Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (11 page)

The answer came to Molly.

Malaric would have traveled outside the walls, away from the town’s only gate.

She walked the shadows to the town’s eastern rampart, scanning the empty plains surrounding the town. 

There was no trace of either man.

Then she saw a flare of green fire below the wall.

The same sort of necromantic fire Malaric liked to conjure around his sword. 

###

Pain exploded through Mazael, filling his head and neck, and he ripped free from Malaric’s dagger, blood pouring down his armor. Already he felt his Demonsouled power closing the wound. But the ghastly poison roared through his veins, filling him with agony. 

Malaric lashed out with his sword, the blade plunging deep into Mazael’s left shoulder. His arm went numb, his shield falling, and Malaric danced around Mazael’s sluggish blow from Lion. 

Malaric’s next swing slammed into Mazael’s belly. The dragon scales turned aside the blow, but the chill of the green flame poured into him, and his dizziness grew worse.

He lost his balance, fell to one knee. 

###

Riothamus worked over the wounded, trying to ignore the gnawing fear. Molly had gone after Malaric…and Malaric had almost bested her the last time. If not for Riothamus’s intervention, the renegade assassin would have killed her. 

And a man like Malaric would not have attacked Mazael Cravenlock unless he was absolutely certain of success.

Romaria paced back and forth across the dais, giving orders to any thains or militia sergeants that approached. The chaos in the square was over, and all that was left was to treat the wounded and bury the dead.

Darkness flickered next to Romaria, and Molly appeared.

“Outside the eastern wall,” she said. “He’s fighting Malaric. Hurry!”

She vanished again. 

Romaria jumped from the dais.

And as she landed, she changed. 

One moment she wore the form of a human woman. The next she had became a massive black wolf, with gleaming white fangs, bristling black fur, and blazing blue eyes. The wolf raced across the square, townsmen and thains falling over each other to get out of her way, and shot for the eastern wall. 

Riothamus could neither turn into a wolf nor stride through the shadows.

But he could run, and he sprinted after Romaria.

###

Malaric could not believe it had been this easy. 

Mazael Cravenlock slumped on one knee, leaning on his blazing sword like a cane, sweat pouring down his face. One good blow would finish him off. Skalatan’s poison was every bit as potent as the archpriest had promised. 

“Do you like it?” said Malaric. “The venom of a San-keth archpriest, the most potent poison ever brewed. It would have killed any other man by now. Though I suppose the death of a son of the Old Demon should be a bit more…difficult than that of other men.” 

Mazael spat out a mouthful of blood. “You run errands for the serpents now? You’ve turned proselyte?”

“Hardly,” said Malaric. “An alliance of convenience, that is all. And once you are dead, an alliance that becomes…less convenient. Though to my advantage.”

He glimpsed a flicker of movement atop the town’s wall and looked to the side. No one was there. Still, best to get on with it. Help might arrive at any moment, and Malaric had a throne to claim and a princedom to conquer.

“I wonder,” said Malaric, “if anyone will ever know that I killed the great Mazael Cravenlock.” He shrugged. “No matter. Work well done is its own reward, no?”

He drew the final poisoned dagger in his free hand and strode towards Mazael. 

###

Mazael watched Malaric approach, his death in the assassin’s left hand. 

His certain death. 

He had endured two wounds from those poisoned daggers, and he knew he could not survive a third. That poison, if it was indeed the poison of a San-keth archpriest, was the most deadly Mazael had ever suffered. He half-suspected that he was going to die anyway, that the poison already in his blood would overwhelm him. 

But he refused to yield.

Even if he no longer had the strength left to fight.

But there was only one place left from which to draw strength. 

He had no other choice. Malaric was going to kill him, and the gods only knew what the renegade would do next. Mazael reached into himself, into the Demonsouled rage that filled his mind and heart. The dark fire rose at his call, pouring past the barriers of restraint he had built for all these years. 

The pain didn’t vanish…but it suddenly seemed less significant. 

Molten rage drowned Mazael’s mind.

He surged to his feet with a roar and charged Malaric. The assassin got his sword up in surprise, and blocked Mazael’s first blow, his second, his third. But Mazael was not aiming for Malaric’s chest or head. He had seen the leather bag dangling at the assassin’s hip, the way his hand strayed to it. The contents of that bag were precious to Malaric, and its loss would cause him pain. 

And Mazael wanted to cause Malaric agony.

He slashed down, stepping past Malaric’s guard, Lion’s blazing blade reaching for the leather bag. Malaric jerked to the side, and Lion cut open the bag. Inside Mazael saw yellowing bone and symbols of crimson fire.

“No!” shouted Malaric, his face white with fear, and he disappeared into the shadows, reappearing twenty yards away. Mazael stalked after him, intending to smash him to pieces…

Then his legs buckled, and Mazael collapsed to his knees, shaking.

Even his Demonsouled blood could not exceed the limits of his body…and the poison had just reached them. 

###

Malaric chastised himself. 

A child of the Old Demon was not a foe to take lightly, and Malaric had almost gotten himself gutted.

Well, it was not a mistake he would make twice. 

He strode towards Mazael, the last poisoned dagger in hand.

An instant later pain exploded through his back and side, and Malaric screamed. He drew on the skull’s dark power, filling himself with strength, and surged forward, ripping himself free of a slender sword and a dark dagger.

He turned as the stolen Demonsouled power healed his wounds, and saw a slender woman standing behind him, weapons ready.

Molly Cravenlock. 

“You’re like a drowned rat, Malaric,” said Molly. “You just won’t die. You should have stayed in the shadows.” 

“Don’t lecture me,” hissed Malaric, “about shadows.” 

From the corner of his eye he saw more movement atop the town’s walls. Allies, come to Mazael’s aid.

Malaric was out of time. 

Molly charged him, and Malaric whispered a spell, summoning both the skull’s power and his own magic. Invisible force exploded from him in all directions, slamming both Mazael and Molly to the ground. 

Malaric leapt into the shadows and reappeared over Mazael, the poisoned dagger raised high. He brought the weapon down…

A dark blur slammed into him, throwing him to the ground. A huge black wolf loomed over him, blue eyes ablaze with rage, fangs yawning to rip his throat open.

Malaric slammed the poisoned dagger into the wolf’s chest.

The beast flailed and fell off him, thrashing and kicking as the poison sank into its veins.

Malaric scrambled to his feet and felt a surge of magic. He saw a Tervingi man standing atop the ramparts, a staff in hand, golden fire crackling around his fingertips.

The Guardian. 

The Tervingi wizard might not have figured out what Malaric had done to Corvad’s skull, but the barbarian had the power to destroy Malaric nonetheless. 

Malaric shot a look at Mazael. The Lord of Castle Cravenlock lay motionless. Dead? Probably. The man had taken enough venom to kill an entire herd of Tervingi war mammoths. Demonsouled or not, if he was not already dead, he would be in a few moments. 

Molly climbed to her feet, the Guardian leveled his staff, and Malaric fled into the shadows.

###

Mazael levered himself on one elbow. 

He saw the black wolf shift back into Romaria, saw her lie motionless upon the trampled grass.

The front of her leather jerkin was wet with blood, steaming and bubbling with Malaric’s damned poison.

No. 

He had seen her die once before…and now he was seeing it again.

Mazael had to help her. He tried to rise, but his strength failed, and blackness swallowed him.

###

Ten miles later, chest heaving from exertion, Malaric at last dared to look over his shoulder.

No signs of pursuit. He saw nothing but the empty plains in all directions. A few farms dotted the landscape here and there, along with the occasional village, but they presented no trouble. Most likely the peasants hadn’t seen him, and if they had, they would not be able to tell Molly and the Guardian where he had gone.

He had gotten away.

Malaric laughed, wiping sweat from his brow. He supposed Molly would be the Lady of Castle Cravenlock now. Idly he wondered if she could hold Mazael’s followers and the Tervingi together, or if they would turn on each other in brutal civil war.

As entertaining as it would be to watch Molly fail, it was not his problem. 

Barellion was his to claim. 

But first, he had to collect a debt from Skalatan.

Malaric lifted his arm, drawing on the magic of the bracer. A sheet of mist sprang up from the ground, widening into a mistgate back to the woods in Knightcastle where Skalatan waited.

Malaric strode through the gate, closing it behind him, and left the Grim Marches behind.

Chapter 11 – Before the Storm

Hugh Chalsain had never before seen so many terrified, hungry people in once place.

They traveled south in a long line, filling the road and spilling into the surrounding fields. Men driving carts laden with their worldly possessions, their worried wives walking at their sides. Women trudging along the road, carrying babies and clutching the hands of their children. Entire families of three or four generations, abandoning their villages to flee for the safety of the Prince’s city.

Fleeing from the all-conquering Aegonar. 

“There are so many of them,” muttered Montigard from his place at Hugh’s side. 

Maurus threw the knight a sour look. “Can you really blame them?”

Hugh could not.

Especially since he knew what the Aegonar did to those who resisted. 

“Come,” said Hugh, turning his horse around. “We need to be seen.”

Maurus snorted. “Do you really think we can protect them, sir knight?”

Hugh glared at the wizard. “Perhaps not. But we shall try. And some among the peasants would try to take advantage of this misfortune. Best to discourage them before make trouble.”

Maurus grunted, but did not argue. He would do what Hugh said. They all would, even the petty, proud lords like Alberon Stormsea. Hugh was only a knight, the youngest son of the Prince of Barellion…but there was no one else to take command.

So he had taken command. 

He rode along the line of peasants. From time to time he stopped and spoke to the villagers, listening to their stories. They spoke of longships with crimson sails landing and disgorging hordes of screaming warriors in scale mail. Others described the Aegonar wizards, men who apparently called themselves the "seidjar" and served as priests of the serpent god. 

“They demanded that the bailiff kiss the serpent,” said an old man, “and when he didn’t, they cut off his head.” 

Hugh bade them to keep walking, to look after their sick and wounded. Barellion was only a few more days to the south, and once they reached the Prince’s walls, they would be safe.

Empty words, but all he could offer.

At last Hugh reached the end of the column, and heard a familiar querulous voice raised in outrage.

He sighed. 

“This is an egregious slight,” said Lord Alberon Stormsea. Hugh spotted the old lord sitting atop a horse. His bald head, prominent nose, and fur-lined collar made him look a bit like a vulture perched atop a saddle. “I am the Lord of Castle Stormsea, and I should ride in the vanguard! It is my militiamen that patrol these…these rabble, after all.”

“The wounded need to go in the van, Father,” said Adelaide, riding at her father’s side. She wore a plain gown and a heavy cloak against the chill, her brown hair pulled into a tail. “The Aegonar kill any wounded they find.”

Lord Alberon snorted. “If Prince Everard’s brat thinks I will sacrifice my own armsmen for some flea-ridden peasants, then…”

He trailed off as Hugh and his companions approached.

“Sir Hugh,” said Alberon, “I…”

“Sorry to interrupt, my lord Alberon,” said Hugh. “I need to speak with your daughter for a moment. A trivial matter, and not worthy of my lord’s valuable time.”

Alberon inclined his head in a passable imitation of a regal nod. “You have my leave, sir knight.”

Adelaide smiled and steered her mare to join Hugh. His companions fell back, giving them a modicum of privacy. 

“I see Lord Alberon,” said Hugh, “has handled our current travails with all his customary grace and dignity.” 

“Be gentle,” said Adelaide. “He is an old man who has lost his home.” She looked over the column and sighed. “As so many have.” 

“How do we fare for food?” said Hugh.

Just as Hugh had taken command of the knights and petty lords fleeing the Aegonar, so had Adelaide organized the column of terrified refugees. Many of them knew her and trusted her from the Great Rising, and so listened to her.

And there was no one else to do it.

“Not well,” said Adelaide. “We have enough food to reach Barellion without starving, but little more.”

Hugh gave a sharp nod. “Then we shall have to travel as quickly as we can.”

“Hugh,” said Adelaide. “There is another danger.” 

"Beyond the obvious?" said Hugh.

"Yes," said Adelaide, taking a deep breath. "The peasants might turn on us. And some of the nobles, too."

Hugh shrugged. "I expected something like that. In times of war, the peasants always blame their lords." He scowled. "Perhaps they were right. If my father's men had not been so dispersed to fight the runedead..." 

"That's not what I meant," said Adelaide. "They might side with the Aegonar."

The thought was so bizarre that it took him several moments to consider it.

"Why?" he said at last. "You know what the Aegonar do to the villages they conquer. All the men are put to the sword, and their heads heaped in a pyramid outside the village. The women are made slaves, concubines if they're fertile, kitchen drudges and domestic slaves otherwise. Anyone too old, too young, or too sick to work is tortured to death. Why would the peasants choose that?"

"What happens," said Adelaide, keeping her voice low, "to villages that surrender to the Aegonar?"

Hugh frowned. "I hadn't considered that."

"They're spared," said Adelaide. "I've spoken with some of the survivors. Those who surrender become...thralls of the Aegonar, that is the term. They're like our peasants, but with fewer rights. They're allowed to keep their lands, though they have to pay an additional tax." 

Hugh shrugged. "That's hardly remarkable. Villages change hands between lords often, whether through marriage or war."

"Most lords," said Adelaide, "do not invite the villages to convert to the worship of Sepharivaim."

"They're trying to force the villagers to worship of the serpent god?" said Hugh.

Adelaide nodded. "If a man kneels before a seidjar and swears to worship Sepharivaim, he becomes a vassal of the Aegonar. He gets to keep all his property and wealth, and his family remains unharmed, though he will have to join the Aegonar in their wars." 

"Who would do that?" said Hugh, shocked. "The San-keth are monstrous, all men know that. Only the blackest villains betray the Amathavian gods to bow down before Sepharivaim." 

"The San-keth are monsters," said Adelaide, "but the Aegonar are just men, if crueler than most. Hugh," she glanced back at Lord Alberon, "some of my father's knights stayed behind and swore to worship Sepharivaim. I heard about it from the peasants. The knights pledged themselves to the serpent god, and killed any of their peasants who did not follow suit. Some of those who refused escaped and joined us." 

"Gods," muttered Hugh, rubbing at his jaw. Stubble scraped beneath his fingers. "The Aegonar are here to conquer, else they wouldn't bother with conversion. But an entire nation of San-keth proselytes? My father has dealt with San-keth proselytes before. They've always skulked in the shadows, met in ruins and tombs and such. They'd never raise an army like this."

"That is because there are so few San-keth proselytes here," said Adelaide. "The lords, the church, the wizards' brotherhood, the Justiciars...they all unite to hunt down proselytes. But what if the San-keth took over an entire nation, converted everyone to the worship of the serpent god? The Aegonar might well be the result." 

"And now they're here," said Hugh, "to spread the worship of the serpent god." 

"I think you say it true," said Adelaide.

Hugh nodded. "We've got to get to my father as soon as possible. We must tell him the nature of our foes. The armies of Greycoast..."

A horn rang out, long and loud. Hugh spun his horse around, drawing his sword. This portion of the Prince's road wound its way through low hills, the landscape dotted here and there with trees. The terrain offered any number of ideal places for a small band of Aegonar to launch an assault. Hugh had over six hundred mounted men under his command, both those he had brought from Barellion and those he had gathered along the way. But they were scattered around the line and in scouting parties, and if a large Aegonar force struck...

Then a horseman galloped around one of the hills, one of the scouts Hugh had dispatched. But he had sent out the scouts in bands of four, not alone...

"Sir Hugh!" shouted the scout, one of Lord Alberon's militiamen. "The enemy come! At least two hundred Aegonar." The man shook his head, wiping dried blood from his face. "They got the others, but..."

"You did well," said Hugh. "Adelaide. Keep the peasants moving. If they stop, the Aegonar will overrun them." Adelaide nodded and galloped back to the line. "Montigard!" The knight rode over. "Sound assembly! Now!"

Montigard nodded, lifted his war horn to his lips, and blew a series of blasts. The ragged column of refugees stretched for nearly three miles, and Hugh's men had scattered nearly its entire length. Montigard raised the Chalsain banner, the green cloth blowing in the wind, and the horsemen started to gather near Hugh.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Lord Alberon, spurring his horse to Hugh's side. "You've called assembly? Why? I demand to know why!"

"I suggest, my lord," said Hugh, "that you arm yourself. The Aegonar are coming, and we need to keep them away from the peasants." 

Alberon's face paled. "Perhaps...perhaps I should oversee the peasants. They can be unruly, and my daughter could use my aid."

"Yes," said Hugh. "I'm sure she would rejoice in your help, my lord."

He expected a rejoinder, but Alberon had already spun his horse and started back toward the peasants. Hugh shook his head in disgust. How such a craven and petulant man could have fathered a daughter like Adelaide, he would never understand. 

Then he heard the Aegonar war horns in the distance, and he understood Alberon's fear a little better. 

"They'll come around that hill, sir knight," said the scout, pointing. 

Hugh nodded and raised his voice. "Knights and armsmen, to the front! Those of you with bows, to the rear and ready your arrows. Release on my command!" 

The men reshuffled themselves, and Maurus and Montigard rode to Hugh's side.

"Maurus," said Hugh. "If you see any seidjar, you'll know what to do."

Maurus gave a grim nod and drew a copper tube from within his black coat, both ends stuffed with cork. Hugh drew breath to give another command, and then there was no more time.

The Aegonar boiled into sight.

There were at least two hundred of them, tall men in scale armor and spiked helmets. But in their midst ran hulking men in cloaks of bearskin and bronze helmets shaped like the yawning mouths of serpents. 

"Oh, damn," said Montigard. "Those things." 

"Ulfhednar," said Maurus. 

Hugh lifted his sword. The regular Aegonar warriors were dangerous enough. The madmen the Aegonar called the “ulfhednar” were much worse. Maurus claimed that the ulfhednar had been possessed by spirits of rage, granting them superhuman strength and twisting their minds with insane fury. They would not maintain formation with the other Aegonar, but would charge into the fray, heedless of their own lives. 

If they reached the peasants it would be a slaughter. The ulfhednar charged with bestial howls, their faces twisted with fury beneath their serpent helms. Their speed carried them forward, away from the other Aegonar warriors, and Hugh saw his chance. 

“Montigard!” said Hugh, pointing his sword. “The charge, now! Archers, focus on the men behind the ulfhednar!” 

Montigard lifted the horn and blew a long blast, and the horsemen surged forward, Hugh at their head. Arrows hissed overhead as the militia archers raised their bows, falling into the mass of Aegonar warriors behind the ulfhednar. 

Then the ulfhednar crashed into the horsemen, and the battle filled Hugh's world.

He swung his sword as his mount galloped past an ulfhednar, the blade a steely blur. It struck the ulfhednar’s neck with terrific force, and the man collapsed to the ground. Hugh rode on and swung at another ulfhednar, his blade ripping through the man’s shoulder.

Then an ulfhednar howled and jumped, crashing into Hugh. The blow knocked him from the saddle, and he fell to the ground with a clatter of armor, the ulfhednar atop him. Hugh saw the Aegonar’s face through the yawning mouth of the serpent helm, saw the Aegonar’s bloodshot blue eyes, the rage-crazed face. 

The Aegonar howled, and Hugh slammed his forehead against his foe. His steel helmet clanged off the bronze serpent helm, and the Aegonar jerked back, blood pouring from his nose. Hugh slammed his sword into the side of the serpent helm. Again the Aegonar reeled, and Hugh shoved the ulfhednar off him. 

He rolled to one knee and stabbed, his blade plunging into the ulfhednar’s belly. The ulfhednar bellowed, reaching for Hugh’s throat, hands hooked into claws. Hugh released his sword hilt, yanked the dagger from his belt, and plunged it into the ulfhednar’s neck.

The Aegonar stiffened and toppled sideways, and Hugh yanked his weapons free and staggered to his feet. The chaos of the battle surged around him, and he saw several of his men dead upon the ground. But the charge of the ulfhednar had been blunted, and his knights and armsmen drove back the mass of Aegonar warriors. Hugh looked around for his horse and found it standing a dozen yards away. He picked up his shield and hurried towards his mount.

The howl of an Aegonar battle cry stopped him.

Hugh whirled and saw two Aegonar warriors coming at him, both wielding crescent-bladed axes. He got his shield up in time to block the first blow, and it smashed against the iron-banded wood with terrific force. The top third of his shield splintered into broken kindling, and Hugh stumbled. The Aegonar grinned and raised his axe for the killing blow.

Hugh flung his broken shield, catching the Aegonar in the face. The warrior lost his footing, and Hugh stabbed with his blade. The Aegonar slumped, blood pouring from the wound in his throat.

The second Aegonar lunged at Hugh, and Hugh tried to block with his sword.

The heavy axe snapped his sword in two, the blade shattering. Hugh fell to the ground, the broken shard of his sword hilt falling from his hand. The Aegonar bellowed laughter and raised his axe for a two-handed blow. The strength of the Aegonar’s arm and the weight of the heavy axe would drive the blade through Hugh’s breastplate like tissue paper.