The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  Something flashed in Carandis’s eyes. “Why?”

  Lionel hesitated. Carandis recognized the name. She was an Adept of the Conclave, after all.

  “We have come to kill him,” said Lionel, deciding on truthfulness. “A year ago Marsile used his spells to enter unseen into the great library at Chrysos. He was discovered and managed to escape, though not before he murdered the archivist and seven Knights. The Master of our Order dispatched us to bring Marsile to justice. And you, Adept? Why have you come north?”

  “An interesting coincidence,” said Carandis. “I, too, have come seeking Marsile.”

  Hildebrand stalked to Lionel’s side. “Why? Have you come to aid your fellow worker in forbidden arts?”

  “No,” said Carandis, “I have come to kill him.” Her voice was colder and harder than the winter around them. “And I will have you know that I have never wielded the forbidden arts.”

  Nobody said anything for a while.

  “Why have you been sent to kill Marsile?” said Lionel.

  “He was expelled from the Conclave a hundred and twenty years ago,” said Carandis, “for the practice of blood sorcery and other forbidden arts.”

  “Six score years?” said Lionel. “Impossible?”

  “The Magisters assumed that Marsile had perished decades ago,” said Carandis. Her lip twitched. “Apparently not. No doubt he used his blood sorcery to extend his years far past their normal span.”

  “How did your Magisters learn that he yet lived?” said Lionel.

  “The same way your order learned of him, more or less,” said Carandis. “He crept into the library of the Ring of Araspan, seeking forbidden texts.” A shadow went over her face. “He was discovered…and several Adepts were killed. Hence, I have been sent to kill Marsile for his crimes.”

  “Perhaps we could work together,” said Lionel.

  “Nay!” said Hildebrand, glaring. “I will not travel with a blood sorceress.”

  “Pardon, my lord knight, but I’m no blood sorceress,” said Carandis. “Do I look Jurguri? Your order has the foolish habit of branding every Adept a blood sorcerer and an associate of demons, even if they are not.”

  “I see little difference between an Adept and a blood sorcerer,” said Hildebrand.

  “Then Marsile will kill you with little difficulty,” said Carandis. “Permit to explain something to you, sir knight. Marsile has had nearly two centuries to perfect his mastery of the High Art, along with the blood sorcery he wields, and his magic is tremendously powerful. He could kill you both quite quickly.”

  “The Light shall ward us from his spells,” said Hildebrand.

  “The Light’s protection will turn some of his spells,” said Carandis. “But don’t you think Marsile will know this and choose his spells accordingly? Furthermore, he has surrounded himself with a large band of ghouls under his control. When you find him, he will dispatch his slaves to fight you.”

  “I fear no demon,” said Hildebrand, banging his fist against his breastplate.

  “Only the foolish feel no fear,” said Carandis. Hildebrand bristled. “But it matters not. The enslaved ghouls will distract you long enough for Marsile to cast killing spells.”

  “What, then, do you propose?” said Lionel.

  “Let us work together,” said Carandis. Hildebrand scowled. “I don’t like it either. But we may prove useful to one another. Your Light-granted powers can stop Marsile’s ghouls. And I have skills of my own. I can help destroy the ghouls, and use my spells against Marsile. If we take Marsile unawares, I can do him great harm. But by myself I have no chance against Marsile. And neither do you.”

  “It matters not. If Marsile were of the fell Hierarchs of the Old Empire, I would still battle with him,” said Hildebrand.

  “And you would still die, and your corpse would rise as one of Marsile’s ghouls,” said Carandis. “But if we form a pact, perhaps we can overcome him.”

  Hildebrand scowled, deep in thought. “I like it not. The Adepts of the Conclave are treacherous.”

  “And the Paladins of the Silver Order are haughty and heartless,” said Carandis. “Yet, for the sake of our goal, I am willing to ignore that fact.”

  “Very well,” said Hildebrand. “We shall travel together, and work together until Marsile is slain, but no further. And be warned. I will kill you at the first sign of treachery.”

  Carandis grinned. “And I you.”

  “What?” said Hildebrand. “A Silver Knight does not abandon his given word!”

  “Indeed?” said Carandis. “But often members of the Conclave have been betrayed and murdered by Silver Knights.”

  “Those sorcerers had committed hideous crimes…”

  “Enough!” said Lionel. Hildebrand and Carandis stared at him. “Enough, I say. Sir Hildebrand, Adept, we have no chance at all of defeating Marsile if we stand about and bicker like this.”

  “Your brother Paladin is right,” said Carandis. “Let us agree to this pact. We shall fight together until Marsile is slain. At no point during, or after, our pact shall you raise your hand against me, or I you, unless the other breaks the pact first.”

  “You should not do this!” said Terrick, hovering behind Hildebrand’s shoulder. “You should not work with this…”

  “Be silent,” said Hildebrand. “I see no other choice before us. Though it disgusts me, Adept, you are correct.” He drew his sword, grounded the point, and wrapped both his hands around the hilt. “Therefore I, Hildebrand of Oldenburg, Knight of the Silver Order, do swear on the name of the Divine and the hilt of my sword to abide by the pact you have laid down.”

  Lionel drew his sword and swore likewise.

  “And I, Carandis Marken of Araspan, Adept of the Conclave, do swear by our pact.” Carandis chuckled. “So it would appear that we are comrades in arms?”

  Hildebrand growled.

  “Do not start,” said Lionel. “There will be plenty of time for argument after Marsile is dead.”

  “Aye,” said Hildebrand. “I must insist upon one thing.”

  “And that is?” said Carandis.

  “We may encounter a man named Raelum,” said Hildebrand. “He is demonborn, and claims to be a Silver Knight. If we find him, we must kill him.”

  “Why?” said Carandis.

  “Unbeknownst to myself or the Master of our Order,” said Hildebrand, “Sir Oliver Calabrant had gone to the city of High Morgon in pursuit of Marsile. Raelum murdered him there, most likely at Marsile’s bidding. We arrived a week later and found both Raelum and Marsile gone.”

  “So this Raelum is most likely a servant of Marsile?” said Carandis. “Very well.”

  “Let us go at once,” said Hildebrand.

  “Before we do,” said Carandis, “I must ask a question.”

  “What?” said Hildebrand, his impatience clear.

  “Why has Marsile has come to these desolate lands?”

  “Why not?” said Hildebrand. He looked almost amused. “He has earned the wrath of the Silver Order. Surely he would flee to the ends of the earth to escape our swift justice.”

  “Yes, but why here?” said Carandis. “Why not to the wilds of Khauldun or the forests of Rhomaria? Why not the isles of Magarn? Why here?”

  “I suppose a villain thinks one backwater as good as another,” said Hildebrand.

  “Except Marsile is no common villain,” said Carandis. “Think of his crimes before he fled. He stole books, scrolls, ancient records. He came to High Morgon, a city known for its ruins. And then he fled here.”

  “Is there anything special about this land?” said Lionel. "It was once part of the kingdom of Arvandil, was it not?"

  “The valleys beneath the Silvercrown Mountains were the main battlefields between the Old Empire and the Elder People, before the Hierarchs of the Old Empire perished from their own folly. The kingdom of Arvandil came after, and later fell,” said Carandis. “Most of the people still living here are descendants of the Old Empire’s soldiers o
r Arvandil's peasants. So there are many ruins here.”

  Hildebrand scoffed. “Ancient history. We live in the present. Why should the past concern us?”

  “Because I believe that Marsile has come here seeking something,” said Carandis. “Something he learned in the stolen books. Some relic of the Old Empire, perhaps, or some forgotten book.”

  “What of it?” said Hildebrand.

  “Something that a man such as Marsile would risk so much to claim,” said Carandis, “is no doubt something that should be left undisturbed.”

  “She may be right,” said Lionel.

  “As I said, it matters not what Marsile seeks,” said Hildebrand. “We shall find him, and kill him, and whatever villainy he plans will come to naught. Come! We have wasted enough time already. Let us ride!”

  “As you wish,” said Carandis.

  The Adept and the two Paladins rode northeast along the banks of the Alderine River, leaving the village of Karrent behind.

  Chapter 11 - The Abbey of St. Tarill

  Marsile sat in his sedan chair, trying to ignore the jolts of pain shooting through his joints. His servants marched behind him, clad again in their masking brown robes. He wished to avoid any discovery. These northern lands had become near-desolate, the populace falling victim bit by bit to demons, disease, and famine. Yet he still did not want to risk an unnecessary fight.

  Marsile glanced at the unconscious children draped over his servants’ shoulders. Sooner or later, his pursuers would find the village, and the surviving villagers would talk. Marsile’s enemies would then redouble their pursuit.

  And Marsile might have to stand and fight.

  He tried to dismiss his fears. His pursuers were weeks behind him, and even if emissaries from the Silver Order or the Conclave caught up to him, Marsile could deal with them. He had killed Silver Knights before, had slain other Adepts in battle.

  It mattered not. Once Marsile reached his destination, no one would have the power to threaten him ever again.

  He flipped through the Book of Summoned Dead. The book contained potent spells and much forgotten lore of the Old Empire, yet it did not hold the final secret Marsile needed. No matter. With the Book of Stolen Blood, Marsile would have the last piece.

  He tried to rest, ignoring the ache behind his eyes. The slow whisper of the Alderine River filled his ears. Marsile dozed, feverish dreams of books and animated corpses flitting across his mind.

  He awoke some time later. The trees had begun to thin, a sure sign of habitation, and he smelled wood smoke. The forest ended in cleared fields, and Marsile saw the monastery of St. Tarill.

  “Halt,” Marsile murmured, gazing at the monastery.

  The cloister sat atop a hill overlooking the Alderine River, as had St. Arik’s. But St. Tarill’s was far larger, its high walls crowned with battlements, its towers ringed with buttresses. The soldiers of the Old Empire had built it long ago, and the Temple had taken it over after the fall of the Old Empire. No doubt the refugees had settled here hoping to build a new life. Now the remnants of their descendants huddled in their villages, living in terror of demons.

  Marsile pushed aside the thoughts and focused on St. Tarill’s.

  What he saw did not fill him with confidence.

  St. Arik’s had been a dying cloister populated by a dozen middle-aged men. St. Tarill’s looked to have seventy, maybe eighty Brothers, and some of the Brothers must have trained as Inquisitors, else St. Tarill would long ago have been swept away. A few of the Brothers might even be able to wield the Light.

  A small fishing village stood near the river, a dozen docks jutting into the icy water. If Marsile attacked the monastery, the villagers would rush to the aid of the Brothers. An attack might overwhelm the Brothers and bring Marsile the Book of Stolen Blood. But so many things could go wrong. Suppose he caught a stray arrow in the eye?

  He had not come all this way, survived so much, only to die a few hundred miles from his goal. Direct force had worked at St. Arik’s and at Karrent. It might work here, but Marsile would not gamble everything on it.

  Not when he had better ways to seize the Book of Stolen Blood.

  “Into the forest,” said Marsile. “Away from the road.” His servants complied, branches scraping against their robes. Marsile waited until they had gone perhaps four miles from the road.

  “Halt,” he commanded. “Put me down.” His litter-bearers lowered the sedan chair, and Marsile got to his feet. “You.” He leveled a finger. “Come here and open your bag.”

  The servant complied, shuffling towards Marsile. Marsile reached into the bag and yanked out a thick Brother’s robe of coarse brown. He stripped off his crimson Adept’s robe, cursing the cold, and pulled on the Brother’s one.

  Every Adept learned spells of illusion, and Marsile was skilled with them. He cast the spells over himself, his clean-shaven face sprouting an enormous gray beard, his hair fading to white. Additional lines and wrinkles appeared over his face. Marsile finished and put a stoop into his shoulders. A short search found a fallen branch long enough and sturdy enough to serve as a walking staff. Marsile brushed the snow from the stick and leaned against it.

  “You,” he said, pointing, “Mirror.”

  The servant complied and produced a small mirror. Marsile examined himself for a moment and grunted in satisfaction. He looked like a wandering Brother of the Liberist Order, dedicated to the preservation of knowledge and history.

  He ought to know what they looked like. He had killed enough of them in Chyrsos, after all.

  Marsile walked to a servant carrying scroll tubes and pulled forth a rolled sheet of parchment. He squinted, nodded, and tucked the scroll into his robes.

  “Remain here until I return,” said Marsile. “Should anyone save myself approach, flee into the woods and regroup here in three days.”

  His servants did not move.

  Marsile strode through the trees. An hour’s walk brought him back to the road, and Marsile climbed the hill and stopped before the monastery’s imposing gates.

  “Halt!” A young Brother poked his head over the battlements. “Name yourself.”

  “Is this the monastery of St. Tarill?” said Marsile.

  “Aye,” said the Brother, “though it is customary for a stranger to name himself first.”

  “Very well, young man,” said Marsile. “I am Torgrim of the Liberist Order. I have traveled far to see the library of St. Tarill, for rumor claims it contains many ancient books.”

  “You traveled here alone?” said the Brother, astonished. “I am surprised you survived. The roads are very dangerous, and haunted by demons.”

  “I traveled by merchant ship to Karrent,” said Marsile, “and then came by foot the rest of the way.”

  “Aye,” said the Brother, “merchant vessels still travel to Karrent. You may enter, Brother Torgrim, but you’ll need to speak with the First Brother.”

  “As you wish,” said Marsile.

  The young Brother shouted a command. Chains rattled and beams groaned as the gates swung open, and Marsile strode into the monastery’s courtyard. He glimpsed two other Brothers crouched on the ramparts, behind the battlements, loaded crossbow in their hands. They had been watching him the entire time. Had he proven hostile, they would have shot him.

  It was well he had chosen to employ deception instead of force.

  The young Brother led Marsile into the monastery’s great hall. A long table ran the length of the hall, while another table sat on a raised dais at the end of the room, no doubt for the First Brother and the senior Brothers.

  “Wait here, and I shall fetch the First,” said the young man. Marsile waited. Several other monks passed, occupied with business of their own. St. Tarill’s seemed much more populous than St. Arik’s. In more than one of the Brothers, Marsile sensed the odd crackle of energy produced by a wielder the Light.

  He breathed a curse and rubbed his cold hands. Still, subtlety would win the day here. Had he not plundered to
mes from the citadels of the Silver Order and the Conclave? A band of rustic priests should prove no difficulty.

  “Brother Torgrim?” A big man with the build of a wrestler walked towards Marsile. He wore brown robes, a ring of office, and several keys on a chain around his neck. “I am First Brother Ulrich.”

  “My lord First Brother,” said Marsile, eyeing his enemy. With his silver hair and beard, Ulrich looked over sixty, yet still seemed quite vigorous. Marsile sensed the Light in him, and to judge from the old man’s balance, he had been trained as an Inquisitor. “It is an honor to meet you.”

  “And we are honored to receive you,” said Ulrich. “It has been nigh unto ten years since a Brother of the Liberists visited us. He wished to take a listing of our library back to Chrysos. We feared that he had fallen to some evil on the road.”

  “Alas,” said Marsile, “that is grave news, for the Brother never returned to Chrysos.”

  “Alas indeed,” said Ulrich, lowering his head and muttering a brief prayer for the dead. “Let us hope that some kindly soul found his body and buried it, lest a demon defiled his flesh.”

  “Let us hope,” said Marsile. “Hence I was sent, First Brother Ulrich, in hopes of finding our lost Brother, and to take inventory of your library.” He reached into his robes and pulled out the scroll. “Here is a letter from the masters of my Order, commanding aid for my errand.”

  Ulrich took the letter and read it. Marsile was glad he had thought to steal it during his raid on Chrysos. The paper was a general request for aid, sealed with the sigil of the Liberist Order.

  “You shall find you have a great deal of work,” said Ulrich, “for our library is quite large.” He handed the letter back to Marsile.

  “A happy problem, indeed,” said Marsile.

  The old Brother smiled. “Is it not? Come this way, Brother Torgrim. I will have lodgings prepared for you, and you may begin your work tomorrow.”

  “I would prefer to see the library at once, if you do not mind,” said Marsile.

  “A true servant of the Divine is ever eager in his work,” said Ulrich. “Very well. This way. Though I insist that you come to the evening meal. We do not often receive visitors, and news and tales from more populous lands are always welcome.”