“Can we stand and fight here?” said Lord Astor. “The Tervingi have no horsemen, and one knight is worth seven footmen. If we strike them hard, perhaps we can break their lines before they overwhelm us.”
Tanam shook his head. “We have no means of dealing with their war mammoths.”
“Lady Romaria?” said Lord Astor.
Romaria shook her head, her braid sliding over her leather armor. “There wasn’t time to prepare any arrows with hound urine, and we don’t have enough militia archers with us. And Ragnachar knows how we defeated him last time. He will have taken precautions.”
“I am the Lord of Swordgrim and the liege lord of the Grim Marches,” said Toraine. “I will not flee before a horde of barbarian rabble!”
“Bluntly, my lord Toraine,” said Tanam, “if we stand and fight, we will be destroyed.”
“Especially,” said Mazael, “if you insist on slaughtering the Tervingi villagers.”
Tanam gave Toraine a hard look.
“This isn’t finished,” said Toraine. “Your treason will be dealt with, Lord Mazael, once we crush Ragnachar.”
“Yes,” said Mazael, lowering Lion. “It will.”
“For the gods’ sake,” said Tanam. “If you are going to kill each other, my lords, please wait until we are behind the walls of Swordgrim.”
“Sound advice,” said Mazael.
“We return to Swordgrim,” said Toraine, turning his horse around. He glared at his standardbearer. “Sound the withdrawal.”
Trumpet blasts rang out, and the host turned itself to the west, making for Swordgrim.
Already Mazael saw the dark specks of Tervingi skythains and their griffins circling overhead.
###
Riothamus looked up from the staff and blinked.
Molly had stopped her horse. He tugged at his reins and brought his mount to a stop. Gods, but he preferred his own feet to a horse.
“How many?” said Molly.
“The scouts say seven hundred,” said Sir Hagen, gazing over the plains to the north. “No mammoths, though.”
“They’ll already know that we are here,” said Riothamus.
“Aye, we know,” said Hagen, glancing up. “They may not have mammoths, but they do have griffins.” He looked at Molly. “Shall we deal with them as before?”
They had encountered two more warbands during their march north. The first one had surrendered after a short but sharp fight, and Riothamus had convinced them to join Molly’s growing force. The second had joined without a fight, and now Molly and Sir Hagen had a force of fifteen hundred men and seven mammoths under their command.
“Yes,” said Molly.
“Wait,” said Riothamus. “Let me speak with them.”
Molly frowned. “They might attack you on sight, if they’re Ragnachar’s men.”
“They might,” said Riothamus, “and I can defend myself. But if they’re Athanaric’s men, they’ll join us without a fight.”
Molly stared at him, her brown hair stirring in the breeze, and finally gave a sharp nod. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I will return,” said Riothamus.
She caught his gaze, and mouthed the words “I love you.”
Riothamus whispered it back, and then kicked his horse to a trot.
The skythains followed him overhead as he rode north.
A few minutes later the Tervingi warband came into sight. Seven hundred spearthains and swordthains, a dozen griffins circling overhead. A grim-faced man in chain mail marched at their head, his face half-hidden behind a ragged yellow beard. The handle of a massive two-handed axe rose over his right shoulder.
Riothamus grinned in relief.
“Arnulf son of Kaerwulf!” he called, reining up.
“Witcher,” said Arnulf, grim and unflappable as always. “So you survived the butchery at Stone Tower.”
“Aye,” said Riothamus, lifting the staff. “But the Guardian did not.”
“A grievous loss,” said Arnulf. “What the devil happened?”
“Ragnachar slew Athanaric and Lord Richard,” said Riothamus. “Then he cast the blame upon Lord Richard.”
Arnulf spat. “I knew it! Ragnachar’s men came to my hold, calling me to war. I told them to go to hell. I figured Ragnachar was behind this black treachery. Toric’s with me,” he pointed at the sky, “and all the loyal men I could find. We’re headed south to Castle Cravenlock to find Lord Mazael. He’ll know what to do.”
“You’re going to the wrong way,” said Riothamus. “Mazael is at Swordgrim.”
“So what should we do instead, Guardian?” said Arnulf.
“Come with me,” said Riothamus. “Lord Mazael’s daughter marches north with three hundred of her father’s men and twelve hundred of our people. We’ll find Lord Mazael, and together we’ll bring justice to Ragnachar.”
Arnulf nodded and shouted commands to his men.
Riothamus gazed at the staff resting across his saddle.
Arnulf had called him the Guardian.
But he wasn’t. Not yet. Not before he faced himself. But he would have to do it soon. When they faced Ragnachar, he needed the full power and authority of the Guardian’s office and staff.
He would face himself and claim the Guardian’s staff.
Or die.
Riothamus turned and led Arnulf’s men to Molly’s host.
Chapter 30 – The Pact
Lucan stepped onto the shore of the Lake of Swords.
The rocky beach gritted beneath his boots, the tip of the Wraithaldr digging furrows in the pebbles. The Lake of Swords stretched to the north like a vast sheet of rippling steel. To the west, the walls of Swordgrim rose from their peninsula, their reflection a wavering image in the water. Night Sword Tower thrust from the castle’s heart, a black shadow against the cloudy blue sky.
Lucan stared at the castle. He had left Swordgrim years ago, marching with his father to deal with Lord Mitor Cravenlock’s rebellion, and had not set foot in Swordgrim since. But it seemed right that he had come here again, at the end.
For within Swordgrim, he would work the Great Rising and rid the world of the Demonsouled scourge.
He turned to the towering wall of gray mist behind him, to the road winding through the leafless trees of the spirit world. Tymaen stepped through the gate, shivering, and Malaric followed. The surviving mercenaries came through, smiles of relief spreading over their faces as they saw the sun once more.
“I expect,” said Malaric, “to be paid for the horses I was forced to leave behind in Red Valley. I thought we would return to claim them.”
Lucan shrugged, irritated at the triviality. “Would you rather have walked back to Red Valley?”
“Of course not.” Malaric grinned. “But I am paid what I am owed, my lord Lucan.”
Lucan looked Malaric in the eye. “I suspect you received more payment than you expected for this job. That dusty skull you took from Arylkrad is worth more than its weight in gold.”
Malaric scowled. So Lucan’s suspicions had indeed been correct. But that was a problem for another day. Or an opportunity, really. Malaric had proven himself a useful tool.
And the skull of Corvad, a grandson of the Old Demon, would make him even more useful.
“Come,” said Lucan, climbing up the beach. “We had best locate my father.”
Tymaen took his free hand, and he kept walking. The sooner Lucan found Lord Richard Mandragon, the better. It would be easy enough to convince Richard to do what was necessary. From there it was a short step to casting the Great Rising.
Lucan reached the beginning of the plains and stopped in shock.
Malaric came to his side and grunted.
“I think,” he said, “that finding your father might prove more difficult than expected.”
An army filled the plain between the walls of Swordgrim and Sword Town. Lucan saw the banners of his father’s principal vassals. Armsmen marched in haste, making for the gates of Swordgrim.
&
nbsp; The army was withdrawing behind the walls of the castle.
Lucan blinked in astonishment. He had anticipated that the war with the Tervingi would last for some time. But he had never expected that Lord Richard Mandragon would have the worst of the fighting. The Dragonslayer never lost, and always worked his will.
It was why Lucan was a wizard and not a knight.
“It seems the Tervingi were more successful than I thought,” said Lucan.
“Aye,” said Malaric, scratching at his beard. Somehow he had kept the damned thing trimmed during the long journey. “It looks like your father's army is bracing for a siege. I would say the main Tervingi host is on its way, and he hopes to get into the castle first.”
“A poor choice, then,” said Lucan. He counted at least six thousand men on the plain, maybe more. That many could fit in Swordgrim, if barely, but such a host would eat through the castle’s larders in a matter of days. The Tervingi would need only sit outside the gates and wait for the defenders to starve. “What is my father thinking?”
“Nothing, most likely,” said Malaric. “I think he’s dead.”
Lucan scowled. “What? Why?”
“That fellow in the black armor, under the Mandragon banner,” said Malaric. “That’s your brother, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Lucan with a frown. Toraine was Lord of Hanging Tower, with a significant following of his own, but he shouldn’t be commanding the most powerful lords of the Grim Marches. Unless…
Unless Lord Richard was dead, and Toraine was now the Lord of Swordgrim and the liege lord of the Grim Marches.
“Then my father must be dead,” said Lucan.
Tymaen squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”
Lucan found that he was not.
His father had seemed immortal and invincible. That he had died seemed preposterous. Yet Lucan found not a hint of regret or grief in his heart. His father had made him into what he was. He had allowed Toraine to torment him for years, in hopes of making him stronger.
Lucan’s only regret was that he didn’t have the chance of killing Richard Mandragon himself.
He gazed at Swordgrim's barbican. It was almost a small castle in itself, and filled the entire narrow neck of land that connected Swordgrim to the shore. He saw Toraine ride through the gate, surrounded by his knights. A slow smile spread across Lucan's face. Richard Mandragon was dead, and Toraine was now the liege lord of the Grim Marches.
That would make Lucan’s task all the easier.
“Malaric,” he said. “I am going to speak with my brother. Stay here until I return.”
“Lucan,” said Tymaen, her voice full of fear. “I see Robert’s banner in the host, not far from Lord Mazael’s.” Lucan glimpsed the sigil of the House of Highgate, near Mazael’s silver swords on a black background. “What if he finds me? What if he tries to take me back? He might try to kill me, for abandoning him.”
“Guard Lady Tymaen with your life,” said Lucan. “You know what I will do to you if harm befalls her.”
Malaric grinned. “You might find it…a touch harder to kill me now, my lord.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Lucan. “Think on this Malaric. You might be harder to kill…but you can now endure torments that would kill a normal man. You can endure those torments for months.”
That wiped the grin from his face. “And what should I do if one of those lords tries to impress us into service? They look desperate.”
“Tell them that Lord Toraine hired you for a special task,” said Lucan. Which would be true in another hour or so. “And if anyone pushes you too far, kill them. The lords of the Grim Marches will have bigger problems on their hands in another day or two. But if you stay here, they should leave you alone. They have larger worries just now.” He turned to Tymaen. “And if Lord Robert gives you any trouble, I will kill him.”
She managed a tremulous smile. “Thank you.”
Lucan kissed her and walked up the beach, the Wraithaldr scraping against the stones.
###
Lucan stood in the corner of Toraine’s personal armory, waiting.
He knew a spell to allow him to move unseen and ignored through a crowd, and with the Wraithaldr and his well of Demonsouled power it had been trivially easy to work the spell and move unnoticed through the men crowding Swordgrim. Now he stood beneath the swords lining the walls of Toraine’s armory. His brother loved weapons, and kept trophies from his victories. A goodly quantity of Malrag arms and armor hung from the walls. The skull of the dragon Toraine had slain leered from the far end of the room, shadows filling its empty eyes and jaws.
The door burst open, and Toraine stalked inside, still wearing his armor of black dragon’s scales. Lucan smiled to himself. He knew his older brother well, and Toraine always came here when agitated.
Given that the Tervingi were about to fall upon Swordgrim, he had every right to be agitated.
Toraine stalked back and forth, muttering curses to himself. Lucan gestured, whispering a simple spell, and sealed the door.
He didn’t want to be interrupted.
“Toraine,” he said.
Toraine whirled, and Lucan enjoyed watching the sheer astonishment on his brother’s face. Then Toraine snarled, yanked his sword from its scabbard, and charged at Lucan.
Lucan raised the Wraithaldr, and the staff blazed with green light.
Toraine came to a sudden halt.
“I wouldn’t come any closer,” said Lucan, voice quiet.
Toraine sneered and did not lower his sword. “You’re close enough that I can kill you before you work any of your damned spells.”
“True,” said Lucan, “but I came to talk, not to fight.”
“To talk?” said Toraine, incredulous. “What do we possibly have to talk about? Have you come to weep over our father’s death? You’re more likely to celebrate the old tyrant’s demise. Or have you come to boast over your exploits with Lady Tymaen?” Toraine grinned, the light from the Wraithaldr making his face look ghastly. “She’s pretty enough, I’ll grant, but not pretty enough to bother kidnapping. And I’d never defile myself by touching Lord Robert’s seconds.”
“Do not speak ill of Tymaen,” said Lucan, pointing the Wraithaldr at Toraine.
Toraine laughed. “You kidnapped her and took her to your bed. A little late to defend her honor, isn’t it? Though I can see why you would be touchy about it, given that you could only get a woman into your bed by kidnapping her…”
“Enough!” snarled Lucan, gathering power. His magic would make sure Toraine took days to die, and Lucan would repay him a thousand times over for every insult, every slight, every act of petty cruelty…
He forced himself to calm down. Much as he wanted to kill Toraine, much as Toraine deserved to die in agony, Lucan needed him.
For a little while.
“I suspect,” Lucan said, voice cool, “that you’re talking about Tymaen to distract yourself from your own problems.”
Toraine laughed. “I have no problems, brother. Father is dead, and I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches. You ought to kneel, in fact.”
“No problems?” said Lucan. “The Tervingi are on the rampage, and a large host is headed here under the command of…Ragnachar, is that it?” He had heard the name mentioned as he walked unseen among the armsmen. “Considering you threatened to kill him, I doubt he is inclined to show mercy.”
“I will defeat him,” said Toraine.
“With only seven thousand men?” said Lucan. “And not all of those men are loyal to you, I suspect. Lord Mazael, for instance.”
Toraine said nothing, but Lucan saw the wrath in his older brother’s eyes.
“They hate you,” said Lucan. “All of your vassals. They fear you, but they absolutely detest you. So the minute the fear goes away…if Ragnachar defeats you, for instance…then they’ll turn on you. You shall have one of two fates. Either Ragnachar defeats you and sticks your head on a pike, or Mazael Cravenlock overthrows you and sticks your head on
a pike. A dire fate, either way. And certainly the waste of a good pike.”
“Is that why you’ve come?” said Toraine. “To gloat? Either try to kill me or get out of my way. I have a defense to prepare.”
“I have come neither to gloat nor to kill you,” said Lucan, “but to help you.”
Toraine scoffed. “And to make bad jokes, apparently.”
“I am serious,” said Lucan. “I will help you defeat both Mazael and Ragnachar.”
“Why?” said Toraine. “I have no children. If you slay me, you will be the Lord of Swordgrim and the liege lord of the Grim Marches.”
Lucan laughed. “Why would I want them? I have greater ambitions than to rule over this tottering pile of stones and the collection of brigands that make up your vassals. Besides, if I was going to kill you, I would have done so already.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” said Toraine. “Why help me?”
“You, brother, are a cruel and stupid fool,” said Lucan. Toraine’s eyes narrowed. “You’re good with a sword, and you’re good at killing things, but that’s it. Our father was a tyrant, but he kept the Grim Marches peaceful for twenty years. You’ve been liege lord a week, and already your vassals are plotting to kill you. If you somehow survive this, the Grim Marches will split apart in civil war, and the other liege lords will see your weakness and tear you to shreds.” Lucan sighed. “But you are still better than Mazael Cravenlock. He, and all his kind, are a blight upon the world, and I will stop them.”
“Ah.” Understanding flooded over Toraine’s face. “So you have a grudge against Mazael. That, I understand.”
“I suppose it would be the only thing someone like you is capable of understanding,” said Lucan.
Toraine laughed. “You were ever the soft-hearted fool. There is only power, and those who wield it. And between those with power there can be no love, no affection…only alliances of convenience. Even your pet Tymaen is drawn to power. If you were a pathetic weakling instead of a wizard of might, do you still think she would share your bed so eagerly?”
“Enough,” said Lucan. “Do you wish my help, or shall I leave you to your fate?”
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 36
