Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  He wanted more.

  And he would have it.

  "Why have you summoned me?" said the Lady of Blades. "You cannot compel me. Even with your stolen power, you lack the magical strength. Do you think to use me in your childish schemes?"

  "You're going to guard something for me," said Malaric. "Something very precious."

  Again the Lady's eerie laughter echoed inside his head. "I doubt that. You are a fool, Malaric of Barellion. You are nothing but a puppet, dancing upon strings that you lack the wit to see. Even your master Lucan Mandragon is a puppet."

  "I am not a puppet," said Malaric, "and Lucan is not my master."

  “Then you are an even bigger fool than I believed. You are a puppet, and realize it not. Perhaps you will kneel before the bearer of the Glamdaigyr, or perhaps you will grovel before the lord of serpents. Or you will destroy yourself. You stole the power in that skull. You plot to steal the throne of Barellion. You mortals never understand. There is a price to wielding power to which you have no right."

  "Barellion is mine by right!" said Malaric.

  "By your own laws, it is not," said the Lady. "Steal that throne as you wish...but stolen power always turns upon its thief. Just as the power of the skull shall betray you."

  Malaric opened his mouth to argue...and then realized the absurdity of it. He had summoned the spirit to bind it, not to debate his plans.

  "Empty words," said Malaric. "You are a spirit, and cannot harm me unless I attack you first."

  The white fire in her eyes flashed. "Cross this circle, little wizard, and you shall see the limitations of that law. But I do not care to destroy you myself, worm. You will destroy yourself. I shall merely watch and derive pleasure from your folly."

  "You will not," said Malaric. "You cannot attack me unless I first attack you, but since I summoned you, there is an exception to that law. If I cross the boundary of the summoning circle, than you may to do me as you wish." He drew on the skull's power, filling himself with Demonsouled strength. "Your chance has come."

  He took a deep breath, kicked aside a candle, and stepped into the circle.

  The Lady of Blades stared at him, a hint of astonishment on that immortal face.

  Then she moved in a blur. Her bladed wings coiled around him, wrapping him in a cocoon of razor-edged steel. All she needed to do was to tighten her wings and she would shred him into bloody pulp.

  But before she could, Malaric plunged the caethweisyr into her right arm.

  And as he did, he felt a mental link to the Lady of Blades.

  It staggered him. Controlling the runedead with the dagger had been one thing. They were nothing but empty shells, dead flesh animated by necromancy. The Lady of Blades was a living sprit, her will like a fortress of iron, her magical might like a mountain of unyielding stone. But she was a spirit, not a mortal. And that meant no matter how mighty, Malaric could command her with the caethweisyr.

  "Release me," he said.

  He felt his link to the Lady tremble, like using a thread to pull a boulder.

  But the thread did not break.

  The bladed wings uncoiled, the steel chiming.

  "A blade of the Dark Elderborn?" said the Lady, her voice a hiss. "Again you wield power you have not the right to claim."

  "Power," said Malaric, "belongs to those bold enough to seize it for their own."

  "You have earned my enmity for this, Malaric of Barellion," said the Lady of Blades, her voice soft. "Before you were only an amusing annoyance. Now I shall see you destroyed."

  Malaric laughed. "I doubt that."

  "Do you? I am eternal. You are a worm that crawls for a little while across the face of the earth and then crumbles into dust. I am patient. I am immortal. I will see you pay for this insult, pay in ways you cannot..."

  "Do shut up," said Malaric, turning his back on the Lady and stepping outside the circle. "Listen well to my command." He pointed the caethweisyr at her. "I forbid you to harm me. I forbid you to command any of your vassals and servants in the spirit world to harm me. I forbid you to plot against me, and your every action shall be devoted to my well-being and advancement. Am I understood?"

  "Yes," hissed the Lady.

  "I'm glad we are of one accord," said Malaric. "Your first task is this." He reached into the leather bag and drew out Corvad's skull. "You will guard this. All your servants shall look after it, and you will not permit the slightest harm to come to it. Do you understand my commands?"

  "Yes," said the Lady. "You will place the object that is the source of your strength and power, the object that holds your soul, into the hands of your most powerful enemy. A brilliant plan."

  Malaric laughed. "A powerful enemy who has no choice but to do as I command. Take the skull." The Lady held out her hand, and for just a moment, Malaric hesitated. But he knew the Lady could not challenge the power of the caethweisyr. He put Corvad's skull in her hand, and the Lady took it.

  "Return with the skull to the spirit world," said Malaric. "Guard it diligently, and come when I call. I shall have work for you soon."

  Her beautiful face twisted in a sneer. "Tread carefully, fool. You meddle with powers you do not..."

  "Silence," said Malaric, "and do not trouble me until I call for you."

  The glowing white eyes narrowed, and the Lady of Blades vanished in a swirl of gray mist, taking the skull with her.

  Malaric stood alone in the ruined keep, the blue flames winking out one by one.

  Yes, leaving the skull in the Lady of Blades' care was a risk. But it was an acceptable one. So long as Malaric kept the skull with him, he was vulnerable. A foe could discover its secret, as Skalatan had, or even destroy it by accident, as Mazael had almost done. And the Lady of Blades was a potent spirit. Few could challenge her directly...and even the strongest wizard could not work a more powerful binding than the caethweisyr.

  No, the skull was safe for now, until Malaric constructed a more suitable refuge for it.

  In the meantime, he was free to take his revenge.

  To take his revenge, and claim what was rightfully his.

  He walked out of the ruined keep and set his face north. He would have used the last mistgate in Skalatan's bracer to travel there at once, but the San-keth had somehow disabled the bracer. But, no matter. His ability to walk through the shadows would take him to Barellion in a few days.

  Malaric smiled once more, savoring the moment.

  He walked into the shadows, leaving the ruined keep behind.

  Chapter 16 - The Siege of Tumblestone

  Gerald marched south with six thousand knights, armsmen, and militia archers, all equipped with wizard's oil and flaming arrows. Sir Commander Aidan Tormaud's Justiciars followed, five hundred mounted knights and five hundred sergeants on foot. Circan rode at Gerald's side, stark in his black coat.

  Ataranur followed them both, his head bowed in his dark cloak, the sun sometimes flashing off his steel mask. His horse moved with a rigid, precise step, and Gerald suspected the wizard used a spell to keep the beast under control.

  As if the horse was terrified of his touch.

  The other men kept away from the High Elderborn wizard.

  Gerald set a brisk pace. It was almost a three day march to Tumblestone, using a pass through the low mountains south of Knightcastle. The city might fall to the runedead before he could arrive. Or, worse, Caraster might send runedead to block the pass. A thousand men could hold that pass against an army, and by the time Gerald's force circled around the mountains to the south, Tumblestone might well have fallen.

  ###

  Two days later they reached the pass.

  "Anything?" said Gerald.

  Circan lowered his head, rolling a wire-wrapped quartz crystal over his fingers. The crystal flickered with light as Circan worked his spell.

  "No, Sir Gerald," said Circan. "There are no runedead in the pass. But there is a force of living men. Two thousand strong, I deem. They are heading this way. Perhaps some of Caraster
's living followers?"

  "Caraster," said Gerald, "does not have that many living followers."

  He put spurs to his horse and rode into the pass, Circan, Ataranur, Aidan, and a guard of knights following. As they drew nearer, he saw a ragged mass of men marching through the pass. Gerald recognized many of them, and saw a familiar figure riding a horse at their head.

  Lord Adalar Greatheart.

  Gerald rode forward, and Adalar and his knights met him.

  "Sir Gerald," said Adalar, his lean face smudged with dirt and blood, "by all the gods, you are a welcome sight. Has Lord Tobias sent aid?"

  "My brother," said Gerald, "is not the liege lord of Knightreach yet. Lord Malden has...recovered from his illness, and is assembling a force to take the fight to Caraster. In the meantime, we have been sent to relieve Tumblestone."

  Adalar stared at Ataranur, frowning.

  "That is Ataranur," said Gerald. "We can discuss him later. For now, we have more pressing matters. We must march for Tumblestone with all haste."

  "It may be too late," said Adalar.

  Gerald frowned. "Tumblestone has fallen?"

  "Not yet," said Adalar, "but it will. At least thirty thousand runedead crossed the River Abelinus, and they put us to rout. Our host broke into a dozen fragments. My men managed to cut our way loose and elude the runedead."

  Aidan frowned, his blue surcoat rippling in the wind. "Surely the Justiciar knights did not flee?"

  “I do not know, Sir Commander," said Adalar. "Most of our host fell back to Tumblestone. Lord Agravain and Lord Tancred are within the city, and I suspect Lord Nicholas Randerly as well. More runedead have crossed the river, and thirty-five thousand attack the city, if not more."

  "What are you doing here, then?" said Gerald.

  Adalar took a deep breath. "Sir Gerald, I fear Tumblestone is lost. Even with the men you have brought, we would have scarce eight thousand to face thirty-five thousand undead. Once Tumblestone falls, Caraster will turn his attention to Knightcastle itself. I came here to fortify the pass and send word that aid is needed, immediately."

  Gerald gave a curt nod, thinking.

  The loss of Tumblestone would be a devastating blow, and the gods only knew how many innocent people Caraster would butcher. Worse, most of Knightreach’s fighting men had been guarding the fords of the River Abelinus. If they had retreated to Tumblestone, Caraster would kill them all, and Knightcastle would no longer have the strength to fight.

  But Gerald's and Adalar's combined force was not enough to defeat the runedead host, not without defensive fortifications. Perhaps Adalar's plan to fortify the pass was best.

  But everyone in Tumblestone would die...

  "Sir Gerald."

  Ataranur spurred his horse forward to join them.

  "I shall deal with the runedead," said the masked wizard.

  "There are thirty-five thousand of the damned things," said Adalar, the doubt plain in his voice.

  "Unimportant," said Ataranur. "I have awakened to save Knightcastle, and the runedead threaten Knightcastle. Therefore, I shall destroy them."

  "One mortal wizard," said Adalar, "cannot handle that many undead."

  "I am no mortal wizard," said Ataranur. "I studied at the feet of the great High Elderborn wizards of old. I know spells and arts unlike anything practiced by your wizards' brotherhood. If you allow it, Sir Gerald, I will destroy the runedead and save Tumblestone."

  Gerald stared hard at the steel mask. The masked wizard claimed to be High Elderborn, but Gerald doubted that a High Elderborn would have gone to such lengths to conceal his true features. But who, or what, Ataranur really was, Gerald could make no guess. And certainly a man who went to such lengths to conceal his features did not have any good end in mind.

  But the wizard did have power.

  Malden's newfound health and vigor proved that.

  Could that power prove effective against Caraster’s runedead? If Ataranur was some wielder of dark magic, a disguised San-keth like Skhath or a renegade wizard like Malavost, then that power would lead to only disaster.

  Yet Gerald thought of all those people trapped within Tumblestone, people Caraster would butcher to build his mad new world.

  It was time to take a risk.

  "Very well," said Gerald. "Ataranur, I shall speak bluntly."

  The metallic voice sounded almost amused. "I would have it no other way."

  "While I am grateful for your efforts on my father's behalf," said Gerald, "I do not trust you, and you have given me no reason to trust you. We shall do as you suggest, and ride against Caraster. But if you give me any reason to suspect betrayal, it will not go well with you."

  "I act," said Ataranur, "in the name of the greater good. As I always have. If that is insufficient for you, Sir Gerald, you may put your sword into my chest at your leisure."

  Gerald nodded. "So be it."

  ###

  The next day they reached the plain between the mountains and Knights' Bay.

  Lucan rode masked and cloaked, saying nothing and listening to everything as Sir Gerald led his men to battle. Gerald rode tirelessly through the host, consulting with his captains, praising men who showed disciple and initiative, and rebuking the sluggards. The man was a capable commander, and if he survived the upheaval, would one day make a fine lord.

  Lucan remembered the last time he had been at Tumblestone, following Mazael as he led the armies of Knightreach against Amalric Galbraith and the Dominiar Order. Mazael had been victorious, and Amalric and his sister Morebeth, both children of the Old Demon, had been slain…

  Lucan pushed aside the thought. Caraster and his runedead were a distraction, and nothing more. Lucan needed Knightcastle to open the Door of Souls and reach Cythraul Urdvul. He could not do that if Caraster destroyed Knightcastle.

  So Lucan would destroy him first.

  A few hours later Tumblestone itself came into sight.

  "Gods," muttered Adalar. "There are even more of them."

  The city of Tumblestone sat on a peninsula jutting into the blue waters of Knights' Bay, ringed by massive stone walls. Even at a distance, Lucan sensed the wards upon the walls, spells fashioned to keep the runedead from becoming immaterial and striding through the stones. A vast black mass of runedead surrounded the city, thousands of sigils burning with ghostly green light. Wave after wave of runedead assaulted the gates, and water surrounded Tumblestone on three sides, but the waves were no hindrance to the undead. They swarmed through the water and climbed up the walls.

  The defenders put up a valiant fight. Volleys of flaming arrows and waves of burning oil fell from the battlements. The runedead that reached the battlements met knights and armsmen wielding blades soaked in wizard's oil. Yet the undead were tireless, and the defenders were not. Sooner or later they would be overwhelmed.

  "Ataranur," said Gerald, voice hard. "I trust you have a plan?"

  "Of course," said Lucan, spurring his horse forward. "I shall..."

  He felt a surge of magical power in the air.

  "Sir Gerald!" said Circan, his voice tight with alarm. "A spell! It..."

  The air before them flickered, and a figure fashioned of black shadow and silver light appeared. A ripple of alarm went through the nearby men, and most drew their swords.

  Lucan's lip curled behind his mask.

  "Don't bother," he said. "That's nothing but an illusion. An image fashioned of light and shadow and a minor spell."

  Circan worked the spell to sense the presence of magic. "He's right, my lords."

  "Fools."

  The voice coming from the silver-lined shadow was a deep rumble, though the spell made it snarl and vibrate like a buzzing insect.

  "You cannot prevail against me," said the image. "History itself is upon my side. Justice has raised up the runedead to serve me, and I shall use them to cleanse the world of wickedness forever."

  Lucan had raised the runedead, not some impartial force, and he certainly had not unleashed the Grea
t Rising to put the runedead at the disposal of this fool.

  "You, then," said Gerald, "are Caraster?"

  The robed image gave a mocking bow. "Forgive me, oh most noble knight, for not visiting your august self in person. But nobles are treacherous and wicked."

  "I am Sir Gerald Roland," said Gerald. "And if you wish to meet in parley, I give you my word of honor for your safe passage."

  Caraster laughed. "Do you think I would trust the word of a noble swine? For that is what nobles are. Swine, all of you! You grow fat and bloated upon the sweat and toil of your peasants."

  Lucan expected Gerald to react with anger, but Lord Malden's youngest son remained icy calm. "And butchering people at random is better?"

  "Not random!" shouted Caraster. "No, not random. I will find the nobles. I will find the merchants. I will find the lying, sniveling priests. I will find everyone who has more than his neighbor. Then I shall kill them all, and take their stolen wealth and give it to the poor. I will raise a new order on the ashes of the world, a world where there are no wealthy men, where no one shall go without bread."

  "A fine dream," said Gerald. "But you seek to make the world clean by washing it in blood. That, in the end, will lead only to more blood."

  "You say that because you are corrupt," said Caraster, "because you cannot see the purity of the new world I will fashion. I will cleanse the world of all evil - and I shall kill you and all your family. Never again will a noble taint the world."

  "As entertaining as it is to bandy words with a madman," said Gerald, "I fear I have more pressing demands upon my time. Stop your attack at once, and withdraw back across the River Abelinus."

  "Or?" Lucan heard the sneer in the distorted voice.

  "Or," said Gerald, "I shall destroy you utterly."

  Again Caraster brayed laughter. "With what? Your paltry host? The men cowering behind the city's walls? You cannot stop me! In fact, Gerald Roland, I will make you an offer. Draw your sword and fall upon it, and rid the world of your filthy noble blood. And if you do, I will spare the lives of Tumblestone, and allow your host to withdraw."