A single figure stumbled out of the flames, surrounded by the sputtering glow of a ward.
“Ah,” said Lucan. “You survived. Splendid. That will make this easier.”
Caraster glared at him, eyes wild with rage.
Demonsouled rage.
The wizard who had almost overthrown Knightcastle was a burly, barrel-chested man, his head encircled by a mane of ragged gray hair, a tangled beard hanging to his chest. His dark eyes flashed with fury, his thick hands knotting into fists.
He looked insane beyond all reckoning. Like the sort of man who might murder children to pass a dull afternoon.
“Who are you?” spat Caraster.
“Death,” said Lucan, “for the Demonsouled.” He took a step closer. “Which means your death.”
Caraster laughed, long and wild. “So you found my secret?” He spat, his spittle sizzling against the scorched ground. “The knowledge will not save you.”
“That’s how you're controlling the runedead,” said Lucan. “With your Demonsouled blood. A wretched little bandit wizard like you couldn’t have controlled so many runedead otherwise.”
“They attacked me first,” said Caraster. “I hid out with my band in a cave near Castle Dominus, robbing travelers. Then the runedead came for us. They killed all the others. They would have killed me. But my blood spilled upon them…and they obeyed me.” His face flashed from pleasure to rage and back again. “Then I understood my purpose. My greatness. The runedead had risen to serve me, and I would cleanse the world of the wicked.”
“Indeed. One final question,” said Lucan. “Did the Old Demon command this of you?”
Caraster’s soot-stained face twisted with contempt. “The Old Demon? The Old Demon is a legend! Another story those lying priests tell fools to trick them out of their money. I did this! I, Caraster, and no one else! Do you know why I did it?” His eyes bulged with madness. “She rejected me, you know, when we were young. Betrothed herself to Mathard because he had more money. I killed them both for it, of course. But then I understood. There are no gods, and the wealthy make the world evil. Someday I would kill them all. Every lord, every knight, every priest, every merchant, every last one of them. For when I kill them all, every man will be poor…and therefore every man shall be rich. And I will have remade the world in my own image.”
“What a fool you are,” said Lucan. “With your power and this army of runedead, you could have remade the world. Instead you have squandered your power pursing this fool’s dream. Perhaps you should have waged war on the rivers instead, and forced them to flow uphill.”
Caraster snarled. “Do not mock me! Kill him!”
Every runedead on the field, uncounted thousands of them, turned and rushed at Lucan.
###
Gerald blinked.
The runedead withdrew. All of them, simultaneously, turned their backs and ran towards the river.
Towards the burning hill to the south.
###
Caraster laughed, eyes wide with triumph.
Lucan held out his right hand and summoned the Glamdaigyr.
Green fire and shadow swirled around his fingers and hardened into the massive black greatsword. The sigils carved in the blade shone with green flame, a haze of shadow writhing around the steel. The pommel had been fashioned into a dragon’s skull, and it grinned hungrily at Lucan.
He sensed hunger from the sword’s aura, its strength like a tower of frozen iron. The weapon yearned to drink life and magic, to gorge itself on stolen warmth, to devour living things.
To devour all the world.
For the first time Lucan saw fear on Caraster's face.
“What is that thing?” he demanded.
“Did I not tell you?” said Lucan, walking towards Caraster. “Death.”
A hundred runedead charged at him, and Lucan flicked a wrist. Psychokinetic force lashed in all directions, driving the undead to the ground. Caraster shrieked and flung a spell, a blast of invisible force, and Lucan raised the Glamdaigyr. The sword drank the spell’s power and drained it into Lucan.
Caraster stumbled back, the terror on his face growing, and Lucan struck.
The Glamdaigyr drained away Caraster’s defensive wards and plunged deep into his chest.
The Demonsouled shrieked in horror, clawing at the blade. Lucan felt his strength and power, the demon magic in his tainted blood…and the thousands upon thousands of bonds he had established with that magic to control the runedead.
All of that power drained into Lucan.
Caraster sobbed in pain, his face turning gray, and Lucan watched as the Glamdaigyr drank away his life and power.
Power that sang like a storm within Lucan.
He kicked Caraster’s lifeless body off the Glamdaigyr, leaving it to crumble into dust, and turned to face Caraster’s runedead.
No. His runedead, now.
“Assemble,” commanded Lucan.
He would put them to good use indeed.
###
“What’s happening?” demanded Tobias, wiping blood from his brow.
He asked the question of the wizards, but Gerald answered anyway.
“I don’t know,” he said.
The runedead arranged themselves into ranks, like an army on parade. Now they stood without moving, as motionless as statues.
As motionless as Ataranur in his black cloak and mask.
“They’re moving,” said Lord Nicholas.
The green fire on their blades winked out, and Gerald wondered if Ataranur had been defeated. If he had, they were truly doomed.
But the runedead stopped moving, and Gerald saw they had parted to form an aisle.
A moment later he saw Ataranur stride up that aisle, his black cloak blowing in the wind, something swinging from his right hand. He reached the river, and Gerald saw what swung from the wizard’s hand.
Caraster’s head.
Ataranur crossed the ford and climbed the bank, and stopped before Tobias and Gerald and the other lords.
They stared at each other in silence.
“What?” said Tobias at last, voice hoarse. “What did you do?”
Circan flexed his fingers, staring at Ataranur as if he expected an attack.
Ataranur tossed the head towards them, and it rolled to a stop at Tobias’s boots. Caraster’s dead eyes stared upward, his face frozen in a mask of horror and dread. However he had died, it had not been pleasant.
“I slew Caraster and his disciples,” said Ataranur, “as I said I would. The victory is yours, my lord Tobias. The rebellion has been crushed.”
“And the runedead?” said Tobias.
“They are yours,” said Ataranur.
“Mine?” said Tobias.
“Or Lord Malden’s, I should say,” said Ataranur, gesturing at the rows of runedead. “They are his to command, and they will obey his every word.”
“How?” said Gerald. Once, he knew, Lord Malden would have refused to even countenance such a thing. But his father had changed since Ataranur had healed him. Giving him an invincible undead army…Gerald shuddered to think of what his father would do with it. “What magic did you use to control them?”
“No magic, Sir Gerald,” said Ataranur. “I used no spell to control the runedead. Rather…it seems Caraster was right. In a sense. The runedead rose at the command of the gods, and Caraster enslaved them. But now that I have vanquished him…the runedead submit to the lawful ruler of Knightcastle.”
“That is nonsense,” said Gerald. “If the runedead submit to the lawful ruler of Knightcastle, why didn’t they do so during the Great Rising? They almost destroyed Castle Town before we could repulse them. Gods, they ravaged all of Knightreach!”
Ataranur shrugged. “The ways of the gods are unknowable, are they not? Yet the runedead have submitted to Lord Malden,” he beckoned at the endless rows of standing corpses, “as you can see with your own eyes.”
“Well,” said Tobias, “I suppose we should go give Father the ne
ws, shouldn’t we?”
“Of course,” said Ataranur, walking to Tobias’s side.
The runedead remained motionless, the sigils upon their brow painting the Riversteel an eerie green.
###
Lucan walked in silence alongside the lords and knights, contemplating his next move.
Between Caraster’s stolen Demonsouled power and the magic of the Banurdem, his control over the runedead horde was complete. He had, of course, once controlled every runedead upon the face of the world. But the Great Rising had collapsed when Lucan had been killed, and he could not recreate it.
Still. These runedead would serve well enough for his purpose.
In a few weeks time, he should have enough stolen life energy to open the Door of Souls.
###
“Sir Gerald,” said Circan, his voice urgent. “I must speak with you, immediately.”
Gerald glanced at Tobias and Ataranur, but neither his brother nor the masked wizard seemed inclined to conversation. Around them the army of Knightreach made their way back to their camps below the walls of Castle Town and Knightcastle.
And well away from the runedead on the south bank.
“What is it?” said Gerald.
Circan beckoned, and Gerald followed the wizard away from the other lords.
“I think,” said Circan, voice low, “I think I know who Ataranur really is.”
“Who?” said Gerald.
“Lucan Mandragon,” said Circan.
“But that is impossible,” said Gerald. “Lucan is dead. Mazael slew him at Swordgrim. And even if he had survived…why come to Knightcastle? Would he not remain in the Grim Marches to take vengeance on Mazael?”
“I know it is…unlikely, sir knight,” said Circan. “But it is Lucan. I fought alongside him at Deepforest Keep. The spell Ataranur used to dispel that giant image of Caraster? I saw Lucan use that exact same spell, in that exact same way, during the siege of Deepforest Keep. A wizard has a distinctive…style, for lack of a better word, just as a practiced eye can recognize an individual knight by his style of swordplay.”
Gerald nodded, looking at Ataranur.
It seemed incredible…but Ataranur was about Lucan’s height.
“You are certain?” said Gerald at last.
“Absolutely,” said Circan.
“Tell no one,” said Gerald. “I…shall have to take action myself.”
Gerald had feared that Ataranur was a dark wizard, a renegade or a necromancer.
The truth was much worse…and Lucan had both Lord Malden and Grand Master Caldarus in his thrall. And from what Gerald had seen, Lucan had the magical power to kill Gerald in a heartbeat.
He did not see how he could possibly oppose a wizard of Lucan Mandragon’s might.
But Gerald would not let Lucan destroy Knightcastle.
Chapter 30 – A Second Pact
Malaric paced back and forth, thinking.
Rosala smiled at him from her blankets. "My lord Prince should come back to bed."
"Your lord Prince thinks you should shut up," snapped Malaric. He stalked to the balcony and gazed at the Inner City. Barellion looked calm, even peaceful. But with the destruction of the host of Greycoast, he knew it was an illusion. Five hundred armsmen had remained behind to garrison the Prince's Keep, all that remained of the men sworn to the Prince of Barellion. The city had two thousand militia, devoted to patrolling the walls and keeping criminals off the streets, but they were peasants with spears, not warriors. They would not stand up against the Aegonar.
Twenty-five hundred men against tens of thousands of Aegonar…and those men would turn on Malaric in a heartbeat.
He gripped the railing, trying to think.
What the devil was he going to do?
No doubt some of the lords had survived the disaster at Castle Bridge. Yet those who had escaped would flee to their castles. They would not return to Barellion. And they certainly would not heed his commands.
They had obeyed him out of terror. But then he lost the battle. And no one feared a Prince who lost a battle.
Rosala rose naked from the blankets, her bare feet making no sound against the floor.
Malaric wondered if he could gather a force of runedead to oppose the Aegonar. Yet Prince Everard and his sons had been too thorough, and only a few scattered bands of runedead remained in Greycoast. Malaric could not possibly gather enough to oppose the Aegonar. And even if he did, Skalatan was with the Aegonar, and Skalatan's mastery of necromancy exceeded Malaric's own. Skalatan could seize control of any runedead Malaric gathered.
Malaric needed help.
Could Lucan aid him? He had gone to Knightcastle to open his precious Door of Souls. But why would he help Malaric? Lucan didn't need him. What sort of price would Lucan demand?
Rosala stood behind him, pressed herself against his back. "Come back to bed, my Prince. You have too many worries."
Malaric shoved her away. "I said to be silent! Go..."
The dagger plunged between his ribs.
Malaric stumbled forward, clutching at the railing for balance. Rosala ripped the dagger free and thrust it into his side once more.
"A gift from the First Dagger, my Prince," she purred, "a dagger..."
Malaric snarled, summoned power, and slammed his hand into Rosala's face. Psychokinetic force erupted from his hand and hammered into her head, her body catapulting across the room.
She collapsed in a lifeless tangle of bare limbs, her glassy blue eyes gazing at him.
Malaric cursed and examined his wound. Already it shrank as the skull's Demonsouled power healed him, but he felt a burning numbness around the wound. Rosala had poisoned the dagger. For a terrible moment fear gripped him, but the numbness faded.
Whatever poison Rosala had used was not strong enough to overcome the Demonsouled healing.
Rage replaced his fear.
No doubt the First Dagger planned to dispose of Malaric and slink back into the shadows while the Aegonar conquered the city. Malaric stormed into his bedroom, snatched up his sword belt, and buckled it around his waist. The First Dagger would regret this treachery. Malaric would kill every last one of the Skulls and cut the smile from that fat pig's smirking face.
He strode into the shadows, reappearing in Souther's study in the old barracks.
But the room was empty.
Malaric turned in a circle. Souther’s desk was gone, as were his weapons and his tools. Even that damned book of romantic poetry was gone. Malaric walked the shadows to the barracks’ first floor and found it deserted. The bunks were empty and the common room silent.
The Skulls had deserted him.
Souther was a treacherous weasel, but the First Dagger was not stupid. One did not survive as the First Dagger of the Skulls otherwise. If he had forsaken Malaric, he thought that Malaric was doomed.
Malaric bellowed in fury and kicked one of the bunks with Demonsouled strength. It shattered into kindling, the fragments bouncing across the floor. Perhaps it was time to flee Barellion. With the power to stride through the shadows, he could travel anywhere in a matter of days. He could leave Greycoast behind, carve out a kingdom of his own somewhere…
“No,” growled Malaric.
Barellion was his. And no one would ever take it from him…
“Destroying the furniture,” said a dry, hissing voice, “will not resolve your plight.”
Malaric turned, drawing his sword and the caethweisyr. A figure in a hooded gray robe stood on the other end of the barracks, green sparks flaring around its sleeves. Inside the robe’s cowl, Malaric glimpsed yellow eyes and crimson scales.
“Skalatan,” said Malaric. He gestured at the hooded form. “I suppose this is another illusion?”
“Of course,” said the San-keth archpriest. “I have not survived this long by taking foolish chances. A lesson, alas, you have yet to learn.”
“What do you want?” said Malaric. “Have you come to gloat at my misfortunes?”
“Your
misfortunes?” said Skalatan. “That implies your difficulties are the result of random chance. You lost the battle at Castle Bridge entirely through your poor decisions…”
“Silence!” said Malaric, but Skalatan kept speaking.
“And you chose to betray me,” said Skalatan. “With my aid, you could have been secure upon the throne of Barellion. Instead your vassals have forsaken you, and the Aegonar march for Barellion. It will be interesting to see if the Aegonar kill you, or if one of your vassals manages it first.”
“I said to be silent!” said Malaric. “Have you come here for a useful purpose or not?”
Skalatan’s tongue flickered out of the hood. “I have come bearing news. A second army marches for Barellion.”
“Other than the Aegonar?” said Malaric.
“Yes. An army under the command of Hugh Chalsain, who names himself the Prince of Barellion. With him march several of your vassals, the ones who escaped the slaughter at Castle Bridge. Though I suppose they are now Hugh’s vassals, not yours.”
“Hugh,” spat Malaric. “Souther couldn’t even do that right.” Hugh was a useless brat, but after Malaric’s defeat, the lords of Greycoast would rally to him.
Just as well he had kept Adelaide prisoner. Perhaps Hugh would reconsider if Malaric sent him her fingers in a box.
“Indeed,” said Skalatan. “Twenty-two thousand men march with him, and more rally to his banner every day. How many do you have left? A few hundred? What will they do when the lawful Prince arrives to claim his father’s throne?”
“I am the lawful Prince!” said Malaric.
Skalatan’s hissing laughter echoed in his ears. “You murdered your father and brothers and took the throne. By the laws of your race, I believe that makes Hugh Chalsain the lawful Prince.”
“I should have been,” said Malaric, “the rightful heir.”
“And a curious banner flies with Hugh’s,” said Skalatan. “Three crossed swords, on a field of black.”
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 36
