Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (9 page)

"Oh?" said Caldarus. "Then you would deny us entirely?" 

"Not at all," said Gerald. "But only Lord Malden can recover the fief of Breaksword and assign it to a new vassal."

Tobias shot Gerald a grateful look. 

"Unless, of course," said Gerald, "you wish to swear as Lord Malden's vassal." 

"The Justiciar Order," said Caldarus, "answers only to the gods, and not any earthly lord."

"Indeed," said Gerald. "Then this discussion is merely an exercise in rhetoric. I submit, Grand Master, that we have more urgent concerns. Such as the defense of our lands from the runedead."

"Very well," said Caldarus. "We shall await the decision of Lord Malden." His cold eyes shifted to Tobias. "But I might soon have to speak with a new lord of Knightcastle."

"Perhaps not."

The strong voice echoed off the walls. Gerald turned with a frown, wondering who would intrude, and...

His eyes widened with shock. 

Malden Roland, Lord of Knightcastle, strode into the Hall of Triumph. He wore gleaming boots and dark trousers beneath a fine blue coat. His cloak had been thrown back, a beret with a golden badge resting atop his head, and carried a polished walking stick in his right hand. 

But he hardly seemed to need the cane. 

Rhea's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. Tobias stood with his mouth hanging open, and Rachel kept blinking as if to awaken from a dream. Caldarus stared at Malden, his eyes thinned to hard slits. 

"Husband?" whispered Rhea. 

Gerald could not look away from his father. When last he had been at Knightcastle, six weeks past, Malden Roland had been at death's door. Now he looked vigorous and healthy.

If anything, he looked fifteen years younger. 

Malden grinned. "You all seem surprised to see me. Am I not still lord here? May I not enter my own hall?"

"Husband!" said Rhea, and she flew into his arms. 

A moment later they were all clustered together, laughing and crying while Caldarus watched. 

"I was so sure," said Rhea, "I was so sure that you were going to die. I even summoned Gerald and Tobias home." 

"I can see that," said Malden. "But I have a little more life in me yet." 

"How?" said Rachel. "It is...it is a miracle. I can think of no other word for it." 

Malden's smile faded, and his eyes grew distant. "I...had some help." 

He turned his head, and Gerald followed his gaze. 

Then he stepped away from his father, pushing Rachel behind him, and dropped his hand to his sword hilt. 

A dark shadow stood in the doorway besides the dais, utterly motionless. For some reason it made Gerald think of a statue draped in a cloak. Or perhaps a spider lurking in a web. The hooded shape moved forward, and Gerald saw a steel mask concealing its face, black gloves hiding its hands. 

"Husband?" said Rhea. "Who...is this?"

"My benefactor," said Malden. "This is Ataranur."

Rachel blinked, staring hard at the masked figure. 

"And just who," said Gerald, "is Ataranur?"

"His identity," said Malden, "is a secret known only to the Lord of Knightcastle. Suffice it to say, I owe my life to his intervention. With his aid, we shall defeat Caraster, destroy the runedead, and restore peace and prosperity to Knightreach." He turned to Caldarus. "Come, my old ally. Too long I have laid abed while my lands need my sword. With Ataranur's aid, we shall at last be victorious."

###

"Gerald," said Rachel, her arms wrapped tight around herself, "something's wrong." 

She walked with Gerald along the Arcade of Sorrows, a covered colonnade running along Knightcastle's inner curtain wall. The Arcade ended at Audea's Garden, a small square of bushes and flowering trees. 

"It seems to be a miracle," said Gerald, but his voice was thoughtful, and his hand tensed as it touched her shoulder. "Father restored to health, ready to lead his vassals to war once more. He could unite us and bring the Justiciars to heel as Tobias and I never could."

"It's just like Simonian of Briault!" said Rachel. 

"What do you mean?" said Gerald. 

"Mitor wanted to overthrow Lord Richard for years," said Rachel. "But he was never strong enough, and he knew it. Then Simonian came to Mitor's court. He poured lies into Mitor's ear, made him think that the San-keth would have the power to give him the Grim Marches. And then the San-keth came, and...and..."

And Mitor had sworn his soul to the San-keth, and Rachel had done the same. She had become a San-keth proselyte, pledging herself to Skhath. The serpent priest would have fathered calibah, San-keth changelings, upon her. Once she had thought it a great honor. Now the thought made her skin crawl with horror. 

Gerald and Mazael had saved her from that. Gerald, who had wed her anyway, despite knowing what she had done.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked, looking away. 

"Rachel," said Gerald, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I, too, am suspicious of this Ataranur."

"It's not even a name," said Rachel. "It's just a title. It's High Elderborn for...Lord of Gifts, I think."

"You know High Elderborn?" said Gerald. 

Despite her dark mood, the astonishment on her husband's face made her smile a little. "Romaria taught me some, when we rode north from Deepforest Keep after Ultorin's defeat."

"An alias, then," said Gerald. "Whoever he is, he wishes to remain anonymous." He scratched his chin. "There are legends of High Elderborn kings sleeping below Knightcastle, waiting until the hour of greatest need to come forth. And our present need is certainly dire." 

"Aye," said Rachel, "and that is exactly the sort of legend a trickster would use to gain trust." 

"I agree," said Gerald. "But we cannot deny that my father has been healed. Neither Simonian of Briault nor Skhath ever did anything like that."

"No," said Rachel. "At least, Simonian never did. Skhath had a trick of necromancy. He could take the blood from a sacrificial victim and use it to heal the wounds of another. But...gods, Gerald. You saw how ill your father was. Now he looks fifteen years younger! Skhath never had the power to do anything like that." 

Gerald nodded. "Perhaps this Ataranur is a necromancer. Or a renegade wizard. Still, he has healed my father, and we need all the allies we can find. I promise you I shall keep a close eye over him, and if I see anything suspicious, I shall act."

Rachel nodded. She trusted Gerald's judgment, and she knew if Ataranur was a danger, then her husband would act decisively. 

But that was not enough to conceal the dread that rose in her heart when she thought of that cold steel mask.

"I could almost swear," she murmured, "that I've met him somewhere before, but cannot recall where."

###

Lucan Mandragon stood to the right of Lord Malden's seat, watching as the lords and vassals assembled. Lord Malden would gather his vassals and the Justiciar officers, and lead them south to smash Caraster and his runedead host.

After Lucan had made a few preparations. 

He looked at the Hall of Triumph's doors, and in the distance saw Sir Gerald and Lady Rachel on the other side of the High Court, walking along the Arcade of Sorrows.

Discussing him, no doubt.

That might prove a problem. 

He considered what to do. 

For a brief moment, he had been certain, utterly certain, that Rachel had recognized him. Both Gerald and Rachel had known him as a living man, and without the mask they would recognize him at once. 

And if Lord Malden realized who he was - what he was - the entire plan would collapse. For all his power, Lucan could not open the Door of Souls unaided, not without allies, unwitting or not.

He would have to proceed carefully.

And if Gerald and Rachel interfered, he would have to kill them both. 

Chapter 9 – Lies and Shadows

"Your name?" said the big knight, scowling behind his black beard.

Malaric grinned. "Gaston of Travia, at your service. I've come with two hundred doughty lads."

Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael Cravenlock's armsmaster, gave a sour grunt. Despite his size and strength, the knight looked tired. Which was not surprising. No doubt Hagen had spent the last several months in the saddle, hunting down marauding runedead. 

“You’re a Travishman, then?” said Hagen at last.

“Aye, sir knight,” said Malaric. 

They stood south of the walls of Cravenlock Town. The two hundred calibah Skalatan had given him stood in orderly ranks a short distance away, arrayed in chain mail and helmets, swords at their belts and shields on their backs. With their fangs hidden and their yellow eyes concealed behind their inner eyelids, they made a passable imitation of a mercenary company. 

“Why come here?” said Hagen. “The Prince of Travia is dead, and his sons are fighting each other to claim his title. Good business for a mercenary company.”

“Truly,” said Malaric, “but riskier than I’d like. Rampaging runedead, and every lord taking arms against his neighbor. A noble loses a battle, he gets ransomed. But his mercenaries, alas, end up with their heads atop pikes. In the Grim Marches, a man need only worry about the runedead. Lord Mazael does not seem the sort to tolerate rebellion.”

“He’s not,” said Hagen. “Or disorder. You start looting and terrorizing the peasants, you’ll wish you had stayed in Travia.” 

Malaric grinned and spread his hands. “We simply want to make an honest wage.”

“And it will be an honest wage,” said Hagen. “We'll have hard fighting in the days ahead. Mark my words, if you take Lord Mazael’s coin, you’ll earn your pay. We’ve cleared out many runedead strongholds, but there are more left. There seems to be no end of the things.”

A mischievous impulse took Malaric. “I heard a priest say the runedead are the punishment of the gods.”

“Rot,” said Hagen. “Lucan Mandragon’s black wizardry wrought the Great Rising, and nothing else. I was at the Battle of Swordgrim, and I saw him raise the runedead. If you doubt me, ride north and look at the empty spot where Swordgrim used to stand. But Lord Mazael dealt with Lucan Mandragon, and he’ll deal with the runedead, too.” 

Malaric hid his smile.

“So if you want work for your company, you’ll have it,” said Hagen. “Fight hard and loyally, and you’ll be paid well. And many nobles fell in the fighting. If you’re loyal and clever, you might become a landed knight or a minor lord by the time this is done.”

“Then we shall join,” said Malaric. “My company is at your disposal.” 

“Good,” said Hagen. “Camp north of the town, near the tournament grounds. Make sure your men dig proper privy trenches. Lord Mazael will not be pleased if you start a pestilence in Cravenlock Town. Oh, and watch your step around the Tervingi.”

“The Tervingi?” said Malaric. “The barbarians? I thought Lord Mazael tamed them.”

Hagen scowled. “That’s hardly the word for it. If not for the Great Rising, we’d still be killing each other. The Tervingi swore to Lord Mazael, and their Guardian and chief headmen want to keep the peace…but they’re still a bloody prickly lot. Keep your men in line around them, and for the love of the gods, stay away from the Tervingi women.” 

###

Malaric strolled into Cravenlock’s Town main square, keeping a calm smile on his face. None of these townsmen posed a threat to him. Yet both Molly Cravenlock and the Guardian would recognize him…and they would try to kill him on sight. 

Best to be cautious. 

He threaded his way around a cart. Cravenlock Town had grown drastically, with people packing every street and alley. Malaric supposed the rural peasants had fled to the safety of the town’s walls, first from the Malrag horde, and then from the runedead. 

Which meant a great many people would witness the death of Mazael Cravenlock. 

Malaric examined the square with a critical eye. A domed church, built in the style of Old Dracaryl, stood on one end of the square, and a tall three-story inn on the other. The houses of the town’s wealthy residents occupied the other two sides. Carpenters worked in the center of the square, assembling a wooden dais. 

It seemed that Mazael had adopted one of the customs of the barbarians, a curious practice called a “moot.” In a moot, the Tervingi gathered and presented their petitions to their lord, who was expected to resolve them. Malaric thought it the idea ridiculous. The commoners were vermin, and needed to be led by a strong ruler. The thought of letting them have a say in their own governance was preposterous. 

Still, that meant the town’s square, and the surrounding streets, would be packed with people. 

Making it all the easier to unleash the kind of chaos that Malaric had in mind.

He smiled and went to rejoin the calibah. 

###

That night Malaric traveled across the darkened plains of the Grim Marches, his hand resting on the leather bag holding Corvad’s skull. The skull’s power filled him with dark fire, and he used it to stride in and out of the shadows, covering miles in the space of a few moments. He laughed aloud for the exhilaration of it. 

Molly Cravenlock was a fool. She had been born with this power and made poor use of it. In Molly’s place, Malaric would have slain Mazael by now, and claimed the Grim Marches for himself.

His smiled widened. Barellion and Greycoast would be his…and Malaric had so many debts to repay. 

How sweet that would be.

A distant flare of green light caught his eye, and he came to a stop. 

He watched the light for a moment, then nodded and drew the feather-shaped dagger he had taken from Marstan’s lair. 

The rubies in its hilt throbbed with a dull red light.

Malaric strode into the shadows.

When he reappeared, a band of runedead stood before him. About forty, clad in the crumbling remnants of peasant clothing. The sigils of green fire blazed upon their foreheads, filling their dead eyes with green light.

As one they attacked Malaric.

He struck the nearest runedead, the dagger opening a bloodless gash on its gray forearm. The runedead trembled and went motionless. As it did, Malaric felt a mental link to the creature form in his thoughts. He sent a command through the link, and the runedead turned and attacked its fellows. 

Malaric strode in and out of the shadows, striking with the dagger at every step. Within moments he had all forty-seven runedead under his perfect control. One final stride through the shadows, and Malaric reappeared before them, the dagger in hand. 

He gazed at it in admiration.

In the Dark Elderborn tongue, it was called a caethweisyr, a dagger of enslavement. The ancient Dark Elderborn wizards had created them to bind creatures from the spirit world with a single touch. Shortly afterward, the wizards had discovered that the caethweisyrs also worked on other Dark Elderborn, and the resultant centuries of internecine warfare destroyed all the daggers. 

Almost all the daggers. 

Malaric wondered where Marstan had gotten this one. With it, Malaric could enslave creatures of the spirit world. He could also enslave magical creatures, such as the runedead. And he could use it to dominate mortals who wielded magical power. Though unlike spirits, they had a chance to resist, assuming the dagger’s wielder was weak of will. 

Malaric was not.

He tapped the flat of the caethweisyr against his palm a few times, thinking of Skalatan.

The San-keth cleric was in for a nasty surprise once Malaric returned. 

“Come,” he commanded his runedead, and led them towards Cravenlock Town.

###

Mazael slept, and in his sleep he dreamed.

He strode through the ruined black temple, the broken columns and the damaged walls towering over him like a forest. Intricate carvings covered the crumbling walls, weathered and worn by the years. The ruin looked like the High Elderborn temple atop Mount Tynagis. 

But this temple was black as the deepest night. 

Mazael stepped into what had been a vast cylindrical chamber topped by a huge dome. Only a few ragged fingers remained of the dome, and vast breaches marred the curving walls. Rubble lay heaped everywhere. A circular dais, a hundred yards across, lay in the center of the chamber.

And from that dais rose a pillar of crimson fire. 

When last Mazael had seen this place in his dreams, the pillar had been only a dozen yards across. Now it had swelled to almost forty, and poured into the writhing black clouds like a river of burning light. The floor trembled as the pillar pulsed, as if the power contained within threatened to blast the ruined temple to dust. 

A man wrapped in a black robe stood at the edge of the platform, gazing into the crimson light. He turned his head, his profile outlined against the bloody glare. He had a hooked nose and a lean, gaunt face, his brown hair streaked with gray at the temples.

“Father,” said Mazael.

The man turned his face. He had gray eyes, identical in shape and color to Mazael’s…but a crimson glare shone deep within them.

“Why, Mazael,” said the Old Demon. “Such a surprise.” 

They regarded each other in silence for a moment. 

“I suppose it is not surprising,” said the Old Demon, “that you should be drawn here involuntarily.” He titled his head to the side. “Unless you came for the pleasure of my company.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Mazael. “If I ever see you again in the waking world, I will kill you.”

The Old Demon laughed. “Do you know how often I have heard that over the centuries? Over the millennia? So many men and women have vowed to kill me, so many have made my destruction their life’s work…and yet I am still here, and they are not.” The crimson glare in his eyes brightened, and for a moment the teeth behind his grin looked like black, twisted fangs. “There is a lesson in that, I would think.” 

“Bold words,” said Mazael, “from a man who will not confront me in the flesh.”

The Old Demon scoffed. “And just how do you think I have survived this long?” He turned to gaze at the throbbing pillar of flame. “Lucan did better than I expected.”

“Lucan?” said Mazael. “Lucan is dead. What does he have to do with anything?”

“That statement is entirely correct,” said the Old Demon. “Lucan is dead. But you were there, were you not, for the Great Rising? You stopped it before he could finish. But his runedead…ah, his runedead killed so many Demonsouled.”

“He was telling the truth, then,” said Mazael.

“Of course,” said the Old Demon. “His runedead killed almost all of the weaker ones. And when they were slain, their power returned here, to where it all began.”

“That’s why I keep seeing this place in my dreams,” said Mazael, looking at the pillar of fire. “That fire…that’s the power of the slain Demonsouled, isn’t it?”

For the first time a hint of a frown appeared on the Old Demon’s gaunt face. 

“It gathers here when the Demonsouled are slain,” said Mazael. “So the fire draws me here when I sleep. Like a lodestone drawing an iron nail. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? All those Demonsouled you raised up and devoured over the centuries. All this violence and bloodshed. You’ve been raising Demonsouled and harvesting them. Like a peasant gorging himself on the fat of his pigs. All so you could gather this power here…and then claim it.”

The Old Demon laughed. “Is that what you think?” He flung out a hand. “Then go on. Claim the power. I won’t stop you. Take it. It’s yours.”

Mazael hesitated. He was not here physically, he knew, in this peculiar dream world. Yet he did not know what would happen if he touched that howling pillar of bloody fire. 

Nothing good, he suspected.

“You know nothing,” said the Old Demon.

“Whatever you intend,” said Mazael, “I will stop you.”

“You cannot,” said the Old Demon. “It has already begun. Events I put into motion centuries ago are at last coming to fruition. You can no more stop them than an ant could stop an avalanche.”

He gestured, and the black temple dissolved.

###

Mazael sat up, blinking sweat from his eyes.

His bedchamber in the King’s Tower of Castle Cravenlock was dark, a cool spring breeze coming through the balcony doors. Romaria lay curled beside him, looking up at him.

“What’s wrong?” she said. 

Mazael gazed at her for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

###

Morning dawned, and Mazael rode for Cravenlock Town, escorted by his knights, with Romaria, Molly, and Riothamus following him. 

He tried not to think on the dream of the strange black temple, but it would not leave his thoughts. 

“So the last time the Tervingi nation met in moot, you decided to invade the Grim Marches?” said Molly, scowling at her horse. She was an indifferent rider at best, and much preferred her own feet to a horse’s saddle. Which made sense, since she could travel far faster than any horse.

“Aye,” said Riothamus. He looked even more uncomfortable than Molly. The Tervingi preferred to fight on foot, and had no tradition of fighting from horseback. If not for that, they might have conquered the Grim Marches. “We thought he had found a new homeland in the mountains, safe from the Malrags…but they were waiting for us. Then Ragnachar convinced the moot to undertake the journey to the Grim Marches.”

“And here you are,” said Romaria. She rode with easy grace, her bastard sword slung over her back, a short bow and quiver waiting at her saddle. No one went unarmed in the Grim Marches.

Not since the Malrags, and not since the runedead. 

“And here we are,” said Riothamus. “Those of us who survived. Even if we must fight the runedead, I hope we can have peace. With each other, and with the neighboring lords.” 

Molly twisted in her saddle. “Do you hear that, father? Perhaps the moot will declare that we shall go to war. I hope they choose to invade Greycoast. I hear the weather is lovely this time of year.”