An even more alarming thought came to Marsile’s mind.
What if they had not destroyed Nightgrim? Suppose the draugvir had escaped? Would he come after Marsile?
The young Adept and the Paladins worried Marsile.
Nightgrim terrified him.
It had been a mistake to awaken the greater demon, even if it had gotten Marsile the Book of Stolen Blood. Marsile had almost failed to master a weakened, emaciated Nightgrim.
A rejuvenated Nightgrim might prove beyond his ability.
Marsile would deal with Nightgrim when the time came. For now he had to stop Carandis Marken. Sooner or later the girl would gather of force of allies powerful enough to kill Marsile.
Again the feather-light touch echoed in Marsile’s skull. He had to kill the girl here, in the depths of the wild. Here, the advantage lay with Marsile. Carandis had only a few Paladins for allies. Marsile had his demon servants, the ability to dominate many more, and the puissant force of his own magic. For a moment he considered turning, meeting his enemies, and annihilating them.
He rubbed the scar on his side, dismissing the ideal as foolhardy. He had underestimated Oliver Calabrant’s red-eyed squire, and the boy had almost killed him. Marsile did not want to take the risk of open confrontation.
“A trap, then,” he murmured, then raised his voice. “Tored, come here!”
The ghoul shuffled over and dropped to its haunches, tongue wagging like a dog’s.
“How far it to the great bridge over the Alderine River?” said Marsile.
“Not far, master,” said Tored. “Perhaps the walk of a day and a night. People call the bridge Abbotsford, now.”
“Abbotsford,” said Marsile. “Why?”
“Long ago, when Tored lived,” said the ghoul, “a great monastery sat on the hill by the bridge. The First Brother charged tolls when folk passed. Now ruins. And a village. It was there when I came over the bridge.”
“A village?” said Marsile, intrigued. He had set traps for his pursuers in both Coldbrook Keep and St. Arik’s. Both had failed, but perhaps Marsile could attempt something on a larger scale at this village. He climbed into his sedan chair, bidding his servants to lift it. “Take me to this bridge.”
“Aye, master,” said Tored.
Marsile smiled, whispered a spell, and sent a burst of astralfire shooting past Tored’s ear. “Do not think to betray me.”
Tored shuddered and loped away.
Chapter 2 - Servants of Baligant
Marsile found the bridge the next day.
The thing looked ancient, older than anything Marsile had ever seen, save perhaps the oldest scrolls of the Elder People in the Conclave’s library. The bridge rose in a high arc over the Alderine, high enough to allow ships to pass underneath. Millennia of rain and wind had worn and pitted the bridge’s gray stone, yet it still stood, older than men, its builders long ago vanished.
“The bridge, master,” said Tored.
“Yes, I noticed,” said Marsile. If the bridge still stood, what other relics of the Elder People might lie beyond the river? Once Marsile had reached Moragannon and learned its secrets, perhaps he should make a thorough search of these lands. The Elder People had wielded arcane powers greater than anything mortal men had ever mastered, at least until the superior numbers of the Old Empire had crushed them. What mighty secrets might lie buried here?
“Over the bridge,” Marsile commanded. The ghouls shuffled forward, Tored sniffing the air.
Twin statues stood before the bridge like silent guards. Countless years of wind and rain had not erased the alien cast of their features, the angular bones, the dagger-sharp ears, the haughty sneers. Each statue held a slender sword and star-shaped shield.
An inscription marked the shields, written in the characters of the Elder People.
“What do they say?” said Tored.
“Ware, traveler, for beyond lies the realm of the Hierarchs of the Empire of Men, who taint the land,” said Marsile. Tored shivered. “Fool. The Elder People and the Old Empire destroyed each other long ago. Over the bridge!”
They crossed the bridge and Marsile bade his servants stop as he examined his surroundings. Perhaps he could make a stand here, kill Carandis and the Silver Knights as they crossed the bridge. Ahead land rose in a high crag, and atop the crag sat a cluster of ruined walls and crumbling stone towers. Almost surely the ruins housed demons of some kind.
“The monastery, it was,” said Tored.
“No doubt,” said Marsile. He saw a haze to the east. Through the trees Marsile glimpsed open fields, and the logs of peasant houses.
“A village,” said Marsile. Perhaps a peasant had already seen them. Marsile pulled a vial of dried blood from his belt and worked a blood spell, one designed to sense both the presence of living men and demons.
He extended his magical senses and blinked in surprise. A large number of powerful demons clustered in the ruins above. Marsile had never sensed such a powerful group of demons in one place. Though, oddly, the auras of his demon servants seemed more powerful than he recalled. Marsile must have miscast the spell. He commanded his servants to lower the litter, and he stood up.
A surge of energy howled through him the instant his feet touched the ground. Marsile gasped, his head spinning, and grabbed at a servant’s shoulder to keep from falling. After a moment the shock faded, and Marsile stood straighter.
He realized what had happened.
“The astral world,” he whispered. “The astral world is closer here.” He sensed it all around him, energy welling up from the earth. The Hierarchs of the Old Empire had torn open a rift to the astral world, fraying the boundaries between worlds…and Marsile had traveled closer to the heart of the fallen Empire.
And, presumably, to the location of that rift.
He muttered the spell again, focusing his will. His servants were indeed stronger. Any demon here would find itself stronger, faster, tougher, better able to draw on the power of the astral world through the damaged barrier between worlds.
And Marsile’s spells would be far mightier.
“We are stronger here,” said Tored. The ghoul’s speech sounded clearer, its words less slurred.
Marsile looked at the ghoul. Could the nearer presence of the astral world have strengthened Tored’s wit? “And you failed to mention this?”
Tored shrugged. “I forgot.”
“Indeed,” said Marsile. “Follow me. Do you know anything of this village?” How could any human village survive in a land where demons were so powerful?
Yet that smoke had to come from somewhere.
“No, master,” said Tored. “I did not come here often.”
Marsile led his servants to the edge of the trees. The village looked larger than he would have thought, home to about eight or nine hundred people. The square tower of a stone Temple rose over the thatched roofs, crowned with the rose sigil of the Divine. It looked normal enough, yet something about the village troubled Marsile.
It struck him.
The village had no wall, no palisade, not even a fence. Every settlement from here to the sea had a palisade to keep out wandering ghouls. Especially here, where the dark power saturated the very ground, would not a village without a sturdy wall become a haunted ruin?
Something was wrong here. Yet even as Marsile watched, he saw villagers moving about their business, men chopping firewood, women carrying bundles of cloth, children playing games.
“Wait here,” Marsile commanded. “Come if I call.”
He stepped from the trees and walked across the empty fields. Dead cornstalks cracked beneath his boots. Marsile considered discarding his red Adept’s robes and disguising himself as a Brother, but discarded the notion. Someone had destroyed the monastery on the hill. Suppose the villagers themselves had razed it?
Marsile stopped at the edge of the village, listening. The lack of a wall amazed him. Anyone, or anything, could wander into the village at any time. A fat woman waddled past him, ca
rrying a pair of buckets, and Marsile cleared his throat.
The woman turned, dropped her buckets, and gaped at him.
“Your pardon, I beg,” said Marsile. “Pray, what is this village?”
The woman said nothing, eyes wide.
“I am a traveler,” he said, “seeking lodgings. Might I find them here?”
“A…a traveler?” said the woman, blinking. She squinted, as if trying to remember something. “Travelers…travelers are welcome here, my lord.” She did a crude curtsy. “The Divine…commands us to help all travelers, and we are faithful folk of the Divine, so we are.”
“Well and good,” said Marsile. It sounded as if the woman had recited a long-rehearsed speech. “Lodgings?”
“Lodgings,” said the woman. “You must speak with Walchelin, yes.”
“Walchelin?” said Marsile. “Is he the domn here?”
The woman laughed. “Old Walchelin? He’s but the bailiff. The Brothers on the hill were our domn, long ago, but they perished. Come with me, my lord, and I’ll take you to Walchelin.”
“I would rather he came to me,” said Marsile. “It would be unseemly, lady, were I to come into the village uninvited.”
“Wait here, lord, if you please.” She bowed and scurried away, leaving her buckets in the snow. A small crowd gathered, women and children, gaping at him. Marsile ignored them. He circled to the side, opening a clear line of sight to the Temple.
The Temple looked dilapidated, shingles fluttering in the cold air. Generations of lichen stained the walls and tower, and most of the windows had been broken. It looked little more than a ruin, a marked contrast to the prosperous village.
An interesting idea occurred to Marsile.
A group of twenty men walked towards him, wrapped in heavy winter cloaks. At their head walked a big, red-faced man with a wide smile.
“Greetings, traveler,” said the stout man. “I am Walchelin, bailiff of Abbotsford.”
“Marsile, of Araspan,” said Marsile.
Usually men reacted with fear to anything connected with the Conclave, but the villagers gave no reaction.
“We rejoice in the name of the Divine to see a traveler,” said Walchelin, smiling. “Travelers are so rare here. We welcome you gladly.”
“Indeed?” said Marsile. He wondered how many weapons the men hid beneath their cloaks. “I am glad of it. And glad to find such pious folk in these desolate lands.”
Walchelin’s smile didn’t waver, but an odd flicker passed through his eyes. “We greatly reverence the Divine here. We beseech the Divine and St. Terrence to look over us.”
“Interesting,” said Marsile. “St. Terrence was condemned as a heretic two hundred years ago.”
“Oh?” said Walchelin. “That must be a different St. Terrence, then.” His jolly smile never wavered. “Why don’t we go to the Temple? We shall say a prayer of thanksgiving for your arrival, and then have a great feast.”
Marsile glanced at the battered Temple. “I would enjoy that.”
They walked through the village. The men moved in a ring around Marsile and Walchelin. Women and children watched them from doorways, and more men moved towards the Temple.
“Does the village have a Brother to steward the Temple?” said Marsile.
Walchelin smiled. “I am the bailiff, but I also serve as the Brother of the Temple.”
“An office passed down from father to son?” said Marsile. The men gave him sidelong glances.
“It is,” said Walchelin, raising his eyebrows. “How did you know?”
“It is often the case in remote lands,” said Marsile. “That practice has been condemned by the Temple, I should add.”
“It has?” said Walchelin. “You seem to know many things, stranger. Tell me. Has the Temple sent you here? To make sure no heretics dwell here?”
“Curiosity drew me hither, you might say,” said Marsile. They stopped before the Temple, and some of the men opened the doors. A gust of stale, cold air blew out. “I had, bailiff, an interesting idea.”
“My lord?” said Walchelin.
“I don’t think you or your people worship the Divine,” said Marsile. “This Temple is unused, an empty shell. A façade. I wonder what you really worship.”
“My lord,” said Walchelin, his smile widening into a grin. “I think you’ll find that the Temple is used often.” He gestured. “Inside, please.”
Marsile entered the Temple, the men filing in behind him. The Temple looked even worse inside. Dust layered the floor, and faint streams of light leaked through the broken windows.
The air stank of rotting meat.
A trapdoor lay in the wooden floor before the crumbling altar.
“We do use the Temple, friend Marsile,” said Walchelin, walking to the altar. A furled banner hung over the altar, bound with a cord. “We use it quite often.” He yanked the cord and banner unrolled, bouncing. It was black, and ancient, and showed the sigil of a skull crowned with a diadem of bones and gold wire.
The personal sigil of the Hierarch Baligant of the Old Empire.
“So,” said Marsile, laughing. “A demon-cult, then? Shall I assume the entire village participates?”
“Do not laugh, fool,” said Walchelin, smirking. “Every now and again some fool comes, sent by St. Tarill’s, seeking to force us to worship the weakling Divine. We shall not! True immortality is found only through the demons, through the might of the Lord Baligant and his high demon. Lord Baligant is the only god, and we serve only him.”
“As it happens, I couldn’t agree more,” said Marsile.
“Do not think to beg,” said Walchelin. He walked around the altar and kicked open the trapdoor. It opened into a stone-lined well about twenty feet deep. Marsile craned his neck, peering inside. Yellow eyes stared back at him, and a half-dozen ghouls crouched in the vault below, snarling, snapping their fangs.
“They are not fed often,” said Walchelin, “and are hungry. Once they have finished with you, you shall rise as one of them and begin your service to the Lord Baligant.” He gestured. Two of the men stepped forward, lifting clubs from beneath their cloaks.
Marsile started to laugh.
Walchelin scowled. “You think this is funny, fool?”
“Oh, it is,” said Marsile, “but not as funny as it shall be.”
Marsile turned and worked a spell, and the men with clubs froze as his will wrapped around them. Marsile beckoned and the men floated into the air, flailing. Walchelin and the others backed away in sudden alarm. Marsile pointed towards the pit, and the two men glided towards it, screaming.
“An admirable trap, bailiff,” said Marsile. The floating men stopped, hovering over the pit, shrieking in terror. “But I am rather more formidable prey than you are accustomed to hunting.”
He released his spell.
The men plummeted into the pit, landing with a crunch. After a heartbeat’s silence, the screaming began, accompanied by the sound of ripping flesh.
The villagers came at Marsile, brandishing clubs and slashing daggers, and Marsile cast another spell. A shaft of howling azure astralfire lanced from his fingers and ripped into the charging villagers. Five men fell dead to the Temple floor, their chests reduced to smoking craters. The others stopped, terror etched on their faces.
“Continue, if you wish,” said Marsile. The astralfire crackled around his fingers. “Then most of you will die before the sun sets.”
“Who are you?” croaked Walchelin, his smile gone at last. “An Adept?”
“I should kill you all,” said Marsile. “But there’s no reason for us to fight. We may even share a common goal. Let me show you.” He crooked a finger. “Follow me.”
He walked through the Temple, the villagers following him at a safe distance. Marsile strode to the edge of the village, focused his will, and called his servants.
They emerged from the trees like wolves.
“What is this?” screeched an old woman. “Have you brought the Brothers down upon us?�
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“Hardly,” said Marsile. “Reveal yourselves!”
His servants threw back their robes, revealing rotting limbs, grinning skulls, and moldering flesh. The villagers gaped.
“You are a blood sorcerer,” said Walchelin, voice thick with awe, “one of the servants of the great Lords.” He fell to his knees, as did the others. “What do you require of us?”
The villagers were wrong, of course, but Marsile saw no reason to correct them. “I said curiosity drew me here. That was not entirely true. You know of Moragannon?”
Walchelin looked up. “It lies far to the east, in the Silvercrown Mountains. The great Lord Baligant lies there.”
“I am going there,” said Marsile. “I shall summon his spirit back to the material world and free him to walk the earth once more.”
That also was not quite true, but Marsile doubted the villagers would respond well to his real goal.
“You are?” said Walchelin, eyes shining. “We have always followed the Lord Baligant, greatest of the Hierarchs of the Old Empire. Our distant ancestors served in his hosts. After the accursed Seeress defeated Lord Baligant, our forefathers swore fealty to him forever, and hid themselves amongst the witless sheep of the Seeress and her feeble Divine. We knew Lord Baligant would return, someday, and we have waited. If you are indeed the instrument of his return, Marsile of Araspan…then we shall aid you however we can.”
“I’m so pleased to hear it,” said Marsile. What use might he find for these villagers? Guides, perhaps? He doubted any of the villagers had been within a hundred miles of Moragannon for decades. Perhaps he could kill some and raise them as ghouls?
Then he remembered Carandis, and he felt himself smile.
“Come with me for a moment, Walchelin,” said Marsile. “I’ve a use for you.”
Walchelin rose, smiling like an eager puppy, and hastened to Marsile’s side.
“Enemies pursue me,” said Marsile.
The Third Soul Omnibus Two Page 26
