And he and Molly possessed the ability to recover from wounds quickly. Even Romaria, with all the strength and speed granted by her wolf form, could not heal injuries with such speed. If any more runedead lurked in the cave, Mazael and Molly were the best choices to face it.
And his Demonsouled blood wanted another fight, another foe to destroy.
"Timothy," said Mazael, pointing at Ardasan's fallen sword. "Find a way to destroy that. If not, then lock it in the vault with the Glamdaigyr."
"My lord." Timothy pulled off his coat and wrapped it around the sword, taking care not to let his skin touch the weapon.
Molly walked closer, her clothing dirty and torn, but otherwise none the worse for wear. "Ah, Father. I understand you plan another adventure for us?"
"Aye," said Mazael.
"How delightful," said Molly. "I'm sure peasant girls who wish they were the daughters of a lord do not fantasize about crawling into dark holes to fight animated corpses."
"I wouldn't know," said Mazael. "Lucan."
Lucan stared at the knights and armsmen. That empty, icy expression was on his face again. He was looking at Toraine, and for a moment Mazael was sure that Lucan was going to kill his older brother.
"Lucan," said Mazael again.
Lucan blinked, looked away from Toraine.
"Yes," he said. "Of course. Let's go."
###
Molly squinted into the darkness of the cave's entrance.
"You should have sent for torches, Father," she said.
"No need," said Lucan, lifting his hand. A shimmering globe of blue light appeared over his palm. With his other hand he waved over the mouth of the cave, face tight with concentration.
“Anything?” said Mazael.
“Residual power,” said Lucan. “The cave was quite heavily warded. Which explains why I never detected Ardasan and his pets. Or why no one else ever did.” He laughed. “They were right under the scaled bellies of the San-keth for all these centuries, and the serpents never had any idea.”
“Just as well,” said Mazael. “Ardasan might have thought the San-keth would make useful allies.”
“Or slaves,” said Molly, remembering her own dealings with the San-keth. “The serpents are clever, but they prefer to slink in the shadows and play with their puppets. They couldn’t control something like Ardasan.”
“The wards are fading,” said Lucan. “Ardasan probably broke them when he left the cave.” He frowned. “And…there’s something else. I sensed it before, in the tower. I think someone used a spell to cause the earthquake, to open the cave.”
“The San-keth?” said Mazael. “Some renegade like Malavost?” He hesitated. “The Old Demon?”
But Molly wondered why would the Old Demon bother with earthquakes and undead warriors? He had more effective weapons at his disposal.
“I…” Lucan shook his head, as if trying to remember something. “I don’t know. The spell to create an earthquake like that is potent, but simple. It would beyond me, even with the bloodstaff.”
“Without your stolen power, you mean,” said Molly.
Lucan glared at her, his expression so cold that Molly reached for her weapons.
“Even with the bloodstaff,” said Lucan, his expression calming. “Nevertheless. It took a great deal of power to open this cave.”
“So why go to the effort?” said Molly, watching the wizard. She didn't understand why Mazael trusted him. Romaria thought it because Lucan alone had known Mazael’s secret for some time, and had not betrayed him. Yet Romaria did not trust Lucan Mandragon, and neither did Molly. “Why dig up some old undead from Dracaryl? Whoever conjured the earthquake didn’t try to take command of them.”
“Perhaps there was something else in the cave,” said Lucan.
Mazael pointed with Lion. “Let’s find out.”
He walked into the cave. Molly waited until Lucan entered, and then walked after him.
She was not going to turn her back on him.
Lucan’s blue light cast wild shadows over the cave's ragged walls. Mazael walked in the lead, Lion ready. Molly kept her sword and dagger raised, watching for any sign of more undead.
She also kept an eye on Lucan.
The cavern opened into a large corridor of black stone. The walls and floor gleamed, reflecting the light in Lucan’s hand, and Molly saw her ghostly reflection in the dark stone.
“This looks like the inside of Arylkrad,” said Molly.
“Unsurprising,” said Lucan, “given that the high lords of Dracaryl built both.”
The corridor ended in a large domed chamber, a smaller replica of the vast space that had held the Glamdaigyr. An empty throne sat beneath the dome, and stone benches lined the base of the wall.
“Ardasan sat there, I warrant,” said Mazael, pointing at the throne, “and the runedead waited on those benches.”
“Gods,” muttered Molly. “They waited here for all these centuries? For what?”
“For the high lord Randur Maendrag,” said Lucan. “I suspect he left Ardasan and the runedead in the cave, intending to return for them. Instead he perished in whatever cataclysm of dark magic devoured Dracaryl. So Ardasan was forgotten.”
“You seemed like you recognized the name,” said Mazael. “Randur Maendrag. Did you know of him?”
“Aye,” said Lucan. “In some old books. He was one of the last high lords of Dracaryl. And I think he may have been my ancestor.”
“Your ancestor?” said Molly.
Lucan shrugged. “According to the account of my family’s history, one of Randur Maendrag’s sons escaped the ruin of Dracaryl and came to the Grim Marches. He was the first Lord of Swordgrim.”
“A pity he didn’t recognize you as his old lord’s heir,” said Mazael. “You could have commanded him to lay down his arms and saved us a lot of trouble.”
Lucan blinked, as if an idea had just come to him. “Commanded. Yes.”
“Is there anything else here?” said Mazael. “Any other undead, any other sources of magical power?”
Lucan muttered a spell.
“No,” he said after a moment. “Nothing. Only the wards are left, and those are fading. Seal off the entrance to the cave, and no one will ever trouble this place again.”
Mazael nodded and returned Lion to its scabbard. “Good.”
“Is something amiss?” said Lucan.
“No,” said Mazael.
“You look disappointed,” said Molly.
“A bit,” said Mazael. He sighed. “My mind has been torn in two of late. I wanted peace for the Grim Marches, peace and prosperity. And yet…”
“And yet,” said Molly. “You want to fight. You want to kill. Your blood demands it of you.”
Her own blood did the same.
Mazael closed his eyes. “Aye.”
“I understand,” said Molly.
“Understand what?” said Lucan.
“Our Demonsouled blood,” said Mazael. “I had hoped for peace once the Malrags were driven back. We may have it now. And yet…my blood yearns for battle, for war. I want to fight and to kill. Sometimes it is all I can do to stop myself.”
Lucan said nothing.
“It is the same with me,” said Molly. “I was an assassin of the Skulls. I hated that life…yet I loved the killing. Sometimes I dream about returning to the Skulls. Not that they would have me – no one leaves the Skulls and lives. I’m surprised they haven’t sent assassins after me yet. And I don’t want to go back. And yet…”
“Part of you wants to,” said Mazael. “Your blood wants to.”
Molly closed her eyes. “Aye.”
“I hoped there were more undead to fight,” said Mazael. He grimaced. “But it’s just as well. Too many of my men have fallen, and I will not have more innocent blood spilled.”
“Despite,” said Lucan, voice soft, “however much you want to spill it?”
“Aye,” said Mazael. “You do understand.”
“Did you want to kill T
oraine?” said Lucan.
“Very badly,” said Mazael.
Something like a smile flickered over Lucan’s thin lips. “I commiserate. I’ve wanted to kill him since I was old enough to walk. So why didn’t you kill him?”
“Because it would have been wrong,” said Mazael.
Lucan tilted his head to the side. “Wrong? What do you mean?”
“It would have been murder,” said Mazael. “And if I had killed him…Lord Richard would have made war on me and drowned the Grim Marches in blood. Once your father dies and Toraine becomes liege lord, he’ll be my enemy. Hopefully that will not be for long years yet, and I can find a way to keep the peace.”
“Yet for all that,” said Lucan, “you still wanted to kill him, badly.”
Mazael shrugged. “I am Demonsouled.”
“Yes,” said Lucan. “I suppose you are, at that.”
“If we are going to have a philosophical discussion,” said Molly, “I suggest we have it in the castle. It is cold and dark down here, and I could use something hot to eat and drink.”
“You’re right,” said Mazael. “Lucan, let’s go. I’ll send some stonemasons to seal this place off, but there doesn’t seem to be any need to rush.”
“A day or two shouldn’t hurt,” said Lucan. “But you’ll want to seal it off eventually. Otherwise you’ll draw every renegade fool with a few spells and dreams of Old Dracaryl.”
“Wisely said,” said Mazael. “Let’s go home.”
###
Lucan stopped at the mouth of the cave, watching as Mazael and Molly made their way to the road leading to the castle’s gates.
Molly shot a look over her shoulder at him.
She did not trust him.
But that was just as well, since he intended to kill her.
Both her and Mazael. Mazael had been Lucan’s friend, but he, too, needed to die.
He had made the decision while listening to them discuss their Demonsouled nature. They would never change. They might struggle against their blood, perhaps even keep their murderous impulses at bay for years. But sooner or later their dark nature would assert itself, and they would become the monsters they were truly destined to be.
Lucan had sworn to guard the Grim Marches from dark magic, and both Mazael and Molly were creatures of dark magic.
How he hated the Demonsouled.
They were, he realized, the source of most of his pain.
The idea came to him full-formed, almost as if he had heard it from someone else. Marstan had been a student of the Old Demon, and he had tried to possess Lucan. Lucan had been victorious, had gained the necromancer's knowledge and power, but the resultant personality changes had driven his betrothed Tymaen away. If not for Marstan, Lucan could have been wed to Tymaen.
He could have been happy.
If not for the Demonsouled.
They would pay for that.
He would find a way to make all the Demonsouled pay, to rid the world of them forever.
And the answer lay within his grasp.
Ardasan had said the high lords had forged the Glamdaigyr as a weapon to steal the might of the Demonsouled. What had the revenant meant?
Lucan didn’t know, but he knew how to find out.
“Lucan!” said Mazael. “Are you coming?”
For a moment Lucan considered killing both Mazael and Molly where they stood. He dismissed the idea as too risky. Both father and daughter possessed the ability to heal quickly, and Lucan doubted he could kill both of them at once.
He would regret killing Mazael, true. But he was a thing of dark magic, and Lucan had sworn to defend the Grim Marches from dark magic.
“Of course,” said Lucan, making himself smile. “I’m coming, never fear.”
Chapter 7 – Sanctuary
“At last,” said Riothamus, leaning upon his spear.
Arnulf grunted. “At least they didn’t move south without us.”
The countryside had grown hillier as they traveled south from Skullbane, the forest thicker. Their progress had slowed considerably, and it had taken a great deal of time to steer the oxen and pigs around every obstacle.
The two mammoths, of course, had simply plowed their way through anything in their path.
But after nine days of hard travel, they stood upon the lip of a wide valley. A narrow river flowed through the valley, heading north for the Iron River itself. Thick forests lined the valley’s slopes, though many of the trees had been cut down by now.
The Tervingi nation filled the valley.
Or what was left of it.
Great masses of tents lined the river, and Riothamus saw thousands of people going about their business. Plumes of smoke rose from countless campfires, and hundreds of mammoths wandered the trees, stripping the branches of any remaining leaves. A dozen tiny black dots circled overhead – skythains, riding their griffin mounts. No Malrags would come within twenty miles of the Tervingi host without the knowledge of the keen-eyed skythains.
“Merciful gods,” said Ethringa, surprise on her lined face. “How many?”
Arnulf squinted. “About ninety thousand, I’d deem. Perhaps fifteen or twenty thousand men fit to fight.”
“So great a host,” said Ethringa.
“Aye,” said Arnulf. “If we meet the Malrags, they’ll regret it sorely.”
But he shared a look with Riothamus. Both men knew that the Tervingi had once been far more numerous.
Now this valley held all that remained.
“Come,” said Arnulf, pointing. “Athanaric has his camp near the river.”
The swordthain led the folk of Skullbane down the hillside and towards the great camp. Hundreds of banners floated in the autumn wind over the tents of the warriors. Once, an encampment of Tervingi warriors would have flown the banners of a dozen different hroulds. Now, only two different banners remained. One was green with a white horseman, the banner and sigil of the hrould Athanaric. The second was black, with a red eye in the center.
The sigil of Ragnachar and his demon-worshipping orcragar.
Arnulf made sure to keep well away from Ragnachar’s banners.
They entered the camp. Spearthains kept watch on the edges, keeping an eye out for any Malrag raiders that eluded the vigilance of the skythains. The women went about their business, carrying water from the river, tending to the children, or herding the chickens and the sheep. Parts of the camp could have been mistaken for any other Tervingi hold and village.
But there were no Tervingi villages left.
A pavilion stood at the edge of the water, a massive green-and-white banner hanging over it. Arnulf spoke with the spearthains on guard, and one of them disappeared into the tent.
A short time later the hrould Athanaric emerged.
He was in his late fifties, still strong and vigorous despite his age, his hair and beard the color of gray iron. His green cloak stirred in the wind, revealing the chain mail beneath it, and the broadsword and dagger hanging at his belt. He looked over the assembled refugees, face solemn, and then he smiled.
“Arnulf,” he said, voice deep.
“Hrould,” said Arnulf, bowing. “I bring you honored guests, and I speak on their behalf.”
Ethringa stepped forward and bowed. “I am Ethringa daughter of Jordanic, the holdmistress of Skullbane.”
Athanaric bowed in return. “And I am Athanaric son of Athaulf, a hrould of the Tervingi nation. I bid you welcome, and pledge you the protection of my sword and the hospitality of my roof.” He beckoned, and one of his bondsmen hurried forward, bearing a golden goblet of wine. Athanaric offered it to Ethringa, and she drank and handed it back to him. He drank from it in turn, completing the ritual of host and guest.
“Thank you for the welcome, hrould,” said Ethringa.
“You are indeed welcome,” said Athanaric. “So few of us are left that it is good you have come. Is Fritigern here?”
“Alas,” said Ethringa. “He fell in battle against the Malrags, a week ere your e
missary reached me.
Athanaric sighed. “That is ill news, indeed. Still, we must press on. Arnulf!”
“Aye?” said Arnulf.
“Take the holdmistress to my seneschal, and find her folk and beasts a place in the order of march,” said Athanaric. “We break camp and leave on the morrow.”
“So soon?” said Riothamus.
Athanaric nodded. “Aye, witcher.” Like Arnulf, he showed no fear of Riothamus. No doubt his long association with the Guardian had inured him to magic. “All those who can be gathered have been gathered. It is past time that we marched for our new homeland.”
“If we are to leave the graves of our fathers,” said Ethringa, “best we get it over with at once.”
“Indeed,” said Athanaric. “Yet if we linger, the whole Tervingi nation shall dwell in one great grave.”
“This way, holdmistress,” said Arnulf.
“Witcher,” said Athanaric. “The Guardian thought you might return today. She bade you to meet her at the usual place by the river.”
“Hrould,” said Riothamus. He bowed and left the pavilion.
Riothamus threaded his way through the camp, dodging women carrying jars of water, children playing at being swordthains and spearthains, and the occasional renegade chicken. Most of the Tervingi got out of his way with fearful glances, some making the ritual signs to ward off evil. The Dark Elderborn had been wizards of great power, and the Tervingi did not tolerate wizards. Only the fact that Riothamus was the apprentice of the Guardian kept the Tervingi from dragging him outside the camp and stoning him to death.
Riothamus ignored their fearful glances. He was used to them, after all.
Then he encountered some men who did not get out of his way.
There were four of them, swordthains in mail, their expressions cold and stern. Over their armor they wore the ragged black cloaks favored by Ragnachar’s thains. And unlike most of Ragnachar’s thains, these men had scars on their foreheads and cheeks – an eye, cut into their skin in imitation of Ragnachar’s sigil.
Orcragars. Worshipers of the Urdmoloch, like Ragnachar himself. The orcragars believed that the Urdmoloch blessed them with demonic power, giving them strength and speed beyond that of ordinary men. And perhaps they were correct – the orcragars fought with a brutal ferocity unlike the other Tervingi, and recovered from wounds and illness faster.
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