Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  The calibah's eyes opened as Lucan loomed over him.

  "What is it?" said the changeling. "I..."

  His eyes turned yellow in alarm and his fangs curled over his lips as he saw the steel mask.

  A gesture from Lucan sheathed the changeling in paralyzing force.

  "Come along," said Lucan. "I have a use for you."

  He beckoned, and the calibah floated after him, suspended in the power of Lucan's magic.

  ###

  Lord Malden turned from the balcony. As Lucan expected, he had not been sleeping. His mind and body would be in too much turmoil for that.

  "Ataranur," said Malden. "What..."

  His eyes widened, and his hand shot to his sword as he saw the floating changeling.

  "What is this?" said Malden. "Have you betrayed me?"

  "Indeed not, my lord," said Lucan. "I discovered the changeling hiding among your servants. I brought him to you, to do with as you see fit."

  Malden nodded. "Have it killed. I will not tolerate the slaves of the serpents crawling through my halls."

  "Perhaps," said Lucan, reaching into his cloak, "you should dispatch him yourself, my lord."

  He drew a black dagger and held it out hilt-first to Malden. A rune had been carved into the blade, flickering with a pale green glow.

  "What is this?" said Malden.

  "A weapon," said Lucan, "to cleanse your lands of the wicked, of the ones who have brought these disasters upon your head."

  In actuality, it was a weapon Lucan had fashioned and linked to the Glamdaigyr. Whenever Malden killed with that blade, some of the victim's life force would drain into his body. But most of it would flow to the Glamdaigyr, and then into the Door of Souls.

  And life by life, Lucan would gather the power to open the way to Cythraul Urdvul.

  Malden hesitated, gazing at the black dagger. Lucan knew it would feel cold, icy cold, against mortal flesh. He saw the doubt bloom in Malden's eyes, the hesitation.

  "My lord," said Lucan, "the San-keth murdered your eldest son, and tried to kill you and all your family. Will you allow this calibah to go unpunished for the crimes of his race?"

  Malden's eyes hardened. "Indeed not."

  He plunged the dagger between the calibah's ribs. The rune on the blade flared as the dagger drank the changeling's life, and Malden's eyes grew wide. The changeling slumped to the ground, and Malden stepped back. Lucan felt the power flow from the dagger, to the Glamdaigyr, and then to the Door of Souls.

  It was working.

  "What happened?" whispered Malden, breathing hard. Some of the gray had faded from his hair, and a few more of the lines had vanished from his face. "Ataranur...I've never felt so strong. So alive."

  Lucan shrugged. "Righteousness has its rewards. And you, my lord Malden, are the rightful lord of Knightcastle, appointed to drive out the runedead. Perhaps even to restore order to the entire realm after the horror of the Great Rising."

  Malden said nothing, staring at the dead changeling. Lucan knew that his mind was considering the possibilities.

  Stolen life force was...addictive.

  "I shall dispose of the corpse, my lord," said Lucan.

  Malden nodded. "See that you do."

  Lucan beckoned, and Lord Malden's first victim floated into the air.

  But not the last.

  Chapter 13 - Cross Purposes

  Malaric strode deeper into the woods, making for the rocky hill where Skalatan awaited him.

  His hand strayed to the caethweisyr at his belt, and he forced it away. Skalatan might recognize the weapon. Malaric would have to strike without warning or hesitation.

  And then he would command a San-keth archpriest. Skalatan had magical power, true, but he also possessed the allegiance of the lesser San-keth, the calibah, and the human proselytes. With Skalatan's authority, Malaric could command them.

  And then his conquest of Barellion would begin.

  He looked forward to seeing the expression on his father's face.

  Malaric rolled his shoulders as he walked, stretching the muscles of his back and shoulders. The skull's power had healed the ghastly wounds Molly Cravenlock had inflicted, and now only a faint ache remained. A pity he hadn't buried the last poisoned dagger in her chest and not Romaria's.

  Well, he doubted he would ever see Molly again, but if he did...he would have all the power of Greycoast behind him.

  And, if all went well, the power of the San-keth.

  Night fell by the time Malaric reached the hill.

  It jutted from the heart of the woods, its slopes covered in trees. Higher and rockier hills rose behind it, and a half-ruined keep stood on its crest. The keep had once belonged to a knight in vassalage to the Lord of Knightcastle. But it had been abandoned years ago, and the ruined keep served as a refuge for bandits and outlaws.

  And San-keth archpriests.

  Malaric climbed to the hill's crest. A single stride through the shadows could have taken him there, but he preferred to walk. It gave him time to spot any traps, and he liked the idea of making Skalatan wait for him.

  He reached the top of the hill, the keep stone’s shell rising over him. A hooded figure in a gray robe stood in the empty doors to the keep, lined in the moonlight, and Malaric saw the yellow glint of a serpent's eyes within the hood.

  "You have returned?" said Skalatan, his dry, rasping voice slithering over the barren hilltop.

  "So I have," said Malaric.

  He felt the weight of the caethweisyr in its scabbard, and took a step closer towards the San-keth.

  "And Mazael Cravenlock?" said Skalatan.

  "He is slain," said Malaric. "Along with Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock." He shrugged. "She got in the way."

  "You are certain of it?" said Skalatan.

  "Of course," said Malaric.

  "None of my calibah have returned," said Skalatan.

  Malaric smiled. "They perished gloriously, doing the work of great Sepharivaim."

  "So I see," said Skalatan. "A quiet death would have been better, but no matter. Lord Mazael will not upset my plans now."

  Malaric took another few steps closer to Skalatan. The San-keth archpriest made no reaction, gave no signs of alarm.

  "An answer to a question, if you will," said Skalatan.

  "Of course," said Malaric, flexing the fingers of his sword hand.

  "Why have my people failed?"

  Malaric blinked. He had expected Skalatan to ask about the assassination, or his plans for the future. "Your...people?"

  "The San-keth," said Skalatan, "believe themselves to be the chosen of Sepharivaim. They believe that long ago the human and Elderborn gods stripped us of our limbs and left us to crawl in the dust. So in vengeance, we will conquer the world and make the humans and the Elderborn and all other races into slaves. We have believed this for over three thousand years. Yet in that time, we have failed again and again. Why?"

  Malaric shrugged. "In all candor, honored archpriest, I have not given the matter any thought."

  "Consider it, then," said Skalatan. "What do you think?"

  Malaric shrugged again and looked at the sky, as if thinking. But the movement blocked the caethweisyr from Skalatan's view, and Malaric loosed the ornate dagger in its sheath.

  "I suppose," said Malaric at last, "it was just as Lucan Mandragon said. Your people have tried to turn the Demonsouled into weapons, only to be destroyed by them."

  The hand of Skalatan's carrier made a dismissive gesture. "That is part of it. But only a small part. Think deeper."

  Malaric faced the archpriest, moving closer. Another few paces, and he would be close enough to strike with the caethweisyr.

  "Perhaps," said Malaric, "it is because most commoners and nobles hate and fear you."

  "Yes," said Skalatan. "Why?"

  "Because the Amathavian church paints you as devils," said Malaric. "And because your proselytes are cravens and schemers. Of course, you try to rule them with an iron fist, and that's..." />
  "Yes," said Skalatan. "Precisely."

  "Precisely what?" said Malaric.

  "You have identified the problem," said Skalatan, his tongue flickering in the darkness of the cowl. "We have tried to enslave the humans for centuries. Even those humans who come to us willingly and embrace the worship of Sepharivaim we treat as slaves. We regard them as expendable fodder."

  "Is that not," said Malaric, "what one does with slaves?"

  "You look at the proselytes with contempt, do you not?" said Skalatan.

  "Of course," said Malaric. "The San-keth believe that they are the master race and that all others are slaves. What fool would volunteer to be a slave?"

  "And that," said Skalatan, "is why we have failed." The ancient yellow eyes turned to face him. "Do you see? A slave ruled with fear will always betray you. That is what my people have failed to understand. But if you create servants who serve you willingly, who hold your cause in common with their own...they will not betray you. They will even die for you. Joyfully, even."

  "An interesting argument," said Malaric, "but useless one."

  "Perhaps not," said Skalatan. "My people have failed because they allow emotion to rule them, rather than logic. They take the short view, and prefer to torment our proselytes rather than turn them into loyal allies."

  "I can see," said Malaric, "why the other archpriests consider you so dangerously heterodox."

  He edged closer. One more step...

  "Perhaps," said Skalatan, "the archpriests will see the path of wisdom I have laid before them."

  "What path is that?" said Malaric.

  "Suppose," said Skalatan, "we sent missionaries to a barbarian nation. Missionaries who worked slowly and carefully. You humans live such short lives...and a thing that seems new and fearful to you becomes commonplace and mundane in a mere forty or fifty years. It would not take long, no more than a century or so, for the worship of the serpent god to become the dominant faith. The people would embrace it. They would defend it. They would believe themselves to be the chosen of Sepharivaim, and march forth to conquer in his name. Can you not see how a nation of willing allies is better than a few despised slaves?"

  Malaric snorted. "And if you had such a nation of fanatical converts, what would you do with them?"

  His fingers curled around the caethweisyr's hilt.

  "I would bid them to sail to your shores," said Skalatan, "and my true work would begin."

  "A pity," said Malaric, "that you will never have the chance to fulfill such a fine plan."

  In one smooth motion he drew the caethweisyr and stabbed. The dagger plunged into the gray robe, seeking for Skalatan's trunk. Yet the blade met no resistance, passing through Skalatan's robe and undead carrier and body as if the San-keth cleric were not there at all...

  Malaric cursed and waved the caethweisyr back and forth before him. And again both the weapon and his arm passed through Skalatan as if he were not there.

  An illusion.

  Suddenly Malaric felt like a tremendous fool.

  A brief, hissing laugh came from Skalatan's jaws. "Did you think I would not anticipate treachery, Malaric Chalsain of Barellion? I recognized that Dark Elderborn blade hanging at your belt. A useful tool, no? It would have been interesting, had you used it upon me. The dagger's magic would have engaged us in a contest of wills. It would have been fascinating to watch your will shatter beneath mine."

  "You are too confident," said Malaric, backing away from the illusionary image. He saw no sign of any hidden attackers, but Skalatan could have used his magic to conceal calibah...

  "Do not bother," said Skalatan. "I am many leagues from here."

  "Oh?" said Malaric. "Will you not take vengeance for my treachery?"

  Again Skalatan made that dry, hissing laugh. "Whatever for? You could no more hurt me than a mouse could harm a poisonous serpent." The yellow eyes glittered in the cowl. "And you may yet be of use to me."

  "So I tried to kill you...and you think to parley?" said Malaric, incredulous.

  "Did I not tell you," said Skalatan, "that I seek willing servants, not cowed slaves? You will serve me in time, Malaric of Barellion."

  Malaric snorted. "Unlikely."

  "You shall. You aren't desperate enough, not yet. But you will be. And then you shall ask for my aid. Eagerly, even."

  "Your great age has driven you mad," said Malaric, "and..."

  "Do," said Skalatan, "take care of that skull. It would be unfortunate if you perished before I made any use of you."

  The words sent a chill down Malaric's spine, but before he answered, Skalatan vanished in a flicker of silver light.

  Malaric spun, scanning the hilltop for any foes. He cast the spell to sense the presence of magic, straining to detect any spells, but felt nothing.

  He was alone.

  His hand strayed to the leather bag holding Corvad's skull. The damaged leather bag. Mazael had almost skewered it. Another few inches, and he could have destroyed the skull. Worse, Skalatan had figured it out, and if the archpriest had discovered the secret, then others could as well. If the skull was destroyed, Malaric didn't know what would happen...and he didn't particularly want to find out.

  Before he could proceed, he had to take steps to safeguard the skull, even from a necromancer of Skalatan's power.

  And then, once the skull was safe, Barellion was Malaric's for the taking.

  If Skalatan interfered, Malaric would just have to crush him.

  Chapter 14 - The Staff of the Guardian

  Mazael's heavy eyes opened.

  He lay upon a floor of rough stone. A sky of black clouds writhed overhead, illumed with a bloody glow. Mazael turned his head, and saw the damaged stone hulk of the black temple rising over him, the pillar of crimson flame shooting into the sky. He sat up, and realized that he lay upon a balcony jutting from the side of the temple. Beyond the broken stone railing he saw nothingness.

  A drop of a thousand feet, and then an ocean of rippling black clouds, arcs of crimson lighting leaping between them.

  "Our father never comes here," said a woman's voice, low and familiar.

  That voice turned Mazael's heart to ice.

  He surged to his feet, reaching for Lion, but as always in the dreams, her bore no weapons.

  A woman in a black gown stood at the other end of the balcony. She had long brown hair and cold gray eyes in a pale, sad face. Her gray eyes looked a great deal like Mazael's, like the Old Demon's.

  “You,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Morebeth Galbraith.

  When Mazael had last seen his half-sister four years ago, she had been dead upon the floor of Knightcastle's chapel, her plan to twist him into the Destroyer foiled.

  "You're dead," said Mazael. "I killed you."

  "You did," said Morebeth. "And you are almost dead yourself. Which, I suspect, is why you can see me. Why you were drawn here, to where it began...and where it shall end."

  "No," said Mazael.

  Morebeth lifted her eyebrows. "No to what?"

  "To this," said Mazael, gesturing at her. "I'm not listening to you. You tried to turn me into a monster. No more. I..."

  "You are right," said Morebeth, voice quiet. "Forgive me."

  Mazael hadn't expected that.

  "I sought a good end," murmured Morebeth. "To defeat our father, to rid both us and the world of his tyranny, his murders, his endless webs. Yet I sought evil means to reach that end. I seduced Amalric, and turned him into my weapon. And then when I realized that you were the stronger, I tried to seduce you, and I failed." She bowed her head. "Forgive me, brother. For I erred grievously, and paid with my life."

  Mazael stared at her for a moment, a dozen different emotions warring within him.

  "How am I talking to you?" said Mazael at last. "The power draws me here when I sleep, and I talk with our father. But you're...you're dead."

  "So I am," said Morebeth. "When a Demonsouled is slain, any Demonsouled, his power is drawn here, to Cythraul
Urdvul. And sometimes his spirit is pulled along with it."

  "Cythraul Urdvul?" said Mazael.

  "What the Dark Elderborn call this place," said Morebeth. "The birthplace of the dark. It was once a temple of the High Elderborn, the place where they first contacted the great demon. The father of our father. And when the great demon was destroyed, Cythraul Urdvul was pulled into the spirit world. Here it has waited over the long centuries...and as the Demonsouled have been born and slain, their power has returned here. Like iron filings drawn to a lodestone."

  "That's what our father been doing for all those centuries," said Mazael. "I thought he sired Demonsouled and then slew them to claim their power for his own. But instead the power has been going here, for thousands of years." He looked at the throbbing tower of flame. "Waiting for him to claim it."

  "The end has almost come," said Morebeth. "Soon there will be enough power. And then our father shall have what he has always desired. What he has labored to achieve, for so many centuries."

  "What?" said Mazael. "What does he want?"

  "Do you not know?" said Morebeth. "He wants to become a god. The demon god, reborn, but free to act in the mortal world. The world shall be his. The souls of all mortals shall be his for all time, free to rule as he wishes." She shivered. "To torment as he wishes."

  "No," said Mazael. "That cannot be."

  "It will be," said Morebeth. "Unless he is stopped."

  "Then I shall stop him," said Mazael.

  "You must," said Morebeth, her voice urgent. "I can no longer fight him. I am dead, and cannot act upon the mortal world. But you can, Mazael. You must stop our father. There is no one else who can."

  Suspicion colored Mazael's thoughts. "You...sound as you did before. When you convinced me to kill Amalric."

  Morebeth's red mouth curled in a half-smile. "I suppose I do, do I not? Perhaps I am manipulating you, Mazael. It is a hard habit to abandon. But I speak the truth to you, as I never did in life. You must stop our father, or we shall be his slaves for eternity. We all will be his slaves."

  "I will stop him," said Mazael.

  "If you can," said Morebeth, and she sighed. "I am sorry for the pain that awaits you in the waking world. I would not wish it upon you."