Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “The Tervingi?” said Malaric. “The barbarians? I thought Lord Mazael tamed them.”

  Hagen scowled. “That’s hardly the word for it. If not for the Great Rising, we’d still be killing each other. The Tervingi swore to Lord Mazael, and their Guardian and chief headmen want to keep the peace…but they’re still a bloody prickly lot. Keep your men in line around them, and for the love of the gods, stay away from the Tervingi women.”

  ###

  Malaric strolled into Cravenlock’s Town main square, keeping a calm smile on his face. None of these townsmen posed a threat to him. Yet both Molly Cravenlock and the Guardian would recognize him…and they would try to kill him on sight.

  Best to be cautious.

  He threaded his way around a cart. Cravenlock Town had grown drastically, with people packing every street and alley. Malaric supposed the rural peasants had fled to the safety of the town’s walls, first from the Malrag horde, and then from the runedead.

  Which meant a great many people would witness the death of Mazael Cravenlock.

  Malaric examined the square with a critical eye. A domed church, built in the style of Old Dracaryl, stood on one end of the square, and a tall three-story inn on the other. The houses of the town’s wealthy residents occupied the other two sides. Carpenters worked in the center of the square, assembling a wooden dais.

  It seemed that Mazael had adopted one of the customs of the barbarians, a curious practice called a “moot.” In a moot, the Tervingi gathered and presented their petitions to their lord, who was expected to resolve them. Malaric thought it the idea ridiculous. The commoners were vermin, and needed to be led by a strong ruler. The thought of letting them have a say in their own governance was preposterous.

  Still, that meant the town’s square, and the surrounding streets, would be packed with people.

  Making it all the easier to unleash the kind of chaos that Malaric had in mind.

  He smiled and went to rejoin the calibah.

  ###

  That night Malaric traveled across the darkened plains of the Grim Marches, his hand resting on the leather bag holding Corvad’s skull. The skull’s power filled him with dark fire, and he used it to stride in and out of the shadows, covering miles in the space of a few moments. He laughed aloud for the exhilaration of it.

  Molly Cravenlock was a fool. She had been born with this power and made poor use of it. In Molly’s place, Malaric would have slain Mazael by now, and claimed the Grim Marches for himself.

  His smiled widened. Barellion and Greycoast would be his…and Malaric had so many debts to repay.

  How sweet that would be.

  A distant flare of green light caught his eye, and he came to a stop.

  He watched the light for a moment, then nodded and drew the feather-shaped dagger he had taken from Marstan’s lair.

  The rubies in its hilt throbbed with a dull red light.

  Malaric strode into the shadows.

  When he reappeared, a band of runedead stood before him. About forty, clad in the crumbling remnants of peasant clothing. The sigils of green fire blazed upon their foreheads, filling their dead eyes with green light.

  As one they attacked Malaric.

  He struck the nearest runedead, the dagger opening a bloodless gash on its gray forearm. The runedead trembled and went motionless. As it did, Malaric felt a mental link to the creature form in his thoughts. He sent a command through the link, and the runedead turned and attacked its fellows.

  Malaric strode in and out of the shadows, striking with the dagger at every step. Within moments he had all forty-seven runedead under his perfect control. One final stride through the shadows, and Malaric reappeared before them, the dagger in hand.

  He gazed at it in admiration.

  In the Dark Elderborn tongue, it was called a caethweisyr, a dagger of enslavement. The ancient Dark Elderborn wizards had created them to bind creatures from the spirit world with a single touch. Shortly afterward, the wizards had discovered that the caethweisyrs also worked on other Dark Elderborn, and the resultant centuries of internecine warfare destroyed all the daggers.

  Almost all the daggers.

  Malaric wondered where Marstan had gotten this one. With it, Malaric could enslave creatures of the spirit world. He could also enslave magical creatures, such as the runedead. And he could use it to dominate mortals who wielded magical power. Though unlike spirits, they had a chance to resist, assuming the dagger’s wielder was weak of will.

  Malaric was not.

  He tapped the flat of the caethweisyr against his palm a few times, thinking of Skalatan.

  The San-keth cleric was in for a nasty surprise once Malaric returned.

  “Come,” he commanded his runedead, and led them towards Cravenlock Town.

  ###

  Mazael slept, and in his sleep he dreamed.

  He strode through the ruined black temple, the broken columns and the damaged walls towering over him like a forest. Intricate carvings covered the crumbling walls, weathered and worn by the years. The ruin looked like the High Elderborn temple atop Mount Tynagis.

  But this temple was black as the deepest night.

  Mazael stepped into what had been a vast cylindrical chamber topped by a huge dome. Only a few ragged fingers remained of the dome, and vast breaches marred the curving walls. Rubble lay heaped everywhere. A circular dais, a hundred yards across, lay in the center of the chamber.

  And from that dais rose a pillar of crimson fire.

  When last Mazael had seen this place in his dreams, the pillar had been only a dozen yards across. Now it had swelled to almost forty, and poured into the writhing black clouds like a river of burning light. The floor trembled as the pillar pulsed, as if the power contained within threatened to blast the ruined temple to dust.

  A man wrapped in a black robe stood at the edge of the platform, gazing into the crimson light. He turned his head, his profile outlined against the bloody glare. He had a hooked nose and a lean, gaunt face, his brown hair streaked with gray at the temples.

  “Father,” said Mazael.

  The man turned his face. He had gray eyes, identical in shape and color to Mazael’s…but a crimson glare shone deep within them.

  “Why, Mazael,” said the Old Demon. “Such a surprise.”

  They regarded each other in silence for a moment.

  “I suppose it is not surprising,” said the Old Demon, “that you should be drawn here involuntarily.” He titled his head to the side. “Unless you came for the pleasure of my company.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Mazael. “If I ever see you again in the waking world, I will kill you.”

  The Old Demon laughed. “Do you know how often I have heard that over the centuries? Over the millennia? So many men and women have vowed to kill me, so many have made my destruction their life’s work…and yet I am still here, and they are not.” The crimson glare in his eyes brightened, and for a moment the teeth behind his grin looked like black, twisted fangs. “There is a lesson in that, I would think.”

  “Bold words,” said Mazael, “from a man who will not confront me in the flesh.”

  The Old Demon scoffed. “And just how do you think I have survived this long?” He turned to gaze at the throbbing pillar of flame. “Lucan did better than I expected.”

  “Lucan?” said Mazael. “Lucan is dead. What does he have to do with anything?”

  “That statement is entirely correct,” said the Old Demon. “Lucan is dead. But you were there, were you not, for the Great Rising? You stopped it before he could finish. But his runedead…ah, his runedead killed so many Demonsouled.”

  “He was telling the truth, then,” said Mazael.

  “Of course,” said the Old Demon. “His runedead killed almost all of the weaker ones. And when they were slain, their power returned here, to where it all began.”

  “That’s why I keep seeing this place in my dreams,” said Mazael, looking at the pillar of fire. “That fire…that’
s the power of the slain Demonsouled, isn’t it?”

  For the first time a hint of a frown appeared on the Old Demon’s gaunt face.

  “It gathers here when the Demonsouled are slain,” said Mazael. “So the fire draws me here when I sleep. Like a lodestone drawing an iron nail. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? All those Demonsouled you raised up and devoured over the centuries. All this violence and bloodshed. You’ve been raising Demonsouled and harvesting them. Like a peasant gorging himself on the fat of his pigs. All so you could gather this power here…and then claim it.”

  The Old Demon laughed. “Is that what you think?” He flung out a hand. “Then go on. Claim the power. I won’t stop you. Take it. It’s yours.”

  Mazael hesitated. He was not here physically, he knew, in this peculiar dream world. Yet he did not know what would happen if he touched that howling pillar of bloody fire.

  Nothing good, he suspected.

  “You know nothing,” said the Old Demon.

  “Whatever you intend,” said Mazael, “I will stop you.”

  “You cannot,” said the Old Demon. “It has already begun. Events I put into motion centuries ago are at last coming to fruition. You can no more stop them than an ant could stop an avalanche.”

  He gestured, and the black temple dissolved.

  ###

  Mazael sat up, blinking sweat from his eyes.

  His bedchamber in the King’s Tower of Castle Cravenlock was dark, a cool spring breeze coming through the balcony doors. Romaria lay curled beside him, looking up at him.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  Mazael gazed at her for a long moment.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  ###

  Morning dawned, and Mazael rode for Cravenlock Town, escorted by his knights, with Romaria, Molly, and Riothamus following him.

  He tried not to think on the dream of the strange black temple, but it would not leave his thoughts.

  “So the last time the Tervingi nation met in moot, you decided to invade the Grim Marches?” said Molly, scowling at her horse. She was an indifferent rider at best, and much preferred her own feet to a horse’s saddle. Which made sense, since she could travel far faster than any horse.

  “Aye,” said Riothamus. He looked even more uncomfortable than Molly. The Tervingi preferred to fight on foot, and had no tradition of fighting from horseback. If not for that, they might have conquered the Grim Marches. “We thought he had found a new homeland in the mountains, safe from the Malrags…but they were waiting for us. Then Ragnachar convinced the moot to undertake the journey to the Grim Marches.”

  “And here you are,” said Romaria. She rode with easy grace, her bastard sword slung over her back, a short bow and quiver waiting at her saddle. No one went unarmed in the Grim Marches.

  Not since the Malrags, and not since the runedead.

  “And here we are,” said Riothamus. “Those of us who survived. Even if we must fight the runedead, I hope we can have peace. With each other, and with the neighboring lords.”

  Molly twisted in her saddle. “Do you hear that, father? Perhaps the moot will declare that we shall go to war. I hope they choose to invade Greycoast. I hear the weather is lovely this time of year.”

  Riothamus laughed. “No, this will not cause a war. By custom, that would take a moot of the entire Tervingi nation. This is only a lesser moot, when headmen and thains assemble to present their petitions and grievances to their hrould.”

  “Like a lord holding court,” said Molly.

  “Precisely,” said Riothamus.

  Mazael snorted. “Though it’s a rare court that has the power to depose a lord that displeases them.”

  “I think that unlikely,” said Romaria. “Earnachar dislikes you, true, but he fears you. Arnulf and Toric support you, and so do Ethringa and the other holdmistresses.”

  “Aye,” said Riothamus, “and Ethringa is not the sort of woman to hold her tongue. If anyone makes too much trouble, she will hector them into silence.”

  “And, of course,” said Romaria, “you have the support of the Guardian of the Tervingi.”

  Riothamus frowned. “I hardly think that significant.”

  “You do not give yourself enough credit,” said Romaria. “The Tervingi heed you, and respect your word.”

  “They respected Aegidia,” said Riothamus. “They merely tolerate me in memory of her name.”

  “Aegidia,” said Mazael, “did not lead the Tervingi through the Great Rising. If you had not cast the spell to spread Lion's fire to the blades of the entire host, the runedead might have killed every man on the field outside Swordgrim that day."

  He had heard reports of other lands that had suffered that fate, where the runedead had killed every man, woman, and child, and now only the dead haunted empty streets and weed-choked farms.

  And because Mazael had not killed Lucan when he had the chance.

  His hand closed into a fist around the reins. Romaria was right. He could not blame himself for what Lucan had done. But he would set it right. He would rid the Grim Marches of the runedead, and make sure the Tervingi and the folk of the Grim Marches lived in peace.

  He suspected finishing off the runedead might prove to be the easier task.

  "A pity you can't do that again," said Molly. "It would be useful if you could spread Lion's fire to every blade in the world."

  Riothamus shook his head. "I could only do it because of the turbulence Lucan unleashed. Lucan's spell touched every part of the world. My spell was able to…follow in its wake, as it were. The only way it would work again is if someone cast another spell as potent the Great Rising."

  "I hope not. Living through one," said Romaria, "was quite enough."

  Mazael looked at the sky, thinking. The Old Demon had gloated about Lucan's success. Had he arranged the Great Rising? But how would the Old Demon benefit from it? To devour the power of hundreds of minor Demonsouled in a single moment? Was that even possible?

  Mazael pushed aside the thought. Right now, he needed to keep the Tervingi headmen and the lords of the Grim Marches from killing each other.

  They rode for the town's gates.

  ###

  Malaric stood on the ramparts of Cravenlock Town's walls.

  A dozen horsemen made for the town's gates. Mazael himself rode at their head, a dark-haired woman at his side. Molly rode behind them, her usual smirk on her face, the Tervingi Guardian riding besides her. The man's poor horsemanship did not fool Malaric. He had faced the Guardian's wrath in battle.

  Of all Mazael's allies and vassals, he was the only one with the power to kill Malaric.

  His hand strayed to the leather bag at his belt, the curve of Corvad's skull beneath his palm.

  All of Mazael's kin and friends were dangerous. If Malaric was to kill him, he would need to separate Mazael from his allies.

  And his plan, if it worked, would do just that.

  The daggers Skalatan had given him waited at his belt. Three blades, all coated with Skalatan's venom. Just one would be enough to kill even a son of the Old Demon.

  Mazael's party rode through the gates, and Malaric climbed down from the ramparts, slipped into a narrow alley, and strode into the shadows.

  He reappeared in the room he had rented at the Three Swords Inn. The room was cramped, but it did have a fine view of the town's square. Malaric saw the crowds filling the square and the surrounding streets, most of them Tervingi thains.

  His calibah, disguised as mercenaries, waited throughout the crowds.

  And one other surprise lurked below the town's streets.

  Malaric waited for Mazael to appear.

  ###

  Mazael climbed the dais, the assembled thains and townsmen looking up at him, and waited for Riothamus to call the moot.

  "Hear me!" said Riothamus, his magic amplifying his voice to echo off the walls. "Hear me, headmen steeped in renown! Hear me, holdmistresses wise and prudent. Hear me, valiant thains of s
word and spear and sky! Hear me, sons of Tervingar! I am Riothamus son of Rigotharic, the Guardian of the Tervingi nation, the bearer of the bronze staff, a trust bestowed at the dawn of ages!" He lifted the staff and thumped it against the boards. "By my office, by my rights as Guardian, I call the headmen and thains now assembled to moot!"

  The final echoes died away.

  "Mazael, hrould of the Tervingi nation," said Riothamus. "Earnachar son of Balnachar has business to lay before the moot."

  "I will hear him," said Mazael, unsurprised.

  "Mazael, son of Adalon of the House of Cravenlock," said Earnachar, his chest puffing as he addressed the moot. Idly Mazael wondered how Earnachar would react if he knew Mazael was really the son of the Old Demon. "I, Earnachar son of Balnachar, come before the moot today to..."

  Mazael made himself look attentive.

  ###

  Malaric swept his eyes over the assemblage. Most of the people looked bored, even listless, and the only one who seemed interested in the Tervingi headman's speech was the Tervingi headman himself.

  The perfect time to strike.

  Malaric touched the hilt of his caethweisyr and sent a silent command to the waiting runedead.

  ###

  "And so," said Earnachar, "the mills along the Northwater would make an ideal home for my bondsmen. From there, they could labor diligently, and support themselves through the sweat of their brows, rather than relying upon the charity of others. Would that not be better?"

  "I thank you for your wisdom, Earnachar son of Balnachar," said Mazael, "and truly, the lords of the Grim Marches posses enough unused land to support the Tervingi. We suffered grievously, both from the Malrags and from the runedead. Yet there are richer lands to the east, in the foothills of the Grim Marches. Those lands must be peopled. For though the lords of the Grim Marches defeated the Malrags, and the headmen of the Tervingi escaped them, they may come over the mountains again. The Tervingi are a nation of warriors. Who better to hold those lands than the valiant headmen and thains of Earnachar son of Balnachar?"