The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  “As you wish,” said Marsile.

  The First led him down a corridor, past more busy Brothers. Marsile revised his estimate of the abbey’s population. Perhaps as many as a hundred and twenty Brothers dwelt within the walls.

  “I am surprised,” said Marsile, “that such a large monastery can be found so close to the cursed lands of the Old Empire. And one with such a large library. Truly the Divine has seen fit to bless St. Tarill.”

  “More that we are unwilling beneficiaries of misfortune,” said Ulrich. “There used to be dozens of monasteries scattered throughout the valleys of the Alderine, sheltered by the power of the king of Arvandil. Yet Arvandil fell, and these lands are too isolated, too far from the great kingdoms of the west. And the Ashborn dwell in vast numbers on the far side of the Silvercrown Mountains, and every few years they will launch raids. Less often, now, for there is less to raid.” He shook his head. “As monastery after monastery fell, its surviving books and treasures were moved here, for St. Tarill’s was the strongest of the monasteries. Now only we and St. Arik’s to the south remain.”

  Marsile tried not to smile.

  “Our first mission is to serve the Divine, of course,” said Ulrich, “but it is also our sacred charge to guard these books. Many are the only copies of works dating from before the Old Empire.”

  “What of dark books?” said Marsile.

  Ulrich frowned.

  “Please do not misunderstand me,” said Marsile, “for I have no wish to read such books. But many of the fallen monasteries were founded to guard books taken from the Old Empire, books of dark lore and wicked secrets. My order often fears that the dark books may fall into the wrong hands.”

  “It is a valid fear,” said Ulrich. “But St. Tarill has only one such book. The Ashborn destroyed most of the others, thankfully.”

  “I shall need to take a description of that book back to my order, as well,” said Marsile.

  Ulrich nodded. “I myself will show you the book. Only the First Brother, the Keeper of the Gates, and the Keeper of the Library may handle the book, and all three must be present to do so. The danger is too great, lest we be corrupted by the book’s hideous spells.”

  Marsile nodded.

  They entered into a large room lined with high desks. A dozen Brothers sat at work, copying books and papers.

  “A fine scriptorium,” said Marsile.

  “We are blessed,” said Ulrich. “We have over a hundred and fifty Brothers. Work always needs to be done, whether in the kitchen, the workshops, or the fields. We rotate these duties, lest either mind or body grow weak and vulnerable to temptation.”

  “A wise course,” said Marsile. A hundred and fifty?

  “And here,” said Ulrich, opening another door, “is our library.”

  The library was a long hall with a vaulted roof, the walls lined with tall shelves. Marsile was impressed. The library held nearly a thousand books, impressive even by the standards of the western kingdoms. For a moment Marsile wanted to run to the shelves, tear through them in search of the Book of Stolen Blood. But he restrained himself. Unlike Portlock of St. Arik’s, Ulrich did not seem like a fool.

  “You seem speechless, Brother,” said Ulrich.

  Marsile shook out of his thoughts. “My apologizes, First. I must confess to surprise. I had expected a few ledgers of births, nothing more, but the library here is impressive, equal to many in the civilized lands.”

  “Aye,” said Ulrich. “There were once many monasteries in Arvandil, but one by one they have fallen and their books have come to us.”

  “I shall begin work at once,” said Marsile, trying to feign enthusiasm. He would have to pretend to work during the day. At night he could prowl through the monastery, searching for the Book of Stolen Blood.

  “Tomorrow, I fear,” said Ulrich. “Night is falling, and candles are costly. You shall join us for our evening meal and prayers, and then I will show you to the guest quarters.”

  “As you wish, my lord First,” said Marsile.

  ###

  Raelum pushed himself hard.

  He jogged most of the way, his mail shirt bouncing against his knees, his breath stabbing the air. Fortune trotted behind him, snorting.

  He had to reach St. Tarill’s soon. Marsile must have found it already, and the Divine only knew what horrors the Adept would unleash on the unsuspecting Brothers. Perhaps Marsile had already slain the Brothers and moved on. If so, Raelum would prevent the bodies from rising as ghouls and continue his pursuit of Marsile.

  But if Marsile had not yet acted, then Raelum could stop him.

  Raelum ran on, through the day and most of the night.

  ###

  Lionel sat in the saddle, swaying. The air was cold and dry and still, and his eyes scanned the silent forest for enemies.

  “Are you two paying attention?”

  Lionel shook himself. Carandis had stopped her horse, and Hildebrand reined in his mount, glaring.

  “Why have you stopped?” said the older Paladin.

  Carandis ignored him. “Look at the ground, Sir Lionel. What do you see?”

  Lionel squinted at the ground. “Some snow. A lot of frozen dirt. Dead grass. Not much else.”

  “Why have you stopped?” repeated Hildebrand.

  Carandis ignored him, and Hildebrand went red in the face. It amazed Lionel how Carandis could drive Hildebrand into a rage without a word. Carandis Marken was an Adept of the Conclave, and Lionel’s father and uncles and most of the nobles of the New Empire loathed the Adepts. Yet Lionel found himself liking Carandis nonetheless, if only because of the Adept’s effect on the old Paladin.

  And it did not hurt that Carandis was pretty.

  Lionel rebuked himself for the lustful thought and made himself pay attention.

  “You’re looking, but you’re not seeing, Sir Lionel,” said Carandis. She slid off her horse and dropped to a crouch, crimson robes pooling. “See? Notice anything unusual about this road?”

  “It is a line of packed dirt, and nothing more,” said Hildebrand. “Now let us be on our way!”

  “There…do seem to be a lot of tracks,” said Lionel, Some looked like boot prints, but bare feet had made others. Lionel wondered why anyone would walk barefoot in the snow.

  “It is a road. People walk on it,” said Hildebrand.

  “Barefoot, in the dead of winter?” said Carandis, grinning. She shook her head. “No. These are the tracks of Marsile’s ghouls.”

  Lionel felt a chill. “So many?”

  “At least thirty,” said Carandis. “Possibly more.”

  Hildebrand dismounted. “And how do you know to read tracks, hmm? I suppose the Adepts of the Conclave teach tracking in addition to blood sorcery?”

  “The Conclave does not teach blood sorcery,” said Carandis. “And my father often made hunting trips, and took me with him.” She pointed at one of the barefooted tracks. “See that claw mark? A ghoul made that.”

  “A large force of ghouls,” said Lionel.

  “We knew this already,” said Hildebrand. “You waste precious time to state the obvious?”

  “There are fresh tracks atop those of Marsile’s minions,” said Carandis. “One man, booted, walking a horse. This Raelum of yours, no doubt.”

  “I have nothing to do with that demonborn murderer,” said Hildebrand. “Is there a point to this?”

  “You cannot see it, old man?” said Carandis, smiling. “Surely the great wisdom of a Silver Knight can unravel this mystery.”

  A vein twitched in Hildebrand’s temple.

  “I am younger,” said Lionel, “and I have not the wisdom of age. What, then, to these tracks say?”

  “That we are gaining on Marsile and Raelum,” said Carandis. “Look at the width of the strides. Marsile’s ghouls are going fast, but they are not running. And Raelum is leading his horse, not riding it, for whatever reason.”

  “Most likely the beast will not bear his foul body,” muttered Hildebrand.

>   “That,” said Carandis, “or he’s using it for baggage.” She stared down the road. “We may catch up to Raelum by nightfall.”

  “Then he shall meet his deserved end,” said Hildebrand, banging a gloved fist against his breastplate.

  “But we’ve covered much ground,” said Carandis, “and will likely reach St. Tarill’s by sundown.” She frowned. “I still wish I knew why Marsile slew everyone at St. Arik’s.”

  “What reason does villainy need?” said Hildebrand.

  Carandis raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know. But Marsile has come here seeking some rare book or artifact, I believe. Maybe it lies inside St. Tarill.”

  “It is meaningless,” said Hildebrand. “A Silver Knight is always ready for battle. I care not if Marsile has a hundred ghouls and a dozen demonborn murderers. I shall defeat him.” He climbed back into the saddle. “Let us continue.”

  “Indeed,” said Carandis. “You shall have the honor of charging blindly to your death, while I shall devise a strategy to defeat Marsile. By all means, my lord knight, lead on.”

  Hildebrand snarled.

  The three continued riding.

  ###

  Marsile sat a table and pretended to read. Every now and again he made notes on a stack of paper.

  If nothing else, the Brothers had given him with a good meal last night. Marsile had endured the endless pious prattling, but the Brothers had finally gone to bed, and Marsile had slipped into the halls, wrapped in an obscuring spell.

  He turned a page, ignoring the book.

  It had not taken him long to find the massive vault beneath the monastery. The door was built of solid oak, banded with iron bars and sealed with an enormous lock. No doubt it held the monastery’s guarded treasures. Any other time Marsile would have employed a spell to undo the lock and open the door.

  But someone had used a warding spell to seal the door.

  At first Marsile thought that one of the Brothers had skill with the High Art. A brief examination proved otherwise. The spells were ancient, had been laid down centuries ago. No doubt the Conclave’s ancient progenitors had sealed the Book of Stolen Blood behind that door. No spells Marsile possessed could breach the wards, and the spells were strong enough to keep him from astraljumping to the other side of the door.

  Then he remembered the keys around the First Brother's neck.

  Marsile stood, returned the book to the shelf, picked another at random, and sat. Tonight he would steal the First Brother's keys, unlock the door, and abscond with the Book of Stolen Blood. He would long gone by the time the First Brother noticed the theft.

  Marsile’s eyes wandered over the books. Some of the tomes looked interesting. Perhaps someday he would return and go over the books at his leisure.

  If he succeeded, all the time in the world would be his.

  A deep bell rang through the monastery. The Brothers rose and shuffled out the library, making their way to the great hall. Marsile sighed, shut his book, and stood. A few hours of pious inanity lay before him, but at least the Brothers served good food.

  Marsile glanced out the window and stopped.

  A man in chain mail walked towards the monastery, leading a horse behind him.

  Marsile rested a hand against the sill and watched, alarm flooding through him.

  Chapter 12 - Murderer

  The grim monastery rose in the distance, its battlements and towers stark against the darkening sky. Raelum saw Brothers walking the battlements, lights shining in some of the windows, and felt a wave of relief. Marsile had not yet arrived.

  But if Marsile had not yet arrived, then Raelum would have passed him on the road. St. Tarill’s was larger than St. Arik’s. Perhaps Marsile had entered the monastery by stealth and stolen the book.

  Or perhaps Marsile lurked in the woods, waiting for the right moment to attack.

  Raelum considered searching the surrounding woods, using his senses to search for Marsile’s demons, but pushed aside the notion and kept walking. Better that he warn the Brothers of their peril. If they knew Marsile was coming, they had a better chance of defending themselves.

  The Brother standing over the gate stared at him. Raelum’s hand twitched towards his cowl. The Divine only knew how the Brothers would react to his eyes.

  “Stand and identify yourself!” called the Brother.

  Raelum sighed and pushed back his hood.

  He heard the Brother's startled hiss.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” said the Brother.

  “I am Raelum, a Knight of the Silver Order,” said Raelum. “I have come in pursuit of Marsile of Araspan, a renegade Adept.”

  “There are no Adepts here, demonborn,” said the Brother. “Be on your way!”

  “I must speak with your First!” said Raelum. “Marsile is coming here, and he will kill you all if he gets the chance.”

  “We are warned,” said the Brother, “and I doubt very much that one man can overcome us, even an Adept.”

  “You do not know his powers,” said Raelum. “Please, I beg of you, let me speak with your First Brother.”

  The Brother hesitated. “Very well.” He ducked behind the battlements and vanished.

  Raelum waited.

  ###

  Marsile cursed.

  Even from a distance, he recognized the red-eyed young man. It was Raelum, Oliver Calabrant’s squire. He had not seen the boy since that day in High Morgon, months ago. Marsile had not killed the boy then, believing him no threat.

  Plainly that had been an error.

  Had Raelum killed the wraith in Coldbrook Keep? Had he destroyed the two demons left in the vault of St. Arik’s? The demonborn brat seemed grimmer and stronger than Marsile remembered. And the long journey, alone through dangerous lands, had no doubt toughened him.

  Suppose Raelum convinced Ulrich to admit him? Suppose he saw through the illusions? Marsile would find himself alone, without his servants, surrounded by enemies.

  He had to act now.

  If he killed Raelum immediately, before Ulrich spoke with him, Raelum would not talk. The Brothers might believe Raelum’s sudden death part of a demonborn curse.

  Ulrich strode into the courtyard.

  Marsile set himself, gathered his concentration, and began working a spell, blue astralfire snarling around his fingers.

  Even as Marsile lifted his hands a trio of horsemen thundered up the road.

  Marsile broke off the spell in surprise.

  ###

  “First Brother Ulrich will speak with you,” said the Brother. “But by the Divine, if you raise a finger, you will come to a quick end.”

  “Aye,” said Raelum.

  The gates swung open, and Raelum walked into the courtyard. A pair of Brothers with crossbows crouched on the ramparts, tracking him with their weapons. A big, silver-haired man in a brown robe strode across the courtyard, a chain of keys dangling from his neck.

  “I am First Brother Ulrich,” said the big man, folding muscled arms. “Why have you come here, demonborn?”

  “Lord First,” said Raelum. “An Adept named Marsile is coming for the Book of Stolen Blood.”

  Ulrich flinched. “How could you know of that book?”

  “He’s coming for the book,” said Raelum, “and he’ll kill everyone here to get it.”

  “Your warning is appreciated,” said Ulrich, “but you underestimate us, I think. I’m more interested in how you came to know of the book.”

  “You do not understand,” said Raelum. “Marsile killed every monk at St. Arik’s.”

  “What?” said Ulrich. “That cannot be.”

  “It is,” said Raelum, “I saw the bodies with my own eyes. He took the Book of Summoned Dead from the monastery.”

  “How can you know of that evil book?” said Ulrich, color draining from his face. “Portlock and I were the only living men who knew of it.”

  “He attacked Karrent on his way here,” said Raelum, “and burned the village, and kidnapped nine of
its children. And now he’s coming here. Please, my lord First, I beg you. You must be ready. You don’t know his powers. He is coming for…”

  Raelum heard the clatter of hooves and a sudden battle cry.

  He whirled to see a horseman thundering towards him, gleaming sword in hand.

  Raelum drew his sword, gripping it in two hands. Ulrich yelled something, and Raelum caught his attacker’s descending blade in a parry. The horseman galloped past, hooves striking sparks against the courtyard stones. Raelum turned, eyeing his enemy. The horseman wore mail and a breastplate, eyes blazing over an enormous gray mustache.

  The man’s sword bore the rose-and-sword sigil of the Silver Knights.

  Two more horses galloped through the gate. One carried another man in armor, bearing a Knight’s sword. The other rider was a young woman, and she wore black-collared crimson robes and carried a metal-capped staff.

  “Take him!” said the older horseman. “Kill him now!”

  “Stop this!” roared Ulrich, voice booming like thunder. “I will not have travelers attacked in the courtyard of my cloister!” Brothers erupted from the keep’s doors, carrying loaded crossbows.

  The older man nudged his horse towards Raelum, murder in his eyes.

  “Cease!” said Ulrich. The men on the rampart took aim. “By the Divine, I swear that if anyone raises his hand in violence, we’ll kill you all and discover the truth later. You three! Name yourself at once!”

  “I am Hildebrand of Oldenburg, Knight of the Silver Order,” said the older man, glaring at Raelum.

  “I am Lionel of Tarrenheim, also a Knight of that Order,” said the younger Knight.

  “And I,” said the robed woman, “am Carandis Marken, of the Conclave.”

  Raelum blinked in surprise. What were two other Silver Knights doing here? And why had an Adept of the Conclave come?

  Ulrich’s lips thinned in distaste, but he made no move towards the Adept. “And, tell me, my lord knights and Adept, why you sought to spill blood on consecrated ground?”