He struggled to rise.
Malden sagged against the pillows, trembling, every breath setting an inferno within him.
It was over.
He had lived sixty-four years, longer than his own father. He had repaid the Dominiars for the death of his son Mandor, their order crumbling when Mazael smashed them at Tumblestone. He had even outlived Richard Mandragon, the murderer of his son Belifane, and he had laughed when the Tervingi barbarians murdered him. Malden Roland had defeated his enemies, safeguarded his lands and people, taken more women into his bed than he could recall, and left a strong son to rule Knightcastle when he died.
It was a good life, more than many lords of Knightcastle could claim.
But it was not enough.
Not with the runedead ravaging his lands and people.
Again he fought to rise, knowing it would be futile.
But he struggled anyway.
###
Lucan stopped outside Malden Roland’s bedroom door, adjusting his cloak and hood.
Entering Knightcastle had been easy enough. Layers of mighty wards rested upon the castle’s walls, laid by generations of court wizards, and newly strengthened against the immaterial form of the runedead.
They had not been crafted to stop an undead creature of Lucan Mandragon’s power and skill.
He slipped a steel mask over his face. The mask displayed a stern, unsmiling visage. It had no holes for the nose or mouth, but since Lucan didn’t need to breathe, that presented no problem. Given how much Malden Roland hated Richard Mandragon, Lucan knew that showing his true face would be unwise. Lucan could have cloaked himself in a spell of illusion, but one of Malden’s wizards might detect it.
Richard Mandragon had always said the simple disguises were the best. What would his father think of him now? Perhaps he would approve. Richard had always done what he thought necessary…and now Lucan did the same.
Lucan opened the door and slipped into Malden’s bedchamber.
It was opulent and vast, as befit the Lord of Knightcastle. The balcony doors had a splendid view of the castle, the town, and the Riversteel itself. A huge canopied bed stood against one wall.
Malden Roland lay upon the bed, dying.
In the years since Lucan had last seen him, Malden had lost sixty pounds, and now resembled a skeleton draped in wrinkled skin. Every breath pained him, and Lucan saw the bulge of the tumors beneath the sweaty sheet covering the old man.
Amazing that he had lasted this long.
Malden’s blue eyes glared up at Lucan.
“Are you death, come to take me at last?” spat Malden.
“No,” said Lucan. “Would you like to be young again?” His voice sounded metallic, hollow, inhuman.
Malden stared at him, wheezing.
“What?” said the old lord at last. “What sort of rubbish is this?”
“You can be young again,” said Lucan. “This is within my power. I can take away your illness. I can make your arms and legs remember their strength. You will be able to walk again. To fight, to rule, to make love.”
Malden managed a croaking laugh. “I am hallucinating now. Seeing fever dreams. A shadow in a steel mask who promises immortality. Perhaps I shall see a dancing purple elephant next.”
“No,” said Lucan. “I am just as real as you, my lord. Just as real as your pain.”
He jabbed two fingers into one of the lumps beneath the sheet.
Malden went rigid, his eyes bulging, his back arching. After a moment he slumped against the bed, trembling.
“Who are you?” said Malden, his voice a rattle.
“Who am I?” said Lucan. He smiled behind his mask. “You may call me Ataranur.” Randur Maendrag had known the High Elderborn tongue, and the alien word rolled off Lucan’s lips with ease. “Once, I was a wizard of the High Elderborn. When the Demonsouled and the Malrags destroyed our citadel here, I entered the long sleep beneath the mountain. For we foresaw that one day a host of the dead would descend upon the race of man, and I would return to defend you.”
There had always been legends of High Elderborn kings and princes slumbering beneath Knightcastle, waiting until the hour of greatest need to rise up. Malden would have heard those stories all his life. The old lord’s pain-wracked face twisted with disbelief…but Lucan saw the faintest glimmer of doubt in his bloodshot eyes.
It would be enough.
“Impossible,” said Malden. “The High Elderborn are myth, and nothing more.”
“A myth?” said Lucan. “Just as the runedead are nothing more than a myth, my lord?”
“Even if you are real,” said Malden, “you can do nothing. The physicians have examined me, the wizards have cast spells upon me, and the priests have prayed over me. I am an old man, and my time is spent.”
“No,” said Lucan. “Knightcastle needs you, my lord. Who will shepherd your people?”
“My sons,” whispered Malden, “my sons…”
“Are young men,” said Lucan, “and lack your wisdom. Knightreach needs you, my lord. You will defeat the runedead and make your people safe. Knightcastle shall stand foremost among the lords and princes. And perhaps a Roland will again reign as king over the entire realm.”
“A dream,” whispered Malden, “and nothing more.”
“It is to save your land and fulfill this dream,” said Lucan, “that I have awakened from my long sleep.”
A hinge creaked, and the door swung open. A young woman in servant’s livery stepped into the room, a folded blanket in her arms. No doubt she had come to change Malden’s sheets.
Her timing was perfect.
Lucan gestured, summoning power, and blue light flared around his hand. Malden trembled once and fell asleep as the spell washed over him. It would not last for long, but Lucan only needed a moment.
The maid froze, eyes going wide with fear. “Who…”
Lucan gestured again, and the maid went silent, motionless as his will wrapped around her like an iron vice. He beckoned, and she floated towards him, eyes bulging with terror.
“I regret,” said Lucan, “this necessity. But you may die in the knowledge that the loss of your life will be the first step to a better world.”
Her eyes grew wider, lips trembling as she tried to scream.
Lucan held out his right hand and called the Glamdaigyr.
A flash of green flame, and the massive black sword appeared in his hand. The symbols of emerald flame upon the blade writhed, and the empty eyes of the dragon’s skull pommel glared at him. A haze of darkness swirled around the blade, and Lucan felt the weapon’s terrible hunger. The Glamdaigyr was the most powerful artifact ever forged by the high lords of Old Dracaryl, a weapon that could penetrate any spell, could drain the power of any wizard. And the sword drained the life force of its victims, transferring that stolen life and vitality to its bearer.
Lucan knelt besides the bed, the Glamdaigyr angled up, and wrapped Malden’s thin hand around the hilt.
Then he beckoned once more, and his will drove the maid onto the blade.
She sagged at the sword drank her life. One moment she looked like a healthy young woman of twenty-five. Then a matron of fifty. A crone of one hundred. Then nothing remained but gray dust and crumbling bones.
The stolen life energy surged down the Glamdaigyr and into Malden Roland.
###
Sunlight filled Lord Malden’s eyes.
He sat up, annoyed. He had ordered the servant girls to leave the curtains drawn until the sun passed to the western side of the castle, lest the light gave him a headache. A stern rebuke ought to...
Malden blinked in surprise.
He was sitting up. It had been weeks since he could last sit up unassisted. He took a deep breath, surprised...and was even more surprised at the lack of pain. He drew another breath, and another.
Still no pain.
Malden looked at his hands, and his mouth fell open in shock.
The illness had turned his arms into withered
sticks and his hands into trembling claws. Yet now he saw lean muscle upon his arms once more. Amazed, he pushed aside the blankets and climbed to his feet.
He did not fall, and his legs held his weight.
Gods, he was standing. How long had it been since he had stood on his own legs?
Malden found himself blinking tears from his eyes.
He felt so strong.
A mad notion seized him, and he strode across the room. A mirror stood in the corner, covered by a sheet. He had ordered the servants to cover it. He did not want to watch as his flesh wasted away, to watch as he withered into a living skeleton.
But now he seized the sheet and yanked it away.
"Gods," whispered Malden.
His astonished reflection gazed back at him. Last night he had been a man on death's doorstep. Now he saw a vigorous man of fifty in the mirror, his hair more blond than gray. In fact, he looked stronger than he had at fifty.
"How?" said Malden, staring at his reflection. It was impossible. He felt wonderful, full of vigor and energy. But it was utterly impossible. Was it a miracle?
He saw a dark shadow in the mirror’s corner.
Malden whirled.
The masked shadow stood by the doorway, watching him. The figure remained motionless, as motionless as a statue in a black cloak and a steel mask.
Or a spider, waiting in its web.
"So you weren't a dream," said Malden.
"No," said the cloaked figure, "I am not a dream."
"Who are you?" said Malden.
"I already told you," said the cloaked figure. "I am Ataranur."
"A High Elderborn wizard?" said Malden. "Can you not take off your mask and show me?"
A note of pain entered the hollow voice. "I fear I cannot. The fight with the ancient Demonsouled left me grievously scarred, and the long centuries of sleep weakened me further. The touch of sunlight would wound me."
"Indeed," said Malden, dubious. Everything about Ataranur seemed like a clever trick. Yet somehow the wizard had come unnoticed into the heart of Knightcastle, into Malden's very bedchamber.
And somehow Malden had been healed.
"Your lands need you, my lord," said Ataranur. "That is my purpose, the reason I slept for centuries when all my kin have passed into the dust of death. The runedead threaten to destroy your people. They need you to lead them, to defend them."
"You're right," said Malden. He had lain abed for far too long, letting the burden pass to Tobias and Gerald.
"And you shall have the aid of my humble spells, my lord," said Ataranur, "if you will permit it."
"Of course," said Malden.
He crossed the room to summon his squires, stepping over an odd streak of gray dust by his bed. He would have to tell the servants to clean it up.
###
Lucan watched as Malden bellowed for the servants to attend him.
The old lord did not trust him, not quite yet...but the gratitude was there, and trust would come in time.
And then dependency.
The first step to Cythraul Urdvul, and the final destruction of the Demonsouled, had been taken.
Chapter 8 - The Grand Master
Every morning Rachel took her younger son Belifane in her arms and walked to Knightcastle's outer wall, her older son Aldane walking with her. Her maid, a cheerful old matron named Elsie, trailed after, ready to assist. Elsie did not ask to carry Belifane. She knew better. Rachel had lost Aldane once, and would not lose her children again.
She stopped and rested one hand against the stone battlement, Belifane squirming in her other arm. From the wall she saw the Riversteel and the walls of Castle Town, and the low mountains of Knightreach to the south. More importantly, she saw the road stretching to the mountains. When Gerald returned from Mastaria, he would ride along that road.
Or if he had been slain, the messenger bearing news of his death would take that road…
Rachel pushed the thought aside.
How often had she done this? How many times had she stood upon a castle wall and waited to see if the men she loved returned from war? There had been Mitor’s foolish war against Lord Richard. The war against the Dominiars. Mazael and Gerald leaving in pursuit of Corvad and his Malrags.
And now the horror of the Great Rising and the rebel Caraster.
Would it ever end?
She shivered and let go of the wall, taking Aldane’s hand in hers, her other arm holding Belifane tight.
“Are you cold, Mother?” said Aldane. He had been too young to remember his abduction at Sykhana’s hands, but the experience had left his mark upon him. He was always so serious. Of course, so was his father.
“No, dear,” said Rachel. “Just…thinking.”
“Father will return,” said Aldane. “When he is victorious.”
He sounded so confident. But he was only three years old.
“You are a good boy, my little lord,” said Elsie. “When your father returns, I will tell him so.”
But it was not only Gerald who occupied Rachel’s thoughts.
She looked east.
There had been no word from the Grim Marches for months. In Mazael’s last letter, he said that Lucan Mandragon had wrought the Great Rising, though the wizard had been killed in the attempt. Few believed the story, and even Rachel doubted that Lucan could have worked such a disaster alone. Some said that Lucan Mandragon had taken up the mantle of Old Dracaryl, and unleashed an army of the runedead to conquer the world. Others said that Lucan had murdered his family and then been destroyed by his own dark magic. Still others said that the Tervingi had run amok, or that Mazael had butchered the House of Mandragon and claimed the liege lordship of the Grim Marches for himself.
Rachel doubted that last one.
She stared over the wall for a few more moments. No riders came, from either the east or the south.
But no riders bearing ill news, at least.
“Come, Elsie,” said Rachel, turning from the battlements.
“My lady?” said Elsie.
“We’ll take the children to their rooms,” said, “and you’ll look after them for the day.”
There was work to be done.
###
Knightcastle’s men had gone to war, so it fell to the women to keep the castle and town from falling into ruin.
And both tottered on the edge.
Rachel followed Lady Rhea Roland as she strode through Knightcastle’s lower courtyard, her skirts billowing around her. A pair of armsmen kept watch over them, and Lady Rhea issued a steady stream of commands to a trio of seneschals.
“We’ll need more ditches dug outside the camps,” said Rhea, “at least until the peasants are brave enough to return home.”
“It should be safe enough, my lady,” said one of the armsmen. “Most of the runedead in Knightreach have been defeated, at least in the villages near the castle. Lord Tobias has been busy.”
“Indeed he has,” said Rhea, “but it will take some time for the peasants to believe that. We must be mindful of sanitation. The last thing we need is for pestilence to break out in the tents. New trenches must be dug.”
“We haven’t the men to spare,” said one of the seneschals.
“What of the town’s guild of masons?” said Rachel.
They looked at her. Once that would have daunted her. But in the past five years, Rachel had broken away from the vile worship of the San-keth. She had chased her son’s kidnapper through war and fire and ruin. And she had stabbed a wizard of dread power as he tried to use her son’s blood to work a mighty spell.
Rachel had seen far worse things than an annoyed seneschal.
“The masons’ guild,” said the seneschal, “are stonecutters.”
“But they need to dig holes to build their buildings,” said Rachel. “I expect they’re rather good at it. And they ought to be grateful for the work. No one is raising new buildings in Castle Town.”
“An excellent idea, daughter,” said Rhea. She looked at the
seneschal. “See to it.”
Rachel hid her smile. Compliments from Lord Malden Roland’s wife were rarer than pearls.
The discussion ended, and the seneschals dispersed to carry out Rhea’s bidding.
“I should go to the barbican,” said Rachel. “I can oversee the morning bread distribution.” The town’s priests were competent, but she suspected her presence helped their tasks. The people of Knightreach needed to know that their lord and his sons looked to their needs. Or perhaps Caraster and his mad ideas of a new order would not seem so outlandish.
Though after the devastation of the Great Rising, Rachel suspected only madmen would join a man who commanded so many runedead.
“I shall walk with you,” said Rhea.
They started for the barbican, the armsmen following at a discreet distance.
“Thank you,” said Rhea.
Rachel blinked. “For what?”
“For your aid,” said Rhea. “In times of war, certain duties fall upon a noblewoman. But Tobias’s wife is a drunken wastrel, and I cannot rely upon her. Garain was widowed, and did not have the chance to remarry before the San-keth murdered him. Both my other sons died in battle before they had a chance to wed.”
The words chilled Rachel. Rhea had borne five sons, and she had seen three of them die. Would Rachel’s own sons one day fall to the sword?
No, she could not think about that.
“I have no one to rely on but you,” said Rhea. “Thank you for that.”
“I only want to do my duty,” said Rachel.
A wicked glint came into the old woman’s eyes. “Then lure Gerald into your bed when he returns. You’re young enough for at least three or four more children.” She laughed at Rachel’s blush. “The House of Roland has too few members, now.” Her laughter faded. “And we shall soon have one less.”
“My lady?” said Rachel.
“I know you will be able to lure Gerald into your bed,” said Rhea, voice quiet, “because he will return soon. I sent word to him and Tobias. The wizards and the physicians have despaired. My husband will be dead within a week. Perhaps less. Tobias will soon be the lord of Knightcastle.”
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 9
