“You are Morebeth Galbraith,” said Mazael, whirling to face his father, “and you, ever and always, are a liar!”
The sword of the Destroyer shivered in his hand, and changed, the red gold becoming blue-tinged steel, and Lion blazed to life in his hand. Mazael lunged up the stairs and plunged the sword into the Old Demon’s chest.
The Old Demon shattered into a thousand shards of sliver light, and the world vanished into nothingness.
###
Mazael jerked awake, his eyes shooting open.
A cold hand grabbed his shoulder.
“Hold still,” said a woman’s voice, low and urgent. “If you roll off that cliff, you’ll never stop falling.”
Mazael caught his breath. He sat on a floor of smooth, icy black stone, the rock trembling and thrumming beneath him. The air here was cold, and the black clouds overhead moved with uncanny speed, red lightning flickering between the writhing bands.
“Morebeth,” said Mazael.
She knelt next to him, one hand on his shoulder. He reached up and grabbed her arms, and felt flesh and cloth beneath his grasp. “You’re…not a spirit.”
“I am still a spirit,” said Morebeth, “but we are in the spirit world. Here, there is no difference between the material and the spiritual.”
“The spirit world?” said Mazael, and the memory came back. “We’re in Cythraul Urdvul.”
He got to his feet. The huge, ruined black temple rose before him, the great pillar of blood-colored fire ascending from the shattered dome and stabbing into the clouds. A few feet behind Mazael the pavement of black marble came to a jagged end, the storm stretching endlessly away in all directions.
As Morebeth had said, if he fell here he would never stop falling.
“What happened?” said Mazael. “Where are the others?”
“Our father left a trap for you,” said Morebeth. “He sensed your approach, and laid a spell that would imprison you within your own mind, haunted by your greatest fears and failures for all time.”
“Thank you,” said Mazael. “I don’t think I would have been able to break free of that on my own.”
“You wouldn’t have,” said Morebeth, glancing at the pulsing column of flame. “But we must hurry. Our father didn’t know I have been aiding you, but he does now. We must free the others before he destroys us.”
“Where are they?” said Mazael.
“This way,” said Morebeth, walking towards the black temple’s yawning entrance.
Mazael followed her through the massive stone arch and into a vast hypostyle hall. Once, he guessed, pillars thick as ancient oak trees had supported a high stone roof. Now half of the pillars lay in ruin, and great sections of the ceiling had collapsed in heaps of broken wreckage. The vibration of the floor grew sharper beneath his boots, and sometimes pieces of stone clattered down the piled debris.
Romaria, Molly, and Riothamus lay motionless in a clear space, their eyes closed.
“They’re still alive,” said Mazael as he looked over them, relief spreading through him.
“Aye,” said Morebeth, the bloody light throwing stark shadows over her pale face. “But we must wake them.”
“How?” said Mazael.
“I can take you into their dreams,” said Morebeth, “but you shall have to wake them. I was only able to wake you because of the bond between us.”
“Bond?” said Mazael. “What bond?”
“That we are both children of the Old Demon,” said Morebeth. “Come. We must wake the others. Take my hand.”
Mazael took her right hand with his left, and Morebeth stooped and put her free hand upon Romaria’s forehead.
Cythraul Urdvul blurred around him, and he fell back into darkness.
###
“This isn’t happening,” said Romaria over and over, stumbling through the broken streets of Deepforest Keep. “This…isn’t happening, it can’t be happening.”
She had left Deepforest Keep years ago and had only returned every few years to visit her father. Yet part of her had always thought of it as home, even after Athaelin Greenshield fell in battle against the Malrags. It had comforted her to know that her brother ruled over the Keep.
But now Deepforest Keep was rubble.
And it was her fault.
“You could have stopped Mazael,” murmured the Old Demon, his voice low and mocking. “You could have turned him from this path of destruction. But you followed him instead, and he became a monster…and he butchered the folk of Deepforest Keep.” He gestured at the corpses, human and Elderborn, that choked the streets. “You could have saved them, Romaria, but you failed, you…”
“This is a lie.”
Romaria blinked, surprised, and looked up from the dead.
Mazael stood nearby, clad in golden armor, a longsword burning with blue fire in his right hand. A woman in black stood at his side, her face tight with hatred as she stared at the Old Demon.
“Well,” said the Old Demon, looking at the black-clad woman. “This is irritating.”
“Romaria,” said Mazael, stepping towards her. “None of this is real.”
“But…but Deepforest Keep,” said Romaria. “All my kin. You…you killed them.”
“I did not,” said Mazael. “We saved Deepforest Keep, remember? I slew Ultorin, and you woke the traigs and led them against the Malrags.”
“I…I can’t…” said Romaria.
“And you saved me, too,” said Mazael. “You stopped me from murdering my sister. And you kept my Demonsouled nature from devouring me. Every time I went too far, every time I wanted to kill…you stopped me. You kept me from becoming the Destroyer, you kept me from listening to his lies,” he pointed at the carnage in the streets, “and you kept me from doing things like this.”
Romaria smiled at him. “I love you, too.”
And she knew what she had to do.
She whirled, raised her bow, and loosed an arrow at the Old Demon.
The Old Demon shattered into a spray of silver light, and Deepforest Keep dissolved into nothingness around her.
###
Molly kept screaming.
She had killed Nicholas. She had killed Riothamus. They had both loved her, and that love had led to their deaths. It was her fault.
Her body swelled and bulged, the tumors in her flesh growing into living Malrags.
She had become the monster she had always known herself to be.
“You should have listened to me, granddaughter,” said the Old Demon. “This has always been your fate. You cannot escape from me, not ever. But if you had accepted it…then perhaps the men you loved would still live.”
“Or you could just shut up.”
The voice was so unexpected that Molly blinked, falling silent.
A man in golden armor stood in the bedroom doorway, a sword of blue fire in his right fist, a woman in a black gown standing behind him. He looked familiar, somehow, and a storm of emotions rose up within Molly at the sight of him.
The Old Demon snarled.
“Who are you?” said Molly.
“He killed Nicholas, Molly!” said the Old Demon. “He murdered your betrothed! Strike him down, and take revenge!”
Molly stepped forward, intending to rip the man in golden armor to shreds. And yet…and yet that seemed wrong, somehow. The man in the golden armor hadn’t killed Nicholas. No, she had killed Nicholas. No, she had found him dead. Hadn’t she?
“You said I killed Nicholas,” said Molly, hesitating.
“He killed Nicholas,” said the man in golden armor, pointing his burning sword at the Old Demon. “He sent Corvad to do it, and then cast the blame upon me, all while planning to transform you into a Malrag Queen.”
“But it was still my fault,” said Molly. “They only died because of me. I am a monster. I have always been a monster, and…”
“Look,” said the man in the golden armor, pointing at the mirror.
Molly looked, and took a step back in surprise.
&
nbsp; She saw a young woman in dark leather armor, with gray eyes and brown hair tied in a tail. A slender sword and a peculiar dagger rested on her belt. The dagger looked as if it had been made from the tooth of some great beast, and…
“The dragon,” breathed Molly.
Mazael had killed the dragon in Red Valley. Arylkrad stood on the heights overlooking that valley, and there Molly had learned the truth. The Old Demon had sent Corvad to kill Nicholas, all so Corvad could lure Molly to Arylkrad and transform her into a Malrag Queen.
Nicholas Tormaud’s death had been the Old Demon’s doing, not hers.
“You did this, grandfather,” said Molly, glaring at the Old Demon. “You killed them, not me.”
Her grandfather’s eyes blazed with crimson fire. “Indeed? You will curse Mazael for having sired you, before…”
Molly lunged, her dagger lashing at the Old Demon’s face.
Her grandfather shattered in a spray of silvery light, and the world dissolved around her.
###
Riothamus stood motionless, staring at the ruin of the Grim Marches and the corpses of the Tervingi nation.
“You failed them,” said the Urdmoloch, standing behind him. “You were their Guardian. They looked to you to keep them safe from dark magic, from the Demonsouled and the San-keth, and you failed. Just as well Aegidia is dead. Otherwise she might have lived to have seen you fail so badly.”
Riothamus said nothing. Perhaps it would have been better if the Tervingi nation had remained in the middle lands, in their old homeland along the Iron River. Perhaps they would have prevailed against the Malrags, in the end.
And they would not have marched to their doom, trusting in Riothamus to protect them.
“The Guardian of the Tervingi,” said the Urdmoloch, amusement in his voice, “and you…”
“Enough.”
Riothamus turned, surprised at the new voice.
A tall man in golden armor stood near the Urdmoloch, a sword of azure flame in his right fist. A woman in a black gown stood at his side, gazing at the Urdmoloch with hatred and fear.
“This,” said the Urdmoloch, “is growing most tiresome.”
“Who are you?” said Riothamus. He had never seen the woman in black before, he was certain, but the man in golden armor looked familiar.
“You’re the Guardian of the Tervingi,” said the armored man, “and you helped save your people. You escaped Stone Tower and stopped Ragnachar from destroying the Tervingi. And you spread Lion’s fire when the runedead rose, and you froze the river so the mammoths could cross and smash the runedead. If not for you, both the Tervingi nation and the folk of the Grim Marches would have been slain.” He gestured at the desolation surrounding the burned village. “This could have been real…but it was not, thanks to your wisdom and valor.”
“I…I remember,” said Riothamus, faint images flickering through his mind.
“And my daughter loves you,” said Mazael, “and I didn’t think she was capable of loving anyone.”
Molly.
The memories of her, of his betrothed and first and only lover, exploded through his mind. He remembered the glint in her gray eyes when something caught her sense of humor. The way her face grew still when she was lost in thought, and the smile when he walked into her room. The first time they kissed outside of Castle Cravenlock, the feel of her mouth and body against his…
He remembered everything.
Riothamus turned, the staff of the Guardian in his hand, and flung a blast of golden flame at the Urdmoloch.
The black-robed shape shattered, and the world fell away.
###
Mazael’s eyes opened, and Morebeth released his hand.
He stood again in the half-ruined hypostyle hall of Cythraul Urdvul, the great pillar of flame stabbing into the undulating black sky. Romaria, Riothamus, and Molly opened their eyes and got to their feet.
“Gods,” said Molly, rubbing her temples, “I have a headache.”
“What did he do to us?” said Romaria.
“A spell,” said Morebeth, voice quiet. “My father sensed your entrance through the Door of Souls and laid a trap to ensnare you.”
“It is good you were able to aid us,” said Riothamus, with a small bow in her direction. “I fear we would have been unable to escape otherwise.”
Molly looked Morebeth up and down. “So you’re the one who seduced Mazael and tried to use him as a weapon against the Old Demon?”
Morebeth’s smile showed teeth. “Yes.” She looked at Romaria. “I was a fool to do so,” her gaze shifted back to Molly, “but I think you understand what it is to lose someone you love to my father’s lies.”
Molly nodded, once. Then she looked at Riothamus. “Why was he able to lay the spell for us? I thought he couldn’t attack us unless we attacked him first.”
“That doesn’t matter, not here,” said Morebeth. “Not in Cythraul Urdvul. This is where he was born. He is stronger here, much stronger.”
“Wonderful,” muttered Molly.
“And that is why you are able manifest physically?” said Riothamus.
“You are wise, Guardian,” said Morebeth. “I, too, am stronger here. I am dead…but I can act here as I could not in the material world. Both you, Mazael, and you, Molly, might find yourselves stronger as well.”
“I don’t feel any differently,” said Mazael.
Molly shrugged, concentrated, and then frowned. “I can’t walk into the shadows.”
“The Glamdaigyr,” said Romaria. “The Old Demon has it, and it blocks your ability to move through the shadows.”
“He’s near,” said Mazael, looking at the pillar of flame rising from the ruined dome. “And he knows we’re coming.”
“He seemed so certain he will win,” said Molly, a spasm going over her face.
“No,” said Morebeth. “He fears us. Or at least the talismans you bear, the blade and staff of the High Elderborn. They were created to destroy him…and even now, after three thousand years, they pursue him to the very end.”
“Then do you see our victory?” said Mazael. “In any of the potential futures you can see?”
Morebeth shook her head.
“Is there any sign of Skalatan?” said Mazael.
“The wise serpent?” said Morebeth. “No. I felt it when you entered Cythraul Urdvul, but not him. Perhaps he did not reach the Door of Souls.”
“Or he is strong enough to mask his presence,” said Riothamus.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael. “He won’t help us against the Old Demon, and even if he somehow prevails, he’ll only become a tyrant as dark as the Old Demon himself. This is up to us. Let’s go.”
He strode towards the far end of the hall, the others following.
Chapter 31 - The Last of the Demonsouled
Mazael stepped through the yawning arch and into the Chamber of Blood.
He had seen it so many times before in his nightmares. The great cylindrical chamber of black stone could have held Castle Cravenlock. It had once been topped with a vast dome, but the dome had been shattered long ago, its jagged fingers stark against the black and crimson sky. A stone dais, perhaps a hundred yards across, stood in the center of the chamber.
The pillar of blood-colored flame, the gathered power of three thousand years of Demonsouled, filled the dais and plunged into the sky.
The stone thrummed beneath Mazael’s boots, all of Cythraul Urdvul trembling with the great power in that pillar. Here was power enough to rip apart the world and reshape it. Power enough to create new worlds and destroy old ones, to shape the destiny of every living mortal for all time.
Power that called to the dark fire in Mazael’s blood.
For a wild, terrible moment he wanted to sprint forward and throw himself into the pillar, to lose himself in that awesome might. Perhaps a moth circling a lantern flame felt the same thing. He saw the same yearning on Molly’s face. Another, darker thought occurred to him. He could take the Glamdaigyr fro
m the Old Demon and use it to claim the power, to transform himself into the new god…
No. He could not be trusted with that power, no more than the Old Demon or Skalatan.
A dark shape stood against the raging pillar, a shadow against the flames. Mazael saw a black sword in the figure’s right hand, the blade flickering with ghostly green flame. He kept walking, Lion raised, the others behind him.
At last the dark figure turned to regard him, outlined against the power of the Demonsouled.
And for the first time since that awful day in Castle Cravenlock’s chapel, Mazael confronted his father in the flesh.
“Well,” said the Old Demon. “Here we are at last.” The crimson glow deep in his gray eyes pulsed in time to the pillar behind him. “Did you like the little presents I left for you?”
Mazael said nothing, Lion ready in his hands. He saw Romaria tense, saw Riothamus lift the staff of the Guardian, saw Molly bare her teeth in a snarl.
“A family reunion of sorts,” said the Old Demon, his voice amused. “My son and granddaughter and their loved ones.” He laughed. “How fitting that you should all die together.”
His burning gaze fell upon Morebeth, and his eyebrows rose.
“But what is this?” said the Old Demon. “I expected rebellion of Mazael and Molly, but from you, little Morebeth? You are dead, and your soul and power are mine.” His voice hissed over the last word, and for an instant his black robes seemed like furled wings of shadow, his teeth like black fangs. “Obey me.”
“No,” said Morebeth.
“You will,” said the Old Demon. “You hate me…but that does not give you the strength to defy me. Your flesh and blood were mine, and your spirit and power remain mine. Obey me and kill Mazael.”
For a moment Morebeth’s eyes shone with the same fire as the Old Demon’s, and she started to sway. But she stiffened, and the light faded from her eyes.
Though they still blazed with fury.
“No,” she whispered. “You ruined everything I love. You had Amalric kill Sir Brandon. You tried to turn Mazael into the Destroyer, and you would ruin the world. I will never obey you, father. Never.”
Soul of Swords (Book 7) Page 43
