Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “The skull?” said Romaria. “What skull?”

  “The skull of the demon child,” said Szegan. “Beware the one that holds it. For it is a treasure box to hide his stolen power. Great power has he already stolen, and he shall steal even greater power, unless…”

  At last Mazael was within reach. He sprang forward, Lion’s blazing point driving for Szegan’s head.

  But the runedead San-keth was faster. The collection of bones and withered flesh shifted into a wraith of writhing green light. Lion slashed through the wraith, its form rippling as Szegan jumped backwards. The undead San-keth returned to material form atop the dais, skeletal hands raised.

  “Defend me!” shrieked Szegan. “Your master commands! Defend me!”

  A shape stirred in the sanctuary’s darkened corner.

  A massive shape.

  A huge form lumbered into the crimson glow, and Mazael wheeled to face it.

  In life, it had been an Ograg. In fact, it had been the Ograg that had collapsed the tunnel below the village’s gates. Now the creature was a rotted hulk, half its gray flesh decayed to reveal gleaming black bone. Green fire blazed in its empty white eyes, and the sigil of the runedead danced on the black bone of its forehead.

  The Ograg surged forward in silence, and Szegan began casting a spell.

  ###

  Molly jumped into the shadows as the undead hulk charged Mazael.

  She reappeared atop the dais behind Szegan, her sword and dagger angled to stab. But the cleric finished his spell, and a haze of blue light appeared around him. Molly’s blades rebounded from the haze as if she had struck a solid stone wall. A warding spell, one strong enough to turn aside both the steel of her sword and fire of Lion’s magic.

  Molly drew back her blades, mind racing, and Szegan whirled to face her, skeletal hand outthrust. A blast of invisible force slammed into her stomach and flung her into the air with enough force to break every bone in her body when she landed.

  If she landed.

  Molly fell back into the shadows, reappearing some distance from the dais.

  ###

  Riothamus struck the staff against the crimson granite of the floor. Golden light blazed in the staff’s runes, and he flung a blast of brilliant flame at Szegan, intending to smash the San-keth’s ward in a single strike. But Szegan raised his carrier’s hands, summoning enough magical power to kill any living wizard that attempted to wield such force.

  But Szegan was already dead.

  The blast struck Szegan’s ward and dissipated, and the cleric began casting another spell.

  ###

  Mazael drove Lion through blazing arcs, carving the undead Ograg’s legs. A living Ograg would have bellowed in rage, but the undead creature pursued him in eerie silence. The Ograg carried a broken timber and wielded it like a club. Mazael dodged around the blows, striking at every opening that presented itself. Lion carved chips of black bone and shreds of leathery flesh from the Ograg’s leg with every hit, but the massive runedead showed no reaction. The runedead did not feel pain, and Mazael had to take off the massive creature’s head to destroy it.

  Which, since it stood twenty feet tall, might prove a challenge.

  Golden light flashed, and Mazael saw Riothamus and Szegan casting spells at each other. Darkness flickered and swirled in the dull red light, and Molly appeared before the dais, sword and dagger in hand. But where was Romaria? Had she…

  A dark blur shot past Mazael, and an enormous black wolf sprang at the Ograg. The Ograg turned to meet this new threat, and Mazael’s blade carved another chunk from the Ograg’s right leg. The creature shuddered, and the black wolf flowed back into the form of Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock, her bastard sword in both hands.

  She struck, the blue fire around her blade sinking into the Ograg’s flesh, and the undead creature shuddered again.

  ###

  Power thrummed through Riothamus.

  Szegan loosed his spell, a writhing serpent of green flame and black shadow leaping from his carrier’s skeletal fingers to hurtle at Riothamus. He lifted his staff, the sigils shining brighter, and a shield of golden light appeared before him. His ward held against the strike, but its force knocked Riothamus back a step.

  Szegan was neither powerful nor skilled. But the San-keth runedead could summon far more power than a living wizard, more power than Riothamus himself could muster.

  “Riothamus!” said Molly, appearing at his side. “Knock down his wards and I’ll take him.”

  “No,” said Riothamus. “Help Mazael with the Ograg.” Szegan began another spell. “I’ll handle the serpent.”

  Molly’s eyes narrowed, but she gave a sharp nod and disappeared. A heartbeat later she appeared between Romaria and Mazael, her sword and dagger blurring as she attacked.

  Szegan unleashed another spell, and again Riothamus deflected it. The force staggered him, and he drew upon as much magical power as he could manage, from the very stone beneath his feet…

  He blinked. Szegan had warded himself, but he doubted the San-keth had warded the stones of the temple itself.

  He swept the staff before him, and the granite tile upon which Szegan stood exploded in a spray of rocky shards. The blast sent the San-keth cleric stumbling, and Riothamus made a hooking motion with his free hand. Freezing white mist swirled before him, and a volley of jagged icy shards shot from it, slamming into Szegan’s wards. The cleric stumbled, clawing at the air for balance.

  “Aid me!” shrieked Szegan.

  Riothamus braced himself, expecting the Ograg to attack.

  Instead more shapes appeared in the temple’s shadows. At first he thought they were human runedead with the sigil of green fire blazing upon their brows. Then he saw the yellow eyes beneath the green glow, saw the fangs dripping with poison jutting over their lips.

  Calibah. Human and San-keth hybrids, their fangs filled with deadly poison.

  They rushed at Riothamus as Szegan worked a spell.

  ###

  Mazael swung Lion again, and for the first time the huge Ograg stumbled. Its leg wavered, but the huge creature kept its balance, and its heavy club swung for Mazael.

  He jumped back…but just a moment too slow, this time.

  The club’s edge clipped his chest. His armor of golden dragon scales kept the blow from shattering his ribs. But the sheer force of it knocked him hard to the ground, breath exploding from his lungs.

  The Ograg raised its club, ready to turn him to paste.

  ###

  Molly cursed as Mazael fell, as the Ograg looming over him for a killing blow.

  It was time to be reckless.

  She leaped into the shadows and reappeared atop the Ograg’s left shoulder. Her feet slipped on the withered gray flesh beneath her boots, but she struck with both sword and dagger, reducing the left half of the Ograg’s face to ruin. The creature spun, wrenching its head around to bite her, and Molly lost her balance and fell.

  The shadows swallowed her, and she reappeared next to Mazael as he regained his feet.

  ###

  Riothamus whipped the Guardian’s staff in a circle, and a sheet of golden fire exploded in all directions.

  The changeling runedead stopped, stumbling as the magic disrupted the necromancy upon their flesh. Riothamus leveled the staff and loosed blast after blast of golden fire. The four calibah slumped to the floor, nothing more than dead flesh once more.

  Riothamus flung another burst at Szegan, and the San-keth cleric jerked back, standing between the altar and the looming statue of Sepharivaim.

  An inspiration came to him. He could not waste time battering down Szegan’s wards, and he knew no spells that could affect the massive bronze image.

  The stone pedestal upon which the statue stood was another matter entirely.

  Riothamus cast a spell, forcing his will into the crimson block of stone. The pedestal trembled, and then turned dark brown as his magic transmuted the stone into thick mud.

  The statue fell forwa
rd, the mud block collapsing into a puddle.

  Szegan just had time to look up, and then the statue fell upon him.

  Riothamus blinked. The only ways to destroy runedead were with magic or fire, but crushing one beneath a ton of bronze seemed just as effective.

  ###

  The floor shuddered as the bronze image of Sepharivaim fell with a deafening clang, and Mazael tried to keep his balance, as did Romaria and Molly. The Ograg stumbled, all its weight coming down upon its damaged right leg.

  Mazael heard bone snap.

  He struck, Lion ripping through the runedead’s knee.

  The Ograg’s right leg collapsed, and the creature fell, sending another vibration through the floor. Mazael ran forward, seized the creature’s leg, and heaved himself up.

  For just an instant, he met the Ograg’s remaining eye, and then swung Lion with all his Demonsouled strength and rage behind the blow. The burning blade sheared through the Ograg’s thick neck and spine, its head rolling down its back. The rune above its forehead flickered and went out, and the body collapsed. Mazael jumped free as it slumped to the floor in a misshapen heap.

  Silence fell over the sanctuary. Mazael looked around, breathing hard, but saw no other attackers.

  Lion’s fire faded.

  Riothamus walked towards them, staff clicking against the cracked floor.

  “What happened to Szegan?” said Mazael.

  Molly grinned. “Riothamus turned the statue’s pedestal to mud, and it fell on him.”

  “Clever,” said Mazael.

  Riothamus shrugged. “Your Amathavian church tells its faithful to tear down false idols. I merely took the injunction literally.”

  “Come,” said Mazael, returning Lion to its scabbard. His chest and shoulders ached from the battering the Ograg had inflicted, but already his Demonsouled blood healed the wounds. “We’re still alive. Let us go disappoint Earnachar.”

  ###

  “I am overjoyed,” said Earnachar, “that you were victorious, hrould.”

  Mazael nodded. “I’m sure you are.”

  “Mighty Tervingar himself,” said Riothamus, “could not have done better.”

  Molly snickered, and Earnachar shot them both a dark look.

  “Your folk should be safe enough now,” said Mazael. “We destroyed almost all of the runedead, along with the undead San-keth that controlled them. You will have no more organized runedead attacks on your villages.”

  Unless more runedead wandered into these hills. Or desperate refugees, fleeing from the chaos the Great Rising had unleashed, decided to claim these lands as their own.

  To his surprise, Earnachar bowed. “My thanks, hrould. A hrould swears to protect to his folk, and you have defended my thains and bondsmen from the undead.”

  Mazael inclined his head. “It is my duty.”

  “Though now that this village has been reclaimed,” said Earnachar, “perhaps I might settle some of my bondsmen there? The village would be a strong place, once the walls are rebuilt, and these hills would offer good grazing.”

  Mazael stifled a laugh. He might have cleared out the runedead, but once Earnachar settled some of his people here, they would give the headman credit. And perhaps Earnachar would start to whisper that a man of Tervingi birth ought to be the hrould of the Tervingi nation. From there it was a short step to arguing that the Tervingi ought to conquer the Grim Marches for themselves.

  Ragnachar was dead, his dream of conquest in ruin…but not all of his followers had taken the lesson to heart.

  “I shall consider it,” said Mazael. “This land once belonged to Sir Gaith Kalborn, a vassal of mine, and I reclaimed it after he betrayed me. I shall bestow it as a fief once I find a suitable vassal.”

  “Of course,” said Earnachar with another bow, a twitching of his eyelid the only sign of his disappointment.

  “Send word if you need further aid,” said Mazael. “Until then, I will return to Castle Cravenlock.”

  ###

  That night Mazael lay in his tent, staring at the canvas overhead.

  Romaria rested against him, her head on his chest.

  “You cannot sleep?” she murmured.

  “It will take decades,” said Mazael. “Maybe even centuries.”

  “To do what?”

  “To rid the lands of the runedead,” said Mazael.

  “We’ve made good progress,” said Romaria. “Most of the infested villages have been cleared, and the remaining runedead are in lonely places. They will not disturb anyone unless they are first disturbed.”

  “Unless a renegade wizard or a San-keth takes control of them,” said Mazael. “Or more runedead wander into the Grim Marches. Or we are attacked by another barbarian nation like the Tervingi. Or more Malrags come down from the mountains.” He rubbed his face, his beard scratching beneath his palms. “Gods, Romaria, Lucan raised so many runedead.”

  “But the Grim Marches have survived,” said Romaria.

  “I wonder how many other lands can say the same,” said Mazael.

  There had been scattered reports and rumors as bold merchants braved the runedead-haunted roads. Mazael had heard stories of entire towns overrun, now haunted by walking corpses with symbols of green fire upon their foreheads. Of forests where no one dared to go, for the runedead killed any that entered. Of lands and lordships thrown into chaos. The Prince of Travia had been killed in the Great Rising, and his sons battled each other for his throne. The rumors claimed that a great host of runedead marched through Mastaria, and Lord Malden could not hold them back. Mazael had sent a letter to Knightcastle, but there had been no response, and he wondered how Gerald and Rachel fared. His nephew Aldane would be over three years old by now, and Rachel would have birthed her second child months ago.

  Assuming they were still alive.

  “Not as many,” said Romaria.

  “And all of it,” said Mazael, “because I did not kill Lucan when I had the chance.”

  Romaria sighed. “Are you going to blame yourself for this again? Who killed Lucan and stopped the Great Rising from animating any more runedead? You did. Who kept the Tervingi and the lords of the Grim Marches from tearing each other apart? You did.”

  “With Riothamus’s help,” said Mazael.

  “They follow you, not Riothamus,” said Romaria. “You’ve held the Grim Marches together. You are the reason the Grim Marches has not become a score of warring fiefdoms or a runedead-haunted wasteland. Perhaps you should have killed Lucan, but you thought him a better man than he was. His deeds are not your fault.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “No, they may not be my fault, but they are my responsibility.”

  He fell into silence.

  “You’ve done all you can,” said Romaria. “You’ve kept the Grim Marches safe, and you’ve driven out or destroyed most of the runedead. No one can ask more of you than that. And you broke the Great Rising, Mazael. There might be tens of thousands of runedead, but no new ones will rise. Sooner or later, we’ll destroy them all. Perhaps it will take decades. But someday the last runedead will be destroyed, and no one will fear them again.”

  Mazael said nothing for a moment.

  “You’re right,” he said at last. “It could be worse.”

  At least Lucan Mandragon was dead, and could work no further harm.

  Chapter 3 – Awakening

  Lucan Mandragon stood motionless in the darkness, gazing at the underground lake.

  How long had he been standing here? Two days? Three? A week, perhaps?

  A month?

  It didn’t matter.

  He had nothing but time.

  He had been standing for days, yet he did not feel the slightest ache in his legs. He did not feel the draw of his breath, nor the beating of his heart, most likely because both had stopped.

  He felt nothing at all.

  Save for the occasional flash of grief that tore through him.

  Followed always by rage like an inferno.

  ###


  “How long, I wonder,” said a sardonic voice, “are you going to stand there contemplating the water?”

  Lucan blinked – not that he had any need for it – and turned his head.

  He stood in the vast underground cavern that had once served as his teacher Marstan's hidden workshop. Marstan had claimed the wizards’ brotherhood had expelled him for challenging their authority, but in truth he was a necromancer. He had tried to transfer his spirit to Lucan’s body and claim it for his own, but Lucan had fought him off. Yet the ordeal had left many of Marstan’s memories and powers in Lucan's mind.

  Was that where he had first gone wrong?

  “As long as necessary,” said Lucan, turning from the underground lake.

  A broad ledge encircled this end of the cavern, filled with tables and workbenches, their surfaces laden with jars and vials and glass tubes and peculiar brass instruments. Heavy shelves stood against the cavern’s walls, lined with books and scrolls.

  A lean, fit man in his early thirties stood a dozen yards from Lucan. He wore gleaming black boots, black trousers, and a black leather vest over a spotless white shirt. His blond beard and mustache had been trimmed with razor precision, and a fine sword and dagger hung from his leather belt. Despite the rigors of the long journey to Arylkrad and back, he kept up his grooming, and looked like one of the minor nobles that infested the Prince of Barellion’s court. Yet the man had the balance of a master swordsman, the cold green eyes of a hardened killer…and an aura of dark magical power that brushed against Lucan’s senses.

  An aura that had grown much stronger.

  “As long as necessary?” said the man. “I suppose you could stand down here until all your enemies are dead, given your new...state, but that hardly seems like an efficient use of time.”

  Lucan stared at him. “Why are you here, Malaric?”