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Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

Page 45

by Moeller, Jonathan


  Riothamus worked nearby, preparing the vial of Skalatan’s blood. Molly stood next to him, and a crowd of nobles and peasants had gathered.

  “Riothamus,” said Mazael, voice quiet. “Thank you for this. You saved her life.”

  Riothamus shrugged. “You found Skalatan, my lord.”

  “And you saved her life long enough for me to find him,” said Mazael. “You fashioned the compass. Aegidia would be proud of you, if she were here. And your own father, I think, if the Malrags had spared him.”

  Riothamus looked at him in surprise. He was usually solemn, but a smile spread over his face. “Thank you, my lord. And may I say…I expect you are a terrible disappointment to your father.”

  Mazael laughed. “I certainly hope so.”

  “I am ready,” said Riothamus.

  “Do it,” said Mazael, taking a deep breath.

  Riothamus muttered a spell, lifting the staff of the Guardian. The tree stirred in response, its branches rustling, and the roots threading Romaria’s skin rippled. Riothamus rested the end of his staff in the roots, the golden light of the staff's sigils brightening.

  Then he opened the vial and poured Skalatan’s blood into the roots.

  There was a pulse of golden light, and then the entire tree shone with the same glow. Mazael watched as the light poured down the roots and into Romaria’s skin. For an instant she seemed wreathed in a cocoon of golden radiance. Then the light faded away, and one by one the roots withdrew from her skin and sank back into the hard earth of the courtyard.

  For a moment nothing happened. Mazael stared at Romaria, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum.

  Then Romaria took a deep breath, and her blue eyes opened.

  ###

  A series of broken images flashed through Romaria’s thoughts.

  Malaric of Barellion, a poisoned dagger in his hand.

  The runedead rising from the earth as ghostly wraiths, hardening into cold dead flesh.

  Mazael falling to the earth, dying.

  A burning fire in her blood, killing her.

  Slowly she realized that the poisoned fire had left, that she felt wonderful.

  Her eyes cleared, and at last she lifted her head.

  She lay beneath a tree in Castle Cravenlock’s courtyard, which was peculiar, because there were no trees in the castle’s courtyard. Her sword and armor were gone, and her clothing was ragged and torn. A crowd of nobles, Tervingi, and servants stood around her.

  Mazael knelt besides her.

  Romaria blinked. “Mazael?”

  He looked older. As if he had aged five years since the last time she had seen him, the lines in his face deeper, gray in his brown hair and beard. And yet he looked relieved, so relieved, like some vast burden had just been taken from him.

  “You’re awake,” he said, his voice little more than a scratchy whisper.

  “Yes,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be? What has happened?”

  For an answer, he caught her in his arms so tightly that her ribs ached.

  ###

  Mazael helped Romaria to stand.

  She looked at him with a mixture of amusement and confusion. Later, he would explain to her what had happened. Later he would find a way to defeat the Aegonar and Skalatan.

  But for now, Romaria was alive and cured.

  And that was enough.

  Epilogue

  The Old Demon stood in the darkness outside Knightcastle, gazing at the walls.

  At the runedead standing guard atop the ramparts.

  He turned his head and looked at the vast undead host waiting motionless between the castle and the town. At the camp of the Justiciar knights, ready to follow their Grand Master into battle. Most of them had black daggers now, killing in the name of righteousness…but really in the name of their own eternal youth.

  And, more precisely, in the name of opening the Door of Souls below Knightcastle.

  Though they knew it not.

  The Old Demon grinned. Sometimes he thought it a pity that he was the only one who knew what was really happening. There was no one who knew how carefully he had arranged events over the millennia. How he had spent long centuries siring children, and then slaying them, sending their power to Cythraul Urdvul. The endless years he had spent plotting, manipulating kings and nations until now, at last…he was almost ready.

  Well. Skalatan knew.

  But sooner or later the archpriest would make a mistake and the Old Demon would destroy him. Skalatan was ancient even by the standards of the long-lived San-keth, but the Old Demon was far older.

  “The young,” said the Old Demon to himself, “are ever fools. So very easy to manipulate.”

  He stepped into the shadows.

  When the darkness cleared he stood in a great vault of white stone that looked almost like the nave of a church. The Door of Souls rose in its center, and silver light glimmered within the pointed arch. Soon it would have enough power to open.

  Lucan Mandragon worked before the Door, green light flaring around his fingers as he cast spells.

  “You have done,” said the Old Demon, “much better than I expected.”

  Lucan did not see or hear him. That was because the Old Demon wished it. Lucan had once accepted help from the Old Demon, and because of that, the Old Demon wielded a degree of control over Lucan that he could not manage over other mortals.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Lucan would not see the Old Demon again until it was far too late.

  He walked around the Door of Souls, watching Lucan work.

  “The daggers you gave the Justiciars,” said the Old Demon. “That was inspired. Not even I would have thought of that.” Even now he felt the stolen life energy flowing into the Door. “And I never thought my most effective tool would be a man who wasn’t even Demonsouled. Life has so many little surprises, does it not?”

  But that was unimportant. He had told Lucan once that it didn’t matter who won the game. The trick was to rig the game so that no matter who won, you came out on top.

  And the Old Demon was about to both come out on top and win the game.

  The world, and everything in it, would belong to him.

  Forever.

  He smiled at the thought.

  Unless one thing went wrong.

  His smile faded.

  “Letting Sir Gerald and his wife get away, though,” murmured the Old Demon. “That was sloppy.” Rachel and her husband would run right to Mazael Cravenlock. The Old Demon did not fear Mazael. He had dealt with recalcitrant sons before, and could do so again.

  But none of his other sons had carried that sword.

  That damned sword.

  Even now, after all those centuries, the Old Demon still remembered the fear he had felt when the High Elderborn had first forged that thing, that weapon intended to find his heart.

  A weapon that Mazael now carried.

  And if Mazael came after him with that sword…

  There were ways to prevent that.

  “And only a fool,” said the Old Demon, “fights his enemy directly.”

  He grabbed Lucan’s hair, pulled the revenant close, and whispered a few sentences. He released Lucan, and the wizard continued his work as if nothing had happened. But in a few moments, the idea he had placed would come to the forefront of Lucan's mind, and then Lucan would act exactly as the Old Demon wished.

  And then Mazael Cravenlock would die, and the Old Demon would enter Cythraul Urdvul and claim the power for himself.

  He strode back into the shadows, leaving Lucan to his tasks.

  ###

  Lucan cast another spell, probing the power gathered within the Door of Souls.

  Soon the Door would have enough power to open. And then Lucan could enter Cythraul Urdvul and rid the world of the curse of the Demonsouled. He had killed so many people, and Tymaen had lost her life. But it would all be justified when a new world, a world free of the Demonsouled, took shape.

  Lucan finished his s
pell, his mind wandering for a moment.

  For an instant, he recalled a ruined black city and a dragon circling overhead, a gaunt man in a black robe laughing at him…

  And then an alarming idea came to him.

  Gerald Roland and Rachel had escaped, along with their followers. At first Lucan had dismissed it as unimportant. He was almost ready, and Gerald could not find allies strong enough to stop Lucan in time.

  Unless he went to Mazael Cravenlock.

  And if Mazael learned that Lucan had survived the Great Rising, after a fashion, he would not hesitate to act. The combined armies of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi nation would march on Knightcastle. The blue fire of Mazael’s sword, spread to his men, would destroy the runedead. And the power of the Tervingi Guardian could challenge Lucan’s.

  Mazael might stop Lucan from destroying the Demonsouled.

  Unless Lucan stopped him first.

  A moment later the answer came to Lucan, and he left the hidden vault below the castle.

  He entered Malden Roland’s rooms. Lord Malden sat on his couch, eyes glassy, his black dagger in hand. A dead servant lay on the floor. Grand Master Caldarus sat nearby, staring into nothing. The more stolen life energy they consumed, the more indolent and sluggish they became.

  And all the more suggestible.

  “Lord Malden, Grand Master,” said Lucan. “I have dire news. My spells have revealed that Mazael Cravenlock is Demonsouled. He has declared himself the Destroyer, and only you stand between him and the destruction of the world.”

  ###

  Skalatan stood before the assembled Aegonar warriors, his carrier's skeletal hands raising the golden serpent diadem.

  “By the will of Sepharivaim and the acclaim of the Aegonar nation,” said Skalatan, “I crown you High King of the Aegonar, and name you the Anointed of Sepharivaim.”

  He placed the diadem upon the head of Ryntald, and the former earl’s eyes glinted.

  A thunderous roar went up from tens of thousands of Aegonar throats.

  Agantyr had been easily biddable, but Ryntald was smarter. Not wise enough to understand Skalatan’s true purpose, of course, but that did not matter. He would make an effective ruler for the Aegonar, a tool worthy of Skalatan's purpose.

  And with his tools, Skalatan would defeat the Old Demon, claim the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and remake the world in his image.

  ###

  Molly Cravenlock wandered through a ruined black temple, a place of terror and splendor, the sky overhead crawling with black clouds and crimson lightning.

  She stopped in what had once been in a vast domed chamber, a huge pillar of trembling crimson flame erupting from the floor and stabbing into the sky. A man in a black robe stood near the flames.

  He turned as she approached, and a scream rose up in Molly’s throat. She knew that lean face, that graying brown hair, those cold gray eyes glazed in crimson fire.

  Her grandfather.

  “Granddaughter,” said the Old Demon, amused. “You, too?”

  Molly’s eyes shot open and she sat up in bed, sweat dripping down her shoulders and back. Riothamus lay besides her, sleeping.

  “What the hell?” she whispered at last.

  ###

  “As soon as the first crop is planted, I wish to march,” said Mazael. “I look forward to showing the Aegonar what a Tervingi war mammoth can do.”

  He stood in Castle Cravenlock’s great hall, speaking to his chief lords and headmen. The Tervingi had proven eager enough for war, ready to avenge the insult the San-keth had dealt to their hrould and his wife. Most of the lords were reluctant, but the prospect of glory and spoils would win them over.

  “My lord!”

  Rufus Highgate, Lord Robert’s eldest son and Mazael’s squire, ran into the hall. Unlike his father, the boy had remained whip-thin, though he had grown quite a bit. Another year and he would be knighted.

  “My lord,” said Rufus, skidding to a stop. “My lord, you must come at once! In the courtyard!”

  Mazael frowned and followed Rufus to the courtyard, the lords and headmen accompanying him.

  He came to a stunned halt atop the stairs to the keep.

  Gerald Roland looked up at him, Rachel at her side. Behind them Mazael saw several of the most powerful lords of Knightreach.

  “Gerald? Rachel?” said Mazael, astonished. “What has happened?”

  “Mazael,” said Gerald. “We need your help.”

  THE END

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  In the meantime, turn the page to read the first chapter of the final book in the DEMONSOULED series, Soul of Swords.

  SOUL OF SWORDS Bonus Chapter

  “That is impossible,” said Mazael Cravenlock, his sword hand curling into a fist. “Lucan Mandragon is dead.”

  He stood in Castle Cravenlock’s courtyard, his wife Romaria at his side. Before him stood an assembly of lords, knights, and noblewomen, their clothes dusty from travel. Mazael recognized them all from his years at Lord Malden’s court. Lord Agravain Rainier, stern and fell. Lord Tancred Stillwater, fat and meticulous, and his son Sir Wesson, solid and solemn. Lord Adalar Greatheart, lean and deadly, and once Mazael’s squire. All the lords and knights looked weary, and a few seemed grief-stricken.

  But Mazael saw terror in every last one of them.

  “I wish he was,” said Gerald Roland. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his jaw shaded with blond stubble. “But I saw him with my own eyes.”

  Mazael shook his head. “I killed him.” His hand brushed his sword’s hilt, the golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head. “I put Lion through Lucan’s heart. He was atop Swordgrim when the Great Rising failed and destroyed the castle. Even if he had survived a sword through his chest, he couldn’t have survived that.”

  “Mazael,” said the woman standing at Gerald’s side. “I don’t think he survived.” She had brown hair and green eyes, and carried a year-old child in her left arm. With her other hand she gripped a boy of about three or four years who stared at Mazael with enormous blue eyes.

  “Rachel,” said Mazael, looking at his sister. “What do you mean?”

  “He was…cold,” said Rachel. “I touched his arm, before I knew who he really was, and it felt like a bar of frozen iron. Mazael, I think he’s undead. I think you killed him and he came back again.”

  “Undead?” said Mazael. He turned to his squire, a boy of thirteen named Rufus Highgate. “Rufus. Get the Guardian and Lady Molly, now.”

  Rufus bowed and ran into the keep.

  “The Guardian?” said Gerald.

  “The wizard of the Tervingi nation,” said Mazael. “We will need his counsel.”

  Gerald nodded, but his eyes remained wary. Dozens of Tervingi swordthains and spearthains were scattered throughout the courtyard. The nobles from Knightreach gave them fearful glances. Though if they had faced armies of runedead, Mazael supposed the Tervingi were hardly a fearful sight by comparison.

  He scratched his beard, glancing at Romaria, and saw the alarm in her blue eyes. Lucan Mandragon had worked the Great Rising and unleashed the runedead. Mazael’s sole consolation from the destruction of Swordgrim was that Lucan was dead and could not hurt anyone else.

  But if Lucan had returned from the dead, if he had been working in Knightcastle all this time…

  “These barbarians,” said Gerald.

  Mazael blinked, shaken out his dark thoughts. “What about them?”

  “Do you trust them?” said Gerald.

  Mazael laughed. “Of course not. But they will follow me. They have chosen me as their hrould, their war leader.” He shook his head. “And against the runedead, all men must stand united.”

  “If Lord Mazael says we can fight alongside the barbarians,” said Adalar, “then we can do so.”

  “And their wizard?” said Rachel. She did not like wizards, and ha
d warned him again and again not to trust Lucan Mandragon.

  Mazael should have heeded her.

  “A good man,” said Mazael. “And without his aid, we would all be dead. When Lucan worked the Great Rising, he cast the spell that spread Lion’s fire to the other swords.”

  Gerald’s eyes widened. “Gods, but that was timely. The first few moments after the runedead appeared were chaos. If not for that fire, they would have slain every man and woman in Knightcastle and Castle Town both.”

  “That was his work,” said Mazael. “We have been through some very dangerous times.”

  “It seems,” said Gerald, “that you have a tale or two of your own to tell.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael, glancing at Romaria, and at the single oak tree that stood in the courtyard. He remembered her lying in the roots of that tree, a heartbeat away from death, her life sustained only by the Guardian’s magic. “Aye, we do.”

  Rufus hurried from the keep’s doors, followed by a man and a woman. The woman was in her early twenties, lean and fit, clad in close fitting dark wool and leather. A slender sword rested on her left hip and a dagger upon her right, the blade fashioned from the tooth of the dragon Mazael had slain in the Great Mountains. She had long brown hair and eyes the color of hammered steel, and they widened when she saw the nobles from Knightreach.

  Behind her walked a Tervingi man of average height with deep blue eyes and thick black hair. Like most Tervingi men, he wore a mail shirt over his clothing. Unlike most Tervingi men, he bore neither sword nor spear. He carried only a staff of bronze-colored wood, its length carved with elaborate sigils.

  But even without weapons of steel, Riothamus son of Rigotharic, Guardian of the Tervingi nation, was one of the most dangerous men in the Grim Marches.

  “Father,” said the woman, “it appears we have guests.”

 

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