Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  "I'm not going to fight him," said Mazael. "I'm going to kill him."

  He strode deeper into the Prince's Keep, the compass in his left hand, Lion shining with blue fire in his right.

  Chapter 35 - Mazael's Choice

  Mazael stepped onto the central keep’s rooftop.

  "So," hissed a dry voice, cold and emotionless, "it seems Malaric has failed."

  The top of the great keep was nearly thirty yards across. A tall wooden staff rose overhead, flying the crimson and black banner of the Aegonar. The stairs opened onto the exact center of the turret, and Mazael stood beneath the rippling banner. To his left, fifteen yards away, a metal brazier rested against the battlements, filled with glowing coals. A tall wooden tripod stood over the brazier, dangling a cloth bag four or five feet over the coals.

  To his right, fifteen yards in the other direction, stood a gaunt figure in a ragged gray robe. Skeletal hands jutted from the robe’s sleeves, green sparks flaring around the joints. The robe’s cowl had fallen back, revealing a wedge-shaped head covered in crimson and black scales, its unblinking yellow eyes watching Mazael.

  Skalatan.

  At long last.

  Behind Skalatan shimmered a sheet of gray mist the size of a doorway. Through the mist Mazael saw an army encamped along the bank of a river. A mistgate, similar to those Corvad’s Malrag warlocks had conjured.

  One step backwards, and Skalatan would escape Mazael.

  “Tell me,” said Skalatan, “is Malaric dead?”

  “Yes,” said Mazael.

  “How did he die?” said Skalatan.

  “Not well,” said Mazael, taking a step towards the archpriest.

  “I suggest,” said Skalatan, “that you do not move.”

  “Or what?” said Mazael. “You’ll call your magic and blast me to ashes?”

  “Or,” said Skalatan, “it will be that much harder to save your wife.”

  Mazael said nothing, his fingers tightening against Lion’s hilt.

  “Be wary.” Morebeth’s voice murmured in his ear, and Mazael saw her standing a short distance away, black gown motionless despite the wind. “The serpent has laid a trap for you.”

  Skalatan’s yellow eyes shifted towards her. “The spirit offers wise counsel.”

  For the first time, astonishment flickered across Morebeth’s pale face.

  “You can see me?” she said.

  “You can see her?” said Mazael.

  “Of course,” said Skalatan, his forked tongue lashing at the air. “I assume she is the soul of a slain Demonsouled? Perhaps another child of the Old Demon? You are strong, Lord Mazael…strong enough to draw the souls of the slain Demonsouled from Cythraul Urdvul to yourself.”

  “You know about Cythraul Urdvul?” said Mazael.

  “Indeed,” said Skalatan. “What do you think this has been about? The Aegonar? Converting the world to the worship of Sepharivaim? No. Sepharivaim is dead.”

  “A curious thing for a San-keth archpriest to say,” said Mazael.

  The skeletal shoulders of Skalatan’s carrier twitched in a reasonable approximation of a human shrug. “Nevertheless. Sepharivaim was destroyed long millennia ago, despite the protestations of my brethren.”

  “Then why convince the Aegonar to worship him?” said Mazael.

  “Because it made the Aegonar into loyal servants,” said Skalatan. “And I have need of loyal servants, for the hour has come. For almost thirty centuries, the Old Demon has harvested the power of slain Demonsouled, allowing it to gather in Cythraul Urdvul, and at last he has gathered enough power. He need only enter Cythraul Urdvul in the flesh to claim it…and then he shall become the new god.”

  “You are here to help him?” said Mazael.

  “No more than you are,” said Skalatan. “I am here to stop him.”

  Mazael blinked. “To stop him? You're fighting against him?”

  “I am,” said Skalatan. “You are the Old Demon’s son, Mazael Cravenlock. You know what sort of creature your father is. Mad and needlessly cruel, willing to destroy the world if it makes him the tiniest bit stronger. He lacks both vision and purpose. He cannot be allowed to transform himself into a new god. If he does, he will remake the world in his own twisted image, and enslave the souls of every living creature. This cannot be allowed.”

  “And so,” said Morebeth’s spirit, “you seek to claim the power for yourself. You will try to become the new Sepharivaim.”

  “Precisely,” said Skalatan.

  “And how does that make you any different than the Old Demon?” said Mazael.

  “For all his power and age,” said Skalatan, “the Old Demon is little different than any other human. He is driven by his emotions, by his pride and arrogance. If he becomes the new god, he will remake the world into a reflection of his own corrupted mind.”

  “You would be better, I suppose?” said Mazael.

  “Immeasurably,” said Skalatan. “Humans are…unbalanced, driven by both emotion and animal lusts. The mind of a San-keth is cold and logical. Rational. And this world is infested by both chaos and madness. Were I to claim the power of the Demonsouled, I would use it to reshape this world into a new and better form. One free of folly and madness, one ordered according to rational principles.”

  “That sounds like slavery just as profound as the one my father desires to impose,” said Mazael. “But at least he does not claim it will be for the good of his victims.”

  “Your feelings on the matter are of no consequence,” said Skalatan. “You should assist me.”

  Mazael laughed. “And why would I possibly do that?”

  “Because of those desiring to claim the power of Cythraul Urdvul,” said Skalatan, “I am the best choice. Else a ravening beast like the Old Demon shall become the new god, or a pride-blinded fool like Lucan Mandragon.”

  “Lucan Mandragon is dead,” said Mazael. Skalatan’s answering hiss resembled a laugh. “Both my feelings and yours are of no consequence. You cannot physically enter Cythraul Urdvul to take the power, and even if you did, you have no means of claiming it.”

  “Soon the way to Cythraul Urdvul will be opened,” said Skalatan, “though you know it not. I have the means to claim the power, thanks to you and your son.”

  He reached into his robes and drew out a human skull. Dozens of tiny sigils burned upon the skull's brow and jaw, pulsing with the same crimson light Mazael had seen in Cythraul Urdvul's black heart.

  “That’s Corvad's skull, isn't it?” said Mazael. The realization came to him. “And that is why you allied yourself with Malaric. To claim that skull for yourself. Everything else was just a show.”

  The San-keth’s hiss sounded almost irritated. “Malaric made it…exceedingly difficult. Had he shown wisdom, I would have been content to leave him in control of Barellion. Instead his folly led to his destruction. But now I have the skull of a powerful Demonsouled…and with it, I can claim the power at Cythraul Urdvul.”

  “Why Corvad’s skull?” said Mazael. “There are other dead Demonsouled. Why not Amalric Galbraith, or Ragnachar?” He looked at Morebeth. “Why not hers?”

  “Because the Great Rising animated their corpses as runedead,” said Skalatan, “rendering them useless for my purpose. Malaric prepared Corvad’s skull before the Great Rising, and therefore it retained its power.”

  “Why not simply kill Mazael,” said Morebeth, “and claim his skull? Surely that was the most logical option.”

  “And the riskiest,” said Skalatan. “Killing a child of the Old Demon is a dangerous undertaking.”

  “As Malaric discovered,” said Mazael.

  “Indeed,” said Skalatan. “I urge you to assist me, Lord Mazael.”

  Mazael laughed. “If I fall down and worship Sepharivaim, you’ll give me the world, is that it?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Sepharivaim is dead. Therefore I must take his place,” said Skalatan. “With your aid, I will reach Cythraul Urdvul before the Old Demon. Then I can claim the power…an
d use it to remake this world in a new, better form.”

  “You claim to be better than the Old Demon,” said Mazael, “but I never heard of you before you poisoned my wife and tried to murder me.” He pointed Lion’s blazing blade at the archpriest. “You needed to get the skull from Malaric. You didn’t need to send him to kill me.”

  “That was a…miscalculation,” said Skalatan. “For almost all of the power of the Demonsouled has been gathered in Cythraul Urdvul. And you will be…drawn to it, like a nail to a lodestone. The power of your soul will ensure it. And by killing you, I hoped to ensure that you would not interfere with me. Alas, it seems I overestimated Malaric’s competence.”

  “Grossly,” said Mazael. “But why would I be drawn to Cythraul Urdvul?”

  “Because you are one of the last remaining Demonsouled,” said Skalatan.

  “He’s right,” murmured Morebeth.

  “How is that possible?” said Mazael.

  “The Great Rising,” said Skalatan, “was far more effective than you realized. In the first moments after Lucan Mandragon raised the runedead, they killed almost all the Demonsouled. You survived, Lord Mazael, as did your daughter, because of the magical power in your sword. But most Demonsouled did not wield such a potent weapon. For all their strength, for all their power, they were slain…and their power drawn to Cythraul Urdvul. You, your daughter, and the Old Demon are possibly the only Demonsouled left alive. One of considerable power remained in Mastaria, but he perished a week past.”

  “So that is why I will be drawn to Cythraul Urdvul,” said Mazael. “Because almost all the power has been assembled, and the power within me is drawn to it.”

  “Correct,” said Skalatan. “You dream of it, do you not? When the way to Cythraul Urdvul is at last opened after all these centuries, you will be there, if you are still alive. It is inevitable. Therefore join with me, and prevent the horrors the Old Demon would inflict upon this world if he claims the power. Join me, and we can tame this world of chaos and bring it to order.”

  For a moment silence reigned atop the tower, save for the rustle of the wind and the crackling of the coals in the brazier.

  “No,” said Mazael. “I’m going to kill you, take your blood, and heal Romaria. Run through that mistgate, and I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. After you’re dead, I will find the Old Demon and stop him, too. Then no one will claim the power in the black temple, and neither the Old Demon nor a pompous serpent will become a new god.”

  “As I anticipated,” said Skalatan. “Then you have a choice to make.”

  “And that is?” said Mazael.

  “If I step through this mistgate,” said Skalatan, “you will never kill me. I will return to the heart of the Aegonar host, and even with all your power and skill, you cannot fight your way through thirty thousand Aegonar warriors. Do so and you will be slain, and the Old Demon and I shall contest for the mastery of this world. And your wife will lie forever between life and death.”

  Mazael said nothing.

  “But in that bag,” said Skalatan, a skeletal hand pointing at the cloth bag hanging over the brazier, “is a glass vial of my blood. Exactly the quantity of blood you need to heal a half-human, half-Elderborn woman poisoned by my venom.”

  “A fine trick,” said Mazael. “If I take the vial, you’ll flee through your mistgate, and I’ll find the vial is full of snake piss.”

  “No,” murmured Morebeth, drifting to stand near the brazier. “No, brother. He is telling the truth. That is his blood. I can see its power.”

  Mazael glared at Skalatan. “Why?”

  “Because I do not underestimate you, Lord Mazael,” said Skalatan. "Consider all the foes you have defeated. Skhath, Straganis, Szegan, Amalric Galbraith, your sister,” he glanced at Morebeth, “Ragnachar, Malavost, Ultorin, the Dominiar Order…all of them underestimated you. If I do not give you the blood, you will hound me, as you said, to the ends of the earth. Perhaps you will even slay me. But if you take that blood…I can retreat, and you will return to the Grim Marches to heal your wife. By then my preparations shall be complete, and you will not be able to stop me.”

  Mazael laughed. “A clever plan, but with one flaw.”

  “Oh?” said Skalatan.

  “If I kill you before you get through that mistgate, I can take the blood at my leisure,” said Mazael.

  “You won't,” said Skalatan. “Do you know from what height a glass vial of that size and weight must be dropped in order to shatter it?”

  “Enlighten me,” said Mazael.

  “Precisely five feet,” said Skalatan, waving a skeletal hand, “and two inches.”

  The flames in the brazier roared up, and the cloth bag holding the vial of blood burst into fire. In another few seconds it would be consumed.

  And the glass vial within would fall and shatter.

  “Choose,” said Skalatan, stepping into the mistgate.

  It began to close after him.

  Mazael almost flung himself after the San-keth. Perhaps he could get to Skalatan and cut him down before the mistgate collapsed. Or he might find himself trapped on the other side of the gate. Or Skalatan would escape entirely, and the glass vial of blood would shatter.

  And then Mazael would have no way to save Romaria.

  He sprinted at the brazier, drawing on all his Demonsouled strength and speed. The cloth bag shriveled in the flames, and Mazael saw the glint of glass within, saw the vial slide towards the coals…

  He threw himself at the brazier, knocking it over, and caught the glass vial. The leather of his gauntlets shielded his fingers from the heat, but the scattering coals set his sleeves and trousers aflame. Mazael cursed and staggered back to his feet, beating out the flames with his left hand, his right clutching the vial.

  It was still intact, thank the gods.

  Mazael snatched up Lion and spun just in time to see the mistgate vanish.

  He was alone, save for Morebeth’s spirit.

  “That one is clever,” she said.

  “Obviously,” said Mazael, looking at the dark crimson fluid in the glass.

  “Amalric manipulated Straganis and the other San-keth so easily,” said Morebeth. “This one, though…this one is dangerous. Beware of him. Even our father should beware of him.”

  Mazael heard footsteps upon the stairs, and Morebeth vanished. Riothamus hurried into the turret, his clothing and armor disheveled and scorched, the staff of the Guardian glowing in his left hand.

  “Lord Mazael!” said Riothamus. “Molly said you had gone after Skalatan. Is…”

  “Gone,” said Mazael, lifting the vial. “Through a mistgate. He left a vial of his blood behind so I wouldn’t follow him.”

  Riothamus scowled and waved a hand, muttering a spell. “It’s…real. He left behind enough blood to cure Romaria. But no more than that.”

  “Just enough blood,” said Mazael, “to make sure I do not follow him. Or have you use the blood against him in a spell.”

  Morebeth was right. Skalatan was dangerously clever. And Mazael knew his fight with the archpriest was not over.

  But for now, he did not care. He had the means to cure Romaria, and that was more important than anything else.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s find Hugh. The poor fool has a city to rebuild.”

  Mazael paused for a moment, and then swung Lion through the wooden pole.

  The banner of the Aegonar fell.

  Chapter 36 – Coronation

  “Marry me,” said Hugh.

  “But we cannot wed!” said Adelaide.

  Hugh stood alone with her in the great hall, still wearing his bloodstained armor. He had sent Lord Bryce and the other lords and knights to secure the city and hunt down the remaining Aegonar. Sir Edgar had ridden north with his men to scout the Aegonar host. With Agantyr dead, Hugh had no idea what the Aegonar would do next. Would the Aegonar earls fight each other for the High King’s diadem? Would they fall back behind the River of Lords and fortify their conque
sts?

  Or would they choose a new High King and continue towards Barellion?

  Hugh didn’t know, and he suspected he would find out sooner than he liked.

  But right now Adelaide held his attention.

  “Why not?” he said at last.

  “Because you are the Prince,” said Adelaide, “and I am the bastard daughter of a minor lord who lost his lands to the Aegonar.” She looked away. “I would not have men say I seduced the Prince to relieve my poverty.”

  Hugh smiled. “You seduced the Prince's youngest son…who was actively trying to seduce you, I might add. No one thought I would become the Prince.” His voice dropped. “I didn’t want it. I never wanted it. And now…”

  “And now,” said Adelaide. “You have no choice.”

  “Aye,” said Hugh. “I must be the Prince of Greycoast. There is no one else of Chalsain blood, no one else the lords will agree to follow. Left on their own, they will bicker and succumb to the Aegonar one by one. I must be the Prince, or we shall lose both Barellion and the rest of Greycoast to the Aegonar.”

  “And because you must be the Prince,” said Adelaide, “we cannot wed. You need your vassals, Hugh. Wed the daughter of one and bind them closer to you. Lord Bryce has an unwed daughter, as do some of the others.”

  Hugh shuddered. “I’ve met Lord Bryce’s daughter. Her temperament could make the Aegonar quail.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Adelaide, tears in her eyes. “You have to marry the daughter of a powerful lord. That means…that means we can no longer see each other.” She released his hands and stepped back. “This…this is farewell, then.”

  For a moment Hugh stared at her. Her lips trembled, as if expecting a blow. She had remained calm through the Great Rising and the Aegonar invasion, but this...this had brought her to tears.

  “In the past month,” said Hugh, “I have lost my father, my brothers, been taken captive, threatened with execution, raised an army, and marched through war and battle to drive the foe from my city. I will not lose you, too, Adelaide. I will not. Marry me.”

  “But you cannot wed me,” said Adelaide, blinking.