Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Maurus gave a grim nod and drew a copper tube from within his black coat, both ends stuffed with cork. Hugh drew breath to give another command, and then there was no more time.

  The Aegonar boiled into sight.

  There were at least two hundred of them, tall men in scale armor and spiked helmets. But in their midst ran hulking men in cloaks of bearskin and bronze helmets shaped like the yawning mouths of serpents.

  "Oh, damn," said Montigard. "Those things."

  "Ulfhednar," said Maurus.

  Hugh lifted his sword. The regular Aegonar warriors were dangerous enough. The madmen the Aegonar called the “ulfhednar” were much worse. Maurus claimed that the ulfhednar had been possessed by spirits of rage, granting them superhuman strength and twisting their minds with insane fury. They would not maintain formation with the other Aegonar, but would charge into the fray, heedless of their own lives.

  If they reached the peasants it would be a slaughter. The ulfhednar charged with bestial howls, their faces twisted with fury beneath their serpent helms. Their speed carried them forward, away from the other Aegonar warriors, and Hugh saw his chance.

  “Montigard!” said Hugh, pointing his sword. “The charge, now! Archers, focus on the men behind the ulfhednar!”

  Montigard lifted the horn and blew a long blast, and the horsemen surged forward, Hugh at their head. Arrows hissed overhead as the militia archers raised their bows, falling into the mass of Aegonar warriors behind the ulfhednar.

  Then the ulfhednar crashed into the horsemen, and the battle filled Hugh's world.

  He swung his sword as his mount galloped past an ulfhednar, the blade a steely blur. It struck the ulfhednar’s neck with terrific force, and the man collapsed to the ground. Hugh rode on and swung at another ulfhednar, his blade ripping through the man’s shoulder.

  Then an ulfhednar howled and jumped, crashing into Hugh. The blow knocked him from the saddle, and he fell to the ground with a clatter of armor, the ulfhednar atop him. Hugh saw the Aegonar’s face through the yawning mouth of the serpent helm, saw the Aegonar’s bloodshot blue eyes, the rage-crazed face.

  The Aegonar howled, and Hugh slammed his forehead against his foe. His steel helmet clanged off the bronze serpent helm, and the Aegonar jerked back, blood pouring from his nose. Hugh slammed his sword into the side of the serpent helm. Again the Aegonar reeled, and Hugh shoved the ulfhednar off him.

  He rolled to one knee and stabbed, his blade plunging into the ulfhednar’s belly. The ulfhednar bellowed, reaching for Hugh’s throat, hands hooked into claws. Hugh released his sword hilt, yanked the dagger from his belt, and plunged it into the ulfhednar’s neck.

  The Aegonar stiffened and toppled sideways, and Hugh yanked his weapons free and staggered to his feet. The chaos of the battle surged around him, and he saw several of his men dead upon the ground. But the charge of the ulfhednar had been blunted, and his knights and armsmen drove back the mass of Aegonar warriors. Hugh looked around for his horse and found it standing a dozen yards away. He picked up his shield and hurried towards his mount.

  The howl of an Aegonar battle cry stopped him.

  Hugh whirled and saw two Aegonar warriors coming at him, both wielding crescent-bladed axes. He got his shield up in time to block the first blow, and it smashed against the iron-banded wood with terrific force. The top third of his shield splintered into broken kindling, and Hugh stumbled. The Aegonar grinned and raised his axe for the killing blow.

  Hugh flung his broken shield, catching the Aegonar in the face. The warrior lost his footing, and Hugh stabbed with his blade. The Aegonar slumped, blood pouring from the wound in his throat.

  The second Aegonar lunged at Hugh, and Hugh tried to block with his sword.

  The heavy axe snapped his sword in two, the blade shattering. Hugh fell to the ground, the broken shard of his sword hilt falling from his hand. The Aegonar bellowed laughter and raised his axe for a two-handed blow. The strength of the Aegonar’s arm and the weight of the heavy axe would drive the blade through Hugh’s breastplate like tissue paper.

  Montigard galloped past, his war horse slamming into the Aegonar as the blow fell. Hugh threw himself to the side, and the axe buried itself in the ground. He kicked, his boot catching the warrior in the gut.

  Montigard’s sword came down and sent the Aegonar tumbling.

  Hugh staggered back to his feet, breathing hard. Had Montigard arrived a few seconds later, or had Hugh been just a touch slower, he would now be dead. “My thanks.”

  Montigard nodded. “Your horse is over there, sir knight.”

  Hugh retrieved the axe from the slain Aegonar, plucked a shield from a dead ulfhednar, and heaved himself into the saddle.

  ###

  An hour later the fighting was over.

  “Thirty-seven dead,” said Montigard, “and another twenty wounded. But we killed all the ulfhednar, and most of the warriors. The rest are running back to their masters like whipped dogs.”

  Hugh scowled. “They’ll report our location, and the Aegonar will come for us in force.”

  “Well, yes,” said Montigard. “That.”

  “Did they reach the peasants?” said Hugh.

  “No,” said Montigard. “None of them got past us.”

  Hugh grunted. “At least we can claim that much success.”

  He rode with Montigard back to the main column, which had only managed to cover another three miles or so during the battle. At this rate, it would take at least week for the refugees to reach Barellion, if not longer.

  The Aegonar would overtake them well before that.

  A horseman galloped to Hugh’s side, clad in chain mail and leather armor, a bushy brown-gray beard hanging over his chest. “Sir Hugh!”

  “Sir Edgar,” said Hugh. “What news?” The man was a capable scout, and a steady head in a fight. Hugh suspected Sir Edgar had acquired his skills stealing cows and sheep from his neighbors, but Hugh had larger problems.

  “Naught good, sir,” said Edgar. “Some of the scouts have returned, and a few men fleeing from the villages near Barren Point have arrived. Almost all of northwestern Greycoast has fallen to the foe. Old Sir Aelfmane still holds his keep, but it will fall soon enough, and then the Aegonar can continue their march.”

  “How many Aegonar have landed?” said Hugh.

  Edgar shrugged. “Based on what I have seen and heard, I would guess at least thirty thousand. Perhaps even as many as fifty thousand.”

  “Ill news,” said Montigard.

  “And there is more to come,” said Edgar. “Sir Aelfmane’s castle is small, and not all the Aegonar are needed to siege it. The rest have broken into small bands and rove across the countryside.”

  “In search of provender, I expect,” said Hugh.

  “Aye,” said Edgar. “It is the same as we already seen. If a village resists, the men are slain and the women and children taken as slaves. But if they surrender and embrace the worship of the serpent god…well, they are spared.”

  “I fear many shall take that path,” said Hugh.

  “But the Aegonar bands are moving quickly,” said Edgar. “We have another day, if that, before they find us.”

  Hugh took a deep breath.

  “Gather the lords and the knights,” he said. “It’s time we made a difficult decision.”

  ###

  The column came to a halt for the night. Those peasants who had tents raised them and gathered wood for a fire. Others bedded down beneath their carts. Those who had neither tents nor cots wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down near the campfires.

  Hugh and the nobles met at the northern edge of the rambling camp, ready to respond if the Aegonar attacked.

  “My lords,” said Hugh, “we must decide how to proceed. The Aegonar host sieges a castle north of here, but it will fall ere much longer. Worse, Sir Edgar’s men report that many Aegonar warbands already range over the countryside, forcing villages to submit and destroying those that defy them. Sooner or la
ter one of those Aegonar warbands will find us These peasants will make a tempting target.”

  Silence answered his pronouncement, the lords and knights looking at each other.

  “We have horses,” said Lord Alberon at last. “I suggest we ride south and make our way to Barellion as swiftly as we can.”

  “You would abandon your peasants?” said Adelaide, voice soft.

  Alberon shrugged. “I wish them no ill will, of course, and will hope for their safety. But we certainly cannot save them. And if they slow the Aegonar long enough for their lords to escape…well, that is a sacrifice they should be honored to make.”

  “Then you would abandon your peasants, who look to you for protection,” said Adelaide, “to the Aegonar? You would abandon them to slavery? Or if they submit, you would hand them over to the tender mercies of the seidjar and their cruel serpent god?”

  “Do not question me, daughter,” said Alberon, his voice sharp. “We will do what we must.”

  He looked at the circle of nobles, but few of them would meet his eye.

  “Loath as I am to abandon any man to the Aegonar,” said another lord, “I fear Lord Alberon’s words have cruel truth to them. We cannot defend the peasants if the Aegonar come in force. Dying alongside them would be noble, but what good would that accomplish?”

  Hugh took a deep breath. “There is another way.”

  “And what is that, pray?” snapped Alberon.

  “We ride north and attack the Aegonar warbands one by one,” said Hugh, “and draw their attention.”

  Adelaide looked at him, her eyes wide with fear.

  “That is almost certain death,” said a knight.

  “Not necessarily,” said Hugh. “We will ride quick and light, strike at the enemy, and fade away before they can pursue us. If we are clever, they shall assume that many more enemies ride against them. The Aegonar seem to prefer to fight from foot. We can outdistance them easily enough, and draw their attention so the peasants can escape to the city. Then we shall ride south and join them.”

  It sounded so reasonable when he said it, though Hugh knew it might well mean his death.

  “And who shall command?” said Alberon.

  Montigard grinned. “Why, my lord, perhaps you should. You are the highest among us, after all.”

  Hugh had the dark satisfaction of seeing Alberon splutter.

  “No, my lords,” said Hugh after a moment. “I shall command the sortie. Everard Chalsain of Barellion has sworn to protect all of Greycoast. His son, even his youngest son, can do no less. We shall leave Lord Alberon in command of the refugees.” Hugh would not trust Alberon to run a chicken coop, but the terrified old lord would do whatever Adelaide told him. “You shall take these people to Barellion, and warn my father of the peril Greycoast faces.” He looked at the knights and lords. “We shall leave at dawn.”

  No one objected.

  ###

  “I would tell you,” murmured Adelaide against Hugh’s chest, “not to go, but I know you would not heed me.”

  Hugh said nothing.

  As the Prince’s son, he had commandeered a tent, and had used it to say farewell to Adelaide. Part of him had wanted to push her away. To tell her that she was only Alberon’s bastard, that she meant nothing to him, that she was merely another in a long string of conquests. Better that she forget him entirely, since he would likely not return from the attack on the Aegonar. Better that she forget him and find another man.

  But he could not bring himself to do it.

  So instead they lay together in the blankets.

  “It’s dawn,” said Hugh at last. “I should go.”

  He rose and gathered his clothes.

  Adelaide gazed up at him from the bedroll, her brown hair dark against the pale skin of her shoulders and chest.

  “Return to me,” she said.

  “I will,” said Hugh.

  “No,” said Adelaide, blinking, her eyes wet. “You will return to me. I know it. I know it. Every day I will wait for you.”

  He wanted to tell her to forget him, to move on.

  “I love you,” he said instead, and kissed her.

  “I love you,” she said when he pulled away.

  Hugh gazed at her for a moment longer, and then left the tent.

  ###

  “Sir Hugh?” said Montigard with a yawn, holding the lance with the Chalsain banner.

  Hugh swung up into his saddle. “Let’s make the Aegonar regret ever setting foot upon Greycoast.”

  Chapter 12 – Masks

  Gerald took a deep breath, adjusted his cloak and sword belt, and stepped onto his father’s balcony.

  Lord Malden Roland sat at a wooden table, eating breakfast and reading a letter. The sun rose to the east, painting the Riversteel the color of burnished bronze. The sunlight illuminated thousands of tents between the castle and the town. The vassals of Lord Malden Roland, come to aid their lord in his grand offensive against Caraster.

  And the knights of the Justiciar Order, come at their Grand Master’s bidding.

  “Father?” said Gerald. “You sent for me?”

  Malden looked up from his letters. “Yes. Please, sit. The servants should be along shortly, if you want something else for breakfast.” From the look of the plates, Lord Malden had enjoyed a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and bread. His appetite had increased greatly after…

  After whatever Ataranur had done to him.

  “A letter from the bailiff of Knightport to Lord Nicholas,” said Malden with a disgusted snort. “He asks to send only half the militiamen I have summoned. Half! He thinks to protect the wealth of Knightport from bandits. Bandits are the least of his concern.”

  “Truly,” said Gerald. It still amazed him how healthy Lord Malden looked. A week ago he had been on the verge of death. Now he looked like a man in his prime. His hair was even more blond than gray.

  “If he thinks to defy the Lord of Knightcastle,” said Malden, his blue eyes glinting, “he shall receive something else entirely.”

  “Explain to him,” said Gerald, “that if Caraster comes north, the wealth of Knightport ensures that Caraster will kill him in front of his wife and children.” He remembered the gutted villages he had seen. “And then Caraster will kill them.”

  Malden snorted. “A fine argument.” He hesitated. “This Caraster, and his talk of killing all lords, of freeing men from the laws of the gods. Was I truly such a cruel lord, Gerald? Why else would they turn against me, if they did not hate me?”

  Gerald shrugged. “I have seen crueler lords than you, father. The Dominiars terrorized Mastaria for centuries, and most of Caraster’s disciples are Mastarian. And these times, father, these evil times…the runedead, the Malrags and barbarians in the Grim Marches. Many peasants think the end of the world has come, and the Destroyer will arrive to overthrow the nations of men. Perhaps they think Caraster’s mad vision offers hope. Besides, I think Caraster rules more through fear than loyalty. A man who turns up on your doorstep with ten thousand runedead is not one to ignore.”

  “True,” said Malden, “though when we are done, Caraster shall wish we had ignored him. When we march south, Gerald, I would like you to take command of the footmen of the left wing. We'll need a man with a steady head to hold the line together.”

  Gerald nodded. “What of Tobias?”

  “He shall command the horse on the left wing,” said Malden, “and I shall command the center. Knightreach is under attack, and the House of Roland has sworn to protect Knightreach. The people will see us protect them.”

  “Hopefully,” said Gerald, “we shall do more than simply be seen.”

  Malden nodded. “I mean to find Caraster and stick his head on a pike. Once he’s dead, his runedead horde will become a hundred little bands, and we can deal with them at leisure.”

  “A solid plan,” said Gerald.

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Father,” said Gerald at last.

  “I suppose you
are wondering,” said Malden, “how precisely Ataranur healed me.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” said Gerald.

  Malden smiled. “I was wondering when you would ask. And the truth is, Gerald, I don’t know.” He gazed into the distance. “At first I thought he was a fever dream. Or perhaps death himself, come to collect me. Then I passed out, and when I awoke, he had healed me. I wondered if he was a charlatan or a trickster, but,” he waved his hand over himself, “you can see the results.”

  “But who is he?” said Gerald. “No one has ever seen him without that mask.”

  “His identity,” said Malden, “is a secret only for the ears of the Lord of Knightcastle.”

  “Father,” said Gerald, “I shall be blunt. There are whispers in the court. Some say that Ataranur is a necromancer, like Simonian of Briault, and that he has corrupted you the way Simonian beguiled Mitor Cravenlock. Or that there is a San-keth cleric behind that mask. Father, if…”

  He had expected Malden to dismiss the questions with a sneer or a barbed joke. Instead Malden’s face turned purple with fury, and he shot to his feet so fast the table almost fell over.

  “What do they say?” he hissed, his blue eyes wide. “What do they say?”

  “Father,” said Gerald, “I…”

  Malden slammed his fist on the table, the dishes rattling. “I will have them hung! I will tear out their tongues and let them bleed to death. I will kill their wives and children in front of me and make them beg for mercy!” His voice rose to an enraged scream. “Tell me now!”

  Gerald stared at Malden in shock. He had seen his father angry before, many times. But he had never seen him in such a rage. Had his vassals been assembled before him, Gerald was sure Malden would have started killing men at random.

  “Father,” said Gerald.

  Malden blinked, and the rage drained from his face. Suddenly he looked surprised, and perhaps, a touch ashamed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting back down. “I don’t…I don’t know what came over me.” He shook his head. “Why should that make me angry? It’s a perfectly logical response. Vassals and knights always gossip about their lords. It gives them something to do to fill the idle hours. Why should that upset me?”