Soul of Sorcery (Book 5)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Romaria stared at the empty spot where Swordgrim had stood. Mazael had been atop Night Sword Tower, and not even a child of the Old Demon could have survived an explosion like that.

  Then she saw the griffin descending towards the army, a leather-clad swordthain and a man in golden armor upon its back.

  Chapter 36 – The Lord of the Tervingi

  Mazael spent the rest of the day and the better part of the night in Hauberk’s saddle, driving the runedead from the field.

  With Lucan dead and the Banurdem destroyed, the undead lost the eerie, precise coordination that had almost defeated the Tervingi and the men of the Grim Marches. Yet the creatures still attacked with brutal ferocity, retaining the skill at arms they had possessed in life. Others fled across the plain, or back into the lake.

  It would take years to hunt them all down. Riothamus said the runedead would most likely lurk in ruins, lying in wait for any travelers. But Lucan’s terrible spell had touched the entire world. How many thousands of runedead had he raised? How many thousands had died in the chaos?

  At least Riothamus had managed to spread Lion’s fire to every blade in the world, if only temporarily.

  But by sunrise, the runedead had been driven away, and the streets of Sword Town were safe.

  The refugees started arriving, along with the requests for aid and assistance. Every village in the Grim Marches had a graveyard or a crypt below its church. Some of the villages had managed to fight off the runedead. In others, the villages had managed to escape, fleeing to the imagined safety of Swordgrim.

  And some villages were wiped from the face of the earth.

  Mazael worked through the day, commanding the lords as they raised new defenses around Sword Town, and overseeing the townsmen as they found places for the terrified peasants.

  At last Romaria led him to a bed in the Red Theobald's house, and he collapsed into a black and dreamless sleep.

  ###

  A week later the lords and knights of the Grim Marches and the headmen and holdmistresses and thains of the Tervingi nation met in council, gathering in the town’s domed church.

  With Swordgrim destroyed, it was the only structure large enough to hold so many lords, knights, and thains.

  Mazael walked to the stairs of the dais, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor. Men in armor filled the pews, knights in chain mail, lords in gleaming plate, Tervingi thains in ragged hauberks. The headmen and the nobles sat mingled together. All trace of the enmity between the folk of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi had vanished.

  Facing an army of animated corpses, Mazael supposed, would do that.

  “My lords,” said Mazael. Riothamus, Molly, and Romaria stood at his side. “We have faced the Malrags in battle, and the war between our two peoples, and the attack of the undead. Now the war against the runedead will continue.”

  Sir Tanam rose. “My scouts have been following the undead. They report that some of the runedead seem to have…awakened, gained minds of their own. Much like the balekhans among the Malrags. These awakened runedead have bands of undead at their command, and have made strongholds for themselves in ruins and other lonely places.”

  Lord Robert stood. “And we’ve heard word from the neighboring lands, from the Burning Plains and the High Plain and Knightcastle. The same thing has happened there. We have reports that renegade wizards are able to take command of the runedead and use them for nefarious purposes of their own.”

  Riothamus stepped forward. “But we will face no additional runedead. The spell Lucan created broke with his death. No further runedead will arise.”

  One of the Tervingi headmen, a yellow-bearded man named Arnulf, snorted. “Aye. That leaves only a few hundred thousand to smash.”

  Toric the skythain rose and stood beside Arnulf. “We must take action. The gods only know what the runedead will do if we leave them alone. Or some vile renegade like Lucan Mandragon will take command of them and raise another army.”

  “And we need to be on guard against the neighboring lords,” said Lord Jonaril. He did not stand, since he had taken a sword to the thigh during the battle. “We have been terribly weakened, even with our new Tervingi friends. The other lords will try to use the chaos seize our lands.”

  “We need a liege lord,” said Sir Tanam.

  “The House of Mandragon is now extinct,” said Lord Astor Hawking. He sighed and shook his head, his lean face pinched with pain. “Ragnachar murdered Lord Richard. Lucan slew Toraine, and Mazael slew Lucan. Where shall we find a new liege?”

  Mazael closed his eyes. He knew where this was going.

  “Perhaps we would be better without one,” said a holdmistress, a sour-faced woman named Ethringa. “Toraine became liege lord, and he almost led your folk to ruin. Perhaps it would be better to have the lords and thains govern our folk in council, as the Tervingi nation did of old.”

  Lord Robert shook his head. “That will not work, I fear. Your hroulds tried to govern themselves, and in the end Ragnachar almost led your nation to ruin.”

  "True," said Ethringa. "Too many cooks spoils the stew."

  “Nicely put. And we face many foes,” said Tanam. “We must unify, my lords and thains, and respond as one to any threats. If we do not, we shall be destroyed, either by the runedead, the Malrags, or the neighboring liege lords.”

  “An heir of the House of Mandragon,” said Lord Jonaril, “should become the liege lord of the Grim Marches.”

  “There are no Mandragons left,” said Lord Astor, “and Swordgrim is no more. How can the Lord of Swordgrim be the liege lord of the Grim Marches when Swordgrim is a pile of broken stone at the bottom of the Lake of Swords?”

  “Were Athanaric still alive,” said Arnulf, “I would suggest that he become lord of both our peoples. But our hroulds are slain. Perhaps the Guardian should oversee the Grim Marches.”

  “I refuse it,” said Riothamus. “The Guardian’s office is to protect the Tervingi nation from danger and stand vigilant against the powers of dark magic. Not to rule over the Tervingi.”

  “There is another answer, my lords,” said Tanam. “The lord of the House of Mandragon was not always the liege lord of the Grim Marches. Once the House of Cravenlock ruled the Grim Marches.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “I object. Because my ancestors once ruled the Grim Marches does not mean that I should do so now.”

  He didn’t want this. He had fought it at every turn. Lord Malden would have allied with him, he knew, to overthrow Lord Richard and claim the Grim Marches. But Mazael wanted the Grim Marches to have peace, and he didn’t want to rule over them. He always feared becoming a Demonsouled tyrant, a man like Amalric Galbraith or Ragnachar.

  But now, it seemed, that temptation would be thrust upon him.

  “I shall be blunt, Lord Mazael,” said Robert. “What your ancestors did is irrelevant. We need a liege lord, and you are the only man here we can all agree to support. You’ve been victorious in battle, again and again, and we need a commander who can lead us in war.”

  “And you will listen to the counsel of your vassals,” said Lord Astor, “unlike that fool Toraine.”

  “The Tervingi nation respects strength,” said Arnulf, “and generosity. You are victorious in battle, and open-handed to your followers. Just as a proper Tervingi hrould should be.”

  "More," said Ethringa, "again and again you have shown us mercy, when Toraine would have killed us all."

  “As Guardian of the Tervingi nation,” said Riothamus, gesturing with his staff, “you are free to ignore my counsel. But it is my counsel that the lords of the Grim Marches choose Lord Mazael as their new liege lord, and that the thains of the Tervingi nation choose him as their new hrould.”

  Mazael took a deep breath, intending to refuse. What would happen if he did refuse? Could the vassals unite behind another noble? Or would the Grim Marches devolve into a dozen squabbling principalities? Would the Tervingi remain at peace, or would they go to war against the bickering
lords? And what if a renegade like Malavost or an ambitious San-keth priest took command of the runedead?

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Very well,” said Mazael. “If this is the decision of the lords and thains of the Grim Marches, then I have no choice but to accept.”

  Robert walked to the dais, drew his sword, and went to one knee, laying the blade across his leg.

  “I, Robert of the House of Highgate, Lord of Castle Highgate, do swear fealty and loyalty to you, Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock…”

  After he finished Arnulf came and went to one knee before Mazael.

  “I, Arnulf son of Kaerwulf, do swear as a headman and a swordthain in the service of the hrould Mazael of the hold of Castle Cravenlock…”

  And one by one the lords and knights and headmen and holdmistresses of the Grim Marches strode before Mazael and pledged their loyalty, fealty, and obedience. He knew some of the lords would have preferred Toraine, and would turn on him given the chance. And that many of the thains had eagerly followed Ragnachar to war, and would rise again if given the chance.

  But, Mazael vowed, he would do his utmost to keep them from having that chance.

  ###

  “Do you think it will work out?” said Molly.

  Riothamus shrugged. They stood upon the walls of Sword Town, the sunset giving the Lake of Swords the appearance of a sheet of burning steel. Workmen swarmed over the walls, trying to repair the damage from the battle, but for now Riothamus and Molly were alone.

  “For the moment,” said Riothamus. “There are still too many runedead for the lords and the Tervingi to squabble among themselves. It will take some time to defeat them. After that…we will see, I suppose. No one can see the future.”

  She laughed. “Not even the mighty Guardian?”

  “No,” said Riothamus. “Not even the Guardian.” The Sight came upon him in flashes now, showing visions of possible futures. In some the Malrags came down from the mountains once more. In others he saw a poisoned arrow lying in a pool of blood. In still others he glimpsed Mazael leading an army to the west.

  But in every potential future he saw the grinning shadow of the Urdmoloch, laughing and waiting.

  Mazael held the destiny of the Tervingi in his hands…and he would face the Urdmoloch, once day.

  “I don’t know what will happen,” said Riothamus.

  Molly took his hand. “No one does.”

  “I suppose not,” said Riothamus. “We can only do the best we can in the present.”

  She smiled. “That’s wise.”

  "You're absolutely right," said Riothamus, bracing himself.

  Her smiled widened. "I'm glad you agree with me."

  Riothamus took a deep breath. “Marry me.”

  Molly blinked and stared at him, and Riothamus suddenly felt like a complete fool.

  “Unless it’s a bad idea,” he said, aware that he was babbling and could not stop. “You will be the liege lady of the Grim Marches one day, and perhaps…”

  “Oh, for the gods’ sake,” said Molly. “Of course I will marry you.”

  She kissed him, and for a moment Riothamus forgot the runedead.

  ###

  “I wonder if the Old Demon was wrong,” said Mazael.

  He sat atop Hauberk, outside the walls of Sword Town. Nearby the host of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi nation gathered for battle. Mazael had decided to split his men into groups, and then strike hard and fast, taking the main holds of the runedead. The wizards had developed a burning oil to rub on sword blades, an oil that produced a flame harmless to living flesh but dangerous to the runedead.

  With luck, they could secure the Grim Marches from the runedead by autumn.

  “Of course he lied,” said Romaria, sitting on her own horse. “That’s what he does.”

  Mazael shook his head. “Not that he lied, but that he was wrong. He seemed so sure that I was about to die.” He sighed. “He must have known what Lucan intended. Maybe even aided him secretly.”

  “Why would the Old Demon want to kill all the Demonsouled?” said Romaria.

  Why indeed? The Old Demon wanted to devour the strength of the Demonsouled for his own. He could hardly do that if Lucan killed them all.

  Couldn’t he?

  A memory of the strange black temple and the column of bloody fire flashed through Mazael’s mind.

  “Maybe the Old Demon intended Lucan to kill you,” said Romaria, “but you stopped him. Lucan did a lot of damage…but you stopped him, in the end.”

  “My fault,” said Mazael. “I should have seen the treachery coming. You and Molly both warned me.”

  “You trusted him,” said Romaria. “And it is always hard to believe ill of a friend.”

  Mazael gave a short, sharp nod. He had failed with Lucan. But he would not fail again, he vowed. He would make the Grim Marches safe and secure, and he would maintain the peace between the lords and the Tervingi.

  And if the Old Demon returned…Mazael would deal with him then.

  “Come, my lord Mazael,” said Romaria, adjusting her reins. “Your host awaits.”

  Mazael sighed. “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”

  He snapped his reins, and he and Romaria rode to join the men.

  Epilogue

  Night fell, and the Old Demon walked along the shore of the Lake of Swords.

  He gazed at the waters where Swordgrim had once stood. No trace of the mighty castle remained, not even a hint. The Old Demon stared at the waters for a long time, the waves splashing against the rocky shore.

  “Well,” he said at last. “I certainly did not intend for that to happen.”

  He had been there when the high lords of Old Dracaryl had raised Night Sword Tower, when the Grim Marches had been the outer march of their empire. And he had been there when Randur Maendrag had lost control the Great Rising and destroyed Dracaryl. It was all gone, now. Dracaryl was dust, and Swordgrim broken rubble below the waters.

  But the Old Demon was still here. He had outlived them all.

  He grinned.

  He would outlive the world itself.

  “I did not intend for that to happen,” said the Old Demon, “but I told Lucan the best games are the ones where you win, no matter the outcome.”

  He turned, walking west along the shore. Had anyone observed him, they would have only seen an old man in a black cloak, rambling along the lake. Which, he supposed, was an accurate observation. He was millennia old. And for all that time, all those long centuries, he had been working toward his goal.

  It was almost within reach, now.

  Just a few more things to do.

  One of which lay on the shore just a few yards ahead.

  The Old Demon stopped and gazed at the corpse.

  Lucan Mandragon lay motionless upon the stony shore, the Banurdem resting upon his brow, his hands still clutching the Glamdaigyr. The sword’s sigils flared to life as he approached, and the Old Demon felt the sword’s malevolent joy. And why not? He was the sword’s master. True, Randur had forged it, believing he had done so with knowledge stolen from the Old Demon.

  Knowledge that the Old Demon had wished him to steal.

  The Old Demon’s grin widened.

  The game was rigged, and he would win no matter the outcome.

  “Soon,” he told the sword, “very soon, we will be reunited, you and I.”

  He looked at Lucan’s corpse, saw the spells still lingering upon the dead flesh.

  And within it.

  “You’re about to learn,” said the Old Demon, “that you should be careful from whom you steal power. Which I think you would have realized by now.”

  He turned his face to the west and walked into the shadows, leaving Lucan behind.

  How strange that his most effective tool would not be Demonsouled at all.

  ###

  Lucan Mandragon’s eyes shot open.

  He felt no pain. That was certainly peculiar. The last thing he remembe
red was the blue flash as Lion plunged into his heart, the grinding roar as Night Sword Tower collapsed around him...

  As Tymaen screamed.

  That brought pain.

  Lucan sat up with a choked scream, his fingers gripping the Glamdaigyr’s hilt like curled claws.

  Tymaen was dead. He had failed her, failed the world. He had been so close to destroying the Demonsouled. And then Mazael had come, Mazael and his damned brother, and they had ruined everything.

  And Tymaen was lost to him.

  Lucan doubled over, weeping. He sat like that for a long time, curled over the Glamdaigyr.

  Bit by bit, a few details penetrated his grief-choked mind.

  The first was that no tears fell from his eyes.

  The second was that he felt no physical pain, none at all.

  The third was that he should be dead. Lion had pierced his heart, and the tower had collapsed around him. How was he even still alive?

  He noticed that he was not breathing, that his heart was not beating.

  Lucan surged to his feet in a panic, moving with a speed and grace he had never possessed in life.

  He was dead. Dead.

  Or undead, rather.

  Randur Maendrag, his distant ancestor. Lucan had stolen his power, drained it through the Glamdaigyr.

  Randur had been a revenant.

  And Lucan had stolen his power…including, it seemed, the spells that had raised Randur’s corpse as a revenant.

  And after Lucan had died, those same spells turned him into a revenant.

  He had become a monster. Lucan stared at the Glamdaigyr, wondering if he should fall upon it and destroy himself. Tymaen had been right. He had gone too far, caused too much destruction, and all of it for nothing.

  He had gotten Tymaen killed.

  His cold hands trembled.

  The Demonsouled had killed Tymaen. If Mazael had not intervened, Tymaen would still live. The Demonsouled would have been destroyed, and Tymaen would have seen the new world rise form the ashes. Lucan had made mistakes, but if not for the Demonsouled, Tymaen would yet live.