Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (13 page)

"Does my appearance," rasped Ataranur, "so terrify you?"

Rachel forced herself not to look away. "My lord looks...my lord looks very tired."

Ataranur managed a short, dusty laugh as he lowered his mask back in place. "Indeed. Forgive me. The sunlight…pains me."

Footsteps clicked against the flagstones, and a page in Roland blue and silver hurried towards them. 

"My lord Ataranur," the boy said, face frightened. "My lady Rachel. Lord Malden bids you come to the Hall of Triumph. There is news from the south."

"Thank you," said Rachel.

She strode away from Ataranur without another word.

###

Another wizard waited for her next to the Hall of Triumph, a tall young man with pale blond hair.

"Well?" murmured Rachel, looking across the High Court. Ataranur stared over the ramparts, ignoring both her and the summons. 

"That wasn't his real face," said Circan. Rachel did not like wizards, but she trusted Circan as much as she trusted any wielder of magic. He had stood with her and Gerald through some very dangerous times. "I sensed the spell he cast, just before he removed his mask. The face you saw was an illusion."

Rachel had expected as much. Skhath had always hidden his true form behind a spell of illusion, masquerading as Sir Albron Eastwater. It had not been much of a stretch to imagine Ataranur doing the same.

Perhaps he wore the steel mask to avoid the bother of maintaining the spell.

"Could you see his true face?" said Rachel. 

"No," said Circan. 

"Very well," said Rachel. 

But whoever or whatever Ataranur was, Rachel was sure he was not a slumbering High Elderborn king come to aid Knightcastle in its darkest hour.

###

Gerald stood to the right of his father's chair in the Hall of Triumph, listening to the messenger from Lord Agravain Rainier. 

The news was not good. 

"The runedead come in great numbers, my lord," said the messenger, his clothes dusty and stained from fast travel. "They forced their way across the River Abelinus, and we lacked the numbers to resist. We had no choice but to fall back to Tumblestone. The runedead besiege the city, and Lord Agravain bade me to ride north and summon aid." 

Briefly Gerald remembered that day, years ago, when another messenger had ridden north asking for aid. The Dominiars under Amalric Galbraith had laid siege to Tumblestone, and Lord Malden had been too paralyzed with grief from Garain's murder to act. Mazael took command of the armies of Knightcastle, smashed the Dominiar Order, and slain Amalric in single combat.

But Mazael was not here. Gerald didn't even know if he was still alive. 

Lord Malden stood. "This challenge will be met. Caraster threatens our lands and our people, and we will not allow this provocation to pass unpunished. Ataranur!"

The hooded and masked wizard approached the dais.

"My lord Malden?" said Ataranur. 

"Will your powers be sufficient against the runedead?"

There was a hint of an amused sneer in Ataranur's voice. "More than sufficient, my lord. This braggart Caraster claims to be a wizard, but we shall see how he fares against one who studied beneath the master wizards of the High Elderborn."

"Indeed," said Lord Malden.

Gerald saw his father's stratagem plainly enough. The fighting at Tumblestone would put Ataranur to the test. Rachel's risky gambit had proved that Ataranur wished to keep his face concealed, but if the wizard was truly what he claimed to be, then his powers would be of great use against the runedead. If he was not, then...

"Sir Gerald," said Malden.

"Father," said Gerald. "I am at your command." 

"Take command of the relief force," said Malden, "and destroy the runedead besieging Tumblestone."

If Ataranur was not what he claimed to be, then it would fall to Gerald to deal with him. All while saving Tumblestone from the runedead.

But life for Lord Malden's sons had never been easy.

"It will be as you wish, Father," said Gerald.

"A contingent of Justiciars will ride with you," said Malden. "Grand Master Caldarus generously offered the assistance of his Order."

"That...is indeed generous of him," said Gerald, shooting a look at the Justiciar Grand Master. Caldarus gave him a thin-lipped smile. "But Tumblestone is well outside the Justiciars' demesne of Swordor. While the Grand Master's gesture is noble, he is under no obligation to aid us." If Gerald lifted the siege, no doubt the Justiciars would claim credit, and Caldarus would demand Tumblestone for his Order. 

Malden thought he could keep the Justiciars under control, but Gerald suspected his father was in for a nasty surprise. 

"We cannot turn away any aid, my son," said Malden. "Sir Commander Aidan will command the Justiciar forces."

That was a relief, at least. Aidan Tormaud had a level head, and was not nearly as grasping as Caldarus himself. 

"As you command, Father," said Gerald. He looked at the windows behind the dais. It was already past noon, and it would take several hours to prepare to march. "We shall depart at dawn."

###

At midnight, Lucan Mandragon walked alone in the dark maze underneath Knightcastle. 

He strode unhindered through the blackness. The lack of light did not trouble his undead eyes, and he easily avoided the occasional pile of broken stone or fallen block. From time to time a rat crossed his path, but the rodents scented him and fled in terror. 

Wise of them.

The Trysting Ways spread in a stone labyrinth through the walls and towers and cellars of Knightcastle. The castle had been built and rebuilt and expanded over the centuries, and the various lords and kings had added secret passages for their own use. Gradually the passageways had become the maze called the Trysting Ways, the name gleaned from the number of lords who had used them to secretly visit their mistresses. After the San-keth had used the Trysting Ways to enter the castle, Lord Malden had ordered them sealed.

Lucan found his way inside anyway. 

Now he walked through the darkness, hand extended, his magical senses seeking. He felt a multitude of spells down here - the wards raised over Knightcastle's walls to keep the runedead out, residues from his magical duel with Straganis, the lingering spells cast by generations of long-dead court wizards. 

And another source of power, a faint echo, so faint that it would have escaped the senses of any mortal wizard.

But not Lucan’s. 

At last he stopped before a stone wall, deep beneath the castle. It looked no different than any other of the walls, the ancient stones rough and massive. Yet Lucan felt faint whispers of power, and he smiled behind his mask. The High Elderborn had been subtle. A faint ward, just enough to misdirect the attention of anyone looking at it. Yet the spell had been enough to keep this place hidden for three thousand years. 

For who would seek for a Door of Souls beneath Knightcastle? 

Lucan raised his hand, summoned power, and released the ward.

The stone wall vanished. Beyond Lucan saw a great vault of white stone, its ceiling rising to a pointed arch, the chamber as large as the nave of a church. In its center stood a delicate arch of white stone, ten feet wide and thirty feet tall, its top coming to point. Ornate sigils and carvings covered the arch's side, as fresh and sharp as if they had been carved yesterday. Even without using a spell, Lucan felt the potent magic within with the arch, magic strong enough to rip open a passageway to the spirit world and Cythraul Urdvul itself. 

The Door of Souls.  

Lucan walked in a slow circle around the Door. He waved his hands, muttering spells to sense the presence of magic, probing the magic of the Door. It held great power, but that power was...latent, asleep. 

Like an ocean that had been turned to ice. The ice could be melted, but it would take a tremendous amount of heat.

Lucan could reactivate the Door of Souls, but it would take vast power. More than he could conjure on his own, even with the well of stolen Demonsouled power in his mind, even with the strength he had stolen from Randur Maendrag. 

But not, however, more than he could steal with the Glamdaigyr. 

And he knew just where to claim that power.

Lucan left the vault, reestablishing the ancient ward behind him, and his thoughts turned to Lord Malden. Stolen life energy healed and rejuvenated the recipient. But there were side effects. The recipient's self-control and moral center began to...erode. Acts that were once unthinkable became palatable, even desirable. 

And the recipient became easier to control.

As Lord Malden was about to find out.

###

It did not take Lucan long to locate a calibah.

He suspected the San-keth would maintain spies in Lord Malden's castle, should they ever need to move against him, and his suspicions were true. He found the changeling in the servants' quarters, disguised as a stable hand. The changelings were masters of disguise and infiltration, and Lucan doubted anyone had ever suspected the man. 

But the calibah could not hide from Lucan.

The calibah's eyes opened as Lucan loomed over him.

"What is it?" said the changeling. "I..."

His eyes turned yellow in alarm and his fangs curled over his lips as he saw the steel mask.

A gesture from Lucan sheathed the changeling in paralyzing force. 

"Come along," said Lucan. "I have a use for you."

He beckoned, and the calibah floated after him, suspended in the power of Lucan's magic.

###

Lord Malden turned from the balcony. As Lucan expected, he had not been sleeping. His mind and body would be in too much turmoil for that. 

"Ataranur," said Malden. "What..."

His eyes widened, and his hand shot to his sword as he saw the floating changeling. 

"What is this?" said Malden. "Have you betrayed me?"

"Indeed not, my lord," said Lucan. "I discovered the changeling hiding among your servants. I brought him to you, to do with as you see fit."

Malden nodded. "Have it killed. I will not tolerate the slaves of the serpents crawling through my halls." 

"Perhaps," said Lucan, reaching into his cloak, "you should dispatch him yourself, my lord." 

He drew a black dagger and held it out hilt-first to Malden. A rune had been carved into the blade, flickering with a pale green glow.

"What is this?" said Malden.

"A weapon," said Lucan, "to cleanse your lands of the wicked, of the ones who have brought these disasters upon your head."

In actuality, it was a weapon Lucan had fashioned and linked to the Glamdaigyr. Whenever Malden killed with that blade, some of the victim's life force would drain into his body. But most of it would flow to the Glamdaigyr, and then into the Door of Souls. 

And life by life, Lucan would gather the power to open the way to Cythraul Urdvul. 

Malden hesitated, gazing at the black dagger. Lucan knew it would feel cold, icy cold, against mortal flesh. He saw the doubt bloom in Malden's eyes, the hesitation.

"My lord," said Lucan, "the San-keth murdered your eldest son, and tried to kill you and all your family. Will you allow this calibah to go unpunished for the crimes of his race?"

Malden's eyes hardened. "Indeed not."

He plunged the dagger between the calibah's ribs. The rune on the blade flared as the dagger drank the changeling's life, and Malden's eyes grew wide. The changeling slumped to the ground, and Malden stepped back. Lucan felt the power flow from the dagger, to the Glamdaigyr, and then to the Door of Souls. 

It was working.

"What happened?" whispered Malden, breathing hard. Some of the gray had faded from his hair, and a few more of the lines had vanished from his face. "Ataranur...I've never felt so strong. So alive."

Lucan shrugged. "Righteousness has its rewards. And you, my lord Malden, are the rightful lord of Knightcastle, appointed to drive out the runedead. Perhaps even to restore order to the entire realm after the horror of the Great Rising." 

Malden said nothing, staring at the dead changeling. Lucan knew that his mind was considering the possibilities. 

Stolen life force was...addictive.

"I shall dispose of the corpse, my lord," said Lucan.

Malden nodded. "See that you do."

Lucan beckoned, and Lord Malden's first victim floated into the air.

But not the last.

Chapter 13 - Cross Purposes

Malaric strode deeper into the woods, making for the rocky hill where Skalatan awaited him. 

His hand strayed to the caethweisyr at his belt, and he forced it away. Skalatan might recognize the weapon. Malaric would have to strike without warning or hesitation. 

And then he would command a San-keth archpriest. Skalatan had magical power, true, but he also possessed the allegiance of the lesser San-keth, the calibah, and the human proselytes. With Skalatan's authority, Malaric could command them. 

And then his conquest of Barellion would begin.

He looked forward to seeing the expression on his father's face. 

Malaric rolled his shoulders as he walked, stretching the muscles of his back and shoulders. The skull's power had healed the ghastly wounds Molly Cravenlock had inflicted, and now only a faint ache remained. A pity he hadn't buried the last poisoned dagger in her chest and not Romaria's. 

Well, he doubted he would ever see Molly again, but if he did...he would have all the power of Greycoast behind him. 

And, if all went well, the power of the San-keth.

Night fell by the time Malaric reached the hill.

It jutted from the heart of the woods, its slopes covered in trees. Higher and rockier hills rose behind it, and a half-ruined keep stood on its crest. The keep had once belonged to a knight in vassalage to the Lord of Knightcastle. But it had been abandoned years ago, and the ruined keep served as a refuge for bandits and outlaws.

And San-keth archpriests. 

Malaric climbed to the hill's crest. A single stride through the shadows could have taken him there, but he preferred to walk. It gave him time to spot any traps, and he liked the idea of making Skalatan wait for him. 

He reached the top of the hill, the keep stone’s shell rising over him. A hooded figure in a gray robe stood in the empty doors to the keep, lined in the moonlight, and Malaric saw the yellow glint of a serpent's eyes within the hood.

"You have returned?" said Skalatan, his dry, rasping voice slithering over the barren hilltop. 

"So I have," said Malaric.

He felt the weight of the caethweisyr in its scabbard, and took a step closer towards the San-keth.

"And Mazael Cravenlock?" said Skalatan.

"He is slain," said Malaric. "Along with Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock." He shrugged. "She got in the way."

"You are certain of it?" said Skalatan.

"Of course," said Malaric.

"None of my calibah have returned," said Skalatan. 

Malaric smiled. "They perished gloriously, doing the work of great Sepharivaim." 

"So I see," said Skalatan. "A quiet death would have been better, but no matter. Lord Mazael will not upset my plans now." 

Malaric took another few steps closer to Skalatan. The San-keth archpriest made no reaction, gave no signs of alarm. 

"An answer to a question, if you will," said Skalatan.

"Of course," said Malaric, flexing the fingers of his sword hand.

"Why have my people failed?" 

Malaric blinked. He had expected Skalatan to ask about the assassination, or his plans for the future. "Your...people?"

"The San-keth," said Skalatan, "believe themselves to be the chosen of Sepharivaim. They believe that long ago the human and Elderborn gods stripped us of our limbs and left us to crawl in the dust. So in vengeance, we will conquer the world and make the humans and the Elderborn and all other races into slaves. We have believed this for over three thousand years. Yet in that time, we have failed again and again. Why?" 

Malaric shrugged. "In all candor, honored archpriest, I have not given the matter any thought."

"Consider it, then," said Skalatan. "What do you think?" 

Malaric shrugged again and looked at the sky, as if thinking. But the movement blocked the caethweisyr from Skalatan's view, and Malaric loosed the ornate dagger in its sheath. 

"I suppose," said Malaric at last, "it was just as Lucan Mandragon said. Your people have tried to turn the Demonsouled into weapons, only to be destroyed by them."

The hand of Skalatan's carrier made a dismissive gesture. "That is part of it. But only a small part. Think deeper."

Malaric faced the archpriest, moving closer. Another few paces, and he would be close enough to strike with the caethweisyr. 

"Perhaps," said Malaric, "it is because most commoners and nobles hate and fear you."

"Yes," said Skalatan. "Why?"

"Because the Amathavian church paints you as devils," said Malaric. "And because your proselytes are cravens and schemers. Of course, you try to rule them with an iron fist, and that's..."

"Yes," said Skalatan. "Precisely." 

"Precisely what?" said Malaric. 

"You have identified the problem," said Skalatan, his tongue flickering in the darkness of the cowl. "We have tried to enslave the humans for centuries. Even those humans who come to us willingly and embrace the worship of Sepharivaim we treat as slaves. We regard them as expendable fodder."

"Is that not," said Malaric, "what one does with slaves?"

"You look at the proselytes with contempt, do you not?" said Skalatan. 

"Of course," said Malaric. "The San-keth believe that they are the master race and that all others are slaves. What fool would volunteer to be a slave?"

"And that," said Skalatan, "is why we have failed." The ancient yellow eyes turned to face him. "Do you see? A slave ruled with fear will always betray you. That is what my people have failed to understand. But if you create servants who serve you willingly, who hold your cause in common with their own...they will not betray you. They will even die for you. Joyfully, even."

"An interesting argument," said Malaric, "but useless one."

"Perhaps not," said Skalatan. "My people have failed because they allow emotion to rule them, rather than logic. They take the short view, and prefer to torment our proselytes rather than turn them into loyal allies."

"I can see," said Malaric, "why the other archpriests consider you so dangerously heterodox."

He edged closer. One more step...

"Perhaps," said Skalatan, "the archpriests will see the path of wisdom I have laid before them."

"What path is that?" said Malaric. 

"Suppose," said Skalatan, "we sent missionaries to a barbarian nation. Missionaries who worked slowly and carefully. You humans live such short lives...and a thing that seems new and fearful to you becomes commonplace and mundane in a mere forty or fifty years. It would not take long, no more than a century or so, for the worship of the serpent god to become the dominant faith. The people would embrace it. They would defend it. They would believe themselves to be the chosen of Sepharivaim, and march forth to conquer in his name. Can you not see how a nation of willing allies is better than a few despised slaves?" 

Malaric snorted. "And if you had such a nation of fanatical converts, what would you do with them?" 

His fingers curled around the caethweisyr's hilt. 

"I would bid them to sail to your shores," said Skalatan, "and my true work would begin."

"A pity," said Malaric, "that you will never have the chance to fulfill such a fine plan."

In one smooth motion he drew the caethweisyr and stabbed. The dagger plunged into the gray robe, seeking for Skalatan's trunk. Yet the blade met no resistance, passing through Skalatan's robe and undead carrier and body as if the San-keth cleric were not there at all...

Malaric cursed and waved the caethweisyr back and forth before him. And again both the weapon and his arm passed through Skalatan as if he were not there. 

An illusion.

Suddenly Malaric felt like a tremendous fool.

A brief, hissing laugh came from Skalatan's jaws. "Did you think I would not anticipate treachery, Malaric Chalsain of Barellion? I recognized that Dark Elderborn blade hanging at your belt. A useful tool, no? It would have been interesting, had you used it upon me. The dagger's magic would have engaged us in a contest of wills. It would have been fascinating to watch your will shatter beneath mine."

"You are too confident," said Malaric, backing away from the illusionary image. He saw no sign of any hidden attackers, but Skalatan could have used his magic to conceal calibah...

"Do not bother," said Skalatan. "I am many leagues from here."

"Oh?" said Malaric. "Will you not take vengeance for my treachery?"

Again Skalatan made that dry, hissing laugh. "Whatever for? You could no more hurt me than a mouse could harm a poisonous serpent." The yellow eyes glittered in the cowl. "And you may yet be of use to me."

"So I tried to kill you...and you think to parley?" said Malaric, incredulous. 

"Did I not tell you," said Skalatan, "that I seek willing servants, not cowed slaves? You will serve me in time, Malaric of Barellion."

Malaric snorted. "Unlikely."

"You shall. You aren't desperate enough, not yet. But you will be. And then you shall ask for my aid. Eagerly, even." 

"Your great age has driven you mad," said Malaric, "and..."

"Do," said Skalatan, "take care of that skull. It would be unfortunate if you perished before I made any use of you."

The words sent a chill down Malaric's spine, but before he answered, Skalatan vanished in a flicker of silver light.

Malaric spun, scanning the hilltop for any foes. He cast the spell to sense the presence of magic, straining to detect any spells, but felt nothing.

He was alone. 

His hand strayed to the leather bag holding Corvad's skull. The damaged leather bag. Mazael had almost skewered it. Another few inches, and he could have destroyed the skull. Worse, Skalatan had figured it out, and if the archpriest had discovered the secret, then others could as well. If the skull was destroyed, Malaric didn't know what would happen...and he didn't particularly want to find out.

Before he could proceed, he had to take steps to safeguard the skull, even from a necromancer of Skalatan's power. 

And then, once the skull was safe, Barellion was Malaric's for the taking. 

If Skalatan interfered, Malaric would just have to crush him.