He sprang forward with superhuman agility and speed, moving like a hideous combination of spider and ape. Raelum ducked an iron-hard fist, dodged a vicious blow, jumped over a sweeping leg. He caught Nightgrim’s next punch on the flat of his sword. The shock almost knocked the weapon from Raelum’s hand, but Nightgrim reeled back from the sword’s fire. Raelum stabbed, and Nightgrim twisted to the side, but Raelum’s sword skidded across his ribs. Nightgrim howled and lurched back. The shallow cut on his chest leaked a thick grayish fluid.
“Sir Paladin,” said Nightgrim, “you are starting to make me angry.”
“Pray that’s all I make you, beast,” said Raelum, breathing hard.
Nightgrim’s eyes kindled like burning coals, but he laughed. “Bravo, sir! Your courage cheers me! It will not aid you, but it cheers me nonetheless. Few have the courage to face death so valiantly!”
Even as he spoke he sprang forward, a whirlwind of punching fists and chopping feet. Raelum parried and dodged as best he could. He landed a few minor hits on the draugvir’s chest and shoulders, but nothing decisive. A fist blasted past Raelum’s guard and slammed into his gut. He wheezed and stumbled back, and Nightgrim seized him by the throat and groin and flung him. Raelum scare had time to scream before he crashed against the altar, his sword clanging against the stone steps.
“Well-fought, sir, well-fought!” said Nightgrim, striding forward. “But now, alas, your efforts must come…”
A volley of flaming crossbow bolts flew out of the darkness and slammed into Nightgrim. The draugvir staggered and turned around, an expression of almost comical surprise on his face.
Ulrich stood in the shrine’s entrance, a dozen Brothers at his side.
“Alas! I am afraid,” said Nightgrim, plucking quarrels from his chest, “that such weapons do little against me.”
“By the Divine and all the saints,” said one of the Brothers, trembling, “it’s a draugvir.”
“My reputation proceeds me,” said Nightgrim.
“Fear not!” roared Ulrich, striding forward. He held an enormous aurelium mace in his hands, the weapon of an Inquisitor. “Sever the beast’s head, or pierce its heart, and we shall bring the justice of the Divine on its wretched head.”
“Dear First Brother,” said Nightgrim, striding forward, “surely you do not believe such nonsense.”
Ulrich raised the mace, and Raelum felt the First Brother call upon the Light. The mace’s silvery head blazed with radiance. Nightgrim hissed and skidded to a stop, hands raised to ward off the brightness.
“Back, you foul thing!” bellowed Ulrich. “Back in the name of the Divine!”
Nightgrim roared and sprang into the air like a frog. His foot lanced down, catching a Brother’s shoulder and driving the man to the ground. Ulrich swung his mace, shouting a hymn to the Divine. Nightgrim danced to the side, his hands seizing the shoulders of another Brother. The draugvir flung the man into the others, sending brown-robed bodies crashing to the floor. Ulrich tried to close, swinging his mace. Nightgrim sprang up again and hammered his foot down, snapping the back of another Brother.
Raelum lurched to his feet and staggered towards the melee. Nightgrim leapt again, laughing like a madman. Raelum threw himself underneath Nightgrim’s leap, moving with all the speed of the Light, and raised his sword.
Nightgrim came down and impaled himself on Raelum’s sword, the blade ripping through his stomach and bursting out his back in a spray of white fire and gray ash.
The draugvir howled in agony and jerked backwards, tearing free from the blade. Raelum chopped, ripping open a gash on the draugvir’s chest and left shoulder. Nightgrim roared and hit Raelum across the face with a backhand. Raelum spun with the blow and landed on one knee, his head ringing.
A blast of white astralfire erupted from the shadows and struck Nightgrim across the chest, exploding in a spray of sparks. Raelum threw a glance over his shoulder. Carandis stood on the balcony, hand raised.
Ulrich strode forward, his mace blazing with light, driving Nightgrim towards the wall. Raelum lurched to his feet and advanced, sword raised, and more fire flared from the balcony as Carandis worked another spell. Nightgrim backed away, his torso a ruin of burned skin and flesh, his skin shredded and torn.
“Noble sirs,” said Nightgrim, voice calm, eyes raging, “I fear we shall have to continue this disagreement at another time.”
The draugvir jumped. Raelum tensed, expecting the creature to come howling down upon them. But Nightgrim flipped backwards and fell through one of the stained glass-windows. Shattered glass fell to the floor in a multicolored rain, and Raelum ran forward, heedless of the broken glass against his feet. He caught a glimpse of Nightgrim skittering up the courtyard wall like a spider. The draugvir vaulted over the battlements and vanished into the wilderness
Silence fell over the monastery, save for moans of pain from the wounded Brothers. Raelum turned, saw Ulrich staring at him. Raelum opened his mouth to warn the First Brothers of Marsile’s escape, to warn of the ghouls wandering the monastery. But the words tangled in his mouth, and a wave of exhaustion fell over him like a hammer.
He had pushed himself too far, drawn too much of the Light.
Raelum leaned against the wall and collapsed unconscious to the cool floor.
###
Marsile flowed through the woods, the gray mists of the astral world swirling around him, and saw the dark auras of his servants ahead. He concentrated through the hideous ache filling his skull and forced his flesh back into the material world.
He took two steps forward and fell onto his face. The pain in his skull had increased from an ache to a spike of agony. He had overexerted himself, expended far too much magical power. Marsile flopped over onto his back, spitting snow and twigs.
“Prepare my litter,” he croaked, “and lift me onto it.”
Dead hands reached and took Marsile’s shoulders and ankles. For a terrible instant Marsile thought that he had lost control of his servants, that they would tear him to shreds. Instead they laid him on his litter and lifted it up. The book taken from the monastery thumped against his side.
“My wine,” croaked Marsile, “bring me a skin.”
A servant complied. Marsile unstopped the skin and drank. A good quantity splashed against his bloodstained robes, but Marsile got some down his throat. The wine warmed him, and he handed the skin back to the servant.
“Now,” said Marsile, “travel northeast. Follow the banks of the Alderine.”
The dark mass of his servants marched forward, their robes rustling. It didn’t matter how much they rocked and jostled. Marsile would sleep for days. He had never been so weary in his life.
His hand brushed against the book lying at his side.
A laugh bubbled at his lips, hysterical with relief and triumph.
He would rest… but he would not die. He had lived a hundred and eighty years, thrice the span of most mortal men. That was nothing. He would live for a thousand and eighty. Ten thousand and eighty.
Forever, even.
He had won.
Marsile sank into a deep, contented sleep.
Chapter 17 – Blood Scent
“It is done,” said Sir Oliver Calabrant, leaning on his sword.
Smoke rose from the ruins of the warehouse, burned timbers jutting from the rubble like blackened bones. Raelum could not tear his eyes from the hand poking from the debris, the pale hand with the serpent-shaped ring on its finger. Raelum had last seen it attached to its owner, an Orlanish demon-worshipper and blood sorcerer working his black spells. Sir Oliver had defeated the blood sorcerer, the warehouse burning in the fury of shattered sorcery.
And now people filled the streets around the ruined warehouse, cheering, laughing, and weeping. Sobbing mothers held crying children freed from Red Philip’s iron cages. Raelum had never seen anything like it.
“A worshipper of Ramhirdras, one of the Hierarchs, the ancient mage-lords of the Old Empire,” said Sir Oliver, “to judge f
rom the ring.”
“But the Old Empire is dead,” said Raelum, “or so the songs go.”
“Aye,” said Sir Oliver, wiping soot from his brow. “But the greatest Hierarchs of the Old Empire bound high demons within themselves, and cults of foolish men worship them as gods for it. This cult devoted itself to Ramhirdras, it seems.” A fierce glint came into his eyes. “And now, like Ramhirdras himself, they are no more.”
Raelum nodded. He did not regret helping Sir Oliver, but henceforth he would have to take the utmost caution. Red Philip had not been at the warehouse.
Red Philip would want revenge.
“Come with me, lad,” said Sir Oliver.
Raelum blinked. “What?”
“Come with me,” said Sir Oliver. “You have shown yourself both brave and bold. You would make a fine Silver Knight. Become my squire and follow me.”
Raelum laughed. “You have to be a lord to be a knight. And a demonborn Silver Knight? People would laugh at me.”
“No,” said Sir Oliver, shaking his head. “They might fear you. But they would not laugh. There is nothing for you here. Naught but a life of theft ending only in death or the slaver’s collar.”
“I can’t,” said Raelum, thinking of Julietta and the orphans. Who would bring them food if he left? Yet even as he wondered images of open roads and vast forests and windswept plains flashed through his mind. He had never been outside of Khauldun. And how many more Red Philips did the world hold, petty tyrants terrorizing the helpless? Perhaps he could wander the world, finding men like Red Philip and casting them from their thrones of cruelty and murder…
“Nay,” said Raelum. “I…I have something I have to do. I can’t leave.”
“He’ll never wake up,” said Sir Oliver, voice low and phlegm-thick. “He’ll die in his sleep…”
###
Raelum shuddered awake. He lay in a soft bed, a thick blanket pulled up to his neck. His chest and back and arms ached with a steady throb. Raelum scowled, pushed aside the blanket, and sat up.
“By the holy Divine,” said the thick voice. Two Brothers stood at Raelum’s beside, staring at him. “His wounds have healed.”
Raelum glanced at his chest. The slashes and cuts had vanished, replaced by thick scars. The Light had been at work during his sleep.
“He’s diabolical, I say,” said the second Brother. “Only a possessed man could heal himself that fast.”
“Or a man blessed with the Light,” snapped Raelum. “What’s happened? The draugvir…it ran from the shrine. The ghouls? Marsile?” Raelum scowled. “Marsile! We must go in pursuit of him at once! We…”
“Calm yourself,” said the first Brother. “Wait here a moment. I shall fetch the First, and he shall decide what to do.”
The Brothers vacated the room, locking the door behind them. Raelum’s cloak, tunic, jerkin, and boots lay there, along with his armor, sword, and dagger. Raelum stared at his possessions for a moment, shrugged, and then dressed and armed himself. If the Brothers tried to hold him prisoner again, he could fight his way out.
But after the horrors of last night, he doubted they had the will for more bloodshed.
The door opened and Ulrich entered. He looked exhausted, his face lined with sorrow. For a moment they stared at each other.
“I am sorry,” whispered the First Brother.
Raelum gripped his sword hilt, thinking the First planned to pronounce some sentence.
“You were right,” said Ulrich. “Marsile was coming. The book…the dark book has been stolen.”
“I saw him,” said Raelum. “He carried it off. I came close to slaying him, but he escaped.”
“The draugvir,” said Ulrich. “The draugvir would have killed us all, if not for you, Sir Raelum. And I doubted you. I had thought you a false knight, Marsile’s minion. But I was wrong, and this monastery has paid for my folly. Nineteen of the Brothers are dead, and another fifteen are hurt, and may not live.”
“Nineteen?” said Raelum.
“The draugvir killed six of them,” said Ulrich. “Drained them of blood, and piled their bodies in a guest chamber. The ghouls surprised and killed several others.” The First fell to his knees, head bowed. “Forgive me, I beg. If not for you and the Adept, Marsile and the draugvir might have killed us all.”
Raelum stared at the First, speechless. After a moment he found his voice. “I…it…get up. Get up! You have hurt Brothers, you say?” Ulrich nodded. “I have some skill using the Light to heal. Take me to them.”
“But you are hurt,” said Ulrich. “You need to rest.”
“Take me to them, I beg,” said Raelum, “and tell me what has happened.”
“This way,” said Ulrich, leading him into the corridor outside the guest rooms. “After you fell, we scoured the rest of the monastery for the ghouls. We found eleven and destroyed them. Then we tended to the wounded, and sent parties after the draugvir and Marsile.” Ulrich shook his head. “We found nothing. Marsile is long gone, with the dark book our cloister has so long guarded. Of the draugvir we found no trace. We can only hope that the sunlight destroyed it. You wounded it severely.”
“No,” said Raelum. “Sunlight might weaken a greater demon of that kind, but it’s too powerful to be destroyed by just light. Nightgrim was a creature of Marsile’s, I am sure. It must have traveled with him.”
“Sir Hildebrand is dead,” said Ulrich.
“How?”
“The draugvir,” said Ulrich. “It caught him and drank his blood. The expression on his face…” Ulrich’s weary face tightened. “I have not slept since. We made sure to burn Hildebrand’s body at once. One draugvir is bad enough.”
“What about Carandis?” said Raelum
“The Adept? She is well enough,” said Ulrich. “A few bruises. She’s resting now.” He shook his head. “It seems I misjudged her, as well. Her spells helped us destroy the remaining ghouls.”
“The draugvir,” said Raelum. “It called itself Nightgrim. I wonder…”
“If it was the real Nightgrim?” said Ulrich. The First Brother shrugged. “I spent my youth in Moiria, not far from Callia City. I was a young man when Nightgrim went on his rampage. I knew men who had lost daughters to the beast. But I never saw him myself, and the Silver Knights claimed to have destroyed the creature. Perhaps they were mistaken. Marsile must have brought the creature back and enslaved it to his blood sorcery.” The First sighed. “I misjudged you and I underestimated him terribly.”
“The fault is Marsile’s, not yours,” said Raelum. “The blood of the Brothers is on his hands. The blood of the Brothers, and many others.” Raelum’s cold fury began to burn. “He will pay for his crimes one day, I swear it.”
But a hint of desperation entered Raelum’s mind.
He didn’t know what do next.
He had followed Marsile to the edge of the civilized lands, led by Sir Oliver’s dying words. The wraith of Coldbrook Keep and Abbot Portlock led him here, to the monastery of St. Tarill’s. But where would Marsile go from here? Would he returned to the western kingdoms, build an empire of terror and blood sorcery with the dark books’ knowledge? Or would he plunge into the demon-haunted wreckage of the Old Empire in search of even greater dark magic, of relics left from the time of the Elder People?
Raelum didn’t know. He didn’t even know how to find out.
A scream of pain and terror cut into his thoughts.
Raelum whirled, drawing his sword.
“No,” said Ulrich, putting his hand on Raelum’s shoulder. “It’s just Sir Lionel.”
“Sir Lionel?” said Raelum, lowering his blade. “Nightgrim didn’t kill him?”
“No,” said Ulrich. “But…the draugvir was supping on him, Carandis told me. I fear the horror has overthrown Sir Lionel’s mind. He pleads with us to kill him, lest he die and rise as a draugvir himself. We had take his sword and keep him under guard.”
Raelum stepped past Ulrich and opened the door. Two burly Brothers stood with folded
arms. Lionel of Tarrenheim sat on the bed, his blond hair greasy, his skin pale, his eyes bloodshot and quivering.
Raelum hesitated. His demonborn senses felt something different within Lionel, something slow and dark.
The faintest echo of the demon taint within Nightgrim.
“Don’t you understand?” Lionel half-sobbed, pawing at himself. “I can still feel the darkness inside me.” His voice rose to a scream. “Inside me! Kill me! Why can’t you kill me?” His feverish eyes turned to Raelum. “Wait…I know you. I saw you. You had the holy sword. You drove…you drove him away.” Lionel began to weep. “But he left the darkness inside me. Kill me, oh, by the Divine, kill me, before I become like him. You understand. You’re a Silver Knight, you understand. Kill me!”
“No,” said Raelum. This man had done nothing as Hildebrand accused Raelum of murder, yet now the golden-haired Paladin seemed like a wretched, sobbing child. “I will not kill you.” He took Lionel’s left hand and turned it over. The skin felt clammy and looked grayish, discolored. Raelum concentrated and drew on the Light. A glow flickered from his fingers, and the grayness vanished from Lionel’s skin.
Lionel smiled up at Raelum, slumped back on the bed, and fell asleep.
“Should we kill him?” said Ulrich. “He will rise as a draugvir.”
“Only when he dies,” said Raelum, remembering what Sir Oliver had taught him about greater demons. “He lost much blood, but not enough to kill him. A few days’ rest and he’ll be fine.”
“But when he dies, a demon will enter his flesh and fuse with his soul, and he will become a draugvir,” said Ulrich.
“Aye,” said Raelum. “Unless we kill Nightgrim first. Which means Nightgrim was not destroyed. Else his poison would not still taint Sir Lionel’s veins.” Raelum shook his head. “Take me to your wounded.”
Ulrich took Raelum to the monastery’s infirmary. Some of the wounded Brothers cheered Raelum. Raelum went from Brother to Brother, drawing on the Light, healing whatever he could. He drew on the Light until exhaustion defeated him. He went to the corner of the infirmary, slumped down, and fell asleep.
The Third Soul Omnibus Two Page 22
