Malaric drew back his hood and smiled. “Greetings, Rodric.”
“Malaric,” spat Rodric.
“So you do remember me,” said Malaric. “I thought you’d all forgotten the bastard, cast out and spurned.”
“You murdered our mother,” said Rodric, his green eyes bright with anger.
“The fool woman killed herself,” said Malaric. “If she had known to leave well enough alone, perhaps she would be sitting at this table now, dismayed at what a fat slug her eldest has become.”
The other men shouted in outrage, and a few of their wives, too.
"Little wonder you should turn up like the carrion bird you are," said Rodric, "when the Aegonar fall upon our shores. Leave, Malaric. I will give you one chance. Leave now, or I shall tell Father, and by all the gods..."
Malaric's rage boiled over.
Gods and devils, but he had forgotten how much he hated his brothers. He was the eldest son, the firstborn of Everard Chalsain, but because of the archaic laws of Barellion, he would not inherit the throne of Greycoast. Malaric had fought and scrabbled for every piece of power he possessed, stolen it from Lucan, from Marstan, from Corvad, from Skalatan, from the Skulls, from those who would give him nothing.
And to see his brothers sitting here, fat and well fed while he fought and struggled, enraged him beyond control.
He strode into the shadows and reappeared atop the table.
"Father will see you dead!" said Rodric, but his voice trailed off as he saw Malaric appear atop the table. "What sort of devilry..."
Malaric's sword blurred, Demonsouled strength driving his arm, and Rodric's head hopped off his shoulders and rolled across the floor, blood shooting across the table. Rodric's wife shrieked with horror, and Malaric killed her, too, if only to shut her up.
The fight began in earnest then.
Malaric fought his half-brothers, dancing through them in flickers of darkness. He sealed the doors with a spell, keeping them from escaping.
Then he killed their wives in front of them.
In the end, every last man and woman in that room died on Malaric's sword. He made the last few survivors beg like dogs, made them promise their fortunes, their souls, everything they had, to Malaric's lordship.
Then he killed them anyway.
He looked over the carnage, wiping the blood from his brow. A dark, cold satisfaction filled him...but less than he might have thought. As much as he had hated his brothers, they were only obstacles.
He had not yet repaid the author of his wrongs.
Malaric strode into the shadows, making for his final target.
###
A single slender tower stood next to the central drum keep, its turret rising a good fifty feet over the rest of the castle. This was the Study Tower, and the Princes of Barellion had kept their private study in that turret for centuries. The only access was through a narrow stone bridge, followed by a spiraling stairway that circled the exterior of the tower.
Malaric climbed to the tower's top, the wind tugging at his cloak, and kicked open the turret door. Shelves lined the room beyond the door, holding the Prince's private collection of books and scrolls. Round windows offered a splendid view of the castle, the city, and the rippling sea beyond.
Everard Chalsain, Prince of Barellion, stood up from his desk.
Unlike his late heir, Everard remained fit, despite his advanced age, though his blond hair had long since turned white. He wore only a tunic, trousers, boots, and a dagger at his belt. The simple golden diadem of Barellion rested upon his brow.
"How dare you intrude?" said Everard.
Malaric threw back his hood, and Everard's eyes narrowed.
"Malaric," he spat, his voice full of loathing.
"Father," said Malaric, lifting his sword.
"I suppose you butchered your way in here?" said Everard. "How many of my armsmen did you kill? I should not be surprised. You were always ready to seize power, regardless of who you had to hurt to claim it."
"Your sons are dead," said Malaric. "I killed them all. Their wives, too."
A spasm of fury went through Everard's limbs.
"I'm sure you stabbed them in the back or poured poison in their cups," spat Everard. "You were always a coward, Malaric, a miserable coward! You summoned up that spirit and killed my wife, so you fled to the Skulls! You are not my son! I regret that I..."
"Shut up," said Malaric.
He slammed his fist into his father's face with as much strength as he could muster. Blood and teeth flew, and Everard fell with a cry. Malaric seized Everard's wrist and wrenched the arm behind his back, snapping bone and tearing tendons.
He shoved the old man forward, towards the doorway and the narrow stairs circling around the tower's exterior.
"What a shame, Father," said Malaric. "The San-keth surprised you in your study and pushed you off the stairs." He tugged the diadem from Everard's hair. "But don't worry. Once I am Prince, I will avenge your death."
He shoved Everard off the stairs and sent the old man tumbling towards the courtyard.
A moment later the old man's scream ended in a ghastly crunch.
Malaric gazed at the courtyard for a moment, listening to the screams echoing through the Prince's Keep. Perhaps the bodies of Rodric and the others had been discovered. Or perhaps the Skulls had gone to work - he had instructed them to kill a few of the servants to make it look as if the San-keth had gone on a rampage.
He lifted the diadem and wiped the blood from it.
Then he set it upon his head and laughed.
###
"All has gone rather well," said the First Dagger, Rosala standing at his side.
"Yes," said Malaric, "I suppose it has."
He stood in the cavernous great hall of the Prince's Keep, watching the servants scurry about. The horrendous murder of the Prince and his sons had sent a shock through the city, and Malaric had found the terrorized nobles only too eager to follow his lead.
That would not last. But once they found their spines and revolted, Malaric would have the Skulls purge any traitors.
"What of Hugh?" said Malaric.
He was the only threat left to Malaric's control of Barellion.
"I have spread the rumor," said Souther, "that Sir Hugh was slain fighting the Aegonar. And to make certain of that, I have sent some men north. They shall be...discreet."
"Good," said Malaric. "Very good. Also, send some men..."
"Where is Prince Everard?"
The angry voice echoed off the ceiling.
Malaric looked towards the doors. An old nobleman stalked towards him, his fur-lined robe flapping around his boots. A young woman of remarkable beauty followed him. After a moment Malaric recognized them both. Alberon Stormsea, the lord of Castle Stormsea on Greycoast's northwestern point. All of his sons had died, leaving him only with one bastard daughter, Adele or Anna or something like that.
"Where is Prince Everard?" demanded Lord Alberon. "I am Alberon, Lord of Castle Stormsea, and I demand to see the Prince at once."
"You," said Malaric, turning to face him, "are now speaking with him."
Alberon scowled...and then all the blood drained from his face as he recognized Malaric.
"Ah," said Malaric. "You've heard of me, I see."
"What...what happened to Prince Everard?" said the young woman.
Malaric smiled at her. "Dead. The San-keth murdered him, and all his sons. Sir Hugh fell in battle, and..."
"No," said the woman. "No. Hugh was alive when I left him." Her brown eyes narrowed. "And if he still lives, he is the lawful Prince of Barellion, not you, my lord Malaric."
She could be a problem. "What is your name?"
"Adelaide," said the young woman, watching him as if he were a poisonous serpent. Wise of her. "My lord, Hugh is the rightful Prince, but someone must defend the city. The Aegonar host will not stop, and they may have sent the San-keth to assassinate your father..."
Malaric blinked, puzzled.
"What are you talking about? The Aegonar have a host?" he said.
"A mighty one," said Adelaide. "At least fifty thousand strong. Almost all of northern Greycoast is overrun. And, worse, the Aegonar worship the serpent god and conquer in his name."
Suddenly Malaric remembered that ruined keep atop the forest hill, remembered Skalatan's idle rumination about a barbarian nation converted to the worship of Sepharivaim.
A chill went down his spine.
Chapter 20 - The Corrupted Knights
At midday, Lucan walked alone through the streets of Castle Town. A simple spell of cloaking kept any mortal eyes from observing him.
Sir Gerald's host had returned to Knightcastle yesterday. With Tumblestone safe and Caraster's attack repulsed, the lords of Knightcastle had gained some time before the next assault. Contingents of Justiciar Knights arrived every day in response to the Grand Master’s summons, and more armsmen, knights, and militiamen gathered beneath Knightcastle’s banner. In a few days, Lord Malden would march south with Grand Master Caldarus to smash Caraster once and for all.
Unless Lord Malden found himself…otherwise occupied.
Through the Glamdaigyr, Lucan had felt Malden kill three more people with the black rune dagger. The dagger had drained the victims’ life force and transferred it through the Glamdaigyr and into the Door of Souls. But Lord Malden absorbed some of that life energy, making him younger and stronger.
Making him crave it ever more.
No doubt Malden Roland thought the murders perfectly justified. A servant who had offered impertinence. An armsman whose loyalty he had always doubted. But as time went on, the justifications would become flimsier, and Malden would grow easier to control.
The high lords of Old Dracaryl had often used such a strategy to control the kings of the barbarian nations east of the Great Mountains. In time the kings became utterly addicted to stolen life forces, like a man enslaved to strong alcohol. Eventually, Lucan would control Malden without the man even realizing it.
But for now, Malden’s vassals held his attention. And that gave Lucan a few days to deal with the Justiciars before they turned against him. He also needed more stolen life force, much more than Malden’s lone dagger could provide.
One problem could solve the other.
He made for Castle Town’s central square.
The chaos of the Great Rising had not been good for Castle Town. Lucan had already seen the terrified peasants camped outside the gates. Now he saw the men and women huddled in doorways and alleys, their faces gaunt and hungry.
Again he felt…regret, perhaps? Not guilt. Lucan could not remember the last time he had felt guilty about anything. Perhaps it was an effect of his undead state. Yet even before his death and rebirth as a revenant, he had felt no guilt. He had betrayed Mazael Cravenlock, stolen the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, taken Tymaen from her husband, murdered his brother, and worked the Great Rising. In hindsight, he could see how much of that had been foolish. Yet at the time he had felt no guilt, had been certain of the rightness of his actions.
Yet looking at the ruin he had wrought, he still felt no guilt. He knew he should. But why not?
For a searing moment he remembered a ruined black city of crumbling towers and shattered palaces, a crimson dragon circling overhead, and the mocking laughter of an ancient horror…
Lucan scowled and shook his head.
What was done was done, and he had work before him. Yes, he had done terrible things. But if he could rid the world of the Demonsouled, no matter how bloody the cost, everything he had done would be worth it. A new world would rise, one free of the bloody tyranny of the Demonsouled.
Lucan looked at the poor huddled in their alleys and doorways. He would give their pain meaning. Once the Demonsouled had been destroyed, a new world would rise from the ashes, a world made possible by their suffering.
Lucan kept walking and came to the Justiciar Order’s preceptory in Castle Town. The preceptory was a fortified keep in itself – a four story tower, with barred doors and narrow windows. Lord Malden had permitted the Justiciars to build this fortified refuge within one of his own towns.
Foolish, really. Well, Lucan would turn Malden’s foolishness to good use.
He cast a spell, and his body became wispy and insubstantial, a wraith of smoke and green light. As a living man, the effort to cast this spell had been tremendous. As a revenant, the effort was trivial, even while keeping his cloaking spell in place. Lucan walked to the preceptory’s doors, invisible to the sergeants at guard there.
A single step carried him through the doors and into the tower. A simple ward would have kept him from entering, the same ward placed upon Castle Town’s walls to keep the runedead out. But the Justiciar Order feared and loathed magic, feared it so much they refused to study it, and therefore had no defense from it.
And therefore no defense against Lucan.
He shifted back into material form in the preceptory’s hall, keeping his cloaking spell in place, and found himself in the middle of an argument. Dozens of Justiciar commanders and preceptors sat at a long wooden table, Grand Master Caldarus at their head.
“We have had our disagreements in the past, Grand Master,” said Sir Commander Aidan Tormaud, arms folded over his gleaming cuirass and blue surcoat.
Caldarus lifted his white eyebrows. “You have not been zealous enough in securing our rights in Knightreach, Sir Commander. We alone shield the realms of men from dark magic and serpent worship. To support our noble mission, we require estates, manors, and incomes.”
Lucan circled the table, examining the Justiciars. Trenchers and cups had been set for a meal, but no food and drink had been brought forth yet.
“Regardless,” said Aidan, “we now face a greater threat, one more powerful than either the runedead or Caraster.”
“Ataranur,” said Caldarus.
“My brothers,” said Aidan, looking around the table, “you know I am not prone to exaggeration. I have seen as many battles as any of you. So believe me when I say that I have never seen a wizard of Ataranur’s power. In the space of a few moments, he destroyed a third of Caraster’s runedead.”
“Caraster will undoubtedly gather more,” said Caldarus.
“And Ataranur will destroy them in turn,” said Aidan. “Grand Master, we do not know how Caraster commands so many runedead. Yet I am certain Ataranur will prevail. And when he does…”
“We shall have to decide what to do with him,” said Caldarus. “A wizard of such fell power cannot have the ear of Malden Roland.”
“Perhaps,” said one of the preceptors, “he truly is a High Elderborn, come to aid us in our hour of darkest need.”
“The High Elderborn?” said Caldarus with a sneer. “The High Elderborn spawned the Dark Elderborn and brought the Demonsouled into the world. They are no friends of mankind. And they have all been dead for millennia. No, I believe Ataranur is simply another renegade come to exploit the Great Rising.”
“How then shall we defeat him?” said Aidan.
“Easily,” said Caldarus. “We will wait until he destroys Caraster for us. And then when he is weakened, we shall kill him. Caraster’s runedead hordes will fall apart, and we shall destroy them one by one. The people will know that the Justiciar Order is their one true shield against dark magic, their saviors against the scourge the gods have brought upon us.”
“Our spies in the Grim Marches,” said one of the commanders, “said that Lucan Mandragon wrought the Great Rising.”
“The Dragon’s Shadow!” spat Caldarus. “Bah. I met him once, years ago. A wretched boy, still pining over the woman who left him for that gluttonous pig Robert Highgate. A fool.” Lucan smirked behind his mask. “No, my sons, no mortal wizard could have worked the Great Rising.” Caldarus’s scowl deepened. “It is the punishment of the gods, brought us on for our sins. Our towns and cities are dens of debauchery and fornication. Men pray to the San-keth and the Demonsouled in the shadows, and…”
>
Caldarus continued talking, and the Justiciar officers listened with the polite expressions of men who had heard the speech before. Lucan ignored them and entered the preceptory’s kitchens. A half-dozen cooks toiled to prepare the Justiciars’ midday meal. Several sets of pork ribs stood ready. The Justiciars ate well, even while the peasants starved in the streets.
Lucan drew out one of the glass vials he had taken from Marstan’s hidden workshop. He sprinkled a few drops from the vial into the wine pitchers, and then moved onto the pork ribs. None of the cooks saw him, their eyes turned aside by his cloaking spell.
When he finished, he returned to the hall.
“I must excuse myself, Grand Master,” said Aidan as Lucan entered. “Lord Malden and Lord Tobias are meeting with Lord Tancred and Lord Nicholas to plan the march south, and the Justiciars must have a voice there.”
“Go, my son,” said Caldarus.
Aidan rose, bowed to the Grand Master, and departed the hall.
Lucan stood in the corner to wait.
A moment later a small army of maids and serving men entered, bearing the Justiciars’ meal. They set out pork ribs before each man, and filled the cups of wine from the pitchers. The Justiciar officers began eating, some with more enthusiasm than others. Caldarus, as befit his grim, ascetic appearance, only sipped lightly as his wine.
No matter. It would only take a few drops.
The men displayed symptoms a few moments later. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, and a few of the Justiciars scowled, rubbing their shoulders or their arms. Caldarus frowned, the lines digging deeper into his face.
“You will excuse me, my sons,” he said. “I fear our meal does not sit well with me.”
“Nor I, Grand Master,” said a preceptor.
“Nor I, also,” said a commander.
Caldarus frowned. “I shall have a word with the cooks. Perhaps…”
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 23
