The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  They stood alone in the street with the corpses.

  “Get the horses,” said Raelum, sheathing his sword and picking up one of the villagers’ axes.

  “What are you doing?” said Lionel.

  “These folk,” said Raelum, “will not rise as ghouls. I will not inflict that upon them, however much they may have wished for it.”

  “But suppose the others try to stop us?” said Lionel.

  “Let them,” said Raelum.

  Lionel nodded and picked up an axe, and they set about their grisly work.

  After, they joined Carandis and Arthuras with the horses, returned to the half-overgrown road, and left Abbotsford.

  “We ought,” said Carandis, leaning on her staff, “to stop for a rest.” She looked a few breaths away from collapsing. Evidently using that much magic so quickly took a toll.

  “We keep going,” said Raelum. “Those villagers may find their spines yet.”

  Carandis nodded.

  “How did you know?” said Lionel.

  Raelum blinked. “Know what?”

  “The poison. The wine, I mean,” said Lionel. “You shouted something about Marsile…and then we were fighting. How did you know?”

  “Marsile used that poison before,” said Raelum. His mind flashed back to High Morgon, to the city of ruins squatting atop the gloomy hills. “The house of Lucas Parwaith, a demon-worshipper like the folk of Abbotsford. We came to Parwaith’s house in pursuit of Marsile, and when we arrived, Sir Oliver sent me to check on the horses. On my way back into the house, a man in a red robe laughed at me and disappeared. It was Marsile, though I didn’t know it then. I came back inside and found Sir Oliver, dying.” Raelum’s teeth gritted. “Marsile put that poison in Sir Oliver’s wine. I saw the gray dust in his cup.”

  “So that,” said Arthuras, “is the real reason you have come so far.”

  “Marsile must be stopped,” said Raelum.

  “No doubt of that,” said Arthuras, “but that’s not your concern. You want revenge, do you not? Blood for blood? His life for Sir Oliver’s?”

  “I do,” said Raelum, staring into the woods. “Justice and nobility are fine things. But I will kill Marsile.”

  “Did not your own Sir Oliver tell you that revenge heals naught?” said Carandis. Raelum glared at her, but Carandis didn’t flinch. “Marsile must be stopped. Our own concerns dwindle to nothingness when set against the horrors he might unleash. I started this for reasons of my own. But I will continue this to stop him.”

  “Reasons of your own, Adept?” said Lionel, some of the old suspicion returning. “To prove you didn’t aid Marsile?”

  “Yes,” said Carandis, meeting his eyes. “To return home, and…perhaps to wed.” She sighed. “Thalia Kalarien thought to arrange a marriage for me. But that will never happen if I am under suspicion as a traitor.”

  “It sounds like a poet’s song,” said Lionel, snorting.

  “Though no poet ever wrote of love between Adepts,” said Arthuras. “At least in this age of the world.” Raelum looked at their guide, remembered the strange song sung over the sword, and wondered.

  They trudged through the slanting rays of the sunset. The road grew worse, soon fading to a near-vanished path. Raelum could tell that neither man nor beast had come this way for many years.

  Yet here and there, he saw footprints.

  “Ghoul,” muttered Arthuras, pointing at a track. “A great herd of the vile things together.”

  “Marsile passed here recently,” said Raelum. Despite his exhaustion, he felt at tingle of excitement. Walchelin claimed that Marsile had passed through not three days past. Assuming the fat man hadn’t lied, they were gaining. “Carandis. Can you work the location spell?”

  “Not tonight,” said Carandis. “I am too weary. The effort might send me in a stupor for days. I would be no good to anyone then.”

  “It’s almost nightfall, anyway,” said Lionel. “We should make camp.”

  “Very well,” said Raelum.

  Raelum volunteered to take the first watch, cut the firewood, and got a small blaze going. Lionel and Carandis fell asleep at once, without having eaten. Arthuras wrapped himself in his mottled cloak and lay down, though his eyes glittered.

  Raelum set himself, eyes and demonborn senses scanning the trees for danger. He sensed minor demons prowling through the woods. Yet with the heightened power of the astral world in these lands, the demons might not be so minor. And where did the villagers take their dead? Did demon-possessed ghouls watch the village of their living descendants from the trees?

  Raelum drew his sword, grounded the point, and wrapped his hands about the hilt. The demons would sense the power of the Light in the blade and shun it. And if any dared approach, let them!

  He stood guard for hours, moving from time to time to keep the blood flowing in his aching limbs. A sullen glow spread across the sky to the southwest, and Raelum watched it with some puzzlement. The orange-red glow was the light of a great fire, reflecting against the dark clouds.

  Did Abbotsford burn?

  Arthuras climbed to his feet. “Go to sleep.”

  “I thought Carandis had the second watch,” said Raelum.

  “Aye,” said Arthuras, “but let her sleep. I’ll wake her later.” He glanced at the sky, frowning. “That’s…quite a large fire.”

  “What do you make of it?” said Raelum.

  “Abbotsford burns,” said Arthuras. “It’s too cold and wet for a forest fire. No lightning in the winter, besides, and certainly no travelers to start fires.”

  “How?” said Raelum.

  Arthuras shrugged. “Walchelin’s followers have ample cause to question his leadership.”

  “A cheering thought,” said Raelum.

  “It matters not,” said Arthuras. “Perhaps they fight each other, or perhaps a cow kicked a lantern into the hay. Either way, they will be too busy to pursue us. Now, go to sleep. You are exhausted, though you carry it better than the others.”

  Raelum didn’t argue. He lay down, wrapped himself in his black cloak, and fell asleep at once.

  ###

  He dreamed all night of Sir Oliver’s death, of a land of streams and lakes and rivers poisoned with the gray dust.

  ###

  Raelum blinked awake, a scraping sound filling his ears. Fresh wood burned in the fire, and both Carandis and Lionel lay snoring in their cloaks.

  Arthuras squatted nearby, sharpening one of his daggers with a whetstone.

  “You held watch all through the night,” said Raelum, standing.

  “Aye,” said Arthuras, sliding the dagger into its sheath. “All three of you needed rest. And I do not sleep often.”

  “A useful gift,” said Raelum. A finger of suspicion brushed his mind. Had Arthuras taken the opportunity to pursues some agenda?

  Arthuras’s weathered face twitched in a crooked grin. “I come of vigorous forefathers.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Raelum. Another gray, cold day had come, and the wind moaned through the trees, rustling the barren branches. “That spell-fire you sung over your sword. A useful thing. Did your forefathers teach you that?”

  “I would prefer not to discuss it,” said Arthuras. “The truth of it will do you no harm. And Carandis has her secrets, and Lionel as his, and I’ve no doubt that you have secrets from your past, Sir Raelum.” Raelum thought of Red Philip and the poisoned lieutenants and said nothing. “Am I not entitled to my own?”

  Raelum inclined his head. “Are we close to Moragannon?”

  “Closer than I would like,” said Arthuras. “It is a few weeks journey from here, in a straight line. For sake of our lives and souls, we will not take a straight line.”

  “What lies in the lands between here and Moragannon?” said Raelum.

  “Ruins. Arvandil was once a populous land, but now all that remains are desolate towns and ruined castles filled with demons. We will avoid these places.”

  “Any ruined cities?” said
Raelum. “The villagers said something about a nameless city. I wonder if they take some of their dead to a ruin where they rise as demons.”

  “The nameless city,” said Arthuras. To Raelum’s surprise, he shivered. “Aye, it is nor is it far from here. Yet let us not speak of it again, until we must. I hope we can avoid it. There are many dark places in Arvandil, but that is one of the darkest.” Arthuras sighed. “If Marsile has any wisdom at all, he will stay away from the nameless city.”

  “If Marsile had any wisdom at all,” said Raelum, “you and I would not be standing there.”

  Again Arthuras’s face twitched into that crooked grin. “I suppose not.”

  They woke the others, and had a breakfast of bread and dried vegetables around the fire.

  “How are you feeling?” said Raelum.

  “Well enough,” said Carandis, “considering that last night I felt a half-step away from death.”

  Lionel said nothing at all, staring into the fire.

  “Well enough to work the location spell?” said Raelum.

  “Aye,” said Carandis, “though I hope I shall be spared any rigorous spellcasting for some time.” She laid the iron rod across her lap, closed her eyes, and muttered the spell, hands tracing intricate designs in the air. A ghostly flicker of blue flame danced around her fingers, and Carandis shook herself and opened her eyes.

  “To the northeast,” said Carandis, blinking. “About two or three days journey.” She snorted. “With good roads. In this wild country, closer to four or five, I would reckon.”

  “Three days to the northeast,” said Arthuras. “We will do what we must.”

  They doused the fire, packed up their gear, and continued.

  Chapter 7 - Recruiting

  The thing once named Michael Kalenis, the hybrid of demon and dead flesh that thought of itself as Nightgrim, awoke from his torpor. He slid from the sheltering roots of the tree, stood up, and sniffed the cold night air.

  He smelled no trace of living blood. The two Paladins, the Adept, and their strange guide had outdistanced him.

  He had prowled around the edges of their camp last night and contemplated attacking. Had the Paladins and the Adept been alone, Nightgrim would have taken them. Prudence and simple bloodlust both dictated it. He could not feed on Raelum’s demonborn blood, of course, but that was no impediment to ripping off his head. And then he had only to enjoy feasting upon both Lionel of Tarrenhim and Carandis Marken.

  But their guide, the strange creature that called himself Arthuras, puzzled Nightgrim. His blood smelled mortal, but a strange, eldritch energy hummed through his flesh. Nightgrim had never encountered such a strange scent before. He had watched until the sun came up, reducing his demon’s powers, and then had retreated to the darkness to rest.

  Nightgrim began to pace, snarling. He had feasted well at the monastery, enough to sate his needs for many months. Yet the hunger began clawing at his belly, a feeble scratching. It would only grow worse.

  His demon wanted to feast.

  A bit of rag, once fine velvet, fluttered to the snow. Nightgrim looked at himself and snorted in disgust. His clothes had rotted during his decades in the coffin, and the fight at the monastery had ruined them. Now only a few filthy rags remained around his waist, stark against his white skin. The cold didn’t trouble Nightgrim, and very little of the natural world could harm him.

  But he was still a nobleman. He ought to look the part.

  Nightgrim ripped away the remaining rags with disgust, leaving himself naked in the winter wind, and roared in frustration at the black sky.

  His demon wanted to feast!

  Nightgrim forced himself under control. First he would kill Raelum and his companions, and then Marsile. Then Nightgrim could return to the civilized lands and gorge his demon upon stolen blood. He had terrorized Callia City, killing as he wished, until the Paladins had arrived.

  And Nightgrim would rule again as king of the night.

  But first, he had to kill those who knew his true nature.

  With that cheering thought, Nightgrim dashed into the night. He moved faster than mortal men, as fast as a cantering horse, and made good time. The forest blurred past in a shadowy blur. Every now and again Nightgrim knelt, sniffing the ground.

  Marsile had passed here, his scent faint. Fresher, stronger, came the tainted scent of Raelum and the strange scent of Arthuras. Nightgrim hissed and licked his lips, the scent spurring him on.

  A short time later, he came to the strange bridge.

  Nightgrim had never anything quite like it, nor statues of such strange, inhuman forms. He squinted at the obscure writing on their star-shaped shields, but gleaned no meaning from it. He did not like this bridge, did not like the way it grated upon his demon's senses.

  And he did not like the way it smelled. An ancient, lingering odor hung over it, like smoke from a single dying ember. Nightgrim realized the scent reminded him of Arthuras.

  His bloodlust overcame his fear. Nightgrim snarled at the statues and strode over the bridge. If his enemies had come this way, than so would he. Perhaps he would mount their heads on the statues’ swords.

  His foot touched the earth on the other side of the river and a tremendous jolt blasted through him. He reeled and fell. Howling darkness screamed through him, filling him, overwhelming him. For a long moment, Nightgrim could do nothing but twitch.

  After a long moment, Nightgrim came to himself and stood.

  He felt wonderful. The hunger still clawed at his belly, but Nightgrim felt stronger, faster. His thoughts came easier, less encumbered by the ruins of his mind. He stared at his hands in amazement. What had happened to him? Had the bridge granted him some strange power?

  He looked at the earth between his bare feet and laughed as understanding came to him.

  The barrier between the mortal world and astral world was thinner here...which meant that the greater demon within his dead flesh was far stronger. In the lands to the west, he had been a terror in the night. Here, he would be a nightmare beyond imaging.

  His foes stood no chance against him now, no chance at all.

  Still laughing, Nightgrim continued. A jumble of ruins crowned the nearby hills. Nightgrim sniffed the earth, following the traces of Raelum’s and Marsile’s passages.

  And to his shock, Nightgrim found other scents, human scents. His hunger burned aside his thoughts. Nightgrim stopped, snarling and snapping, until he managed to bring himself under control.

  How had so many mortals come to these empty lands? For that matter, how had they even survived? Nightgrim wanted to charge ahead, find the mortals, and feast. But the strangeness of the situation demanded caution. Nightgrim had not survived Paladins and Adepts only to perish at the hands of ignorant villagers.

  The trees thinned into empty fields, and beyond Nightgrim saw the hunched shape of a large village, along with a blaze of torchlight. His ears heard voices raised in anger and argument. And his nose smelled the living blood of many, many mortals. Nightgrim grinned and crept across the dark fields.

  He slipped unseen into the village’s main street. Corpses littered the packed earth, and all of them had been beheaded to keep them from rising with ghouls. Nightgrim contemplated this with puzzlement. Village folk most often burned their dead to ashes.

  A large crowd of still-living villagers stood before a tall inn, bearing weapons and torches. Before the inn’s door stood a sweating, fat man, clutching an axe in either hand. Nightgrim stepped into the shadows and watched, intrigued.

  “This is your fault, Walchelin!” shrilled an old woman. “Your fault! You’re not fit to be our bailiff, I say.”

  “Aye!” bellowed a man. “My son and my brother lie dead because of your folly! You’re not fit to live, nor to rise in the service of the Lord Baligant. Kill him and cut off his head, I say!”

  A fuzzy memory swam back to the surface of Nightgrim’s seething mind. In Callia City, the demon-cult that Michael Kalenis had led had revered Baligant. Of cours
e, Kalenis cared nothing for Baligant, or for the worshippers, and had slain them all in the blood spell that transformed him into Nightgrim. Was the entire village a demon-cult? Their Temple did look a bit decrepit.

  A villager stepped towards Walchelin, scowling. Walchelin cursed and waved his axes, and the man flinched away.

  “I did as we always have done!” said Walchelin. “Has not the bailiff always summoned the guardians in time of need? How was I to know that red-eyed Raelum and his dogs would prove stronger?”

  Nightgrim focused his will upon Walchelin’s mind, sifting through the bailiff's thoughts. Rage and terror warred for control of the fat man, and Nightgrim saw a skein of recent memories. Raelum and the others, a quartet of grim knights on skeletal steeds, and Marsile in his crimson robes, surrounded by his servants…

  “I will travel to the nameless city and summon new guardians!” said Walchelin. “That is how our ancestors rid themselves of the Brothers of the hill, or so it is written.”

  “Aye?” said a villager. “Two of my sons have died. Will you take both my daughters, too, to bind new guardians?”

  None of the villagers posed any threat to Nightgrim. And whatever these guardians had been, Raelum and company had disposed of them. Nightgrim looked at the villagers, his hunger rising into an inferno.

  He wondered how the villagers would react to a naked stranger walking into their midst, and decided to find out.

  “Good evening, worthy folk,” said Nightgrim, strolling from the shadows. “I pray that my unexpected appearance does not disrupt your weighty deliberations.”

  As one, the villagers turned and gaped. Nightgrim tried not to laugh.

  “Just who the devil are you?” said Walchelin.

  “That, at the moment, is of little importance,” said Nightgrim. He started to polish his fingernails on his sleeve, remembered he had no clothes, and continued. “As I approached your fair village, I could not help but overhear your counsels.”