Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “So?” said Malaric. “Why are you…”

  The Cravenlock banner. Mazael Cravenlock’s banner had been three crossed swords on a black field.

  “No,” said Malaric. “No, he’s dead. I killed both him and his wife. He’s dead.”

  “Evidently,” said Skalatan, “not.”

  “He’s dead!” shouted Malaric.

  “Either you lied to me,” said Skalatan, “or you were stupid enough to believe him dead when he was not. I have observed their host from afar using my spells. Mazael Cravenlock rides with Hugh Chalsain, along with his with daughter and the bearer of the Guardian’s staff.”

  “But that is preposterous,” said Malaric. “Why would Mazael aid Hugh?”

  Skalatan sighed. “To find us. Can you not see? Mazael’s Demonsouled nature allowed him to overcome my venom, but you wounded his Elderborn-blooded wife. The Guardian must have suspended her life in some fashion, for the only cure to my venom is my blood. Furthermore, the Guardian could use my venom to track me, if the venom was in the blood of a living woman. Therefore Romaria Cravenlock is still alive, and Mazael has followed us to save his wife.”

  Malaric laughed. “Then it’s you he wants, not me.”

  “Are you truly so blind?” said Skalatan. “He is a child of the Old Demon, and you wounded him. You left his wife lying at the brink of death. Do you have any idea what he will do to you when he finds you?”

  Malaric could imagine. He had beaten Mazael in their last fight, but only with the aid of Skalatan’s venom. This time Mazael would have the aid of Molly and the Guardian. Malaric could not overcome all of them at once.

  “Your folly,” said Skalatan, “has put powerful enemies upon your trail.”

  Malaric said nothing. The damned old serpent was right.

  “But perhaps the blame is mine,” said Skalatan. “The skull you bear carries great power, and I assumed you would make better use of it. Clearly, I overestimated your wits.”

  “Stop insulting me,” said Malaric, “and make your offer.”

  The gray robe rippled as Skalatan’s coils shifted. “Oh?”

  “You would not bother speaking with me,” said Malaric, “unless you had something in mind. Out with it. What do you want?”

  “If Mazael Cravenlock and your brother do not claim your head,” said Skalatan, “the Aegonar will. But it is within my power to save you. You can keep the throne of Barellion and rule over Greycoast as you please.”

  “Even thought I tried to enslave you?” said Malaric.

  The shoulders of Skalatan’s skeletal carrier moved in a shrug. “One must expect tantrums from children.”

  Malaric swallowed his rage. “And what would you require for this generous offer?”

  “First,” said Skalatan, “you will swear loyalty and fealty to Agantyr, High King of the Aegonar. You would remain Prince, but you will rule Barellion and Greycoast as his vassal.”

  Malaric scowled. “Then I am to be a puppet?”

  “Correct,” said Skalatan. “Second, you will suppress the Amathavian church in your lands, and order a temple to Sepharivaim raised in every village and town. Should any of your nobles refuse to swear to Sepharivaim, execute them and award their lands to an Aegonar earl.”

  “Is that all?” said Malaric. He cared nothing for the Amathavian church and its feeble gods of mercy, but banning the church would turn every man in Greycoast against him, and give the neighboring liege lords and the Justiciar Order a pretext for war.

  “No,” said Skalatan. “Finally, after we have secured Greycoast, you will gather your army and march south with the Aegonar as they attack Knightcastle.”

  “Knightcastle?” said Malaric. “Why? Do you want Lucan’s Door of Souls for yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Skalatan.

  “Then why not open a mistgate and go to Knightcastle?” said Malaric. “It is within your power.”

  “Actually, it is not,” said Skalatan. “A mistgate cannot cross an ocean. This, along with the necessity to acquire certain additional relics, is why we needed to invade Greycoast. Furthermore, mistgates are difficult and imprecise. Not even the greatest wizards of the Dark Elderborn, working in concert, could open a mistgate long enough to transport the entire Aegonar host.” He hissed. “Additionally, Lucan Mandragon has already begun awakening the Door of Souls. That generates tremendous magical disruption in the spirit world, making it all the harder to conjure a mistgate.” Skalatan’s head leaned out of the cowl, the yellow eyes gazing at Malaric. “But that is not your concern. Do you accept my offer or not?”

  Malaric turned away with a curse. What Skalatan offered was pathetic. It would turn Malaric into a puppet, a figurehead the Aegonar kept on the throne of Barellion to justify their rule. Malaric ought to leave Greycoast behind, claim a realm for himself somewhere far from the reach of both Mazael and the San-keth.

  But that would mean abandoning Barellion.

  Malaric’s hands curled into fists. Barellion belonged to him. It had always belonged to him, not to Prince Everard, not to Rodric, and certainly not to that sniveling whelp Hugh.

  And Malaric would not surrender Barellion to anyone.

  “Very well,” said Malaric. “I…accept your offer.”

  He could not tell if Skalatan’s hiss was a laugh or not.

  “Excellent,” said Skalatan. “It is good that you at last see the path of wisdom. Open the city’s northern gate. The High King shall arrive shortly.”

  “What?” said Malaric. “The Aegonar are still four days away.”

  “Yes,” said Skalatan, “but Hugh’s army is not. I can open a mistgate long enough for Agantyr and his choice warriors to arrive. They shall hold the city until the rest of our host can reach us. Then they shall smash Hugh’s army against the walls of Barellion, and Greycoast shall be yours.”

  No, thought Malaric, Greycoast would belong to the Aegonar. But Malaric would play along for now.

  Life offered hope…and he could always betray Skalatan and the Aegonar later.

  Skalatan hissed laughter, as if he had guessed Malaric’s thoughts.

  “Why don’t you open a mistgate within the city itself?” said Malaric. “You wouldn’t need to bother with me at all.”

  “The ancient wards woven into the walls of Barellion,” said Skalatan, “block any attempt to open a mistgate from outside the city. From within the city, I could open a mistgate with ease. But opening a mistgate into the city from outside the walls is impossible.”

  “Indeed?” said Malaric. “I never knew there were wards upon the walls.”

  “That is because your race has a short memory for matters of importance,” said Skalatan. “One final matter. The Demonsouled skull. I trust you have secured it properly?”

  “Of course,” said Malaric. “It is safe in the Study Tower. Behind wards that you cannot penetrate, and defended by a watcher that could destroy even you.”

  “Good,” said Skalatan. “Think of what would happen to you if the skull fell into the hands of the Tervingi Guardian.”

  Malaric tried not to flinch, but did.

  “Open the northern gate in one hour,” said Skalatan. “We shall meet you there.”

  The image vanished, leaving Malaric alone in the empty barracks.

  He stared at the wall for a long time, fuming.

  Then he walked into the shadows, making for Barellion’s northern gate.

  ###

  The Gate of Bishops faced north, towards the Bannered Forest and the River of Lords. A troop of militiamen guarded the gates, and dispersed at Malaric’s command. They glared at him with fear and loathing.

  But they left without violence, and Malaric opened the gate by himself.

  He strode through the opened gates and onto the road leading north. The countryside beyond looked peaceful. Forests and pastures and the occasional village.

  And in a few days over the Aegonar tide would wash over it.

  Gray mist swirled a dozen yards before him, and Malar
ic felt the surge of magical force. The mist rose into a sheet ten yards high and ten wide, and through it Malaric glimpsed a distant field filled with tents and carts.

  And thousands upon thousands of Aegonar.

  The first Aegonar marched through the mistgate a moment later. They ignored Malaric and strode for the Gate of Bishops, taking it for themselves. More and more Aegonar came through, and Malaric saw the bronze helms of ulfhednar amongst them.

  Then the mistgate rippled, and Skalatan and Agantyr appeared.

  The Aegonar High King was huge, head and shoulders taller than Malaric. His face looked as if it had been hammered from granite, and his black eyes regarded Malaric with amused contempt. His armor had been gilded, and a diadem fashioned in the shape of a golden serpent rested upon his gray-streaked red hair.

  “So, Herald,” said Agantyr, his voice a rumble. “This is the traitor Prince you have promised me?”

  “It is, noble High King,” said Skalatan. His head swayed back and forth within his cowl. “I give you Malaric Chalsain, Prince of Barellion, who has agreed to become your vassal.”

  “Good,” said Agantyr. “Come, my servant. I wish to see the splendors of my new city.”

  Rage blazed within Malaric…but he forced himself to swallow it, and led the Aegonar High King to Barellion.

  ###

  Skalatan brought over four thousand Aegonar warriors and ulfhednar through the mistgate before it collapsed, and the warriors took control of the city with ease. A few militiamen tried to make a fight of it, but the Aegonar killed them, and the citizens of Barellion locked themselves within their homes.

  Which was just as well. There was no one to witness Malaric’s humiliation in the square below the Prince’s Keep.

  He knelt before Agantyr and offered up his sword to the High King.

  “I, Malaric Chalsain, Prince of Barellion,” said Malaric, “do pledge fealty, loyalty, and obedience to Agantyr, High King of the Aegonar, Anointed of Sepharivaim, and Lord of Greycoast, Knightreach, and the Aegonath Isles. In the name of Sepharivaim, I swear to defend you against your foes and serve you to my last breath.”

  It was just as well he cared nothing for Sepharivaim, given that he planned to betray the Aegonar after they killed Hugh for him.

  “And I, Agantyr, High King of the Aegonar and the Anointed of Sepharivaim,” said Agantyr, taking the sword, “do accept you, Malaric Chalsain, as my vassal. I will protect you from your foes and defend your lands. Receive from my hand,” the hard lips curled in a mocking smile, “the city of Barellion, to use for your support and maintenance.”

  “I thank you,” said Malaric, keeping the fury from his face, “my King.”

  “Rise,” said Agantyr to his newest vassal.

  Malaric rose, and Agantyr handed him back the sword.

  “Come,” said Agantyr. “We will inspect our defenses, and prepare for your brother’s arrival. When his host lays siege to the walls, we shall hold them off…and then Earl Ryntald will arrive with the rest of my forces and smash them. Give commands for…”

  An Agantyr warrior sprinted into the plaza, face grim.

  “No need to wait for Hugh Chalsain’s army, High King,” said Skalatan. “I suspect is it here.”

  Chapter 31 – Unmasked

  Gerald took a deep breath and adjusted his cloak.

  In the next few minutes, he was either going to save Knightreach or he was going to die.

  The vassals and knights of Lord Malden Roland filled the Hall of Triumph, speaking in low, frightened voices. The officers of the Justiciar Order stood near the dais, and unlike the nobles, did not look afraid.

  If anything, they looked…younger.

  Especially those who bore black daggers identical to the ones Malden and Caldarus carried.

  If it came to a fight, Gerald intended to strike down Caldarus.

  But only after he dealt with Ataranur, or Lucan Mandragon, or whatever was really behind that steel mask.

  The object of the nobles’ fear stood before the dais. A dozen runedead stood there, motionless as statues, symbols of green fire upon their pale foreheads. Lord Malden sat upon his chair atop the dais, his hair like gleaming gold, his skin smooth and unlined, his blue eyes bright and clear.

  He looked younger than Gerald.

  “They will obey me without question?” said Lord Malden.

  “Yes, my lord,” said the man calling himself Ataranur. “Caraster bound them with his dark spells, but he is slain. You are the rightful lord of Knightcastle, my lord, so the runedead will submit to you. And you, Grand Master, for the justice of your righteous mission.”

  Gerald stopped besides his brother Tobias and Lord Adalar, both of whom looked at the undead things with disgust.

  “My lord,” said Lord Agravain. “Can we remove these…creatures from the Hall of Triumph? Surely they are unclean, and their…scent may carry plague.”

  “Be silent, Agravain,” said Malden with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Think of what we can do with an army of invincible warriors,” said Caldarus. Like Malden, he looked like a vigorous man of twenty, his body heavy with muscle, his skin smooth and clear. “You could march at their head and conquer the neighboring lands – Greycoast, the High Plain, the Stormvales, even the Grim Marches. You could make yourself King over the entire realm.” Caldarus’s hands curled into fists. “And with this host, the Justiciars can destroy the San-keth and the worshippers of the Elderborn gods. We could purge every last hint of evil from the entire world.”

  His hand strayed to his black dagger as he spoke.

  The thought of Caldarus commanding the runedead was almost as bad as Caraster. Gerald had heard of the Justiciars’ recent atrocities, the rampages they had carried out in the villages of Knightreach. Hundreds of people had been dragged from their homes, accused of supporting Caraster or worshipping the serpent god, and then put to death with those black daggers.

  But why? Why such wanton carnage?

  “In a few days,” said Lord Malden, rising from his seat, “we shall march. With the Justiciars at our side, we will go from village to village and town to town, purging the land of the wicked. The other lords shall acknowledge Knightcastle as their liege or perish. Soon…”

  Gerald had to stop this madness.

  His father kept speaking, and Gerald moved. He strode up the dais, and his father’s speech faltered in surprise. Gerald stepped forward, seized Ataranur’s steel mask, and ripped it away.

  The cowl fell back, and Gerald found himself looking at the pitiless black eyes and gaunt, pale face of Lucan Mandragon. A black diadem fashioned in the shape of a dragon encircled his brow, its claws cradling a glowing green emerald. Gerald recognized the Banurdem, the diadem of Old Dracaryl that Corvad had worn.

  A stunned silence fell over the Hall.

  “So,” said Lucan, voice quiet. “You were always brave, Sir Gerald.”

  Malden stared at Lucan, blinking.

  “What is this?” said Malden at last.

  “Do you not see, Father?” said Gerald, stepping past Lucan so the entire Hall could see the wizard’s face. “He has been lying to you for weeks! He is no more High Elderborn than I am. This is Lucan Mandragon, the architect of the Great Rising, the son of your most hated enemy…and you have been following his counsel.”

  Malden said nothing, his face pale, while Caldarus scowled.

  Lucan said nothing and did not move.

  “Everything he has done has been a deception,” said Gerald. “It was his spells that raised the runedead, not the wrath of the gods or the sins of men. His every word to you has been a lie.”

  He looked at Lucan, expecting the wizard to argue or unleash a spell, but Lucan said nothing. He didn’t even blink.

  A cold chill spread through Gerald.

  He didn’t think Lucan was breathing.

  “Father, Grand Master, you must act,” said Gerald, pointing at Lucan. “Everything we have suffered since the Great Rising, everything we
have lost, was his doing. Now he has tried to beguile you with lies. You must have him imprisoned, or banish him from Knightreach forever.”

  No one spoke. Gerald looked at his father, at Lucan, and then back at his father. If it came to a fight, Lucan could probably reduce Knightcastle to a heap of smoking rubble. But Lucan must require Malden’s and Caldarus’s willing cooperation for something. Else he wouldn’t have bothered with subterfuge.

  Malden stared at Lucan, a muscle trembling in his temple.

  “Father,” said Gerald. “Think of what you have done. You attacked a servant. You beat Mother, and you never raised a hand against a woman before in your life. You sent the Justiciars to murder people under your protection. This…this is not you. Turn aside from whatever lies Lucan has told you. It is not too late.”

  Malden looked at Gerald, opened his mouth, closed it again.

  “I healed you,” said Lucan.

  Malden flinched.

  Lucan stepped towards Malden. “When I first came to you, my lord Malden, you were a sick old man. Now you are young and strong again. When I came to Knightcastle, Caraster was ready to destroy you. And now Caraster is slain, and his runedead await your command.” His eyes turned towards Caldarus. "And you, Grand Master. The Great Rising had brought the Justiciars to the verge of collapse. Now you have regained your youth and vigor, and the Justiciars are strong again. The other lords laughed at your and ignored your righteous mission to rid the world of evil. Will they laugh at you now? Will they ignore you?"

  "No," said Caldarus, smiling. "They will not."

  "You deceived me," said Malden. "And you healed me..." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "A servant. You must have killed a servant. That's how you healed me."

  "Yes," said Lucan. "I deny it not. I did what I have always done."

  "And what is that?" said Gerald. "Deception? Murder?"

  "I acted for the greater good," said Lucan. "Have I not?" He pointed at Malden. "You are restored. Knightreach is safe. And..."

  "And all those villagers you commanded the Justiciars to kill?" said Gerald.