“Demons offer many gifts in exchange for one’s soul and conscience,” said Sir Oliver. “And with the rumors of the demon-worshipping Jurgur horde in the east, there have been more cults of demon-worshippers springing up across the lands.”
“So what do they want with slaves?” said Raelum. “Someone to polish their floors, no doubt.”
“They are using the slaves in black spells,” said Sir Oliver. “They are killing children, and using their lives in blood sorcery.”
Raelum flinched, remembering the thugs at Sister Julietta’s door.
“I have come to stop this,” said Sir Oliver. “It is a hideous evil, and may grow even worse, should one of these would-be blood sorcerers summon a greater demon. But I cannot do it alone. I know nothing of the thieves in this city. I need the help of someone who knows the gangs, the slavers. In short, I need your help, Raelum.”
“Red Philip,” said Raelum.
“Who?” said Sir Oliver.
“Red Philip,” said Raelum. “He started kidnapping folk who couldn’t pay his protection money. He used to just kill anyone who got in his way, but now he kidnaps them instead. I saw his thugs at an orphanage a few months ago. The orphanage couldn’t pay Red Philip’s protection money, so he threatened to take a few of the orphans instead. He has to be the one you’re looking for.”
“Will you help me?” said Sir Oliver.
Raelum thought of the cold threat in Red Philip’s beady eyes, of the children in Julietta’s orphanage.
Black Kaheen was going to be furious, but Raelum could live with it.
“Aye,” said Raelum. “I’ll help you.”
###
In the dark vault beneath St. Tarill’s, Raelum moaned in his sleep and then fell silent.
Chapter 14 - Draugvir
Marsile strode alone through the dark forest.
He had to act tonight, and plans whirled through his mind. Should he enter the monastery by stealth? Launch an assault on the gate? He might enter the monastery unseen with any number of spells, but he needed the key around Ulrich’s neck, and an open attack would fail. The two Silver Knights would devastate Marsile’s ghouls, and he could not overwhelm seven score Brothers and an Adept by himself. He needed something to eliminate the threat of the Paladins…
Marsile stopped, an idea striking him.
For a moment he did not move, the night wind moaning past him.
He thought of the long box four of his servants had carried for hundreds of miles, the box he had found hidden in a bricked-up cellar beneath Callia City.
It was too dangerous.
But what did that matter? He was so close. He had to dare it.
But if the thing in that box escaped…
Marsile shoved aside his doubts and marched forward.
A branch snapped.
He looked around, and saw the dark forest in all directions. The lights of St. Tarill shone some distance to the east, but he saw nothing else.
Then foul stench, rotting meat and moldering bone, touched Marsile’s nostrils.
Marsile laughed aloud and cast a simple spell. Harsh blue burst from his hands, illuminating the woods for several yards in all directions.
A dozen ghouls stood in a loose circle around him. The demons flinched away from his light, fangs snapping and claws slashing. Marsile wondered why the ghouls had come so close to the monastery. They must not have fed for a long time.
“Stay!” hissed the largest ghoul, gesturing with a clawed hand. “Stay! We are many! Take him! We will feast on his guts!”
The ghouls snarled and converged, reaching with their talons, just as Marsile finished another spell.
He thrust out his hands, and a wave of force blasted the ghouls to the ground. He did not hesitated, but cast another spell, tendrils of white and crimson astralfire dancing around his fingers. Pain flared through Marsile’s skull, but he ignored it and cast the spell, his will reaching for the minor demons within the ghouls.
When his vision cleared, the ghouls lay on the ground, groveling. The domination spell had succeeded.
“Master,” gibbered the biggest ghoul. “We are yours.”
Marsile grunted, trying to clear his head. He scowled and pushed aside his fatigue with an effort.
“You,” he said to the largest ghoul. “What is your name?”
“Have no name. Died. No name.”
Marsile had yet to meet a ghoul with any discernable wits. “In life, then, what was your name of the flesh you now wear?”
“Tored, master. Tored was my name.”
“Get up, Tored, all of you,” said Marsile. “Tell me. Are you hungry?”
“Very hungry, master,” whined Tored. “Long since Tored has eaten hot meat. Knives, knives in his belly!”
“Come, then,” said Marsile. “I’ve a use for you, and you shall receive all the flesh your bellies can hold.”
Marsile continued into the forest, Tored and the ghouls following like a pack of cringing dogs. Soon Marsile reached his servants.
“Many slaves,” said Tored. “Master is a great master, yes.”
“Be silent,” said Marsile. “I have work to do. Tored, remain at my side. The rest of you, move off fifty paces and remain there until I call.” The ghouls shambled away, and crouched at Marsile’s side. Marsile pointed at the four servants carrying the long box. “Place that on the ground and move fifty paces into the woods. The rest of you, follow them.”
Marsile’s servants shambled into motion, setting the box on the ground. Soon Marsile and Tored stood in a loose ring of ghouls. Tored sniffed at the box and sprang back in fright.
“Something amiss?” said Marsile.
“Coffin,” said Tored.
“Aye, a coffin,” said Marsile. “I thought a box of dead flesh would pique your interest.”
Tored snapped his head back and forth. “Flesh not dead. Open not the coffin, master!”
“Aye,” said Marsile, examining the warding sigils covering the coffin. “Tell me. Have you ever heard of Michael Kalenis, a minor domn of Callia?”
“Tored knows not,” whined the ghoul.
“About thirty years ago,” said Marsile, “Callia City was terrorized by a madman. He killed noble and commoner rich and poor alike. He ripped apart his victims, left them in pieces. The people named him ‘Nightgrim’ for the horrors he brought to the night. Finally a trio of Paladins came to bring Nightgrim to justice. Do you know what they discovered, Tored?”
Tored shook his head, rotting face twisted with fear.
“Nightgrim was a draugvir, a greater demon fused into the flesh of a living man,” said Marsile. “And when the living man died, he rose again as a draugvir, keeping all the memories and skills he possessed in life. But now he was a stalker of shadows, a corrupter of souls, a drinker of blood.”
Tored whimpered.
“Nightgrim was Michael Kalenis, this minor lord,” said Marsile. “He led Callia City’s secret demon-cult. The three Paladins slaughtered the demon worshippers and hunted for Nightgrim. But Nightgrim vanished and was never seen again. The Paladins claimed his destruction and left.” Marsile shook his head. “They were wrong. Kalenis had not fled. He had gone into hiding, into a sleep like death.”
Marsile had discovered Nightgrim’s hiding place entirely by accident ten years earlier. He had searched Callia City’s sewers for books left behind by the slaughtered blood sorcerers. Instead, he found the coffin holding the slumbering Michael Kalenis. Marsile took it with him, mostly on a whim, and his servants had carried it ever since. He suspected he would find a use for the creature sooner or later.
That time had come.
“Open it,” said Marsile, stepping back.
“Master!” said Tored, trembling. “Please! It will kill us all!”
“You’re already dead,” snapped Marsile. “Open the coffin.”
Tored hesitated.
Marsile focused his will. “Open it now!”
Tored shrieked, but reached up, undid t
he latches, and flung open the coffin. The hinges screamed with rust. A cloud of stinking dust rose from the coffin, reeking of rot and decay.
Utter blackness lay within the coffin. Marsile squinted and made out the form of a shriveled corpse. It might have been handsome once, but now it was scare more than a skeleton draped in skin, eyes shut. The withered thing wore the ragged remnants of noble finery.
Marsile stepped forward, staring into the coffin. “Well,” he murmured. “It seems Lord Kalenis hasn’t aged so well.” Had the greater demon abandoned the dead flesh, leaving Michael Kalenis to pass into true death at last? No, most likely it had entered hibernation. Marsile needed to awaken it with the appropriate spells. He lifted his hands, took a deep breath, and summoned power.
Nightgrim’s eyes snapped open.
Marsile flinched, losing his concentration. Nightgrim’s eyes were deep, dark wells. Marsile stared into their depths. Perhaps the secrets he had so long sought lay in the draugvir’s marvelous eyes.
The draugvir…
Marsile remembered that the gaze of a draugvir had a hypnotic effect.
He saw Nightgrim sit up, lay a shriveled hand of the edge of the coffin.
Marsile’s mind snapped back into focus. He stepped back, working the domination spell.
Nightgrim was faster.
The draugvir's hand seized Marsile’s ankle. Marsile toppled backward, his head slamming against the frozen ground. Tored wailed in terror, and the draugvir sprang from the coffin with terrifying speed. Fangs jutted from its mouth, stained with layer after layer of dried blood. Marsile shoved aside his growing panic and began a spell. Nightgrim dropped onto him, seizing his shoulders, stinking mouth gaping wide.
Marsile finished his spell and thrust out his hands. A blast of white fire erupted from his fingers and slammed into Nightgrim’s chest, hammering at the greater demon within the creature. The backlash flung the draugvir backwards and slammed it into a tree. Marsile scrambled to his feet, trying to breathe through the stench choking his nostrils.
Nightgrim rose, eyes ablaze with madness. Marsile began chanting, waving his hands, trying to cast the domination spell. He finished the spell, flung it at the draugvir, and focused the full force of his will on Nightgrim.
Nightgrim froze and growled.
Marsile panted and tried to keep from falling. Nightgrim shuddered and took another step forward. Marsile redoubled his efforts, magical force blasting through him. Knives of pain slammed into his temples, behind his eyes. His vision blurred, the world spinning around him.
Then all at once the pressure vanished.
Marsile blinked his vision back into focus. Nightgrim stood not three paces away, shaking with rage. Marsile rubbed a shuddering hand over his face. Nightgrim gave a little snarl of hunger, and Marsile stared at the draugvir, trying to bring his thoughts into focus. He sensed the link of the domination spell, but it felt flimsy and tenuous. If Nightgrim had been any stronger, Marsile could not have forced the spell. And once Nightgrim fed, he would become stronger, and Marsile doubted he could keep control then.
“Should not have opened it,” said Tored, cringing.
“Shut up,” said Marsile.
“So,” said Nightgrim, looking about. His voice was sonorous and cultured, a contrast with his ravaged appearance. “It appears that I am no longer in Callia City.”
“Most observant, Michael Kalenis,” said Marsile.
“So I was once known,” said Nightgrim. “Now, I fear, I am known by an entirely different name.” His eyes remained fixed on Marsile. “Where are we?”
“Far to the northeast of Callia City,” said Marsile.
“I see,” said Nightgrim. “I presume you found my coffin,” he glanced at it, “and conveyed it all this distance? For what reason, I wonder? As I am not currently ripping out your throat and feasting upon your blood,” his lip twitched, “you must be an Adept of at least mediocre skill. Hence, I assume that you have brought me here for a specific reason.”
“I need you to kill several people,” said Marsile.
Nightgrim grinned, a most unpleasant sight. “I flatter myself, sir, to think that I have some small skill in such matters.”
“Come with me, then,” said Marsile. “Tored! Gather your kin and follow me!” The ghouls whined, casting fearful glances at Nightgrim, but obeyed. “Kalenis, follow.”
Nightgrim did not move. Marsile concentrated and found that the domination spell had already weakened. He refocused his will, strengthening the spell’s bonds. Nightgrim twitched, but otherwise did not react.
“I said to come,” growled Marsile.
“Certainly,” said Nightgrim, folding his hands behind his back. “Nothing could give me greater pleasure.”
“Did your victims name you Goldentongue, too?” said Marsile. “Follow me and remain silent unless I bid you to speak.”
They walked through the woods. The ghouls loped along, thrashing through the snow. Nightgrim made no sound at all. Marsile glanced in his direction, and found that the draugvir had disappeared. Alarm stabbed through him. Had the creature slipped from his control? Was it planning to attack?
Nightgrim stepped from the shadows, smiling. “Is there something amiss, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Marsile. “I told you to remain silent.” For the first time in years, Marsile felt a prickle of fear. Not doubt, not unease, but true fear. Even weakened, the greater demon within the draugvir was almost too powerful to control. If it broke free from the domination spell, it would kill him without difficulty. Or, worse, it would feed off him. After a night and a day Marsile then rise as a lesser draugvir himself, his mind and soul fused to a demon under Nightgrim’s control. It would be a form of immortality, and more than once Marsile had considered transforming himself into a draugvir. But he had no wish to subordinate his mind to a demon’s power. And if Nightgrim killed him, then Marsile might face an eternity as the monster’s slave…
Nightgrim’s face twitched into a smile. Could the creature read his thoughts? He had never heard of a draugvir possessing such an ability, but Marsile had never dealt with such a powerful demon. Maybe Marsile should strike first and destroy the draugvir.
“No,” hissed Marsile. Such doubts were meaningless, now that his goal lay within reach.
“Most wise, sir,” whispered Nightgrim.
“What?” said Marsile.
Nightgrim said nothing.
Marsile stalked on, the draugvir and the ghouls following. Soon the monastery loomed over them, its dark bulk reflecting on the cold waters of the Alderine River.
“Remain here,” said Marsile to the ghouls when they reached the edge of the trees. He pointed at Nightgrim. “You. Follow me.”
Nightgrim inclined his head in a gracious bow. A bit of flesh peeled from his jaw, revealing yellowed bone. Marsile scanned the monastery’s walls and made out the shapes of Brothers guarding the gates, and another keeping watch on the monastery’s highest tower. The Brothers could not see him in the dark, and they most certainly would not see Nightgrim. “Hold still,” snapped Marsile.
He took a deep breath, seized Nightgrim’s shoulder, and cast the astraljump spell.
Silver light swallowed him, the forest vanishing, and Marsile reappeared in the guest room, his hand still resting on Nightgrim’s cold, hard shoulder. Marsile jerked his hand away, noted that the door had been destroyed.
Nightgrim grinned, a rime of red covering his black eyes. The creature’s proximity made Marsile shudder, but he forced his voice to calm.
“Listen to me well,” said Marsile, his voice a hiss. “There are two Paladins, Silver Knights, lodging here.” The red in Nightgrim’s eyes darkened. “Kill them first. Do so quietly, without raising an alarm. There is also an Adept of the Conclave, a woman called Carandis Marken. Kill her next. Again, do so without raising an alarm. Then kill Raelum, a demonborn man masquerading as a Silver Knight. Once these four are dead, kill as many as you choose.”
“Shall I not rejoin you t
hen, sir?” said Nightgrim, raising the remnants of his eyebrows.
“It matters not,” said Marsile. Even a draugvir could not kill one hundred and fifty Brothers, especially when a few of the Brothers had access to the Light. With any luck, the survivors would destroy Nightgrim, and Marsile planned to be long gone by then.
“Well,” said Nightgrim. “I look forward to our next meeting.” The draugvir offered Marsile an awful grin and vanished through the ruined door.
Marsile shuddered and astraljumped back to the forest and rejoined the ghouls. Tored loped forward, licking his claws.
“Master,” said the ghoul. “Did you kill him?”
“Not yet,” said Marsile. “Listen to me well. If you fail to follow my commands instantly, you will all perish. But heed me, and your bellies will be filled with warm flesh ere dawn.”
Tored’s leathery lips pulled back in a grin.
Marsile led the ghouls towards the road to St. Tarill’s gates. Four Brothers stood guard over the gate, holding crossbows.
“Do not move,” Marsile whispered. “The gate soon open. When it does, charge inside and kill the surviving guards, then move into the monastery and kill as many Brothers as you please.”
Marsile closed his eyes and muttered a spell. His mind reached out, brushing the spirits of the four Brothers. Marsile focused his will, expelled his spirit from his mortal flesh, and thrust it into the body of one of the Brothers. The Brother’s spirit was vigorous, but surprised, and Marsile quelled it without difficulty. He felt a wave of dizziness, a terrible sense of dislocation, and then he was inside the Brother’s body.
Marsile blinked the Brother’s eyes. He stood on the parapet, a loaded crossbow in his hands. The other three Brothers waited nearby.
“Brother?” said one of the other men. “Are you well? You looked ill for a moment.”
“Aye,” said Marsile. “I am well. Merely cold, that is all.”
“It is chill,” said another Brother, glancing towards a nearby brazier. “Throw some more wood on the fire, I say.”
“The First Brother will be displeased.”
The Third Soul Omnibus Two Page 19
