The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Who the devil are you?” snapped Hildebrand, reaching for his sword.

  The man leaned forward and locked gazes with Hildebrand.

  A little moan escaped Hildebrand’s lips.

  He had never seen such terrible eyes. They seemed like mirrors, reflecting the defects of his soul, bringing to light all his secret sins, all his dark passions. Hildebrand began to sob. He was no better than any vulgar sinner, swaggering through whorehouses and alehouses with impunity.

  “You have sinned,” said the man, his deep voice soft.

  Hildebrand wept, unable to look away from the awful eyes. “I have.”

  “Come,” said the man, beckoning. “Let me show you the way to peace.”

  Hildebrand rose, shaking.

  The man grinned, slashed open Hildebrand’s throat, and pressed his cold lips to the wound. Hildebrand felt a shocking wave of pain, but noted it with disinterest. Had he not sinned? Did he not deserve to pay for his wretched acts?

  Then Hildebrand remembered where he had seen this creature before. It had been called Michael Kalenis as a man, but after its possession by a greater demon and its transformation into a draugvir, the terrorized people of Callia had named it Nightgrim…

  And all at once, in a horrifying flash of comprehension, Hildebrand understood.

  He screamed and tried to yank free, but Nightgrim’s cold, dead arms held him like iron bands. Hildebrand tried to fight, but the wound drained his strength. He thrashed and kicked, but Nightgrim’s hands gripped his shoulder and head like iron cuffs.

  Nightgrim looked up, grinning, his teeth wet with blood.

  “Fear not, sir,” whispered Nightgrim, “for you’ll rise as my servant soon enough.”

  Hildebrand screamed, blood frothing on his tongue, and tried to jerk back.

  Nightgrim feasted.

  ###

  “You,” whispered Marsile, backing away in alarm.

  Raelum slammed himself against the bars. It did no good. He heaved again, straining, but could not break free.

  Marsile’s surprise dissolved into amusement. “You followed me all the way from High Morgon? I had thought you at weeks behind me, but you were snapping at my heels the entire time, weren’t you?”

  “I’ll kill you,” snarled Raelum, “I’ll kill you for what you did to Sir Oliver.”

  “You will?” said Marsile, laughing. “How, pray, will you accomplish that? You can’t even move, fool boy.” A fierce light came into his eyes, the lines of his face trembling. “And shall never die, not now, not ever. Ten thousand years after your bones have moldered to dust, I shall still walk this world.”

  Raelum snarled, trying to pull free. The rough bars scraped against the skin of his chest.

  “I enjoyed killing Sir Oliver,” said Marsile. “Do you have any idea how much grief that wretched zealot caused me? I laughed when I killed him. I laughed when the foolish Brothers of this miserable cloister blamed you for his death. And I’m going to laugh, now, as I kill you.” He lifted his hand, blue astralfire blazing to life around his fingers.

  Raelum roared, trying to pull free, and saw something move behind Marsile.

  Carandis Marken crept through the shadows, blue fire flaring before her fingers. Marsile’s own fire brightened, and he remained oblivious to the younger Adept’s presence. Raelum strained against the bars, ignoring the metal digging into his skin.

  Carandis stopped and flung out her hand, a shaft of blazing blue fire shooting towards Marsile.

  But Marsile whirled, and his blue fire transmuted into a shimmering halo of silver light. Carandis’s astralfire exploded against it without effect.

  “You again?” said Marsile, laughing. “Haven’t you learned anything from our last encounter?”

  “I have,” said Carandis, and a shell of silver light surrounded her. “You won’t take control of me again.”

  “Oh, a worthy effort,” said Marsile, “a worthy effort. But I wielded the High Art a century and a half before you were even born. Observe.”

  Marsile pointed, and invisible force seized Carandis and flung her into a pillar with terrible force. She slumped to the ground, motionless. Marsile walked towards the fallen Adept, teeth bared, hands working in another spell.

  Raelum strained forward, the bars peeling the skin from his chest. He still held the broken bar in his right hand. A sudden inspiration came to him, and he rolled back his shoulder and threw the bar like a javelin, all the strength of his arm and the Light driving his throw.

  The jagged end plunged into Marsile’s side.

  Marsile shrieked, arms clawing at the air. The bar had sunk at least five inches into his flesh, and his robes began to darken with blood. Carandis groaned, rolled to one knee, and began muttering a spell.

  Marsile flung out his hand. Something unseen struck Carandis and threw her against into the pillar. The Adept slumped to the floor, unconscious or dead. Marsile staggered across the vault like a drunken man, clutching his side. He tottered up the stairs and vanished.

  Raelum tried to break free.

  ###

  Nightgrim let Hildebrand’s corpse drop to the floor.

  The old man’s face had frozen into a hideous mask of terror and agony. Nightgrim tittered and kicked the corpse. Perhaps he should take it with him. After a night and a day a lesser demon would enter the corpse, and Hildebrand would rise as a weaker draugvir and Nightgrim’s slave.

  He could amuse himself with such a slave for centuries.

  Nightgrim titled his head to the side, listening. His greater demon had corroded his reason, but had only enhanced his senses. He heard screams, bellowed commands, and the slap of booted feet against the stone floor. Could the Brothers have discovered his presence?

  Then Nightgrim remembered the ghouls and snickered. He would have to leave Hildebrand’s corpse behind. A pity, that. But what to do next? Perhaps he should track down Marsile and feast on his blood. The blood of the Brothers and the Paladin had filled Nightgrim with raging strength, and he could throw off the Adept’s spells with ease.

  Wait.

  He had forgotten about the other Paladin.

  Grinning, he opened the door and glanced into the corridor. Despite the tumult, the hallway was deserted. Nightgrim felt the presence of the other Paladin in the next room. This one was younger, weaker. Nightgrim would kill him with ease.

  He made himself insubstantial and walked through the door.

  ###

  Marsile staggered up the stairs, the satchel thumping against his back. Every movement sent fresh agony into his side. The iron bar still jutted from his flesh, his blood staining the rusted metal. Even if he survived the wound, he might die of lockjaw in a few weeks. A hysterical laugh bubbled at Marsile’s lips, along with a good quantity of blood. The stairwell spun around him like a child’s toy.

  “No,” whispered Marsile. He had to get control of himself. He would not die here!

  He lurched the rest of the way up the stairs. As he stumbled over the last step into the corridor the iron bar clanged against the stone doorjamb, levering against Marsile’s innards.

  An explosion of pain tore through him, and his vision blacked out.

  A moment later Marsile found himself on his knees, listening to a hideous scream. A few heartbeats later he realized the scream was his. He tried to fight back his rising terror. After everything he had survived, everything he had overcome, to die here…

  Marsile had to act, and he had to act now. He wrapped quivering fingers around the metal shaft, braced himself, and yanked on the metal bar.

  It ripped out of his flesh, fresh blood flowing down his side. Marsile collapsed, howling, and the bar clanged against the floor. He tried to stand, but to no avail. Black terror engulfed him. He had failed, and death would claim him…

  “Brother!”

  Marsile lifted his eyes. A Brother of the Temple stood at the end of the corridor, crossbow in hand, gaping at him.

  “Brother,” croaked Marsile. One hand dipp
ed into his robes, gripping a dagger strapped to his leg. “The ghouls. I am wounded. Help me!”

  “Come!” said the Brother, setting down the crossbow. “I shall take you to the shrine.” He knelt besides Marsile. “No demon would dare defile…”

  Marsile yanked the dagger free, smeared his blood across the blade, and muttered a spell, gathering all the power he could yet muster. The hilt grew icy cold in his hand, and the blade crackled with blood-colored fire.

  “What?” said the Brother, eyes wide. “What is this?”

  It was a spell Marsile had learned over a century ago, a secret of blood sorcery he had torn from a truculent Jurgur shaman.

  Marsile plunged the blade into the Brother’s chest.

  The Brother’s eyes bulged and he screamed, Marsile screaming with him. An explosion of pain and heat spread through him, like a river of fire pouring through the dagger and into his body. The Brother aged before Marsile’s eyes. Soon he looked like a man of eighty, and an instant later he was an ancient corpse, desiccated and withered. A heartbeat after that, the Brother's corpse disintegrated in a spray of dust and crumbling bones.

  Marsile coughed, brushed himself off, and climbed to his feet.

  He felt fine. In fact, he felt better than he had in years. The wound in his side had vanished, leaving only a faint scar. The blood spell had worked. It had drained away the Brother’s life energies and imbued them into Marsile. He had used the spell dozens of times to prolong his life and stave off death, but never in such desperate circumstances.

  For a moment he struggled with the absurd desire to find a mirror. He would look younger, he knew, the gray gone from his hair, the lines smoothed from his face. But it never lasted. In a matter of months, Marsile would look as he had before. And the stolen life energy drained away faster every time. Blood sorcery had extended Marsile’s life three times beyond the span of most mortal men, but it could not sustain him forever.

  Footsteps clattered in the stairwell. Either Raelum or Carandis or both were in pursuit. In Marsile’s weakened state, they would kill him without difficulty.

  Marsile concentrated, forcing his wavering strength into one last spell. His body became ghostly and insubstantial as he shifted partway into the astral world once more.

  He drifted through the walls and flew through the empty fields surrounding the monastery.

  Chapter 16 - Shrine Duel

  Raelum drew on the Light, letting it fill him with strength and power. He braced himself, wrenched forward, and at last tore free from the iron bars, leaving burning scrapes on his chest and back.

  He seized his sword and sprinted for the stairs, not bothering with boots or tunic or armor. Marsile lay just within his grasp. Another few steps and Raelum would have him, would last take revenge for the monks of St. Arik’s, revenge for the villagers of Karrent, revenge for Sir Oliver.

  Raelum reached the top of the stairs just in time to see Marsile, his body faint and ghost-like, step through a wall and vanish. Raelum bellowed and swung his sword, the blade clanging off the stone wall in a spray of sparks. He overbalanced and saw Carandis lurch up the stairs, leaning on her staff.

  Raelum raised his sword. “Come to throw me back in the cell?”

  “No,” croaked Carandis, rubbing her side, “no.” She coughed. “I had my doubts about Hildebrand’s accusations. And now I’ve heard it from Marsile’s own lips, have I not? He killed Oliver Calabrant, not you.”

  “But he’s escaped,” said Raelum.

  “He cannot have gone far,” said Carandis. “I saw him use that spell in Araspan. It takes tremendous power, and he cannot maintain it for long. If we can find him before he astraljumps away, perhaps together we can overcome him.”

  “Can you fight?” said Raelum.

  Carandis nodded. “Well enough. You are demonborn?”

  “This is not…” said Raelum.

  “That means you can sense demons,” said Carandis, her gray eyes urgent. “Marsile will have ghouls with him. Can you sense them?”

  “I…don’t know,” said Raelum. He closed his eyes and reached out with his peculiar senses, seeking for demons….

  And he felt a dozen of them.

  “What is it?” said Carandis.

  “Demons,” said Raelum, blinking. “Lesser ones. Ghouls, maybe, or perhaps possessed men. And…”

  He blinked in shock. He sensed a demon of great malevolence and power. Even brushing it with his senses made Raelum feel ill.

  “What is it?” said Carandis.

  “I think Marsile has command of a greater demon,” said Raelum. “This way.”

  They hastened around a corner and skidded to a stop.

  The dismembered remnants of a Brother lay strewn on the floor. A hideous, gray-skinned shape, reeking of rot, held an arm in its talons, its maw stained with blood. The ghoul looked up, blinked yellow eyes, and flung itself at Raelum.

  Raelum sidestepped and brought Sir Oliver’s blazing sword down. The ghoul’s head rolled down the corridor, the body crashing into the wall and collapsing to the floor.

  “Ghouls!” said Carandis. “He’s brought ghouls into the monastery.”

  “He’s brought worse than that,” said Raelum, stepping over the carnage. The floor felt sticky against his bare feet. “Haste!”

  Raelum sprinted through the monastery’s dark hallways, Carandis following.

  ###

  Nightgrim smiled at his handiwork.

  The young Paladin lay bound and gagged, his eyes unblinking, his mind slaved to Nightgrim’s gaze. Nightgrim would kill this one slowly. He slit the Paladin’s left wrist and watched the blood well up. He would drain the young man to helplessness, then let him awaken to appreciate his fate.

  Nightgrim began to feast.

  ###

  Raelum raced through the monastery, Sir Oliver’s sword burning with white flames.

  “Here,” said Raelum, stopping before a door. He tried the handle, but the door was barred.

  “These are the guest rooms,” said Carandis. “Has it killed…”

  Raelum didn’t wait, but rammed his shoulder against the door. It shattered like kindling beneath his Light-enhanced strength, and he stumbled into the room.

  Lionel of Tarrenheim lay on the bed, wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts, his mouth gagged. His eyes rolled back and forth in terror. A pale, muscular young man in ragged finery knelt besides him, mouth pressed to Lionel’s wrist.

  The scene was so bizarre that for a moment Raelum did not know what to do.

  Then the young man rose. Blood covered his lips and chin and stained his ragged clothes.

  And Raelum felt the mighty power of the demon within the man.

  “It’s a draugvir,” hissed Carandis, raising her hand, “an accursed draugvir…”

  “Good evening, sirs,” said the creature, its voice deep and courtly. “I only know you by reputation, I am afraid, and as my business is pressing, introductions must sadly wait. But in Callia City, years past, I was commonly known as Nightgrim.”

  The very sight of this creature filled Raelum with rage. What right did it have to devour the helpless and the weak? Raelum sprang forward, his sword blurring.

  But Nightgrim was just as fast

  Nightgrim twisted to the side, and Raelum’s sword slashed empty air. Nightgrim lunged, his cold hard hands locking around Raelum’s throat. Raelum flailed, beating at the draugvir with his sword. Nightgrim flinched from the holy fires, but Raelum could not get sufficient strength behind his blows.

  “Your blood is tainted,” hissed Nightgrim, sniffing “fouled, spoiled. I cannot feed on you, alas. Pity. So I’ll just have to rip your head off.” His cold hands tightened.

  Carandis thrust out her hand, and a blast of white astralfire erupted from her fingers and slammed into the side of Nightgrim’s head. Nightgrim leapt back with a snarl, losing his grip on Raelum’s throat. Raelum stumbled forward, choking, and thrust. His blade shaved a sliver of flesh from Nightgrim’s shoulder, and N
ightgrim screeched and drew back.

  Raelum crept forward, Carandis at his side, herding the draugvir into a corner. Nightgrim’s eyes twitched to one side, then the other. He roared and lunged, and Raelum brought his sword up to block. At the last minute Nightgrim twisted aside, his fist slamming against Carandis’s chest. The crimson-robed woman groaned and collapsed to the floor. Nightgrim leapt over her and into the corridor, Raelum in pursuit.

  Shouts of alarm filled the monastery’s halls, and Raelum shoved past a trio of terrified Brothers. Behind them loped a ghoul, black tongue lolling over yellow fangs. Raelum beheaded the thing and ran on, calling on the Light to fill his legs with speed. Nightgrim dashed ahead, moving like a fluid shadow.

  Raelum skidded around a corner, sword raised, and found himself on a stone balcony overlooking St. Tarill’s ornate shrine to the Divine and the Seeress. Statues of the saints stood in alcoves, beneath stained-glass windows displaying intricate scenes. A trio of candelabras adorned the stone altar, their flickering light gleaming off the rose sigil of the Divine.

  Nightgrim vaulted over the stone railing and landed thirty feet below. He turned, grinned up at Raelum, and waved his hand in a jaunty salute of farewell.

  Raelum filled himself with the Light and jumped over the railing. He managed to land in a crouch, his Light-strengthened muscles straining with the effort. He stood and gripped his sword in both hands, keeping the burning blade steady.

  “Impressive,” said Nightgrim. “A demonborn Paladin. Wonders indeed fill the world. Go on your way, red-eyed boy. We are almost like kin, and I cannot feed on your fouled blood. Why then should we come to blows?”

  “No,” said Raelum. “I challenge you, fiend. No more will you blight the world. You may take up a weapon for your defense, if you choose.”

  It was something Sir Oliver would have said.

  Nightgrim smiled. “My dear sir. Do I not already have all the weapons I shall ever need?”