"Here you are, my lord," said the maid. "Though I have some business..."
"What's your name?" said Malaric.
"Rosala, my lord," said the maid.
"Very good," said Malaric. "Go away and let me eat in peace."
Rosala stared at him, her expression full of amused incredulity. Then she strode away. Malaric watched her go, admiring the movement of her hips beneath her skirt. Then he ate with a will. He had not eaten a decent meal since leaving Castle Cravenlock with Lucan all those months ago, and the Knights' Inn had a fine kitchen.
Both the wine and the potatoes had been poisoned, but the Demonsouled power of Corvad's skull was more than sufficient to deal with it, and Malaric thought the poison rather enhanced the taste of the wine. From the corner of his eye he saw Rosala standing near the kitchen door, watching him. Two footmen, both burly young men, joined her.
Malaric finished his meal, wiped his mouth, left a suitable number of coins on the table, and departed the Inn. He walked into the plaza and circled to the back of the Inn, listening to the familiar noise of the city, the rumble of carts and the cries of the hawkers.
Gods, but it was good to be home.
He slipped into the alley behind the Inn, and found Rosala and the footmen waiting for him.
They had discarded their servants' livery for the dark leather and lightweight black chain mail favored by the Skulls. Rosala carried a sword and a dagger, and both of the footmen carried swords as well.
"Malaric of Barellion," said Rosala, her cold voice a contrast with her gleeful smile. "The bastard son of the Prince, come home at last. You shouldn't have done that. You received a task from the First Dagger, and you failed."
Malaric shrugged. "Molly Cravenlock proved a slippery foe with powerful allies. Besides, I had more important things to do than the First Dagger's little errands."
The footmen appeared shocked at his impertinence. One did not speak ill of the First Dagger and live. At least not for very long.
“You failed,” said Rosala, “and you know the penalty for failure.”
“Yes, death and all that,” said Malaric. He grinned and spread his arms. “As amusing as this is, you cannot kill me. No one need die today. Escort me to the presence of the First Dagger, and…”
“Kill him,” said Rosala.
The footmen charged, swords raised.
Malaric laughed, waited until the footmen were only a few steps away, and then strode into the shadows. He reappeared a dozen paces behind Rosala. The footmen spun, their expressions comical.
“Come,” Malaric said. “Surely you can do better than that. I would hate to think that the First Dagger had let standards slip since my departure.”
Rosala sneered. “So you’ve learned one of Molly Cravenlock’s little tricks? Pathetic. But appropriate, since you're both traitors. Take him!”
The footmen sprinted forward, and Malaric drew on the Demonsouled power of Corvad’s skull. The footmen reached him, and Malaric made no effort to block. They plunged their swords into his chest and belly, blood welling over his shirt and coat.
That…rather hurt.
But the skull's dark fire filled Malaric with strength, and he seized the throats of the footmen. He caught a brief glimpse of their astonished expressions, and then he picked them up and flung them. They sailed across the alley to smash against the dirty ground. Malaric ripped their swords from his chest, grimacing at the pain.
The wounds began to heal as his stolen Demonsouled power went to work.
Rosala’s blue eyes grew wide. “What kind of demon are you?”
“Demon,” said Malaric, grinning. The wounds on his chest sealed themselves shut. “Quite right.”
The footmen wavered, their eyes wide with fear.
“Take him!” said Rosala, pointing with her sword and dagger. “Do you want to tell the First Dagger that we failed? Kill him and cut out his heart! Demon or not, he won’t survive that!”
The footmen drew daggers and attacked again, Rosala a half-step behind them. Malaric drew his sword and met them, his limbs filled with Demonsouled power. The first footman stabbed him in the shoulder, but he ignored the pain and opened the assassin’s throat. As the dead man fell, he wheeled, the wound in his shoulder closing, and killed the second footman with a quick slash.
Rosala came at him, her sword and dagger a blur. His sword snapped back and forth as he blocked and deflected her blows. He had fought and faced Molly Cravenlock, and if not for the Tervingi wizard, he would have overpowered her.
Rosala was no match for Molly.
She stabbed with sword and dagger, and Malaric blocked, sweeping her blades to the side. He slammed her against the wall of the Inn, and the breath exploded from her lungs. Rosala gasped, and Malaric’s free hand caught her by the throat, and he slammed her against the wall once more. The sword and dagger tumbled from her fingers, and Malaric lifted her into the air, her boots dangling.
Her face turned purple in short order.
“Please,” she rasped, eyes bulging, “please…”
Malaric threw her to the ground. She landed hard, coughing and wheezing.
“Go tell the First Dagger,” said Malaric, “that I have returned, and wish to come to a…mutually profitable arrangement.”
Rosala pulled herself to her feet, rubbing her throat. “What?”
“Run along and deliver the message like a good girl,” said Malaric. “Or else I’ll change my mind and cut that pretty throat of yours.”
She ran without another word.
Malaric waited until she left the alley, and then stepped into the shadows.
He reappeared atop the Knights’ Inn, the roof's clay tiles gritting beneath his feet. He saw Rosala hurrying across the plaza. She had found a brown cloak, since a woman hurrying across the city in chain mail and leather would draw notice. Malaric strode through the shadows, moving from rooftop to rooftop as he followed Rosala.
She came to one of the churches in the New City. Barellion’s cathedral was vast, but even it could not hold the entire population, and dozens of other churches stood throughout the city. This church looked like an overgrown country church, with thick stone walls and narrow windows. Rosala circled to the back of the church, to the graveyard, and then vanished down a set of stairs along the church’s back wall.
The crypt.
Malaric walked the shadows to the graveyard, standing among the ancient tombstones.
“What the devil?” The graveyard’s caretaker, a middle-aged man in a dirty smock, hurried towards Malaric. Of course, he was a Skull, and Malaric saw the outline of a hidden weapon beneath his coat. “This is a sacred…”
Malaric killed the lookout and kept walking. He descended the stairs and pushed open the door to the crypt.
The crypt was broad and wide, its vaulted ceiling supported by a forest of stone pillars. Torchlight threw back the darkness, and a dozen men in dark clothing stood in a half-circle. Rosala stood before them, looking like a deer trapped by wolves. Of course, she was not helpless…but the men before her, the chief assassins of the Skulls, were more dangerous by far.
The First Dagger, Souther of Barellion himself, stood in their midst, both hands resting upon the handle of a polished wooden cane.
Throughout the centuries, the leader of the Skulls had come from the nobility, from disgraced sons of lords, from renegade wizards, even from the Justiciars on a few occasions. Souther was the son of an illiterate fisherman from southern Greycoast, and had the broad belly and smiling, pleasant face of a successful innkeeper. Malaric had seen him wear that smile as he cut the fingers from a traitor one by one.
“So, girl,” said Souther in his gentle voice. “Our wayward brother Malaric has returned, and you decided on your own authority to deal with him. Perhaps gain both the reward and the favor of the First Dagger, hmm? Instead two of our brothers lie dead at Malaric’s hand, and you have run here to spill your tale.”
“I could not have defeated him, master,” said Ro
sala. “We stabbed him through the lungs and chest, mortal wounds both! Yet somehow he healed them both in a matter of moments. He’s gained some magic we cannot defeat.”
“Magic,” said Souther. “Ever the sluggard’s excuse for failure.” The smile vanished from his face. “I think you are lying to me, sister. Perhaps we should put you to the question until you see fit to tell me the truth…”
“No, I swear!” said Rosala. “I am telling the truth! I…”
“She is,” said Malaric, stepping into the torchlight. “First Dagger. You’re looking plump as ever.”
As one every man in the circle drew his weapons and wheeled to face Malaric. All save for Souther, who only smiled his kindly smile.
“Do forgive an old man, Rosala,” said Souther. “It seems I should have believed you after all. But such a preposterous story! Surely the Prince’s bastard would not be so stupid as to walk into the Knights’ Inn and parade himself before us? And he was not. Instead, he is stupid enough to walk into a sanctuary of the brotherhood he betrayed. I dispatched you to kill Molly Cravenlock, Malaric. Yet the latest reports from our spies in the Grim Marches indicate that she is still alive.”
Malaric shrugged. “I was busy.”
Souther gave a weary sigh. “Clearly, I should never hire the bastard children of nobility. For first Molly Cravenlock forsook us, and then you followed suit. If I want an honest day’s killing, I'll need to hire a peasant.”
“I have an arrangement,” said Malaric, “that would…”
“Silence,” said Souther. “Kill him.”
The assassins charged Malaric, and he flew into motion.
He drew on the skull’s power and stepped into the shadows. He reappeared behind the charging men, and gutted one before the others could respond. Another leap through the shadows, and Malaric traveled to the far side of the crypt. The assassins whirled to face him, and Malaric began casting a spell. They almost reached him, and Malaric grinned and flung out his free hand. A wave of invisible force lashed from his hands with Demonsouled-driven power, and the blast knocked the assassins to the floor. Malaric jumped into the shadows and reappeared in their midst, his blade flying. He killed two more before they recovered, and he whirled back into the shadows. This time the master assassins anticipated his move and were ready for him.
Or, at least, they were ready for a man with normal strength and speed.
Malaric sidestepped, moving with such speed they could not follow him. His sword opened one man’s throat, and he spun and ran another assassin through. Still another charged him, and Malaric’s free hand caught his wrist with crushing force. Bones snapped, and the assassin fell to his knees with a gurgled scream. The survivors circled around Malaric, and he flickered back into the shadows, reappearing near the stairs to the graveyard…
“Enough!” said Souther, a hint of strain in his voice.
The assassins stopped, their weapons still raised, and Malaric brought his bloody blade through a lazy salute.
“Are you sure?” said Malaric. “I could kill a few more, if you like. Or all of them.”
“That was an impressive demonstration,” said the First Dagger, fingers drumming on the handle of his cane. “Yet if you wanted to kill us all for revenge, I assume you would already have done so. So. What do you want?”
Malaric grinned. “Barellion.”
Souther lifted his pale eyebrows. “Is that all?”
“For now,” said Malaric. “Listen well. Barellion is mine, and I have come to claim it. How many of my half-brothers are in the city now?”
“All of them, including your father the Prince himself,” said Souther. “Ah...save for Sir Hugh, who rides against the Aegonar in the north.”
Malaric snorted. He remembered his youngest half-brother well enough. How Hugh had bawled when the Lady of Blades had killed his mother! The Aegonar raids in the north had to be pathetic indeed, if Prince Everard had sent a sniveling fool like Hugh to fight against them.
“Good,” said Malaric. “All the rats in one trap, isn’t that what you say?”
“One of my dear mother’s favorite proverbs,” said Souther. “I assume you wish to hire us to kill the Prince’s entire family? A difficult task, even for us, and therefore expensive…”
“No,” said Malaric. “I am going to kill my father and all my brothers. Tonight. Without your help.”
“I see,” said Souther. “Will you then declare yourself King of the World and march against all the other liege lords?”
Malaric laughed. “What you’ve seen here is only a hint of what I can do, First Dagger. The Prince’s guards could no more stop me than your master assassins could. I am going to kill the Prince and his heirs and claim the throne of Barellion tonight.”
“You are a bastard,” said Souther. “If you wipe out the Prince’s family, then Hugh becomes the new Prince.”
“Which is one of the tasks I require from you,” said Malaric. “You will make sure Hugh never returns to Barellion. He died tragically fighting the Aegonar rabble. Second, you will make it look as if the San-keth murdered the House of Chalsain.”
Souther nodded. “So your plan is to murder the Prince and your brothers, seize the throne for yourself, and then lay the blame at the feet of the serpents. Ambitious, I do admit. Yet I see little gain for the Skulls in such upheaval. It will take a great amount of gold to…”
“I will not offer you gold,” said Malaric.
Souther laughed. “Your goodwill, then? That and a copper penny will buy me a cooked rat from one of the poorer taverns.”
“I offer you something even better than my goodwill,” said Malaric. “The goodwill of the Prince himself.”
Souther’s smile never wavered, but his laughter stopped.
“The Skulls have been outlawed for centuries,” said Malaric. “You have always had to lurk in the shadows, staying out of sight. My father and his nobles would destroy you if they could. How many times have the Skulls been hunted to the verge of extinction?”
Souther still said nothing.
“But if you assist me now,” said Malaric, “when I become Prince, you will have protection. More than that, you shall have a great deal of work to do.”
“Oh?” said the First Dagger.
“A Prince has many enemies,” said Malaric. “And I shall need those enemies eliminated, will I not? Help me take the throne. And when it is mine, you shall be my favored servants, my loyal lieutenants. Anyone who opposes me, you shall have my leave to kill…and I shall reward you with a portion of their lands and incomes.”
He had thought hard on this, and had concluded the Skulls would be his best allies. Prince Everard inspired deep loyalty among his men, and some of them – most of them – would question that the San-keth had killed Everard and his legitimate sons. Some of them might try to kill Malaric. They would fail, of course. So long as Corvad’s skull was safe, Malaric was invincible. But the Skulls would provide a convenient way of disposing of his enemies. And after the Skulls killed a few malcontents, no doubt the others would be too terrified to oppose him.
For a long moment Souther stared at him, face expressionless. Malaric fingered his sword hilt. If Souther refused, Malaric would have to kill them all. Destroying the Skulls would be inconvenient, but…
Then Souther smiled.
“We shall have to work out the details,” said the First Dagger, “but I believe we can reach an accord.”
Malaric grinned back. “Good.”
###
That night Malaric walked to the Old City and the gates of the Prince’s Keep, a dozen Skulls trailing after him.
The Prince’s Keep stood at the western end of the Old City, past the grand mansions of Greycoast’s highest nobles, its curtain wall part of the Inner Wall itself. The ancient castle had been rebuilt and expanded a dozen times over the centuries, and now a massive drum tower rose from its heart, ringed by lesser towers. Siege engines topped the towers, ready to rain fireballs and steel-tipped bolts upon any
malefactors in the harbor.
Malaric strolled up to the barbican. Two armsmen in the Prince’s colors stood guard there.
“Hold, fellow,” grunted an armsman. “The castle is closed. If you have business before the court, come back…”
Malaric stepped into the shadows. He reappeared behind the armsman, a dagger in hand, and cut the man’s throat. The second man started to yell, but the Skulls swarmed over him and killed him before he could raise an alarm.
“Remember,” said Malaric, wiping his dagger on the dead man’s tabard, “make it look as if the San-keth slew these men.”
Rosala grinned at him beneath her hood. “It shall be as you command…my Prince.”
She was clever enough to see which was the wind was blowing, and ally herself with the victor before the blood started to flow. Perhaps Malaric would make use of her in the future.
He strode through the shadows, making for the great central tower of the Prince’s Keep.
###
“Where?” said Malaric, “are my brothers?”
He stood in one of the central keep's corridors, the arched ceiling high overhead. Banners lined the walls, and pieces of armor and scarred shields from ancient battles decorated the bare stone. A middle-aged serving woman gaped at him, eyes wide with recognition.
“Lord…Lord Malaric,” she managed, “your father the Prince banished you…”
“I’m aware of that,” said Malaric, resisting the urge to kill the idiot woman. “Where are my brothers? The San-keth are attacking the castle, and I must warn them.”
“The southern hall,” said the woman, “but…”
A few strides through the swirling darkness brought him to the southern hall. It was smaller than the castle’s great hall, with hearths on each of the four walls, and the Prince and his family used it for private dinners. A long table laden with food ran the length of the hall, and six of Malaric’s seven half-brothers sat at the table with their wives.
They gazed at his sudden appearance in shock.
“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed a man at the head of the table, heaving himself to his feet. Rodric Chalsain was Prince Everard’s eldest son and heir to Barellion. He was only a year younger than Malaric, yet indolent living had left him fat, his sweaty face flushed. “Name yourself.”
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 22
