What had Marsile done to them?
A hideous moan drifted through the vault, and green light flared in the gloom.
Raelum whirled as two spectral forms rose from the floor, wraiths of twisting smoke and shimmering green light. Symbols of green fire glowed on their faces. He felt the presence of demons against his senses, and his sword burst into white flame.
Marsile had left behind another trap.
The wraiths shrieked, their screams cutting into Raelum’s ears like a knife. Raelum growled and reached for the Light, and again the shimmering aura appeared around him. The wraiths howled again, the pain shuddering through him, but with less effect.
The wraiths swooped at him, reaching with pale hands.
Raelum sidestepped, slashing with his burning sword. The blade tore through the wraiths’ forms, sending them rippling back. Raelum went into a frenzy, hacking and slashing. The wraiths flew back and vanished into the walls.
Raelum waited, his heart pounding. Had he destroyed the wretched things?
The wraiths burst from the walls, and one tried to touch him. His protective aura blunted its touch, but a painful chill shot through him nonetheless. Raelum struck the wraith, and it wailed and reeled away, even the other clawed at him from behind. Raelum struck again and stepped back, sword raised in guard. The wraiths seemed undamaged, immune to the fires of his sword, and Raelum could not keep this up. The wraiths would wear down his protective aura, bit by bit, and when it collapsed….
The wraiths circled him, the green light illuminating the walls, the floors, the corpses sprawled in the corner. Even the bloody sigils on their face seemed to burn…
Raelum frowned. The sigils were burning, shimmering with emerald flames.
The wraiths swooped, freezing fingers clamping on his arms. Raelum’s aura flickered and almost died, his vision blurring.
The wraiths closed around him.
Raelum turned and plunged his sword into one of the corpses. The white fire flowed over it, turning the sigils of green flame into ash. One of the wraiths went motionless. Raelum yanked his sword free and stabbed it into the second corpse. The green glyphs vanished, and the second wraith stopped.
White fire spread through the wraiths’ forms, turning the green light to white. The wraiths’ agonized moans became sighs of relief, and something like gratitude flashed across their faces. The wraiths vanished in a swirl of smoke, the fire on Raelum’s sword flickered out, and the presence of demons against his senses faded.
Raelum gasped and slumped to the floor besides the corpses, panting. He closed his eyes and let the Light flow through him, easing his hurts. After a few minutes, he felt strong enough to move again. He stood, decapitated the monks’ corpses, and staggered back into the monastery’s shrine.
A short search located the monastery’s kitchen. Raelum found an ample supply of winter bread and jerky. He stuffed his pack full and filled several canvas sacks.
He also found a stable behind the monastery, and to his surprise, three terrified horses. They were slow, powerful beasts, best used for pulling plows. They would not make good steeds, but they could carry food. He loaded one horse with harness and supplies, and set the other two free. Better they take their chances in the wild than starve to death here.
Raelum led his horse down the road, leaving the dead monastery behind. He could yet make good progress with the remainder of the daylight. Raelum looked over his shoulder at the monastery’s crumbling towers.
“I will avenge you all,” he hissed under his breath, “I swear it.”
Raelum continued on his way, horse walking behind him.
Chapter 7 - Marsile’s Tribute
When he awoke on the day of his hundred and seventy-ninth birthday, Marsile of Araspan, once an Adept and Magister of the Conclave and a member of the forbidden Secret College, felt terrible.
His joints ached, and a deep, piercing pain dug into his skull behind his left eye. His stomach writhed with nausea, and his hands kept twitching. And every step of his litter bearers sent fresh pain through joints.
“Hold,” rasped Marsile.
His litter bearers stopped, brown robes rustling. Marsile unwrapped himself from his cloak, swung his feet to the ground, and managed to stand. A wave of dizziness spun through him, and he gripped the side of the litter to keep from falling.
His servants stood in silent, unmoving rows, their robes stirring in the wind as they awaited his commands.
“You,” he said, pointing at a servant with several bulging sacks and wineskins. “To me, now.”
The servant obeyed. Marsile tugged a wineskin free and took a long drink. It helped steady his stomach, and Marsile handed the skin back to the servant and forced himself to start walking, despite the aches.
He felt every one of his one hundred and seventy-nine years pressing upon his shoulders. He looked no more than forty-five years of age, fifty at the most. Yet in his lifetime he had traveled most of the known world, survived battles and wars, and today his flesh groaned with years of abuse.
Marsile gritted his teeth and kept walking in a circle around his unmoving servants. Each of his thirty-seven servants wore a voluminous brown robe that concealed all hints of their features. It let them pass as human, at least from a distance. Every one bore baggage; bags, packs, scroll cases, tools, and the like.
Four of his servants carried a long, heavy box that bore a marked resemblance to a coffin. It had been locked and nailed shut, and the faint white glow of multiple warding spells flickered over its surface.
Marsile made certain to keep a good distance from that box.
Some of the aches and pains receded. He had lived thrice the span of a mortal man, yet he felt time catching up. Every day the aches and pains grew a little sharper. It might take another twenty, thirty, even forty years, but sooner or later his overstressed body would simply shut down.
“Forward,” said Marsile. “Steady pace.” His servants moved in a slow, steady walk, unhampered by the baggage’s weight. Marsile walked at their head, working out the last cramps.
He envied his servants their unending strength and stamina. More than once he had contemplated taking a greater demon into his flesh and drawing on its power. He had sufficient power and knowledge to do so safely. Yet even the power of a greater demon could not keep death at bay forever.
Marsile had to find his own path. Which was why he had come to these desolate lands.
He walked for a few miles, his servants behind him, until he felt almost limber.
“Hold.” The servants stopped. “Assemble my chair.” A pair of his servants assembled a portable sedan chair, placing it atop the litter. Marsile sat down with a sigh. “Proceed forward.” The servants lifted the litter and resumed their forward course. Marsile took a few moments to adjust, and leveled his finger again. “You. Bring me the Book of Summoned Dead, and then return to your place in line.”
The creature reached into its sack and produced a heavy book bound in dark leather. A brief gust of wind blew back the creature’s sleeves, revealing skeletal hands bound with leather straps and iron bolts. Marsile took the book and set it upon his lap. Age had worn the cracked leather, and the brass fittings had tarnished with time.
It felt very cold under his hands.
“So,” said Marsile. “The Book of Summoned Dead.”
It had taken him a year to find the book, and five years of searching to discern its location. He had dug through monastic libraries, ancient scrolls, moldering books, whatever records survived from the Old Empire. He had almost gotten killed raiding the library of the Conclave of Araspan when Thalia Kalarien had caught him.
All that effort, and the book held only a portion of the knowledge he required.
No matter. Marsile had interrogated the two Brothers before summoning demon-wraiths out of their memories as a deterrent to his pursuers. One of the Brothers had been the cloister’s librarian, and had known of the Book of Summoned Dead’s companion volume. The monastery of S
t. Tarill lay only a few days to the northeast. Marsile would travel there and obtain the Book of Stolen Blood, preferably by guile.
But by force, if necessary.
And then would he have his answers.
Marsile opened the book and began to read. Most of it had been written in High Imperial, a language he knew quite well. The rest had been written in the ancient tongue of the Elder People. Marsile’s eyes darted over the narrow lines of black text, over the cryptic diagrams. One page held a map of these lands as they had been in the final days of the Old Empire. There was the Alderine River, the fortifications that would become the monasteries of St. Arik and St. Tarill. Marsile followed the river’s line into the Silvercrown Mountains. In the mountains, at the very edge of what had once been the Old Empire, sat an enormous castle.
“At last,” he breathed.
The pages after the map detailed the summoning and binding spell Marsile needed. The spell seemed well within his ability. Marsile’s heart began to beat faster...and then he scowled.
“Children,” he breathed in annoyance.
To execute the spell, he would need to spend the lives of children.
The morality of it did not disturb Marsile. What did the lives of ignorant peasant children, brutish and savage, measure against his own? But the logistics did concern him. How would he transport children over the wilderness to the castle? For that matter, how would he feed them, restrain them, and keep them alive long enough to use in the spell?
And where could he even find children? He had no desire to backtrack to Coldbrook. Marsile doubted his numerous enemies had tracked him this far, but that was no reason to take unnecessary risks.
“You,” said Marsile, pointing at the servant carrying his books. “Take the Book of Summoned Dead, and hand me the map.” He raised his voice. “All of you, halt.” The servant returned the Book of Summoned Dead to the appropriate bag and handed Marsile a scroll tube. He grunted, opened the tube, and unrolled the map.
It was a good map, commissioned by a group of Callian merchants who had dared the Alderine River. Marsile traced his finger over the black lines. There lay the river, there stood the monastery of St. Arik, and further to the north was the cloister of St. Tarill. Between the two monasteries was a riverside village called Karrent. The surrounding villages brought their goods yearly to Karrent for a sort of trade fair, though a far cry from the great fairs of Callia and the New Empire.
Marsile did a brief calculation. Karrent lay but six or seven miles to the north. And if he started now, he would arrive at the village just before sundown.
“Forward,” said Marsile. His litter-bearers lurched into motion, the rest of his servants renewing their march. Marsile took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He fell into a light trance, gathering the magical power he would need at Karrent.
His servants made good time. To his right the Alderine River flowed southward, chunks of ice floating past. The road widened and seemed in better repair. At last as the sun slid below the western horizon, Marsile saw the cleared fields.
A large village, almost a small town, huddled inside its palisade by the river. The high tower of a stone Temple rose above the rooftops. Marsile saw long piers jutting into the river, a half-dozen fishing boats bobbing in the river’s current.
“Hold,” said Marsile. His servants stopped fifty paces from the palisade. “Put me down.” His litter bearers obeyed, and Marsile walked the remaining distance to the village’s gate. A watchman stood there, glaring down at him.
“Halt!” roared the watchman, brandishing a spear with a rusted head. “Stand and name yourself!”
Marsile sighed. “Marsile of Araspan. Has this village a domn?”
The watchman made threats. Marsile did not have time to waste with an unshaven ape of a peasant. Marsile made a fist, muttered a phrase, and opened his hand. Blazing blue astralfire danced over his palm. The spell was nothing, a trick learned by first-year initiates of the Conclave, but it froze the watchman with terror.
“Now,” said Marsile, “fetch your domn, and quickly, ere I lose patience and blast you dead.”
The watchman sprinted into the village. Marsile sent a mental command to his servants. They piled his baggage in one neat heap, leaving two of their number to guard it, and moved towards the gate. He heard a good deal of commotion from within the palisade.
At last the gate opened, and a huge man in chain mail strode out, a massive war axe in one hand. Behind him came the village’s motley militia, twenty rabble armed with sharpened farm implements. “I am Sir Ogren, domn of Karrent,” boomed the mailed man, sneering at Marsile. “Go on your way, Marsile of Araspan. Workers of dark arts are not welcome here. ”
“Then we are in agreement, Sir Ogren of Karrent,” said Marsile, “for I’ve no wish to enter your village.” His servants stood in a silent line behind him. The militia gripped their weapons, eyeing the robed forms.
“Then what do you wish?” said Ogren.
“If I am to go on your way and leave you unmolested,” said Marsile, “I shall require tribute.”
Ogren laughed. “Tribute, eh?” He spat at Marsile’s feet. “And I suppose you and your collection of Brothers will take it if we don’t pay?”
“Quite right,” said Marsile.
“Then what tribute does a great Adept require?” said Ogren, hefting his axe.
“Children,” said Marsile. “Nine children, all under the age of twelve.” Nine would give him a safe reserve, if he botched the spell and needed to recast it. “You may select the children in whatever manner you wish, so long as they all are under the age of twelve.”
“Children?” hissed Ogren. “What sort of tribute is this?” He raised his axe, ready to take Marsile’s head. “Shall you make slaves of them, or summon demons into them?”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Marsile. He suspected Ogren would find the truth unpalatable. “However, I suggest you deliver my tribute at once, or this shall be a day of woe in Karrent for generations to come.” He shrugged. “Assuming Karrent survives.”
“Dog,” said Ogren. “I’ll give you one warning. Leave Karrent, or your head will adorn my gates!”
“I think not,” said Marsile. He raised his voice. “Reveal yourselves!”
His servants complied, removing their robes.
The militia flinched back. More than one man began babbling prayers. Even Ogren went pale.
A few of Marsile’s servants were ghouls he had enslaved during his wanderings, their gray flesh rank and stinking. Most of his servants were ghouls he had created himself, mindless things endowed with superhuman strength, their bones armored with spells, their joints strengthened with steel bolts and leather straps.
“Kill them,” said Marsile.
His ghouls swarmed towards the gate.
“Stand fast!” roared Ogren. “Stand fast! You! Fetch torches!” Most of the militia threw down their weapons and ran.
Marsile smiled.
“Hold!” roared Ogren. He dodged past one of Marsile’s ghouls, axe raised high. The militia stopped and stared at him. “Stand fast! Fight!” He brandished his axe, murder in his eyes, even as the ghouls fell on the militia.
The sounds of battle rang over the walls of Karrent.
Marsile began another spell, a mixture of the High Art and Jurguri blood sorcery. A few decades ago he had tried to find a way to transfer his spirit to another body. He had conducted dozens of experiments, and all of them had been abject failures. Sending his spirit into another’s body had proved easy enough. But Marsile had never found a way to break the spirit’s bonds to the flesh. Death did that, and Marsile had no wish to inhabit a corpse. He could possess another body for hours, even days, but sooner or later the native spirit would drive him out. The experiments had failed, but they had provided him with some useful tools.
Marsile finished the spell, and a wave of dizziness hammered at him. Ogren froze, flinching in sudden terror. Marsile felt a sensation of lightness. He sensed Ogren’s
life force, his spirit, and reached out and seized it.
Ogren started to scream and stopped, his mouth going slack.
A sudden wrench of terrifying disorientation, and Marsile opened Ogren’s eyes.
The knight’s body felt heavy, but strong and quick. It felt good to wear young, strong flesh. Marsile saw his own body standing behind the ghouls, eyes closed, face clenched and strained. Ogren’s spirit gibbered in terror, fighting against the usurpation of his flesh. Marsile could hold Ogren’s body for a lengthy time, but sooner or later, Ogren would expel him.
But Marsile needed only a little time.
He sent a mental command to the ghouls, and his servants stopped. The militia looked back and forth, eyes wide. Marsile strode towards them, hefting Ogren’s war axe.
“Lord domn?” said one of the villagers.
“You have fought well,” said Marsile. “Acquitted yourselves as men of Karrent. Now hold quite still. ”
The villager blinked in surprise.
Marsile sent the axe shearing through the villager’s neck, and the man collapsed. Marsile had never wielded an axe in his life, but Ogren’s trained muscles knew the motions. He hacked through two more villagers before the rest broke and fled in panic. A few, however, stood their ground.
“Stop him!” shouted a burly villager, brandishing a pitchfork. “He’s been witched! Our lord’s been witched! Stop him!” The tines of the pitchfork slipped past the links in Ogren’s mail and slammed into his chest. Marsile gasped and slammed the axe through the villager’s skull. Another villager attacked, striking Ogren with a wooden club. Marsile bit back a scream and released his grip on Ogren’s flesh.
Another instant of whirling disorientation, and Marsile opened his eyes, back in his own flesh once more. His own aches and pains seemed minor compared to Ogren’s current woes. The domn of Karrent gave one last groan and died. Marsile began another spell, ignoring the growing ache behind his eyes. It was another spell known only to the Secret College, and Marsile’s will reached into the astral world.
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