“Oh?” said Mazael. His hand twitched toward Lion’s hilt. “Is that a threat?”
“Merely a…how did you put it? Merely an if,” said Toraine. “If I were to kill you, Romaria, and your bastard, there would be no direct heirs left. My father would then be within his rights to reclaim Castle Cravenlock and its lands, and bestow them upon a...worthier vassal.”
“I doubt your father,” said Mazael, “would attack one of his vassals without cause.”
“I think that my father has ample cause,” said Toraine. He stepped forward, his black eyes fixed on Mazael. “And I have urged him to make war upon you.”
“Have you, now?” said Mazael, voice soft.
His Demonsouled blood demanded that he kill Toraine…and it was getting harder and harder to ignore it.
“I have,” said Toraine. “You’re a threat to the House of Mandragon, my lord Mazael. And my father does not tolerate threats. Nor do I.”
“I do not threaten,” said Mazael, “but I respond to threats. As your father understands.”
“My father,” said Toraine, “will not live forever.”
“You’re planning to kill him, too?” said Mazael.
“Of course not,” said Toraine. “But not even Lord Richard the Dragonslayer will not live forever. When he dies, I will be the Lord of Swordgrim and the liege lord of the Grim Marches. And when I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches, I will purge myself of any disloyal vassals.”
“What have I done,” said Mazael, keeping his voice calm despite the rage that pulsed inside his skull, “to make you my enemy?”
“The Grim Marches are mine,” said Toraine. “Mine by birth, mine by right. Neither you, nor the San-keth, nor my damned wizard brother, nor the Malrags, nor any other power under the sun shall take them from me.” He smirked. “And if I have to butcher you in front of your precious half-breed and your bastard, well, so be it.”
That was it.
Mazael’s rage focused into something crystalline and sharp.
His hand opened, intending to draw Lion and ram it through Toraine’s throat...
He stopped, frowning.
“What the devil is that noise?” he said.
Toraine started to say something mocking, then stopped as he heard the sound.
The carafe and goblets on the table trembled, rattling against the polished wood.
The floor was shaking.
###
“There,” said Molly, grabbing at a battlement for balance. “It happened again.”
“I felt it,” said Romaria, her face grim. “Earthquake.” She lifted her “Everyone! Away from the walls and the towers! Now! Now!”
The ground jolted again.
###
Lucan’s eyes narrowed, and then they opened wide.
He felt the surge of power against his magical senses. A simple spell, but one beyond Lucan’s strength – a spell to make the earth itself shake. Had the San-keth decided to abandon subtlety for brute force? Did they have a wizard strong enough to simply bring the castle crashing down upon their heads?
Then the sound of the explosion washed over his ears.
###
“What the hell was that?” said Molly, sword and dagger in hand.
Romaria didn’t know.
The last echoes of the explosion faded away, and the ground stopped trembling. Earthquakes were rare in the lands west of the Great Mountains, but Romaria had spent years traveling in the lands east of the mountains, in the lands of the Tervingi and the Greuthungi and the Jutai and the other barbarian nations. There earthquakes were common, and Romaria had seen the devastation they could wreak. For a terrible moment she feared Castle Cravenlock would collapse into a pile of splintered ruin.
But the shaking stopped, and the castle remained undamaged.
“Look,” said Molly, pointing with her sword.
Romaria looked over the rampart. A plume of rock dust rose from the base of the hill, dissipating as the breeze blew it away. As it thinned, Romaria saw a black space in the rock.
The entrance to a cavern.
“A cave?” said Molly. “It must open to the old San-keth temple under the castle.”
Romaria shook her head. “The temple is beneath the castle. That cave, whatever it is, is too low. It’s something else.”
She took a breath, and the smell of dead flesh filled her nostrils.
In her human form, Romaria’s senses were not as keen as when she became the wolf, but they were still far sharper than normal. And now she smelled the dusty, dry odor of long-dead flesh and bone coming from that cave.
“It’s a tomb,” said Romaria.
More knights and armsmen crowded onto the walls, looking around, and green light flared in the depths of the cave.
Molly cursed.
“What?” said Romaria.
“That light,” said Molly. “It’s the exact same kind of light we saw inside Arylkrad.”
Romaria’s hands twitched toward her weapons. If Molly was right, that would mean the cave had been built by the high lords of Old Dracaryl. Or that they had sealed something within the cave.
“We had best…” began Romaria.
Dark shapes emerged from the cavern. They looked like men, albeit men with leathery, chalk-white skin and the scent of ancient corpses. Every last one of the figures wore black chain mail, and carried a black sword in hand.
Upon each of their foreheads blazed a sigil written in green flame, the light reflecting in their empty eyes.
“Undead,” hissed Molly. “Like the ebony dead in Arylkrad, or Corvad’s pet zuvembies.”
But Romaria had fought both the ebony dead and the zuvembies, and these undead creatures looked far more dangerous.
“They must have been sealed up since Dracaryl fell,” said Romaria. “Go get Mazael, right now. We…”
A terrible voice, like the clanging of iron doors, rose from the mass of undead.
“The Glamdaigyr! The Glamdaigyr is within the castle! Take it, my thralls, and Dracaryl shall be mine forever!”
As one the undead turned and charged up the road to the castle.
And dozens more, hundreds more, poured from the yawning mouth of the cave.
Chapter 5 – The Dead Walk
The echoes died away.
“What the devil was that?” said Toraine.
“An earthquake, I would guess,” said Mazael.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Toraine. “There aren’t any earthquakes in the Grim Marches.”
“The floor didn’t shake itself,” said Mazael. He strode toward the door, intending to find out what had happened.
“Do not walk away from me!” said Toraine. “I am your liege lord.”
“Not yet,” said Mazael.
A column of darkness swirled, and Molly appeared before him.
Her sword and dagger were in hand.
“Father,” she said. “You need to come, now. The earthquake opened a cave at the base of the hill. Some sort of undead came out, and they’re attacking the castle. Go!”
She disappeared in a swirl of inky blackness.
“How the hell did she do that?” said Toraine.
“She has some magical ability,” said Mazael, repeating the story they had concocted to explain Molly’s Demonsouled ability to travel through the shadows. “Not enough to join the wizard’s brotherhood, but enough to do that little…trick.”
Something trembled against his hip, and Mazael drew Lion from its scabbard.
The blade had been forged in ancient times to fight dark power, and it burned with an azure flame when confronting creatures and wielders of dark magic. Now threads of blue light glimmered in the steel, and tiny blue flames danced at the edges of the blade.
Toraine had his own sword in hand. His curved saber had been made from one of the talons of the dragon he had slain, and its black edge glittered with deadly light. “You draw steel against me?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Mazael, voice hard. For a moment t
he impulse to kill Toraine was almost overpowering. But, no, not now. These undead were threatening his castle, his people.
And Romaria was out there.
“The castle is under attack,” said Mazael. “I doubt those undead will discriminate between your men and mine. If we don’t fight, we’ll be butchered.”
Toraine’s hard expression did not change, but he gave a sharp nod.
Mazael hurried from the chamber, Lion glowing brighter in his fist. Dread and eagerness stirred in him with equal intensity. What new horror had been unleashed upon his lands? Hadn’t the San-keth and the Malrags already brought enough suffering?
Yet how Mazael had yearned to fight, to slay.
Another chance had come, it seemed.
###
Romaria lifted her bow.
She had left her composite bow, a mixture of horn and yew fashioned by the skilled bowyers of the Elderborn, in her bedchamber. She cursed herself as a fool, but the short bow she had taken from one of the armsmen should serve well enough.
“Close the gate!” roared Sir Hagen, pacing before the barbican. “Close the gate, now! Don’t let those damned things in to the castle!” The armsmen hastened to obey. "Bows to the ramparts, now! Move, damn you! Move!"
The portcullis slammed down with a clang, and armsmen hastened to the walls, crossbows and short bows in hand. Romaria hoped the walls could stop the pale undead. Corvad's zuvembies had been able to scramble up stone walls, using their talons to climb...
Then the charging undead were in range, and Romaria's musings fled as her focus narrowed.
The front rank of the pale undead drew closer. Romaria saw each link of their black chain mail, the pulse and flicker of the sigils of green light upon their foreheads. The creatures had no eyes, she saw, only pits filled with swirling green flame.
She drew and released in one smooth motion, and around her the armsmen loosed their arrows and bolts. Romaria's arrow drove into a pale throat, and the undead creature staggered. The creature stopped and looked up at her, its bloodless face empty of any expression.
It reached up, yanked the arrow from its throat, and kept going.
"Damn it," muttered Romaria. Just like the zuvembies, the pale undead were immune to weapons of steel. She remembered standing atop the walls of Morsen Village, trying to hold back the waves of zuvembies boiling up the hill. Without the azure fire from Mazael's sword, the zuvembies would have killed them all.
And without Mazael's sword, it looked like these pale undead would do the same.
The undead paused as they plucked arrows and quarrels from their flesh, and then that awful voice rang over the castle's walls.
"Take the castle, my thralls!" thundered the voice. "Kill the defenders, and bring me the Glamdaigyr!"
Romaria grimaced. The Glamdaigyr had been forged by the high lords of Old Dracaryl, and the sword bestowed tremendous power over the undead upon its wielder. It also had the ability to suck away life force, transferring the stolen power upon its master. Mazael had taken the sword after killing Corvad, and it lay locked in a warded vault in the heart of the castle.
Whoever had the power to command the undead was already dangerous. The Glamdaigyr would make him infinitely more so.
"Kill them all!" roared the voice.
The undead raced to the base of the castle's wall.
Besides Romaria, one of the armsmen laughed. "I'd like to see those devils get through the walls."
The sigils upon their foreheads pulsed, and the undead changed.
Their flesh and armor dissolved into green mist and ghostly light, and the undead became wraiths of pale smoke. They walked to the walls, and then through the walls and the portcullis, passing through the stone and steel as if the gates were not there.
Dozens of the wraiths walked into the courtyard.
And then they shifted back into their corporeal forms, and the killing began.
###
Lucan stared at the melee in the courtyard.
He had never seen undead like that before. But Marstan had known what they were, and Marstan's memories belonged to Lucan now.
"Runedead," said Lucan, looking at the sigils of green fire upon their brows. The zuvembies and the ebony dead were bad enough, but the runedead were far more dangerous. Lucan had thought the knowledge to create them lost, destroyed in the cataclysm of dark magic that devoured Dracaryl.
Apparently, he had been wrong.
Or these runedead had survived all these centuries.
He could figure it out later. Castle Cravenlock might fall without his aid.
Lucan pushed away from the window and sprinted for the stairs.
###
The pale undead waded into the massed knights and armsmen, black swords flying. A dozen men perished in the first press. Sir Hagen bellowed commands, and the men reformed themselves into a shield wall, striking with their swords. But the black chain mail turned aside most of their blows, and even when blades struck the undead flesh, they did no damage.
Unless Mazael intervened with Lion, or Timothy or Lucan used their magic, those men were doomed.
Romaria shot a glance to the side, saw Timothy yank a copper tube from his black wizard's coat, saw him start to cast one of his battle-spells. Yet it would take time, and the undead might well have ripped their way through the men before he finished the spell.
Unless Romaria distracted them first.
She returned her weapons to their sheaths and reached within herself.
Her father had been human, and her mother Elderborn. For most of her life, the human and Elderborn halves of her soul had battled. But she had faced herself, faced the beast within, and now the two halves of her soul existed in harmony.
Romaria leapt from the rampart, her skirts billowing around her legs, and changed as she fell.
Her flesh flowed, her bones reshaping, her muscles thickening, her limbs growing longer and stronger.
When she struck the ground, she wore the form of a great black wolf with gleaming white fangs and icy blue eyes. Her senses sharpened until she smelled the sweat and terror of the men, the dusty stench of the undead, heard every scream and cry and shout.
Romaria flung herself into the fray.
She crashed into the undead, her sheer speed and power throwing them aside. Her claws and fangs could not destroy the creatures. But she could throw them to the ground, bull through them as if they were made of straw, and throw their attack into chaos.
Then green light and mist rippled behind her, and another rank of pale undead materialized between her and the wall, swords drawn back to stab.
###
Molly stepped out of the shadows and saw Romaria take the form of the wolf and leap into the ranks of the undead. The creatures scattered, their attack thrown into disarray, but it would not matter for long. The armsmen and knights had no weapons that would hurt the undead, at least until Mazael arrived with Lion.
She saw Timothy standing atop the rampart, pointing a copper tube at the undead and working a spell.
Fire might harm the undead, if Timothy could cast his spell in time.
A flare of green light and mist appeared at the base of the curtain wall, and another row of pale undead materialized in the courtyard.
Trapping Romaria.
Molly's Demonsouled rage rose up inside her, making her stronger and faster. But the demon-tainted blood she had inherited from Mazael gave her powers other than superhuman strength and speed. She reached for the burning power within and stepped into the shadows.
The world disappeared into darkness, and Molly reappeared next to Romaria.
Molly darted forward, her sword and dagger a blur. Her weapons would not touch the undead, but her blows distracted the creatures. She sent one of the undead sprawling to the floor, spun, and knocked a second creature crashing into two more. Romaria growled and tore through the undead, driving them back, and Molly covered her flank, sword and dagger flying.
The pale undead bunched up beneath t
he closed gate.
Right in the path of Timothy's spell.
The wizard thrust out his hand, and flames exploded from his copper tube. The cone of fire washed through the mass of the undead. Their ancient, bloodless flesh went up like dry grass, the sigils of green fire upon their foreheads drowning in raging yellow-orange flame.
Dozens of them collapsed.
But more kept walking through the curtain wall.
Molly spun in a circle. There were too many of the undead, and more kept coming. They could not hope to hold out. Not without...
A flash of blue light caught her eye.
A man in golden armor attacked the undead, a sword of blue fire blazing in his fist.
###
Mazael charged the pale undead.
The creatures wore black chain mail, but no helms, and Lion's burning blade ripped through their necks like a scythe through stalks of wheat. He struck down one, two, three, and then wheeled, clanging his blade against the swords of his men and Toraine's men.
Lion's fire spread to the other blades, and the men attacked with renewed vigor, the weapons biting into the undead flesh.
Darkness swirled beside him, and Molly appeared, her weapons in hand.
"Father," she said, slapping her sword and dagger against Lion, "you're late."
Toraine touched his curved blade to Lion, and the dragon's talon crackled with ghostly blue fire.
"I beg your forgiveness, daughter. I was wasting time with something unimportant," said Mazael.
Toraine sneered and went on the attack.
Mazael raced through the melee, striking down undead after undead. And as he did, he touched Lion to sword after sword, until the courtyard flickered with blue light. His men formed ranks with Toraine's armsmen, and step by step they drove the undead toward the wall.
Then Mazael saw a man in a black cloak and wizard’s coat moving along the ramparts over the gate.
Lucan Mandragon.
Lucan lifted his hands, face tight with concentration. Gray mist swirled below the portcullis, and a dozen beasts leapt from the mist, creatures that looked like the offspring of a hunting lion and a squid. Spirit creatures, dragged into the mortal world by the force of Lucan's will. The beasts attacked the undead, their misty claws and fangs rending undead flesh. Next to Lucan, Timothy reached into his coat and produced another one of his copper tubes.
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 5
