The rest stampeded into the barbarian shield wall.
A yell of panic went up from the barbarians, their formation dissolving into chaos. The men scrambled to get out of the mammoths’ paths, falling into each other. Some were not fast enough, and found themselves crushed beneath the mammoths’ massive feet.
Mazael’s blood thundered in anticipation.
“Now, Aulus,” he said, his voice icy calm.
Aulus blew a long, ringing blast on his horn.
The knights and armsmen surged forward, the horse archers veering off. Mazael rode at their head, a shield on his left arm, Lion gleaming in his right. Behind him galloped the knights, their lances lowered to present a solid wall of razor steel.
The barbarians, to their credit, tried to recover. Some of them began shouting commands in their tongue, and the spearmen tried to form themselves into a semblance of a line.
But it was too late.
The horsemen crashed into the barbarians, trampling them beneath steel-shod hooves. A ragged-haired barbarian in chain mail thrust a spear at Mazael. He caught the point on his shield, twisted, and brought Lion around in an underhanded slash. The sword’s point tore open the barbarian’s throat, and the man fell beneath the churning hooves of the horses.
The entire barbarian formation collapsed, the men fleeing. Mazael struck again and again, Lion a gleaming blur in his fist, his arm running red with blood. Some of the barbarians charged at him, but his Demonsouled blood filled him with strength and power. Even those who managed to land blows found their weapons turned by the golden dragon scales of his armor. Mazael slew and slew, his blood singing with dark joy.
Eventually, he forced himself to stop.
“Hold!” roared Mazael. He galloped to his banners, to Sir Aulus and Sir Hagen. “Hold! Aulus! Call formation.”
Aulus obeyed, blasting out the call to reform on his war horn. Reluctantly, Mazael’s men returned, organizing themselves back into formation at the foot of Redcrest’s hill. The remaining barbarians fled in all directions, desperate to get away from the horsemen.
“We should ride them down and destroy them utterly, my lord,” said Hagen.
“We could,” said Mazael, “but we won’t. They’ll go running back to their chieftains, spreading terror and fear. Perhaps that will make them think twice before raiding again.” Or, more likely, it would inspire their leaders to gather their forces, giving Lord Richard the chance to smash them utterly.
“A solid victory, my lord,” said Hagen.
Mazael looked over the battlefield. A few of his men had fallen in the fighting, but hundreds of the barbarians lay dead, their bodies torn and trampled by blade and hoof. A wave of nausea went through Mazael.
He had done this.
Aye, the barbarians had attacked his lands and people, and deserved nothing but destruction – and Mazael had destroyed them. And he had enjoyed destroying them, had reveled in it.
Molly was right. He was a monster.
He shook aside the thought. He could brood later. He had a duty to defend his lands and people.
“Sir Hagen,” said Mazael. “Detail some men to see to the bodies. I’d prefer not to have plague spreading through my lands. Send some of Sir Tanam's lads to keep an eye on the fleeing barbarians. If they try to reform and make mischief, I want to know.”
“My lord,” said Hagen, turning to carry out his commands.
Mazael dropped from the saddle and walked to Molly and Romaria, who had resumed her human form. In her wolf shape, Romaria had terrorized the mammoths, while Molly had danced through the barbarians, flickering in and out of the shadows.
“So much for the barbarians,” said Molly. “For such big fellows they don’t fight very well.”
“They put too much faith in their mammoths,” said Mazael. “If they had handled the beasts better, we might be fleeing now instead of them. Sir Tanam! Join us!”
Mazael walked through the field of the slain, the stench of blood and death filling his nostrils, until he found what he sought. A dying barbarian lay upon the ground, pinned by a spear through his gut. He looked up, hate and terror twisting his face, and snarled something.
“You said you know their tongue?” said Mazael.
“Aye,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “They’re speaking a dialect of Dark Elderborn. A corrupt dialect, I think, but I can understand it.”
“The Dark Elderborn?” said Mazael. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“When the empire of the High Elderborn collapsed,” said Romaria, gazing at the dying barbarian, “some of them turned to the worship of the Old Demon, whom they called the Urdmoloch. The Dark Elderborn built an empire of their own in the middle lands for centuries, but they fought against each other constantly, and their empire collapsed when their slaves revolted. There are a few minor kingdoms left, but little else. Most of the barbarian nations beyond the Great Mountains were once the slaves of the Dark Elderborn, and speak a form of their language.”
The barbarian snarled at Mazael, spitting words in the tongue of the Dark Elderborn.
“What is he saying?” said Mazael.
“He says he is a swordthain of Athanaric, a hrould of the Tervingi nation.”
Molly frowned. “A hrould?”
“Sort of a…chieftain, a warlord,” said Romaria. “Something like a liege lord. A thain is a free man who swears his weapon in service to a hrould. Much like a knight sworn to a lord.”
“Ask him why the Tervingi came here,” said Mazael.
Romaria spoke the question, and the Tervingi growled a response.
“He says the Tervingi have come to claim a new homeland, far from the Malrags,” said Romaria. The barbarian kept speaking. “The Tervingi warriors will gather in a great host, and their mammoths will sweep aside your horsemen like chaff. He says that the Tervingi nation will claim your lands, your fields, and your women. He says that you are too weak to stop him.”
Mazael leaned closer, locking eyes with the dying Tervingi.
“Tell him,” he said, “that the Tervingi are welcome to try.”
Romaria translated, and the Tervingi shivered and spoke something else.
“He asked if you are kin to someone named Ragnachar,” said Romaria. “A hrould and warrior of renown among the Tervingi, I gather.”
Mazael nodded. “Tell him that I thank him for his information. And tell him that he has fought valiantly, and I will not leave him to die slowly.”
Romaria repeated his words in Dark Elderborn.
The Tervingi blinked, sighed, and nodded. He leaned back, exposing his throat.
Mazael ended it in one short, sharp sweep of Lion. And as he promised, the Tervingi died quickly.
He cleaned the blade, expression grim.
“Sir Tanam,” he said at last. The Old Crow stepped to his side. “Send a messenger to Lord Richard at once. Tell him what we have learned. And tell him that these Tervingi are going to gather their host and attack in strength soon.”
Tanam grunted. “How can you be certain?”
Mazael pointed up.
A pair of dark specks circled in the sky, far overhead.
“The surviving Tervingi will carry the tale,” said Mazael, “and those griffins will spread news faster than a horse can run. Once the Tervingi realize that we are fighting back, this Athanaric and the other hroulds will gather their men. Lord Richard needs to be ready to meet them.”
Tanam nodded. “It will be done.”
“In the meantime,” said Mazael, “we’ll make camp here, once we’ve dealt with the slain. Hagen! Send someone to find Timothy and Lucan. I want them to raise wards around the camp, lest the Tervingi try to slit our throats in the night.”
His men obeyed. Mazael strode among them as they dealt with the dead Tervingi and raised the tents, praising their courage and those who had shown particular valor. Men needed to know that their lord looked after them, that he took notice of their efforts.
“My lord!”
Timot
hy hurried over, his long black coat brushing against the grass.
“Ah, good,” said Mazael. “I’ll need you to put a ward around the camp…”
“My lord,” said Timothy, “there is a problem.”
“What is it?” said Mazael. He blinked. “Where’s Lucan?”
“He’s gone,” said Timothy.
“Gone?” said Mazael, astonished. “One of the Tervingi killed him?” The thought stunned him. The idea that Lucan Mandragon, wizard of power, would fall to the spear of a ragged barbarian raider was preposterous.
“No, my lord. He took his horse and fled the battle. He said he had something more important to do.”
Chapter 13 – Sword and Crown
Lucan rode hard to the southwest. His horse wheezed beneath him, but Lucan drove the beast onward. The creature was only a tool, and he did not care if it lived or died.
He had greater matters to consider.
The barbarians would keep Mazael occupied for the rest of the day. By the time Mazael crushed them, Lucan would have reached Castle Cravenlock. He would have time enough to do what he needed to do.
The first step in the great work to rid the world of Demonsouled.
Eventually Mazael would pursue him. But the war against the barbarians would keep him occupied for weeks, perhaps even months. Lucan planned to be long gone from Castle Cravenlock by then.
Mazael would not find him until it was too late.
Lucan rode on, mind filled with his purpose.
###
At dawn, Lucan’s horse refused to go any further. But he was only a few miles from the castle, so he walked the rest of the distance, leaving the horse to its own devices. Castle Cravenlock loomed over him, but Lucan veered towards the town.
And the remaining camps near the tournament grounds.
Most of the merchants and peddlers had vanished with the barbarian attacks, fleeing to safer venues in Knightcastle and the High Plain. Yet some had stayed. The armorers and the blacksmiths, who would turn a rich profit supplying arms and armor to the host of the Grim Marches. Many landless knights, hoping to rise to land and glory in the fighting.
And some of the mercenary companies, seeking neither land nor glory but gold.
Lucan headed for one of the mercenary camps, a well-ordered square of rough canvas tents surrounding a crimson pavilion. Two swordsmen in leather and chainmail stood before the camp, and blocked Lucan’s approach.
“Aye, wizard?” said one. “What’s your business here?”
“Is this the mercenary company of Captain Malaric of Barellion?” said Lucan.
“It is,” said the mercenary. The man lowered his voice. “If you’re a renegade, the captain could use your skills. And he won’t ask too many questions.”
Lucan smiled. “Tell Malaric that Lucan Mandragon wishes a moment of his time.”
That got the guards’ attention.
A short time later Lucan found himself ushered into the crimson pavilion and into the presence of Malaric himself.
Despite its coloring, the pavilion's interior was austere. A cot, a camp chair, and a table laden with maps were the only furniture. A pair of racks held a variety of weapons and armor, and three open chests stood against one wall of the pavilion, filled with books. Just as Lucan expected, the captain valued his literature.
Malaric himself leaned against the table, watching Lucan.
The mercenary captain was a lean, fit man in his early thirties. He wore gleaming black boots, black pants, and a black leather vest over a spotless white shirt. His blond beard and mustache had been trimmed with razor precision, and a fine sword and dagger hung from his leather belt. The man looked like any one of the minor nobles infesting the city of Barellion. Yet he had the balance of a master swordsman, and his green eyes the cold glitter of a hardened killer.
And Lucan sensed the aura of dark power that hung about him. Not as strong as Lucan’s magic, but still potent enough.
“Lord Lucan,” said Malaric, executing a neat little bow. “You do me great honor. No son of the House of Mandragon has ever graced my humble tent.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” said Lucan. “My father is a tedious bore, and my brother a murderous thug.”
Malaric gave a polite laugh. “Does your lord father wish to hire my swords? My men are all capable veterans.”
“What you mean,” said Lucan, “is that your men are practiced killers, and not overburdened with scruples.”
Malaric gave a lazy shrug. “Twelve in one hand and a dozen in the other. War is coming, my lord Lucan. And wars boil down to killing, in the end.” He smiled. “My men and I are very good killers.”
“Not surprising,” said Lucan, “given that you are an assassin of the Skulls, sent here to kill Lady Molly Cravenlock.”
Malaric’s easy smile froze in place. Lucan watched him, intrigued. He wondered if Malaric would deny it. He wondered if Malaric would try to kill him. He watched the gears turning behind Malaric’s eyes.
At last the mercenary captain sighed and leaned against the table.
“What gave me away?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Lucan. “But I know all about you, Malaric of Barellion. I know you are the bastard son of the Prince of Barellion. I know you studied at the wizard’s brotherhood, only to have them sentence you to death when you practiced dark magic. I know you took refuge with the Skulls of Barellion, and have served as a wizard and an enforcer for them ever since. And the only reason for you to be here is to kill Molly Cravenlock, who turned her back on your brotherhood.”
Malaric frowned. “I see the reputation of the Dragon's Shadow is quite deserved. How did you know all this?”
“You knew Marstan, the necromancer?”
Malaric nodded.
Lucan smiled. “I killed him and claimed his powers for my own.”
That was mostly true, anyway.
Lucan watched Malaric mull this over.
“I assume,” said the mercenary captain at last, “that you are not telling me this for my personal edification. And that you have something in mind other than hiring me to fight against the barbarians.”
“Correct,” said Lucan. “I am going on an expedition.”
“To where, if I may ask?” said Malaric.
“To a ruin of Dracaryl, untouched since the old high lords destroyed themselves,” said Lucan. “The journey will be dangerous. Hence, I wish to hire capable assistance.”
“And why,” said Malaric, a glint in his eye, “do you wish to find this ruin of Old Dracaryl? Such places are dangerous. The high lords were not hospitable.”
“Within the ruin are some relics I require,” said Lucan. No need for Malaric to know what kind of relics.
Malaric smirked. “A treasure hunt, then.”
“You will be richly repaid,” said Lucan. “I do not lack for gold. And save for the relics, anything we find within the ruin is yours.”
Most likely, the only thing that Malaric and his men would find within Morvyrkrad was an agonizing death. But Lucan planned to rid the world of the Demonsouled, and Malaric and his men were expendable tools to reach that goal.
“No,” said Malaric.
Lucan blinked. He had expected some negotiation, but not so flat a refusal.
“Why not?” he said. “Are you so adverse to gold?”
“Gold is nice,” said Malaric. “But some things are better. My life, for one.”
“I came to hire you, not to kill you,” said Lucan.
“You might not kill me,” said Malaric, “but the Skulls certainly will. They frown on deserters. Which is why I am here to kill Molly Cravenlock.” He offered Lucan a thin smile. “And you, my lord Lucan, do not seem the sort of man to worry unduly about the welfare of his hirelings. In fact, I am quite sure you would kill us all if you thought it expedient.”
He was smarter than Lucan had expected.
But Lucan had something more enticing than gold to offer.
“I can pay you,” said Lu
can, “in more than gold.”
Malaric snorted. “In relics? Only a fool goes digging through the ruins of Old Dracaryl. However tantalizing their secrets, they’re best left alone.”
Lucan smiled. “Secrets? Is that how you wish to be paid?”
Malaric opened his mouth to speak…and then fell silent.
“I know what you really want,” said Lucan. “Secrets. The forbidden knowledge of the arcane, magical spells forgotten by any other living man. That’s why you studied dark magic until the wizards’ brotherhood declared you a renegade. That’s why you joined the Skulls – to learn the secret spells of their wizards. And that is what I can offer you.”
Malaric said nothing, but his eyes glinted with interest. No, it was more than mere interest – it was the lust for knowledge, for forbidden magical secrets.
“And I know secrets,” said Lucan. “Marstan studied under Simonian of Briault, once of the great necromancers of our age.” A false identity for the Old Demon, but Malaric didn't need to know that, either. “And Marstan spent decades delving into necromancy, plumbing ever deeper into its secrets. And all his skills and knowledge belong to me now.”
“Ah,” said Malaric. “So is that what you’re offering me? Secrets?”
“To teach you,” said Lucan. “I know spells you can find nowhere else. And I will be willing to teach you.”
Not enough to threaten Lucan, of course. Still, he doubted Malaric could muster the arcane power to threaten him. Not with the well of stolen Demonsouled power in Lucan’s mind.
“I shall require gold for my men,” said Malaric, “and a good deal of it. I am willing to be paid in spells of dark magic, but they are not.”
“Understandable,” said Lucan. “They shall be paid, generously.”
“And you will share your knowledge with me?” said Malaric. “Freely, and without compulsion?”
“I shall,” said Lucan.
If necessary, he could always kill Malaric later.
Malaric held out his right hand. “Then we have an accord.”
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 15
