Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (33 page)

Circan flexed his fingers, staring at Ataranur as if he expected an attack. 

Ataranur tossed the head towards them, and it rolled to a stop at Tobias’s boots. Caraster’s dead eyes stared upward, his face frozen in a mask of horror and dread. However he had died, it had not been pleasant.

“I slew Caraster and his disciples,” said Ataranur, “as I said I would. The victory is yours, my lord Tobias. The rebellion has been crushed.”

“And the runedead?” said Tobias.

“They are yours,” said Ataranur. 

“Mine?” said Tobias.

“Or Lord Malden’s, I should say,” said Ataranur, gesturing at the rows of runedead. “They are his to command, and they will obey his every word.” 

“How?” said Gerald. Once, he knew, Lord Malden would have refused to even countenance such a thing. But his father had changed since Ataranur had healed him. Giving him an invincible undead army…Gerald shuddered to think of what his father would do with it. “What magic did you use to control them?”

“No magic, Sir Gerald,” said Ataranur. “I used no spell to control the runedead. Rather…it seems Caraster was right. In a sense. The runedead rose at the command of the gods, and Caraster enslaved them. But now that I have vanquished him…the runedead submit to the lawful ruler of Knightcastle.”

“That is nonsense,” said Gerald. “If the runedead submit to the lawful ruler of Knightcastle, why didn’t they do so during the Great Rising? They almost destroyed Castle Town before we could repulse them. Gods, they ravaged all of Knightreach!”

Ataranur shrugged. “The ways of the gods are unknowable, are they not? Yet the runedead have submitted to Lord Malden,” he beckoned at the endless rows of standing corpses, “as you can see with your own eyes.” 

“Well,” said Tobias, “I suppose we should go give Father the news, shouldn’t we?”

“Of course,” said Ataranur, walking to Tobias’s side.

The runedead remained motionless, the sigils upon their brow painting the Riversteel an eerie green.

###

Lucan walked in silence alongside the lords and knights, contemplating his next move. 

Between Caraster’s stolen Demonsouled power and the magic of the Banurdem, his control over the runedead horde was complete. He had, of course, once controlled every runedead upon the face of the world. But the Great Rising had collapsed when Lucan had been killed, and he could not recreate it.

Still. These runedead would serve well enough for his purpose.

In a few weeks time, he should have enough stolen life energy to open the Door of Souls.

###

“Sir Gerald,” said Circan, his voice urgent. “I must speak with you, immediately.”

Gerald glanced at Tobias and Ataranur, but neither his brother nor the masked wizard seemed inclined to conversation. Around them the army of Knightreach made their way back to their camps below the walls of Castle Town and Knightcastle.

And well away from the runedead on the south bank. 

“What is it?” said Gerald.

Circan beckoned, and Gerald followed the wizard away from the other lords. 

“I think,” said Circan, voice low, “I think I know who Ataranur really is.”

“Who?” said Gerald.

“Lucan Mandragon,” said Circan. 

“But that is impossible,” said Gerald. “Lucan is dead. Mazael slew him at Swordgrim. And even if he had survived…why come to Knightcastle? Would he not remain in the Grim Marches to take vengeance on Mazael?”

“I know it is…unlikely, sir knight,” said Circan. “But it is Lucan. I fought alongside him at Deepforest Keep. The spell Ataranur used to dispel that giant image of Caraster? I saw Lucan use that exact same spell, in that exact same way, during the siege of Deepforest Keep. A wizard has a distinctive…style, for lack of a better word, just as a practiced eye can recognize an individual knight by his style of swordplay.”

Gerald nodded, looking at Ataranur. 

It seemed incredible…but Ataranur was about Lucan’s height. 

“You are certain?” said Gerald at last.

“Absolutely,” said Circan.

“Tell no one,” said Gerald. “I…shall have to take action myself.”

Gerald had feared that Ataranur was a dark wizard, a renegade or a necromancer. 

The truth was much worse…and Lucan had both Lord Malden and Grand Master Caldarus in his thrall. And from what Gerald had seen, Lucan had the magical power to kill Gerald in a heartbeat. 

He did not see how he could possibly oppose a wizard of Lucan Mandragon’s might. 

But Gerald would not let Lucan destroy Knightcastle. 

Chapter 30 – A Second Pact

Malaric paced back and forth, thinking. 

Rosala smiled at him from her blankets. "My lord Prince should come back to bed." 

"Your lord Prince thinks you should shut up," snapped Malaric. He stalked to the balcony and gazed at the Inner City. Barellion looked calm, even peaceful. But with the destruction of the host of Greycoast, he knew it was an illusion. Five hundred armsmen had remained behind to garrison the Prince's Keep, all that remained of the men sworn to the Prince of Barellion. The city had two thousand militia, devoted to patrolling the walls and keeping criminals off the streets, but they were peasants with spears, not warriors. They would not stand up against the Aegonar. 

Twenty-five hundred men against tens of thousands of Aegonar…and those men would turn on Malaric in a heartbeat.

He gripped the railing, trying to think.

What the devil was he going to do? 

No doubt some of the lords had survived the disaster at Castle Bridge. Yet those who had escaped would flee to their castles. They would not return to Barellion. And they certainly would not heed his commands. 

They had obeyed him out of terror. But then he lost the battle. And no one feared a Prince who lost a battle. 

Rosala rose naked from the blankets, her bare feet making no sound against the floor. 

Malaric wondered if he could gather a force of runedead to oppose the Aegonar. Yet Prince Everard and his sons had been too thorough, and only a few scattered bands of runedead remained in Greycoast. Malaric could not possibly gather enough to oppose the Aegonar. And even if he did, Skalatan was with the Aegonar, and Skalatan's mastery of necromancy exceeded Malaric's own. Skalatan could seize control of any runedead Malaric gathered.

Malaric needed help.

Could Lucan aid him? He had gone to Knightcastle to open his precious Door of Souls. But why would he help Malaric? Lucan didn't need him. What sort of price would Lucan demand?

Rosala stood behind him, pressed herself against his back. "Come back to bed, my Prince. You have too many worries."

Malaric shoved her away. "I said to be silent! Go..."

The dagger plunged between his ribs. 

Malaric stumbled forward, clutching at the railing for balance. Rosala ripped the dagger free and thrust it into his side once more.

"A gift from the First Dagger, my Prince," she purred, "a dagger..."

Malaric snarled, summoned power, and slammed his hand into Rosala's face. Psychokinetic force erupted from his hand and hammered into her head, her body catapulting across the room. 

She collapsed in a lifeless tangle of bare limbs, her glassy blue eyes gazing at him.

Malaric cursed and examined his wound. Already it shrank as the skull's Demonsouled power healed him, but he felt a burning numbness around the wound. Rosala had poisoned the dagger. For a terrible moment fear gripped him, but the numbness faded.

Whatever poison Rosala had used was not strong enough to overcome the Demonsouled healing. 

Rage replaced his fear.

No doubt the First Dagger planned to dispose of Malaric and slink back into the shadows while the Aegonar conquered the city. Malaric stormed into his bedroom, snatched up his sword belt, and buckled it around his waist. The First Dagger would regret this treachery. Malaric would kill every last one of the Skulls and cut the smile from that fat pig's smirking face. 

He strode into the shadows, reappearing in Souther's study in the old barracks. 

But the room was empty.

Malaric turned in a circle. Souther’s desk was gone, as were his weapons and his tools. Even that damned book of romantic poetry was gone. Malaric walked the shadows to the barracks’ first floor and found it deserted. The bunks were empty and the common room silent. 

The Skulls had deserted him.

Souther was a treacherous weasel, but the First Dagger was not stupid. One did not survive as the First Dagger of the Skulls otherwise. If he had forsaken Malaric, he thought that Malaric was doomed. 

Malaric bellowed in fury and kicked one of the bunks with Demonsouled strength. It shattered into kindling, the fragments bouncing across the floor. Perhaps it was time to flee Barellion. With the power to stride through the shadows, he could travel anywhere in a matter of days. He could leave Greycoast behind, carve out a kingdom of his own somewhere…

“No,” growled Malaric.

Barellion was his. And no one would ever take it from him…

“Destroying the furniture,” said a dry, hissing voice, “will not resolve your plight.”

Malaric turned, drawing his sword and the caethweisyr. A figure in a hooded gray robe stood on the other end of the barracks, green sparks flaring around its sleeves. Inside the robe’s cowl, Malaric glimpsed yellow eyes and crimson scales.

“Skalatan,” said Malaric. He gestured at the hooded form. “I suppose this is another illusion?”

“Of course,” said the San-keth archpriest. “I have not survived this long by taking foolish chances. A lesson, alas, you have yet to learn.” 

“What do you want?” said Malaric. “Have you come to gloat at my misfortunes?”

“Your misfortunes?” said Skalatan. “That implies your difficulties are the result of random chance. You lost the battle at Castle Bridge entirely through your poor decisions…”

“Silence!” said Malaric, but Skalatan kept speaking. 

“And you chose to betray me,” said Skalatan. “With my aid, you could have been secure upon the throne of Barellion. Instead your vassals have forsaken you, and the Aegonar march for Barellion. It will be interesting to see if the Aegonar kill you, or if one of your vassals manages it first.”

“I said to be silent!” said Malaric. “Have you come here for a useful purpose or not?”

Skalatan’s tongue flickered out of the hood. “I have come bearing news. A second army marches for Barellion.”

“Other than the Aegonar?” said Malaric. 

“Yes. An army under the command of Hugh Chalsain, who names himself the Prince of Barellion. With him march several of your vassals, the ones who escaped the slaughter at Castle Bridge. Though I suppose they are now Hugh’s vassals, not yours.” 

“Hugh,” spat Malaric. “Souther couldn’t even do that right.” Hugh was a useless brat, but after Malaric’s defeat, the lords of Greycoast would rally to him. 

Just as well he had kept Adelaide prisoner. Perhaps Hugh would reconsider if Malaric sent him her fingers in a box. 

“Indeed,” said Skalatan. “Twenty-two thousand men march with him, and more rally to his banner every day. How many do you have left? A few hundred? What will they do when the lawful Prince arrives to claim his father’s throne?”

“I am the lawful Prince!” said Malaric. 

Skalatan’s hissing laughter echoed in his ears. “You murdered your father and brothers and took the throne. By the laws of your race, I believe that makes Hugh Chalsain the lawful Prince.”

“I should have been,” said Malaric, “the rightful heir.”

“And a curious banner flies with Hugh’s,” said Skalatan. “Three crossed swords, on a field of black.”

“So?” said Malaric. “Why are you…”

The Cravenlock banner. Mazael Cravenlock’s banner had been three crossed swords on a black field.

“No,” said Malaric. “No, he’s dead. I killed both him and his wife. He’s dead.” 

“Evidently,” said Skalatan, “not.” 

“He’s dead!” shouted Malaric.

“Either you lied to me,” said Skalatan, “or you were stupid enough to believe him dead when he was not. I have observed their host from afar using my spells. Mazael Cravenlock rides with Hugh Chalsain, along with his with daughter and the bearer of the Guardian’s staff.”

“But that is preposterous,” said Malaric. “Why would Mazael aid Hugh?”

Skalatan sighed. “To find us. Can you not see? Mazael’s Demonsouled nature allowed him to overcome my venom, but you wounded his Elderborn-blooded wife. The Guardian must have suspended her life in some fashion, for the only cure to my venom is my blood. Furthermore, the Guardian could use my venom to track me, if the venom was in the blood of a living woman. Therefore Romaria Cravenlock is still alive, and Mazael has followed us to save his wife.”

Malaric laughed. “Then it’s you he wants, not me.”

“Are you truly so blind?” said Skalatan. “He is a child of the Old Demon, and you wounded him. You left his wife lying at the brink of death. Do you have any idea what he will do to you when he finds you?”

Malaric could imagine. He had beaten Mazael in their last fight, but only with the aid of Skalatan’s venom. This time Mazael would have the aid of Molly and the Guardian. Malaric could not overcome all of them at once.

“Your folly,” said Skalatan, “has put powerful enemies upon your trail.”

Malaric said nothing. The damned old serpent was right.

“But perhaps the blame is mine,” said Skalatan. “The skull you bear carries great power, and I assumed you would make better use of it. Clearly, I overestimated your wits.”

“Stop insulting me,” said Malaric, “and make your offer.” 

The gray robe rippled as Skalatan’s coils shifted. “Oh?”

“You would not bother speaking with me,” said Malaric, “unless you had something in mind. Out with it. What do you want?”

“If Mazael Cravenlock and your brother do not claim your head,” said Skalatan, “the Aegonar will. But it is within my power to save you. You can keep the throne of Barellion and rule over Greycoast as you please.”

“Even thought I tried to enslave you?” said Malaric.

The shoulders of Skalatan’s skeletal carrier moved in a shrug. “One must expect tantrums from children.”

Malaric swallowed his rage. “And what would you require for this generous offer?”

“First,” said Skalatan, “you will swear loyalty and fealty to Agantyr, High King of the Aegonar. You would remain Prince, but you will rule Barellion and Greycoast as his vassal.”

Malaric scowled. “Then I am to be a puppet?”

“Correct,” said Skalatan. “Second, you will suppress the Amathavian church in your lands, and order a temple to Sepharivaim raised in every village and town. Should any of your nobles refuse to swear to Sepharivaim, execute them and award their lands to an Aegonar earl.”

“Is that all?” said Malaric. He cared nothing for the Amathavian church and its feeble gods of mercy, but banning the church would turn every man in Greycoast against him, and give the neighboring liege lords and the Justiciar Order a pretext for war.

“No,” said Skalatan. “Finally, after we have secured Greycoast, you will gather your army and march south with the Aegonar as they attack Knightcastle.” 

“Knightcastle?” said Malaric. “Why? Do you want Lucan’s Door of Souls for yourself?”

“Yes,” said Skalatan.

“Then why not open a mistgate and go to Knightcastle?” said Malaric. “It is within your power.”

“Actually, it is not,” said Skalatan. “A mistgate cannot cross an ocean. This, along with the necessity to acquire certain additional relics, is why we needed to invade Greycoast. Furthermore, mistgates are difficult and imprecise. Not even the greatest wizards of the Dark Elderborn, working in concert, could open a mistgate long enough to transport the entire Aegonar host.” He hissed. “Additionally, Lucan Mandragon has already begun awakening the Door of Souls. That generates tremendous magical disruption in the spirit world, making it all the harder to conjure a mistgate.” Skalatan’s head leaned out of the cowl, the yellow eyes gazing at Malaric. “But that is not your concern. Do you accept my offer or not?”

Malaric turned away with a curse. What Skalatan offered was pathetic. It would turn Malaric into a puppet, a figurehead the Aegonar kept on the throne of Barellion to justify their rule. Malaric ought to leave Greycoast behind, claim a realm for himself somewhere far from the reach of both Mazael and the San-keth.

But that would mean abandoning Barellion.

Malaric’s hands curled into fists. Barellion belonged to him. It had always belonged to him, not to Prince Everard, not to Rodric, and certainly not to that sniveling whelp Hugh. 

And Malaric would not surrender Barellion to anyone. 

“Very well,” said Malaric. “I…accept your offer.”

He could not tell if Skalatan’s hiss was a laugh or not.

“Excellent,” said Skalatan. “It is good that you at last see the path of wisdom. Open the city’s northern gate. The High King shall arrive shortly.”

“What?” said Malaric. “The Aegonar are still four days away.” 

“Yes,” said Skalatan, “but Hugh’s army is not. I can open a mistgate long enough for Agantyr and his choice warriors to arrive. They shall hold the city until the rest of our host can reach us. Then they shall smash Hugh’s army against the walls of Barellion, and Greycoast shall be yours.”

No, thought Malaric, Greycoast would belong to the Aegonar. But Malaric would play along for now.

Life offered hope…and he could always betray Skalatan and the Aegonar later.

Skalatan hissed laughter, as if he had guessed Malaric’s thoughts. 

“Why don’t you open a mistgate within the city itself?” said Malaric. “You wouldn’t need to bother with me at all.”

“The ancient wards woven into the walls of Barellion,” said Skalatan, “block any attempt to open a mistgate from outside the city. From within the city, I could open a mistgate with ease. But opening a mistgate into the city from outside the walls is impossible.” 

“Indeed?” said Malaric. “I never knew there were wards upon the walls.”

“That is because your race has a short memory for matters of importance,” said Skalatan. “One final matter. The Demonsouled skull. I trust you have secured it properly?”

“Of course,” said Malaric. “It is safe in the Study Tower. Behind wards that you cannot penetrate, and defended by a watcher that could destroy even you.” 

“Good,” said Skalatan. “Think of what would happen to you if the skull fell into the hands of the Tervingi Guardian.”

Malaric tried not to flinch, but did. 

“Open the northern gate in one hour,” said Skalatan. “We shall meet you there.”

The image vanished, leaving Malaric alone in the empty barracks.

He stared at the wall for a long time, fuming.