The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  The warrior-Ashborn growled a question.

  “I know not your tongue,” said Marsile.

  The warrior gestured with an obsidian-headed axe. Marsile nodded, and followed the big Ashborn, his remaining demons trailing. The hunter-Ashborn moved with them, keeping Marsile encircled.

  They walked through barren hills, and soon came to a large village built of rough logs and dried mud atop three hills, the entire thing encircled by a palisade of sharpened logs. Atop the highest hill sat a long timber hall. Behind the palisade Marsile glimpsed both hunter and warrior Ashborn standing guard, and a pair of skull-topped totems stood before the gate.

  The Ashborn led Marsile into the village, and the misshapen creatures stared at him. Hunched bow-legged Ashborn labored beneath heavy loads, slave to the other castes. Ashborn similar in appearance to the hunters, though with larger arms and chests, labored with stone saws and axes. The Ashborn women, like the men, wore only loincloths, their bodies sleek and muscled despite their hideous faces.

  And everywhere Marsile saw grinning skulls, the skulls of slain Ashborn, the skulls of long-dead humans. Wooden totems adorned most of the houses, scenes depicting the torture and murder of humans. Others showed the destruction of rival Ashborn villages. Marsile supposed that explained the ruins on the hills. Many of the scenes showed a hulking, armored man wielding an enormous sword.

  A human man, come to think of it.

  The Ashborn took Marsile to the hall. A pair of warrior-Ashborn stood before the hall, holding obsidian-tipped spears, and the guards flung open the doors at their approach. A great fire pit roared in the earthen floor. Warrior-Ashborn stood throughout the hall. Some ate and drank, others dandled Ashborn women on their knees. One warrior even mounted a woman as Marsile watched.

  Yet all turned to watch him as he entered.

  A stone throne stood against the far wall, and upon the throne sat the largest warrior-Ashborn Marsile had yet seen. Across its knees lay a worn steel sword, no doubt a relic from the fall of Arvandil. Behind the throne hung an ancient banner. Marsile had seen it before, hanging in Abbotsford’s Temple.

  Baligant’s bone-crowned skull grinned at him.

  The enthroned Ashborn rumbled a command. From the shadows crept a hunched, shuffling figure, leaning on a staff topped with three human skulls. The figure was about the size and shape of the hunter-Ashborn, but with a bone-white hide. A variety of tattoos, ritual scars, and painted magical sigils stood in sharp contrast against its pale flesh. In the middle of its forehead rested an enormous eye, covered with a filmy cataract. The sightless eye remained fixed on Marsile.

  The chieftain on the throne said something. The albino Ashborn hissed, bowed, and began casting a blood spell. Marsile watched in surprise as the pale Ashborn cut its palm, rubbing the black blood over its leathery hide. A wave of tingling cold washed over Marsile, the world twisted around him, and all at once he could understand the Ashborn tongue.

  “Mortal man,” growled the chieftain. “Can you understand me?”

  “I can,” said Marsile. “And you can understand me, I presume?”

  “I do,” said the Ashborn, tilting its horned head at the albino. “The Dark One of our village is learned in the great arts.” The chieftain banged the hilt of the sword against its chest. “I am mighty Kazathan, ruler of the Tribe of Grinning Skulls. Name yourself.”

  “Marsile of Araspan.” Marsile made a small, mocking bow. “I thank you for your welcome.”

  Kazathan rumbled with laughter. “Indeed? You will change your mind. Why have you come to the village of Grinning Skulls?”

  “Because your warriors saw fit to bring me here,” said Marsile.

  An angry rumble slipped from Kazathan’s fanged mouth. “Do not try my patience with clever words. Why have you come to our lands?”

  “I wish to pass through,” said Marsile. “I didn’t know that any Ashborn dwelled here until your hunters attacked me. Nor, indeed, I have ever seen a Ashborn before this day.”

  “These lands,” said Kazathan, “these lands belong to the great gods, to great Baligant and the others.” The Ashborn chieftain’s serpent-like eyes narrowed. “Mortal men betrayed the great gods, drove us from the lands Baligant gave us. Long the Jurgur nation barred us from returning, but the Jurgur scum fled from us, and perished upon the swords of your kinsmen! Now we return. Soon we shall raze the cities of men and drown their children in rivers of blood.”

  A throaty roar went up from the rest of the Ashborn assembled in the hall, even the women. Marsile felt many hateful eyes digging into him.

  “Ah,” Marsile said. “You worship Lord Baligant, then?”

  “Great Baligant came to us in the dark lands beyond the mountains, long ago,” said Kazathan. “He taught of the secrets of metalwork and stonework, arts that have passed from us. He gave us these lands, from the mountains to the great sea, to rule as our own.”

  “And I am quite sure you shall take them. I’ve no wish to oppose you,” said Marsile. “I will go on my way, and we shall never meet again.”

  Kazathan laughed. “Our fathers devoured man-flesh, long ago. We have never tasted it.” He leaned forward, leering. “Perhaps we shall feast upon your flesh, yours and that of the children your Reborn servants carry.”

  “And perhaps I will strike you dead before you can lift your blade,” said Marsile, lifting his hand. The albino Ashborn’s third eye followed the movements.

  Kazathan roared with laughter. “Strike me down with your petty arts, if you wish it. What is death? The Ashborn are not Reborn into the Shroud, as are mortal men, but birthed again in the wombs of our women. Strike down a dozen, if you wish. We will kill you, in the end, and devour your flesh. Or perhaps,” he nodded at the albino Ashborn, “we shall allow you to be Reborn, and to spend eternity as the Dark One’s slave.”

  “If you revere Lord Baligant,” said Marsile, “then you will let me go.”

  “Why?” said Kazathan.

  “The Lord Baligant is buried near here.” said Marsile.

  “Do not bore me with the obvious,” said Kazathan. “After he fell, his faithful servants bore him here, and laid his body in the great fortress. Here we await his return.”

  “I have come,” said Marsile, “to bring about that return.” The lie had worked on the fools in Abbotsford. Why not on the Ashborn? “I studied the secrets of blood sorcery for many years, and found the spell to bring Lord Baligant to the mortal realm once more. That is why I have come. That is why I have crossed the lands of the Grinning Skulls.”

  For a moment no one said anything. Kazathan’s eyes narrowed to sulfurous slits. The other Ashborn stared at him. For a brief moment Marsile wondered if he had violated some sort of taboo.

  The albino Ashborn stepped forward, shaking with rage. All three eyes glared at Marsile. “Then you claim,” said the albino, “to be a Dark One?”

  “If that is what your kind names a blood sorcerer, then yes,” said Marsile.

  “Liar!” shrieked the Dark One. “Deceiver! No mortal man may wield the great arts, arts taught to us by mighty Baligant himself. I name you a liar!”

  Marsile scoffed and waved his hand at his few surviving ghouls. “If I have no knowledge of great arts, as you name them then how do I command these? And did I not strike down your hunters with my spells?”

  “Any human charlatan may learn a few petty tricks,” snarled the Dark One, “but only we, the chosen of Baligant, may master the great arts.”

  “So, mortal,” said Kazathan. “You claim the title of Dark One?”

  “I do,” said Marsile.

  “I deny it!” said the Dark One.

  “So be it,” said Kazathan. “The Dark One of the tribe of the Grinning Skulls has challenged the human.”

  “And what does that mean?” said Marsile.

  “You will be taken, alone and unarmed, to the field of challenge,” said Kazathan. “Then you shall test your arts against each other. Whoever leaves is the true Dark One.”
>
  “I see,” said Marsile.

  ###

  They took his black spear and herded his demons into a corner of the great hall. Then they led him and the Dark One to the far side of the hill. A large circular pit, ten feet deep and fifty feet across, had been dug out of the hill’s base. Rough stones lined the sides of the pit, stained with black blood. No doubt the Ashborn often settled their disputes here.

  The Dark One crossed to the far side of the pit and stood there, arms folded. The warrior-Ashborn escorted Marsile inside, gesturing with their spears. A ring of hunter-Ashborn stood around the rim, bows at the ready.

  Kazathan crossed to a wooden throne and sat. “Hear the law of the challenge of the Dark Ones! You must strive against each other in great arts, but only in the great arts, not the petty spells of mortal men.” That, presumably, meant Marsile could not use the High Art against the Dark One. “Nor may you use weapons. The Great Arts must be your only blades. If you try to flee,” he gestured at the waiting hunters, “then you shall be feathered. The victor will be declared a true Dark One. We shall gorge ourselves on the flesh of the defeated.” Kazathan settled in his throne and stared at Marsile, hunger in his eyes.

  The hunters’ bows creaked. Thirty obsidian arrowheads glinted.

  “Begin!” roared Kazathan.

  Marsile began casting at once, working a ward to turn aside any blood spell the Dark One might fling. The Ashborn cast its own spell. Marsile finished his spell, a corona of silver light crackling around him. The Dark One kept chanting, the third eye glimmering. Marsile hesitated, wondering what spell to use against the Dark One. Could he summon his surviving servants into the pit?

  The Dark One finished his spell and flung out his clawed hands. A slight tremor went through the ground.

  “Perish, mortal man!” shrieked the Dark One.

  Some of the hunter-Ashborn on the edge of the pit stepped back.

  Marsile looked up and saw a hulking, dead thing staring down at him

  The creature stood at least twenty feet tall. It was almost man-shaped, as were the rest of the Ashborn, though with six-fingered hands and toes. The remnants of a leathery, crimson hide clung to massive bones. Dust stirred in empty eye sockets larger than Marsile’s head, and the horns curling down from the creature’s head were longer than swords, and just as sharp.

  Marsile had never seen such an enormous ghoul.

  In life it must have been one of the berserker caste, the most deadly of the Ashborn fighters.

  The creature sprang over the edge of the pit and landed. In its left hand the ghoul carried a club the size of a small tree.

  “Beg!” laughed the Dark One, “beg for your life, little mortal, and I perhaps I shall let you rise as my Reborn slave!” He launched into another chant. The huge ghoul lurched towards Marsile, swinging its club in a slow loop.

  Marsile backed away, mind racing. Could he cancel the blood sorcery that bound the demon to the huge corpse? Or perhaps he could subvert the Dark One’s spells, bring giant under his own control. Marsile muttered a quick spell, probing the magic binding the berserker.

  He blinked in surprise. The Dark One’s controlling spell had little skill or power. An adolescent dilettante, dabbling in blood sorcery, might use such a spell. These Ashborn seemed to have lost the skills of masonry and blacksmithing in the fifteen centuries since Baligant’s defeat. Perhaps their “great arts” had degenerated as well.

  Marsile strode towards the giant, casting his domination spell, and flung his power into the creature. His will ripped through the Dark One’s bindings, and the berserker shuddered, a cloud of stinking dust rising from its maw.

  Marsile’s will settled around it like a vise.

  The Dark One faltered, and redoubled his chant. Marsile laughed and beat aside the Ashborn blood sorcerer’s feeble attempts to regain control. He sent a silent command to the giant. The enormous ghoul turned, facing the Dark One.

  The Dark One’s eyes, all three of them, widened in sudden alarm.

  “Come!” said Marsile, sending another command to the giant. “Use your great arts, Dark One! Strike me down for my affront!” The berserker lumbered towards the chanting Dark One. “Come! Surely your powers can slay me where I stand!”

  The Dark One’s chant rose to a frantic shriek.

  Marsile smiled as the huge ghoul scooped up the screaming Dark One in a single massive hand. The ghoul held the Dark One flat against the edge of the pit. The Ashborn blood sorcerer screamed and clawed at the withered hand, trying to tear free.

  The berserker raised its club and brought it hammering down.

  The Dark One’s shrieks came to an abrupt halt.

  The giant hefted what remained of the Dark One and flung the carcass into the village.

  The Ashborn gaped at Marsile.

  “Hear me!” yelled Marsile, striding to the center of the pit. “I name myself true Dark One! I have come to raise great Lord Baligant to life once more, and you shall aid me!” Marsile’s mind whirled with sudden triumph. A horde of Ashborn warriors and archers could replace his destroyed servants. Let Raelum try to stop him then!

  “Dark One!” roared the Ashborn. “Dark One!” They fell to their knees.

  “So it is true, as the Dark Ones predicted,” said Kazathan, walking to the edge of the pit. “One has come who will bring great Baligant among us one more. An outlander Dark One shall raise Lord Baligant.”

  Marsile frowned. It had been predicted?

  “We will take you, Dark One, to Moragannon, where great Baligant lies,” said Kazathan. “You will work your great arts, and bring him among us once more. Come, my warriors! Gather your arms!”

  ###

  The Ashborn moved in a terrifying whirlwind. Soon Marsile and his servants, carrying the captive children, found themselves in the midst of a large band of Ashborn warriors.

  “How far to Lord Baligant’s tomb?” said Marsile.

  “Two days’ march, at the most,” said Kazathan. The big Ashborn grinned, exposing his fangs. “Soon you shall see his power.”

  “As shall you all,” said Marsile. If the Ashborn learned his real motivation, they would kill him without hesitation. Still, he could work around it. After he had dominated Baligant’s high demon and learned the secrets of immortality, he would have more than enough power to deal with the Ashborn.

  “You have done well, master,” hissed Tored, waiting at Marsile’s side. “I was commanded to take you to Moragannon. I shall obey. Soon you will see Moragannon. Soon you will see Lord Baligant.” The fire in his eyes brightened. “It was foretold.”

  “Indeed,” said Marsile, shoving aside a flutter of misgiving. Neither Baligant nor the Dark Ones could have predicted his return. If Baligant could have seen the future, he would not perished when the Hierarchs had been foolish enough to tear upon their rift to the astral world. As for the Dark Ones, they had no doubt engaged in the usual mummeries of fools praying to their gods.

  Marsile let out a long breath. Soon enough he would become immortal, and would live long after forgotten gods had perished.

  He walked northward, moving closer to Moragannon.

  Chapter 16 - Moragannon

  Arthuras had not moved for some time.

  Raelum stepped to their guide’s side. Arthuras’s arm shot out, barring his path.

  “Do not,” whispered Arthuras, “take another step.”

  “Why not?” said Raelum, dropping his voice.

  Arthuras gestured for Carandis and Lionel to stop. With his other hand he pointed at a clump of trees. Raelum saw nothing but bark, bare branches, and a white, round stone…

  He blinked. A strange totem made of a human skull and spine sat amongst the trees, ornamented withblack feathers that stirred on the breeze. A peculiar chill went through Raelum. It was similar to the ones they had seen in the ruined villages.

  “You see it then?” said Arthuras. Lionel and Carandis grunted in acknowledgment.

  “You’ve encountered these before
, haven’t you?” said Raelum. “What is it?”

  “An alarm,” said Arthuras. “If we come closer, the skull will scream.” His eyes swung back and forth. “And we may be watched.”

  “By who?” said Raelum.

  “Carandis,” said Arthuras. “Can you break the spell within the skull?”

  “Aye.” Carandis’s eyes narrowed. “At least, I think so.”

  Arthuras stepped back and strung an arrow. “Try.”

  Carandis nodded, lifted her hand, and cast a spell. Silver astralfire burst from her fingers and hammered into the skull. The totem shuddered, the jaw clacking. Then the skull cracked and fell in pieces to the ground.

  Carandis shuddered. “There. It was harder than I thought.”

  “Who placed that totem?” said Raelum. “What may be watching us? Perhaps it’s time that you told us.”

  “Aye,” said Arthuras, “perhaps it is. Wait.” He pulled back the hood of his cloak, head titled to listen. After a moment he sighed. “No one is nearby.”

  “Who?” said Raelum.

  “Ashborn,” said Arthuras.

  “Ashborn?” said Carandis. “I thought they were a legend. Or that they had been destroyed in the fall of the Old Empire.”

  “Many of them were destroyed,” said Arthuras. “But there are Ashborn hordes in what was once the Old Empire.” Arthuras glanced at the towering mountains. “For years the Jurgur tribes on the eastern side of the mountains kept the Ashborn at bay, but Corthain Kalarien destroyed the Jurguri nation at the Battle of the Dark River. With Arvandil destroyed and the Jurgurs scattered, there is nothing left to hold the Ashborn back from the western side of the mountains.”

  “Then who destroyed the ruined villages?” said Lionel.

  “The Ashborn themselves, no doubt,” said Arthuras. “The hordes east of the mountains often war against each other.”