Soul of Swords (Book 7) (10 page)

But Lucan Mandragon was opening the Door of Souls, and the Door generated a tremendous amount of magical turbulence. Several weeks ago Skalatan had used a mistgate to bring a few thousand Aegonar warriors to Barellion. But Lucan had fed more power into the Door of Souls since then, and now Skalatan doubted he could open a mistgate large enough and powerful enough to transport even one man to Barellion. 

“I know this,” said Ryntald. “I, too, heed the wisdom of the Herald. You seidjar are not the only ones who have ears.” Korvager scowled at that, but the High King kept speaking. “Herald, I ask only for a small mistgate. One large enough to transport a few hundred men and the finished pontoons across the River of Lords. If they work quickly, they can assemble half of the bridge on the southern bank of the river, and the rest of the men can work from the north. If we act with haste, we can have half of the army across the river before the lords of Greycoast even realize their peril.”

“It is too great of a risk!” said Korvager. 

“We could do it, High Priest,” said Hjalsk. “If we assemble the pontoons, and then move them through a mistgate to the far bank, my lads and I could assemble them quickly enough. So long as the heathens do not interfere, it…” Korvager glared, and the carpenter fell silent beneath the High Priest’s venomous stare. 

“Yes, this is a risk,” said Ryntald. “But this is war, and every choice in battle offers no certainties, only different risks. A warrior would know this.” He turned away from the sneering Korvager and bowed in Skalatan’s direction. “Great Herald, I believe this is our best chance for success. We may indeed fail. But if we are to take Knightcastle as you commanded, then we must cross the River.”

Skalatan considered the High King’s words. A mistgate capable of crossing the River of Lords would likely have to transport the men a mile, perhaps a mile and a half. To maintain a stable mistgate over that distance through the Door's turbulence would be difficult, but within Skalatan’s capabilities. And Ryntald was correct. Skalatan had to reach Knightcastle as soon as possible. Lucan was aware of the threat to the north, and the revenant would take steps to prepare himself.

“I give my blessing,” said Skalatan, “to your plan, High King.”

Korvager’s face went still, and Ryntald bowed. 

“Proceed at once,” said Ryntald to Hjalsk. “The sooner we are across the river, the better.”

“It shall be as you command, High King,” said Hjalsk with a nervous glance at Korvager. The High Priest scowled, but made no objection. For all his power and authority, Korvager would not cross Skalatan’s will. Korvager had considerable magical might for a human, but Skalatan far exceeded his strength.

And Korvager truly believed in the glory of Sepharivaim.

“As we wait for the bridge,” said Ryntald, raising his voice to address the earls, “we shall tighten our hold on what we have already conquered. Hugh Chalsain is our foe for now, but this realm has many lords, and they may seek to test their steel against ours. Therefore our men shall raise earthen ringforts along the northern bank of the River of Lords, to be manned by trustworthy warriors.” 

Skalatan listened, his mind turning over his plans. Ryntald had the strategy well in hand, and there was no need for interference. Agantyr would have charged across the river at once and made straight for Barellion, determined to crush the remaining lords of Greycoast, but Ryntald was more cautious. He almost had the cold, logical mind of a San-keth.

A ghostly tingle brushed against his magical senses, and Skalatan turned his head back and forth, his tongue tasting the air.

“Great Herald?” said Nizius, reaching for his weapons. The other Aegonar backed away from him. The Aegonar loathed the changelings as half-breeds, yet feared them as servants of the San-keth. “Is something amiss?” 

“Yes,” said Skalatan, and he hissed a spell. His magical senses sharpened, and he detected a sudden pulse of necromantic force. “Prepare yourselves! The shadows come!”

Every man standing before the High King’s tent drew his sword, and Korvager and his seidjar cast spells. A cold wind blew through the Aegonar camp, carrying the sounds of alarm. Skalatan lifted his carrier’s hands and worked a spell of his own, green fire flaring around the skeletal fingers.

A moment later the first shadow rose out of the ground, moaning. 

The undead thing looked like a man fashioned out of gray mist and pulsing shadow. A symbol of pale green flame flickered in its chest, and Skalatan felt the necromantic force gathered within it. One touch from the creature could drain the life from any living thing, reducing a healthy young man to a withered husk in less than a heartbeat.

Korvager snarled and made a chopping motion, and a writhing serpent fashioned of purple flame burst from his fingers. The serpent stabbed through the heart of the shadow, and the creature dissolved in a puff of smoke.

The shadows were potent…but not that potent.

Dozens of them rose from the ground, filling the air with a baleful chorus of moans. Korvager and the other seidjar lifted their hands, sending blast after blast of dark magic into the undead shades. The touch of their magic reduced the shadows to wispy shreds, but still more of the creatures rose from the ground. Skalatan saw a dozen Aegonar warriors fall dead, transformed into withered corpses in a mere instant.

He hissed in annoyance. He needed these men alive to take Knightcastle.

Skalatan summoned more power, the air around his carrier rippling and snarling with green sparks. A few of the seidjar sent uneasy glances his way, but Skalatan ignored them and drew more power into his spell.

He disliked taking a direct hand himself. As much as he disagreed with the other San-keth clerics, he understood their preference for using servants rather than risking themselves in direction confrontation. Indeed, Skhath, Straganis, and Szegan had all sought to defeat Mazael Cravenlock themselves…and had paid the price for their pride. Skalatan suffered from no such delusions.

But he commanded magic greater than the power of every seidjar in the host combined…and despite the skills of his servants, sometimes the master had to take action himself. 

His spell reached its climax, and Skalatan thrust out his carrier’s hands, the skeletal fingers ablaze with green fire. A ring of emerald flame burst from him and exploded in all directions, destroying every shadow it touched. The fire passed through the living men without harm, but lingered around their swords and axes, sheathing the blades in ghostly fire. The necromantic fire was harmless to living men, but potent against the undead. A mighty cheer went up from the Aegonar warriors, and they attacked the shadows with glee. Steel sheathed in emerald fire sliced the shadows to wispy ribbons.

A few moments later the cold wind ended, and the attack was over.

Cries of victory came from the Aegonar camp, and Skalatan heard the warriors shouting his name. Korvager led his seidjar in a rumbling chant of praise to the serpent god. Only Ryntald remained quiet, his eyes troubled. 

“A victory, is it not?” said Skalatan. 

“Aye, great Herald,” said Ryntald, “but it is the fifth attack of these…creatures within the last fortnight. They are as chaff on the threshing floor beneath the might of your magic, but even you, great Herald, cannot be everywhere at once. We shall lose men if these attacks continue.”

“Indeed,” said Skalatan. “I urge you to vigilance, High King. I shall instruct Korvager to keep the seidjar dispersed throughout the camp, ready to respond should the shadows return. Sepharivaim’s priests must look over Sepharivaim’s chosen people.” And dispersing the seidjar would keep Korvager and Ryntald from each other’s throats, at least for a time. 

“Do you know what these shadows are, Herald?” said Ryntald. “And why they attack us?”

“I do,” said Skalatan. “Lucan Mandragon created them, though he knows it not.”

“The necromancer,” said Ryntald. “The one holding Knightcastle, and preventing Sepharivaim’s return through the Door of Souls.”

“Yes.” In a manner of speaking.

“Is there a more permanent way to defeat the shadows?” said Ryntald.

“The only way to stop them is to defeat Lucan Mandragon and return Sepharivaim to the mortal world,” said Skalatan. “Urge Hjalsk’s men to diligent labor, High King. We must reach Knightcastle as soon as possible. For these shadows are just a taste of the disaster that awaits if Lucan triumphs.”

And that, at least, was no lie.

Chapter 9 - Past and Present

As the sun set Mazael climbed to the walls of Castle Cravenlock and looked at the surrounding plains.

At the armies that filled those plains. 

Campfires sprang up here and there as the darkness fell. Almost all the lords and knights of the Grim Marches had come, and a city of tents encircled the castle. Mazael saw the banners of his vassals floating the wind. Men hurried back and forth, repairing arms and armor, making arrows, driving carts loaded with sacks of grain, and tending horses. The air smelled of too many men packed into too small of a location. 

North of the camp of the Grim Marches stood the encampment of the renegade lords and Justiciars from Knightreach. Five thousand knights, armsmen, Justiciar sergeants, and minor lords had fled from Lord Malden and Caldarus, and had gathered together under Gerald and Aidan. Mazael welcomed their aid. 

He needed every man who could wield a weapon.

Further north of the exiles lay the sprawling mass of the Tervingi encampment. Every headman and holdmistress had come at Mazael’s call, and thousands of thains awaited the war moot. Griffins circled overhead, exercised by their skythains, and shaggy brown shapes lumbered through the Tervingi camp. Mazael had seen firsthand the effectiveness of war mammoths in combat, and he intended to put them to better use than Ragnachar had ever done. 

“Riothamus will soon call the war moot,” said Mazael.

Romaria stood at his side, gazing at the assembled armies. “It seems like a formality. The Tervingi viewed Malaric’s attack as an insult to their hrould, and they will follow you into battle.”

“It is a necessary formality,” said Mazael. “Assuming Lucan does not kill us all, the Tervingi and the people of the Grim Marches will have to live together. Easy enough to do when facing Malrags and runedead. Harder in a time of peace. And it will be all the harder if we scorn the customs of the Tervingi.” 

“Some of their customs do not sit well with the people of the Grim Marches,” said Romaria. “The way they sacrifice animals to tell the omens, or build shrines to their ancestors, or how a headman can keep concubines in addition to his wife.”

“I know this,” said Mazael, “but we must start somewhere.”

To his surprise, she laughed and touched his arm. 

“You still plan for the future, for the welfare of your lands,” she said, “even in the face of a dire threat.”

“What else can I do?” said Mazael. “I did not seek to become the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, or the liege lord of the Grim Marches, but it happened nonetheless. These lands are in my care, and I must defend them, whether from the runedead or the Malrags or from strife between the Tervingi and the lords.” He gripped the battlements, the worn stone rough beneath his palms. “And from whatever the Old Demon intends to unleash with Lucan.” 

“We will face him together,” said Romaria. “As we have before.”

They had faced the Old Demon together once before, years ago, in this very castle. The confrontation had left Romaria dead upon the floor, and only the strange magic of her Elderborn soul had returned her to the world of the living. What would happen if they faced the Old Demon a second time?

“This time,” said Romaria, “you need not fear that you will fall to your father’s lies.”

Mazael frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know the Old Demon for what he is,” said Romaria. “And more, you know who and what you are. He cannot lie to you about that, not any longer. He cannot twist you into a monster like he did to Corvad and Ragnachar.”

“Or Morebeth,” said Mazael.

“Or Morebeth,” agreed Romaria.

“Have you seen her again?” said Mazael. “Since the day she warned you of the shadows? I have not seen her since.”

“No,” said Romaria.

Mazael shook his head. “I wonder if the Old Demon destroyed her. He would not be pleased that she shared secrets with us. Or perhaps the runeshadows found her.”

“Perhaps,” said Romaria. “Or maybe she is gathering her strength until she can manifest again. Or seeking out more of the Old Demon’s secrets in Cythraul Urdvul.”

“I am surprised that you believed her so readily,” said Mazael.

Romaria shrugged. “Why? Because you once shared a bed?”

Mazael blinked. “Well…yes.”

Romaria laughed. “You thought I was dead at the time. I can hardly blame you for that, can I? But I think I understand. There is something about Demonsouled blood that gives you a…charisma that is most hard to resist.”

She stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

“And,” she said once they broke apart, “why should a woman of flesh and blood fear a woman of spirit?” She leaned closer and whispered into his ear. “A spirit cannot warm your bed as I can, Mazael Cravenlock.”

“You always speak wisdom,” said Mazael, smiling as he took her hands.   

He led her from the battlements to their chambers in the King’s Tower.

###

Romaria’s eyes shot open.

She sat up, the blankets falling away, her eyes roving over the bedchamber. The first hints of dawn leaked through the balcony door. Mazael lay motionless next to her, his breathing slow and steady. Romaria stood, the stone floor cold against her bare feet, her heart pounding beneath her breasts.

Nothing was wrong. 

And yet…

“The Sight,” she whispered. 

Something buzzed at the corner of her Sight.

“Eh?” said Mazael, blinking. Despite her fear, Romaria smiled. After their exertions last night, little wonder Mazael was groggy.

“Something’s coming,” said Romaria. “Something from the south.” She shook her head, unbound black hair sliding against her shoulders. “I don’t know what it is. I think…”

Someone pounded at the door. Romaria snatched up a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, while Mazael stood and pulled on his clothing.

“Who is it?” he said.

“Rufus, my lord,” said Mazael’s squire. “Sir Tanam Crowley sends word. There are Elderborn coming from the south.”

“The banner,” Romaria heard herself say. “What banner do they fly?”

“A green shield upon a field of black, my lady,” said Rufus.

The banner of Deepforest Keep, the home she had left long ago.

###

A short time later Mazael rode south, Romaria at his side, surrounded by Sir Tanam Crowley’s scouts.

“Did the skythains find them?” said Mazael.

“I fear not, my lord,” said Tanam, a lean, wiry man with a nose that had been broken often. The Old Crow was the finest scout and commander of light horse in the Grim Marches. “The Elderborn were too stealthy for that. One of my lads spotted them, and came with the news at once.”

“Good work,” said Mazael.

“There haven’t been Elderborn seen north of the Great Southern Forest since Ultorin and his Malrags attacked,” said Tanam. “And before that, when Mitor ruled in Castle Cravenlock.” 

Mazael nodded. The first time, the Elderborn ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf, Sil Tarithyn, had come north in response to the Old Demon’s zuvembies. The second time a band of Elderborn led by Lord Athaelin Greenshield, Romaria’s father, had hunted Mazael during Ultorin’s attack. Athaelin had believed Mazael responsible for Romaria’s death, but had been convinced otherwise after Lucan’s spell repaired her damaged soul…

Lucan had helped save Romaria, repulse the Malrags, and defeat Morebeth. He had been a faithful friend through many dark battles, even as he stole Mazael’s blood to enhance his magic. Was that when Lucan’s fall had begun? Could Mazael have saved him, if he had paid closer attention?

“My lord?” said Tanam, shaking Mazael out of his dark thoughts. 

Mazael looked at Romaria, but she remained silent, her face a calm mask. 

“How many are there?” said Mazael.

“Five hundred Elderborn hunters, my lord,” said Tanam.

“An impressive number,” said Mazael. “There cannot be more than two or three thousand Elderborn scattered throughout the Great Southern Forest.” It was all that remained, Romaria had told him, of the Elderborn who had remained faithful, who had renounced the Dark Elderborn when the Demonsouled arose. 

“And a thousand men are with them,” said Tanam. “Spearmen of Deepforest Keep, I think.”

“If they come to join us,” said Mazael, “then they are welcome.” 

He did not know what had drawn them north, but he could guess. The Great Rising would have touched the Great Southern Forest and Deepforest Keep. Perhaps the Sight of the Elderborn druids had revealed the darkness to the west, had seen that the Old Demon planned to seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself. Certainly Ardanna, Romaria’s mother and the High Druid of the Elderborn, would have the Sight…

Mazael realized why Romaria looked so grim.

“Here they are, my lord,” said Tanam, reining up his horse.

Mazael stopped and looked at the Elderborn host across the plains.

Five hundred Elderborn archers, clad in fur and leather, stood watching him. Every last one carried a tall composite bow. Mazael had seen the skill of those archers at Deepforest Keep, and he knew they could have killed him in a heartbeat if they wished. Besides the archers waited the militia spearmen of Deepforest Keep, armored in leather, spears and shields in hand. 

Between the two groups stood a dozen men and women clad in robes of ragged fur adorned with amulets of bone, staffs of oak in their right hands. In their midst waited a young man in chain mail, a bastard sword slung over his shoulder, a round bronze shield with a greenish patina upon his arm. 

“Tanam,” said Mazael, voice quiet. “Wait here for us.” 

He spurred his horse forward, Romaria following. 

The man in chain mail strode forward with a grin. He was in his late twenties, with the same thick black hair and glacial blue eyes as Romaria. A bronze diadem carved with sigils rested upon his black hair. When Mazael had last seen that diadem, it had been upon Romaria’s head, the sigils flaring with light as she awoke the traigs from their long slumber and saved Deepforest Keep from Ultorin’s Malrag horde.

“Sister,” said Rhodemar Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep. “You’re looking well.” 

Romaria laughed, slipped from the saddle, and caught her half-brother in an embrace. “As are you, Rhodemar. The diadem suits you.”

“Gods of the old world!” said Rhodemar. “If I had known how much work was involved, I would have glued the damn thing to your head. I do nothing but listen to complaints all day, and…”

One of the druids walked forward, her staff tapping against the ground. She had the ageless face of the Elderborn, but her golden eyes and pointed ears gave her an alien aspect. Her bone amulets rattled as she walked, and her strange eyes fixed upon them. 

“You see,” said Rhodemar, voice quiet, “what I mean.”

“Rhodemar,” said Ardanna, the High Druid of the Elderborn of the Great Southern Forest. “See to your men. I must have words with the Lord of the Grim Marches.” The golden eyes shifted to Romaria. “And with my daughter.”

“As you will, High Druid,” said Rhodemar with a bow.

He walked to the spearmen, leaving Mazael alone with his wife and her mother. 

“Mother,” said Romaria, voice flat.

“When last we spoke,” said Ardanna, “you told me to shut up, that you were sick of my voice. I will say that it is mutual. I am sick of the sight of you, and I am weary of your voice. You are an abomination, and you should have never been born.”

“Even though,” said Mazael, “she saved Deepforest Keep? Given that your head is not impaled upon a Malrag spear, High Druid, your words seem a touch ungrateful.”

Ardanna bristled, but to Mazael’s surprise, Romaria burst out laughing. 

“You find me funny?” said Ardanna.

“Quite,” said Romaria. “Mother, we detest each other, but it is a long journey from Deepforest Keep, and you did not come all this way simply to repeat facts we already know.” 

“Then you know why I am here?” said Ardanna.

“Yes,” said Romaria. “You have come because of the Old Demon, have you not?” 

Ardanna closed her eyes and sighed.

“It is so,” said the High Druid. “Malavost murdered the Seer, but all druids of the Elderborn possess some degree of the Sight. And with our Sight, we have seen the same thing. The ancient evil that you call the Old Demon, that we name the Hand of Chaos, victorious at last. We see the world enslaved to his will, the living and the dead both, his victims and playthings forevermore. We see this coming to pass, unless we aid the only one who can defeat him.”

“Who?” said Mazael.

“You,” said Ardanna. “The last son of the Old Demon. Yes, Lord of the Grim Marches, I see you for what you truly are. You alone stand between the Hand of Chaos and eternal victory. I see you facing him with a sword of blue fire through your heart.”

“Through my heart?” said Mazael. That made no sense.

“Visions are often symbolic,” said Romaria.

“Do not presume to instruct me in the Sight,” said Ardanna. “The future is unknown. Yet the Sight reveals many potential futures, and all the potential futures converge upon you, Mazael Cravenlock. If the Old Demon succeeds, he shall become a horror beyond imagination, with power unlike anything seen in the history of this world. He will inflict an endless night of torment upon every generation, both those living and dead. Unless you stop him.” 

“Because I am his son,” said Mazael, voice quiet.

“You are,” said Ardanna. She lifted her staff and pointed it at his belt. “And because of the weapon you bear. My ancestors forged that weapon long ago, imbued it with the last of their power. It is a blade created to destroy the Old Demon.” She lowered her staff and shook her head. “We are the descendants of the High Elderborn, my kin and I, but we are not their equals in learning or skill or magic. So much knowledge and power was lost through their folly. But those who remained faithful, those who did not turn to the worship of the darkness, imbued the last of their power in artifacts to fight the Demonsouled.”

“The Guardian’s staff,” said Mazael.

Ardanna nodded. “And your sword.” She drew herself up. “The tribes of the Elderborn and the men of Deepforest Keep have come to aid you. Because you stand opposed to the Hand of Chaos, and without aid, you will surely fail. Therefore we shall place ourselves at your disposal.”