s body and carrier shifted back to material form.

  He held a half-dozen defensive spells ready, prepared to block any attack Lucan or the Old Demon might unleash. The drachweisyr rested in his carrier’s right hand. The dragon was too injured to manifest in the mortal world, but Skalatan could use the scepter to access a portion of the dragon’s innate power. Specifically, the dragon’s fire. With an effort of will, he could fill the room with fire hot enough to melt steel.

  But the great stone vault, as large as one of Barellion’s churches, was deserted.

  The Door of Souls itself
stood in the center of vault, lined in silver light. Skalatan’s head rotated back and forth, his tongue tasting the air. He neither saw nor heard any movement.

  He did, however, taste the scent of burnt flesh in the air.

  He saw what remained of Lucan Mandragon slumped against the wall, wisps of smoke rising from charred clothing and blackened bone. A few spells still clung to the charred husk, no doubt the collapsed remnants of the revenant’s defensive wards.

  The Old Demon had at last discarded his favorite tool.

  The San-keth were not an emotional race, and as they aged they felt fewer and fewer emotions, with cold logic taking their place. Skalatan himself had not felt strong emotion for centuries.

  Yet even he felt a flicker of pity as he looked Lucan’s corpse.

  “I did warn you,” Skalatan said to the silent chamber. “You should have listened to me.”

  Then he dismissed Lucan Mandragon from his thoughts and strode towards the Door of Souls.

  Within the haze filling the pointed arch, he saw an edifice of black stone and a dull crimson glow.

  Cythraul Urdvul, and the Demonsouled power gathered in the Chamber of Blood at its heart.

  Even with the Door of Souls, there was one final piece needed to reach the birthplace of the Demonsouled. Only Demonsouled blood could bridge the gap, could draw the traveler to Cythraul Urdvul like an iron nail drawn to a powerful lodestone.

  Skalatan had no Demonsouled blood of his own.

  Nevertheless, he had come prepared.

  His carrier’s left hand reached into a hidden pocket in his ragged robes and drew out a yellowed human skull. Dozens of tiny runes covered the skull’s jaw and brow and cheekbones, crimson light shining in their depths.

  Even as Skalatan lifted Corvad’s skull, the sigils brightened, and the crimson glow within the Door of Souls seemed to pulse in answer.

  Power called to power.

  He touched the skull to the shimmering haze within the Door, and felt the magic respond. Blood of the Demonsouled…and with the skull of the Old Demon’s grandson, Skalatan would enter Cythraul Urdvul, defeat the Old Demon, and become the new god of the San-keth.