###
“Master!” said Tored. “Master must wake!”
“Eh?” Marsile opened his eyes. The ghoul crouched a dozen paces away, whining.
“Master!” said Tored. “Something happens!”
Marsile sat up in alarm. Leaning on the black spear as a staff, he hastened to the battlements.
The demon knights had moved out of the keep’s courtyard and into the square, surrounding a black-cloaked figure. Their rasping voices drifted in the night, answered by the black-cloaked form’s sonorous tones. Did the knights have a master, a mighty demon that had just emerged from the catacombs?
The cloaked figure turned, and Marsile saw the bone-white face and black eyes of Nightgrim.
Somehow, the draugvir had tracked him here.
“Master?” said Tored.
“Be silent!” said Marsile. Nightgrim strolled towards the keep, hundreds of reaper-ghouls following him. Marsile’s domination spell had no power against reaper-ghouls’ maddened hunger, but Nightgrim seemed able to control them.
Here was the coordinated, relentless assault Marsile had feared.
He leaned over the battlements and cast a spell with as much power as he could muster. A bar of white astralfire screamed from Marsile’s hands and crashed into Nightgrim’s chest. The draugvir flew a dozen feet and crashed into the ground. Marsile peered at the fallen creature, readying another spell.
Nightgrim sprang back to his feet, unharmed. His eyes blazed like coals.
“Really, sir!” shouted Nightgrim. “You struck without challenge, without warning. How gauche! How base! You have, I fear, left me with no choice but to retaliate.”
He ran forward, the reaper-ghouls following behind him.
Marsile stepped back from the battlements, trying not to panic. He had no spells that would harm Nightgrim. The black spear might have the power to wound a draugvir, but Marsile was no match physically for Nightgrim. Could he escape as he had at St. Tarill’s, shifting his body to the astral world? No, Nightgrim existed in both the material and the spiritual worlds. Marsile clutched the spear, wondering if he could use its stolen life to fuel a spell…
Stolen life…
Marsile ran to the servant carrying his books. He threw down the spear, seized the Book of Stolen Blood, and flipped through the pages. One of the spells of blood sorcery could control any creature that had stolen life energies.
It might work against Nightgrim. Or it might not.
Marsile stared at the spell, sweat breaking on his brow. He could think of nothing better. Cradling the opened book in one arm, he moved to the battlements, peering down. A draugvir had the ability to climb the walls like a spider. No doubt he would use the ability to avoid the wards upon the stairs.
Marsile worked a protective spell to shield his mind from Nightgrim’s gaze. He tried to calm himself, and scanned the walls.
###
Nightgrim stepped into the shadows, watching the keep. He saw Marsile pacing the battlements, craning his neck this way and that. Nightgrim chuckled, waited until Marsile turned his back, and dashed into the keep. The tower stank of smoke and charred flesh. Nightgrim made his way up the stairs, dozens of reaper-ghouls following.
Numerous reaper-ghouls lay sprawled in the chamber below the turret, still charred and smoking. The stairs leading to the roof crackled with magical energy.
“To the rooftop,” ordered Nightgrim.
The reaper-ghouls lurched forward, shoving against each other. The sigils on the stairs snarled and flared. Nightgrim watched the reaper-ghouls fall. With enough of them, Nightgrim could finally overwhelm the wards, pile demons against the stairs until the spells shatter.
But, then, Nightgrim would rather surprise the Adept.
He sprang into the air and flipped over, gripping the ceiling like a fly. The reaper-ghouls screamed and perished against Marsile’s wards. Nightgrim concentrated, gathering his inner darkness, and shifted his flesh into the astral world.
He floated up to the keep’s roof and made himself solid again. Marsile’s ghouls stood guard around the battlements. Marsile himself stood at the stairwell, staring down into it, a massive book cradled in one arm.
Nightgrim smiled and glided forward.
###
“Master!”
Marsile’s head snapped around. Nightgrim stood not ten paces away. The draugvir looked stronger since their last meeting. Nightgrim appeared no more than twenty years old, his black eyes glinting with a crimson sheen.
“Master!” shrieked Tored in terror, stumbling back. “Master!”
Nightgrim roared. With one hand he seized Tored’s shoulder. With the other he ripped the ghoul’s screaming head from its shoulders and flung it over the battlements. Marsile raised his hand and began to cast a spell.
Nightgrim hurled Tored’s headless body. Marsile tried to dodge, breaking the flow of his spell. The corpse slammed into Marsile’s side and sent him toppling to the floor.
“Attack!” he screamed. “My servants! Attack!”
Nightgrim sprang forward, so close that Marsile could smell his fetid breath. Two of Marsile’s ghouls attacked the draugvir. Nightgrim laughed and shredded them with ease. Marsile rolled, snatched the Book of Stolen Blood, and started the spell once again. Crimson fire snarled around his fingers as Nightgrim tore the ghouls to pieces. Marsile got to his knees and cast the spell.
A line of blood-colored fire sprang from his fingertips and struck Nightgrim in the chest. The draugvir paused, frowning in puzzlement, and remained still. Marsile did not move, trembling. Nightgrim remained as motionless as a stone, his eyes like hellish pits. Marsile closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt a tenuous mental link with the draugvir.
The spell had worked.
But the control was feeble. If Marsile pushed Nightgrim too far, if he enraged the draugvir, the spell would shatter. Marsile did not have the skill to impose a more powerful domination.
He had to think of something fast.
Marsile climbed to his feet, watching Nightgrim.
“What a fortunate coincidence!” said Nightgrim. “Our paths have crossed again in this fair and noble city.”
“Why are you following me?” said Marsile. “Answer!”
Nightgrim chuckled. “Why, Lord Marsile. Do you not know? I have come to tear out your throat and feast upon you.”
“No doubt,” said Marsile. He set down the Book of Stolen Blood and picked up the black spear. Marsile focused on the weapon, draining some of its hoarded life energies, and the aches from his bruises faded. Could he ram the spear through Nightgrim’s chest? Marsile hefted the spear, and felt the bonds of his spell begin to strain. If he forced matters, Nightgrim would break free. He could not destroy the draugvir, nor order Nightgrim to stand still until the sun rose and blunted his powers.
Yet Marsile felt a tingle of hope. Nightgrim would most likely seek shelter once the sun came up. Marsile could then follow and destroy him. But the sun would not rise for another five or six hours. How long would Marsile’s spell hold the draugvir in check?
“Why do you seek vengeance?” said Marsile. “Have I ever wronged you? You would still lie insensate under Callia City if not for me. Did I not take you to a monastery where you could feed and recover your strength?”
“My dear sir,” said Nightgrim, “your sophistry is incomparable. You loosed me upon the monastery as a distraction. For what, I do not know, nor do I particularly care. I almost perished there. Come, sir! Why do you not look me in the eye as we debate?”
Marsile scoffed. “I’m not that foolish. Who almost destroyed you, might I ask?”
“The red-eyed Paladin,” said Nightgrim, “the one called Raelum.”
“He almost killed me,” said Marsile. “Why pursue me, then? Why not pursue him?”
Nightgrim laughed. “What a delightful triangle! I seek your death and his, and he seeks your destruction and mine. Worthy of a ballad, I deem. Perhaps I shall kill you first, and then kill him when he arriv
es. Or perchance I’ll permit you to kill him, and then kill you myself. The choice,” he paused, “is indeed weighty.”
“I know they’re coming,” snapped Marsile.
“Do you indeed?” said Nightgrim. “Did you know they are one day from this city?”
“What?” said Marsile.
“Oh, yes,” said Nightgrim. “Four of them. Carandis Marken, the Adept. Raelum and Lionel of Tarrenheim. And a strange guide.”
“What of Hildebrand of Oldenburg?” said Marsile.
“Why, I killed him, of course,” said Nightgrim. “Really, sir. I am wounded by your lack of faith.”
“Why didn’t you kill the others?” said Marsile. “They are Paladins! They will seek your destruction, no matter what. I care nothing for you, and would not have given you another thought had you not tracked me here.”
“Lord Marsile,” said Nightgrim, “I had thought you wiser. The Adept has a cunning spell that lets her follow you. So I followed them, knowing they would lead me to you, and then I could kill you all at my leisure. And you know my true nature, as they do. Once I return to the civilized lands, I may wish to masquerade as human. Yet suppose one or more of you survive? You could return and unmask me. So, therefore, it is necessary that I must slaughter you all.”
“Fool,” said Marsile. “Do you not understand? I care nothing for what you do. I am not going to the civilized lands. I am going to Moragannon in the Silvercrown Mountains.”
Nightgrim scoffed. “You will not live that long.”
“Even so,” said Marsile. “What if I do return? The common folk of the civilized lands hate and fear me as much as they hate and fear you. What have we to gain by fighting each other? Let us instead go our separate ways…after we finish our business here.”
Nightgrim titled his head. “I confess, sir, you have intrigued me. I suppose you are proposing some sort of pact?”
“I am,” said Marsile. “You command the city’s demons with greater power than I. The reaper-ghouls can endure the sunlight, though they prefer to cower under the city during the day. Command them to come to the surface at my call.”
“For what purpose?” said Nightgrim. “As much as it wounds me, I do not trust you.”
“Trust is not necessary,” said Marsile. “The Adept and the others will likely enter the city during the day. You prefer to seek shelter from the sunlight. Most likely they will find and destroy you as you lie in your torpor. Yet if they battle with thousands of lesser demons, they will not have time to destroy you. I suspect they will take shelter in that consecrated High Temple. And when the sun goes down, you can kill them at your leisure.”
“Your excellent plan has one flaw,” said Nightgrim. “I cannot enter the High Temple myself.”
“Come, now!” said Marsile. “Will that seriously hamper you? I’ve no doubt you’ve overcome greater difficulties.”
“Well,” said Nightgrim, lips twitching. “I do have my methods. Still, I am curious. Distrust is ever a weakness of mine. I cannot help but think you will use devote the day to my destruction.”
“I suggest you lodge in the catacombs beneath the city,” said Marsile. “Surround yourself with thousands of reaper-ghouls and order them to guard you. I’ll have no means to reach you then. And you may have considered sending the reaper-ghouls after me. It will avail you nothing. My wards on the stairs can hold indefinitely against anything you throw against them.” Marsile stilled his face, hoping Nightgrim wouldn’t sense the lie.
“And afterwards?” said Nightgrim.
“I will continue towards Moragannon, and you will return to the civilized lands,” said Marsile. “With any luck, we’ll never see each other again.”
Nightgrim considered this, staring at Marsile with those red-glazed, dead eyes. Marsile met his gaze. He felt the force of Nightgrim’s will, but did not succumb to it. His protective spell must have shielded his mind from the draugvir’s will.
“Very well,” said Nightgrim. “I will give my servants the necessary commands.”
Marsile smiled. “I’m pleased you see reason.”
###
Later that night, Nightgrim descended into the vaults beneath the city, surrounded by demon knights and throngs of reaper-ghouls. The sagging brick walls gleamed with frost and ancient mold. The air stank, reeking with hundreds of years of rot and corruption.
“You did not kill him,” rasped the one the knights.
“Quite true,” said Nightgrim. “I have not killed him. Yet.”
His laughter rang off the stone vaults. He would kill Raelum and the Paladins and their strange guide. And then he would follow Marsile and kill him.
He looked forward to seeing the expression of shocked surprise on the Adept’s face.
Nightgrim proceeded into the darkest vault beneath the city, guarded by the knights and the reaper-ghouls.
He fell into a stupor like death, waiting.
Tomorrow night the killing would begin.
Chapter 11 - The High Temple
Raelum watched the sun come up, the light glimmering off the ice choking the canal.
Arthuras awoke before the others. He sighed and rolled to his feet, wrapping his mottled cloak around him.
“Today,” said Arthuras. “We will likely reach the nameless city by noon. And there we will find Marsile.”
“I know,” said Raelum. His hands clenched around the hilt of his sword. “ By the Divine, how I want his head.”
Arthuras was silent for a moment.
“For justice?” said Arthuras.
“He killed Sir Oliver,” said Raelum. “He slaughtered the monks of St. Arik’s. He killed the villagers of Karrent. He killed half the monks of St. Tarill’s. He loosed a creature like Nightgrim back into the world. I will have him dead for this.”
“Revenge, then,” said Arthuras.
“Call it what you want,” said Raelum, gazing to the north. “I will kill him.”
“And then?” said Arthuras. “Once Marsile is dead, his body burned, never to rise again? Where will you go?”
Raelum scoffed. “It doesn’t matter. We might not live through today. You said it yourself.”
“I thought about returning to Rhegion after I destroyed the thing my mother had become,” said Arthuras. “I wanted revenge. Did not the Protector of Rhegion expel my mother? Yet I realized it would have been futile. I would have been killed, had I tried enter Rhegion.”
“What are you saying?” said Raelum. “Shall we turn back? Marsile will do worse unless he is stopped. You said so yourself. He must be killed.”
“Aye,” said Arthuras, “we must kill Marsile. But you wish to kill him for the wrong reasons, I think. Revenge is a poison, and it will lead you astray before all is done.”
“Wake the others,” said Raelum. “We’d best go. There’s not much daylight to waste in idle speculations.”
Arthuras shrugged. “As you wish.”
He woke Carandis and Lionel, and they sat down for a meager breakfast. Lionel looked haunted and restless. Raelum wondered what dreams had troubled his sleep.
“The spell,” said Raelum. “Perform it now.”
“Won’t that alert Marsile?” said Lionel.
“It will,” said Raelum, “but he’s already awaiting us.”
Carandis nodded, produced the bloodstained iron rod, and muttered the spell. Again the blue light flashed around her fingertips. Carandis shuddered and blinked open her eyes.
“To the northeast,” she said, returning the iron rod to her pack, “less than half a day’s journey.”
“In the very heart of the nameless city,” said Arthuras. “He is waiting for us.”
Raelum finished his food. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”
They packed up and led their horses along the road. The trees thinned, growing fewer and younger. This land had once been cultivated. The canal grew wider, opening into a wide, mirror-like lake.
“By the Divine,” muttered Lionel.
The ruin of a
city squatted on the lake’s shore. It had once been home to at least ten thousand people, Raelum reckoned, if not more. A thick, fortified curtain wall ringed the city. The trees had grown right up to the wall itself, their roots digging into the stones, but the wall yet stood.
“This was once the capital of Arvandil,” said Arthuras. “The people traded with other lands, sending their barges along the canal to the Alderine River. But the demon-cults were active here, worshipping Baligant.”
“As did the villagers in Abbotsford,” said Lionel.
“Aye,” said Arthuras. “I do not know what happened here, save for a few shreds. The people worshipped the demons, and when some calamity struck, they had no defense, no recourse, and now this place is a city of the dead. Raelum. Extend your senses into this place.”
Raelum shrugged and focused his demonborn senses into the city.
A wave of hideous blackness washed over him.
He stepped back in shock. He had never sensed so many demons gathered together into one place. Thousands of lesser demons lurked beneath the crumbled ruins, along with hundreds of greater ones.
“There are thousands of them,” said Raelum, hand tight on his sword hilt.
“There are,” said Arthuras, “though they rarely venture abroad during the day. Now do you see why I wished to avoid this city?” He shook his head. “Yet there are dozens of worse places on the far side of the mountains.”
“We have to go in,” said Carandis. “If Marsile reaches Moragannon, a dozen cities west of the Alderine might suffer the same fate.”
“We must exercise the greatest care,” said Arthuras. “Marsile may wait for us openly, or he might have set an ambush. Yet he is nothing against the dangers that we will face after the sun goes down. I have survived traveling near this city several times, but just barely. I have never dared venture within. Whatever happens, we must not be inside when the sun goes down.”
“Then let’s go,” said Raelum.
“We may lose the pack animals,” said Arthuras. “Carry as much as you can.” They loaded themselves with food, and Arthuras led them around the grim wall to the city’s gate. Within lay an empty plaza, and a straight, stone-paved street leading into the dead city’s heart. Ruined stone walls, once great houses, loomed over the street, the windows like empty eye sockets.
The Third Soul Omnibus Two Page 36
