Soul of Swords (Book 7) (8 page)

“Whatever that was,” said Sir Hagen, “it didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Mazael nodded, and saw dozens of the gray shadows appear in the courtyard, the sigils within their bodies glowing like firelight reflected off a cloudy sky. 

“To arms!” roared Mazael, turning to face the other men. “To arms! We are attacked! To arms!” 

He raced through the men, slapping Lion’s blade against their weapons. Arnulf’s massive axe blazed with azure flame, as did Toric’s short sword and Hagen’s blade, and soon the swords in the courtyard shone with blue fire. 

But Mazael was still too slow.

A shadow touched one of Arnulf’s spearthains, a skinny youth of perhaps twenty. The boy screamed, his face gaining years even as Mazael watched, and a withered corpse collapsed to the courtyard earth, the spear rolling away. Arnulf roared and swiped his axe through the shadow, and it dissolved into gray smoke. 

“Beware the shadows!” shouted Hagen, cutting through two of them. “Their touch is deadly! Beware!” 

Mazael cut through the shadows, Lion ablaze in his fist. Again and again they disintegrated beneath Lion’s touch, but it was like trying to fight fog. Scores of the creatures rose moaning from the earth, and Mazael saw more of his men fall. He cursed and struck down another, and then another…

A black blur shot over the courtyard wall and landed next to Mazael, and he glimpsed a great black wolf with icy blue eyes and fangs like ivory daggers. Then the wolf flowed away, and Romaria stood at his side, her bastard sword in hand. He struck Lion against her weapon, and the blue fire leapt to her blade. Together they carved their way through the shadows, fighting back to back. 

At Hagen’s bellowed command, the armsmen and the thains formed themselves into a square, keeping their backs to each other and their blades facing the foe. The shadows milled around them like a misty sea, but more of them rose from the earth.

A flare of golden light reached Mazael’s eye, and he saw Riothamus on the curtain wall, his bronze staff radiant with golden light. The Guardian wrapped both hands around his staff, raised it high, and slammed it against the rampart.

There was a thunderclap, and a sheet of brilliant golden flame erupted from the staff and sliced into the courtyard. It passed through the living men, leaving them unharmed. But the shadows turned into puffs of smoke at its touch. Riothamus swept the staff before him, and the golden flame devoured the shadows.

Silence fell over the courtyard, and the blue flames vanished from Lion’s blade, the air growing warmer.

The fight was over. 

###

“Runeshadows,” said Mazael with a scowl.

He stood in the courtyard, listening to the reports. In addition to the attack upon the castle, a dozen of the creatures had manifested within the walls of Cravenlock Town, Fortunately, Molly had been there, speaking with the town’s bailiff, and had kept her wits about her. Using flasks of wizard’s oil, they had ignited their blades and destroyed the shadows.

“Runeshadows?” said Riothamus, shrugging. “I don’t know what they’re called, but the name fits.”

Molly frowned. “You don’t know what these things are?”

Riothamus shook his head. “I fear not. I have never encountered undead like this before…nor have any of the other Guardians.”

Mazael looked at Romaria.

“I’ve seen more undead that I care to remember,” said Romaria. “Wraiths and shades and other things. But never undead like this.”

Molly scowled. “More of Lucan’s pets. He must have created them and sent them after Gerald.”

“Toric sent a skythain to check on Gerald,” said Mazael. “But if the runeshadows were after Gerald, why come here? Or why come to Cravenlock Town?”

“Perhaps they were following Lord Gerald?” said Timothy. “Like bloodhounds upon a trail?”

“Gerald hasn’t been to Cravenlock Town since he arrived,” said Mazael. 

“Lucan may be responsible for the runeshadows,” said Riothamus, “but not directly.”

“Then he made these things by…accident?” said Mazael, frowning. “They have the same sigil as the runedead.” 

“I think the runeshadows are a form of shade,” said Riothamus. “A shade is simply the echo left behind by a dead man, pulled into the mortal world by necromancy. But I suspect the runeshadows are created by the destruction of a runedead.”

Mazael tapped his fist against his leg. “We’ve destroyed thousands of runedead since the Great Rising. If we faced a runeshadow for every runedead we destroyed, the Grim Marches would be overrun by the things.”

“I do not have an explanation,” said Riothamus. “Perhaps runeshadows are only created when a runedead is destroyed using magic.”

Hagen growled. “The shadows are dangerous, aye…but less dangerous than the runedead, my lord. Their touch is fatal, but they are not as fast as runedead, and once they lose the element of surprise they are simple enough to dispatch.”

The air flickered, and Mazael saw Morebeth’s spirit standing next to Sir Hagen.

He looked at her, as did Romaria.

“I do not know what they are,” said Morebeth. “Some form of undead, yes. But I know not how they were created. I see a dark shadow hanging over Knightcastle…and these creatures are wisps of that greater shadow. But how they were wrought, I do not know.”

She vanished without another word. 

“Sir Hagen, Timothy,” said Mazael. “Make sure that every man has at least one flask of wizard’s oil. Lion’s fire can deal with the runeshadows easily enough, but I cannot be everywhere. If those shadows return, I want the men to be able to defend themselves.” 

“What will we do if those shadows return, hrould?” said Arnulf.

“Then we’ll fight them off,” said Mazael. His fist tightened, the Demonsouled rage simmering just beneath his thoughts. “But the runeshadows are only tools, just like the runedead. This isn’t over until we march on Knightcastle and throw down Lucan Mandragon.”

And, if Morebeth was right, stopped whatever plan the Old Demon had worked. The runedead and runeshadows were only the tools of Lucan…but it seemed that Lucan himself was just the tool of the Old Demon.

Mazael would stop his father.

Whatever the cost to himself.

Chapter 7 - Embassies

Lucan walked to the High Court. 

Lord Malden had summoned him. Malden often summoned him, usually when the Lord of Knightcastle wanted to complain how his vassals and his sons had forsaken him. Lucan played along, since Malden’s fits ended with the Lord of Knightcastle killing more victims with his black dagger.

Feeding ever more power into the Door of Souls. 

But this summons had a tone of urgency to it. Had something gone amiss? 

Could Sir Gerald and the traitorous lords had gathered allies and launched an attack sooner than Lucan had anticipated? It seemed unlikely, but if Gerald was that bold, then so be it – Lucan would crush him. 

But Lucan’s actions had gained him more dangerous enemies than Sir Gerald Roland. Malaric might have returned at Skalatan’s bidding. Or Skalatan himself might interfere with Lucan’s plans. Or one of the remaining Demonsouled might have learned of Lucan’s goals and come to stop him. If he was successful, he would destroy both the power gathered in Cythraul Urdvul and any Demonsouled who had survived the Great Rising. 

The surviving Demonsouled, perhaps even the Old Demon himself, might try to stop Lucan. 

But he had his magic, both the well of stolen Demonsouled power and the knowledge and strength he had stolen from Randur Maendrag. He had the Banurdem and the Glamdaigyr, and control over tens of thousands of runedead.

He was ready to face any attackers. 

Lucan reached the parapet. Lord Malden and Grand Master Caldarus stood there, surrounded by a ring of Justiciar knights. The Justiciars shied away as Lucan approached, and he stopped next to Malden.

“You summoned me, my lord?” said Lucan.

“Yes.” Malden pointed over the rampart. “It seems that we have guests.”

Lucan saw a band of about twenty horsemen riding hard for the gates of Knightcastle. The riders wore shirts of scale mail, their faces concealed behind bushy red beards. The lead rider carried a great crimson banner adorned with a stylized S. 

“Why are they carrying a banner with a letter on it?” said Caldarus, amused.

“It’s not a letter,” said Lucan. “It is a serpent. My lords, it seems you have received an embassy from the Aegonar.”

Caldarus and Malden looked at him.

Lucan had heard the stories carried by peasants fleeing from Greycoast, though he had not concerned himself. The Aegonar had raided the shores of Travia and Greycoast and Knightreach for centuries, but now a great host of the pirates had landed in Greycoast and seized much of the land north of the River of Lords. Some of the tales claimed that the Aegonar High King had slain the Prince and seized Barellion for himself. Others said that the bastard Malaric had butchered his family, seized the throne of Barellion, and offered up the land to the Aegonar. That did not surprise Lucan. Malaric had served him well, but Lucan knew his former ally would murder his own father for a scrap of power – and had a grudge the size of the Grim Marches against the man. 

But most of the tales claimed that the Aegonar worshipped Sepharivaim. There had always been San-keth proselytes in the realm, offering sacrifices to Sepharivaim in secret rooms and cellars and forgotten ruins. But an entire nation of proselytes was something new.

And something, Lucan had to admit, that should concern him. 

Skalatan had made him an offer of alliance, one that Malaric had taken but that Lucan had spurned. Lucan would not aid the San-keth. He wanted to free mankind from the scourge of the Demonsouled, but the San-keth were almost as great of a blight upon the world. And the fact that the Aegonar invasion had followed Skalatan’s offer was too great of a coincidence to ignore. 

Skalatan wanted something. But what? He claimed he desired to destroy the Demonsouled as well, but Lucan doubted it was so simple. 

“We should send out men,” said Caldarus, shaking Lucan out of his thoughts, “and cut these heathen savages down.”

“Why?” said Malden. “They have offered no insult, no hostility. And I suspect they have come as ambassadors.”

“All the rumors agree that these Aegonar are worshippers of the serpent god,” said Caldarus. “Such vile men are not accorded the protections of the civilized.” His gray eyes glittered with anticipation, and his hand strayed to the black dagger at his belt. “Let us slaughter them all, and march north and cleanse Greycoast of them. The mission of the Justiciar Order is to defend the realm from dark magic and the worshippers of the serpent…and the Aegonar are deserving of our wrath.”

Malden started to nod, and Lucan saw the danger. The addiction to stolen life energies had not improved Malden’s self-control, and if the Lord of Knightcastle saw the chance for conquest and glory to the north (along with the chance to feast on life energies) the temptation might overrule his thinking. He might ignore the threat of Mazael entirely…and Mazael could march on Knightcastle before Lucan opened the Door of Souls. 

“Perhaps, my lord, Grand Master,” said Lucan, “you should meet with the Aegonar ambassadors first.”

Caldarus scowled. “Why?”

“Because the realm needs the protection of the Lord of Knightcastle and the Grand Master of the Justiciars,” said Lucan, “and it is easier to protect them if they respect you. And no man respects a lord who murders ambassadors.”

Though he suspected the wanton slaughter of innocent villagers had already destroyed their reputation. But the standing of the Lord of Knightcastle and the Grand Master of the Justiciars was not Lucan’s concern. 

“But they are San-keth proselytes,” said Caldarus, “and deserve neither mercy nor respect.”

“Then show the realm,” said Lucan, “how civilized men are superior to the heathen Aegonar.”

“Very well,” said Lord Malden, turning to one of the knights. “Send word to my armsmen. We shall meet our…guests in the Hall of Triumph.”

###

Lucan stood by the dais and watched the Aegonar embassy approach Lord Malden’s seat.

The Aegonar warriors looked formidable enough. They wore shirts of scale mail and bronze helmets fashioned in the shape of serpents’ heads, the fangs forming a guard for their faces. The warriors carried axes slung over their backs and broadswords at their belts. At their head walked an older man in gilded scale armor, his red beard shot through with gray, his face a mask of cold arrogance. 

Behind the warriors came a gaunt figure in a gray robe, sparks of green light flaring around the hem and sleeves. 

Lucan stared at the robed shape.

“Come forward!” said Lord Malden’s herald, an elderly knight with a resonant voice. “You stand in the presence of Malden, Lord of Knightcastle and liege lord of Knightreach, and Caldarus, Grand Master of the Justiciar Order of Knights.”

The Aegonar in gilded armor stepped forward. “I am Skaljar.” His rough voice echoed off the ceiling, and he looked at Malden and Caldarus with ill-concealed contempt. “I am an Earl of the Aegonar nation, a sword-bearer and companion of the High King and Anointed of Sepharivaim.”

The robed figure turned its head towards Lucan. In the depths of the cowl he saw a faint green glow, saw light reflecting off yellow eyes.

The gaze of a San-keth priest.

“Then tell me, Skaljar of the Aegonar,” said Malden. “Why have you come to Knightcastle?”

“To demand your vassalage and conversion,” said Skaljar. 

Caldarus bristled with fury, but Malden raised his hand.

“This ought to be amusing,” he said, his tone that of a man indulging a spoiled child. “Please, my lord earl. Do continue.”

“Long ago the Heralds of Sepharivaim came to the Aegonar,” said Skaljar, “and spread the truth of Sepharivaim among us. We are the chosen people of Sepharivaim, and we shall bring the entire world to kneel before his altars.” He glowered at Malden. “Either you shall join us of your own will, as vassals and allies…or you shall join us at the point of the sword as slaves. The choice is yours.”

Malden raised his eyebrows. “I assume you have demands?”

“You will swear oaths of vassalage to Ryntald, High King of the Aegonar and the Anointed of Sepharivaim,” said Skaljar. “You will then aid the High King in his wars against his foes, though you will be allowed to rule over your lands as you wish, provided you supply the necessary levies and taxes for the High King. Additionally, you will command that temples to Sepharivaim be built in every town and village in your domain.”

“Preposterous!” said Caldarus, stepping forward. “I am the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order, and I will not allow this!”

“The Justiciars?” said Skaljar. “And who are they?”

“We are an Order of holy knights, sworn to defend the realm from dark magic and the vile worshippers of the serpent god,” said Caldarus. The Aegonar scowled at the insult. “And I will not permit the abominable worship of the serpent to spread into Knightreach!”

“Nor will I,” said Malden, “surrender my authority. The Lord of Knightcastle is the ruler of Knightreach, and no one else.”

“Then you invite destruction,” said Skaljar.

“Dare you to threaten the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order?” 

The hooded figure beckoned to Lucan. 

The hand reaching from the gray robe was a skeletal human hand, bound together by flickering sparks of green light. 

Lucan circled around the Aegonar as the robed figure walked towards the wall. Lucan followed, listening with half an ear as Caldarus launched in a long speech about the strength of the Justiciar Order. Gods, but that man loved the sound of his own voice. 

The robed figure stopped, and inside the cowl Lucan saw a large, wedge-shaped head covered in red and black scales, the black-slit yellow eyes watching him without blinking. A forked tongue flickered in and out of the serpent’s mouth, tasting the air. 

“Skalatan,” said Lucan.

“Lucan Mandragon,” said the San-keth archpriest in a dusty, hissing voice, like dried leaves rattling over the floor of a crypt.

“You’re not really here,” said Lucan. He waved his hand, and his fingers passed through the robed figure’s chest, the image rippling. “An illusionary projection, and nothing more.”

“It seemed,” said Skalatan, “a prudent precaution.”

“Indeed,” said Lucan. “What do you want?” He glanced at the dais, where Caldarus continued his angry speech. “I assume this mummer’s show has a purpose?” 

“Yes,” said Skalatan. “You have been busy since we last met. I expected Caraster to destroy the armies of Knightcastle and take the castle for himself. Instead I find that you have destroyed Caraster and claimed his runedead for your own.”

“And you have been just as busy,” said Lucan. “Invading Greycoast and putting Malaric upon the throne of Barellion? Quite a feat, given how…ineffective the San-keth often are.”

“Not as great of a feat as I wished,” said Skalatan. “Malaric failed to kill Mazael Cravenlock, and Mazael came to Greycoast, slew Malaric, and made Hugh Chalsain the new Prince of Barellion. My plan failed. I desired for the Aegonar to seize Greycoast and Malaric to become Prince while the runedead conquered Knightcastle. Then it would be a simple matter to destroy Caraster and claim Knightcastle.” His tongue stabbed at the air. “Instead the Aegonar hold only half of Greycoast, and you control Knightcastle.”

“And why,” said Lucan, “do you desire Knightcastle?”

“Do not prevaricate,” said Skalatan. “You know the truth as well as I do. The last remaining Door of Souls lies beneath Knightcastle.”  

“How do you know that?” said Lucan. 

“I assumed you obtained the knowledge from Randur Maendrag,” said Skalatan. “Who do you think told him about the Door?” 

“And what shall you do with the Door?” said Lucan.

“I will enter Cythraul Urdvul,” said Skalatan, “claim the power of the Demonsouled for myself, and become the new Sepharivaim.”

“Will you?” said Lucan. “Malavost tried to use the Door of Souls atop Mount Tynagis to claim the power of Sepharivaim, and look what happened to him.”

“Malavost was misinformed,” said Skalatan. “Sepharivaim is dead.”

“I see why the other San-keth consider you a heretic,” said Lucan.

“They lack vision and are enslaved to their narrow dogmas,” said Skalatan. “Sepharivaim has been dead for millennia, and my people worship the memory of a slain god. A useless folly. Instead I will become the new god and set this world to order.”

Lucan scoffed. “And you shall make yourself a tyrant as black as any of the Demonsouled.”

“Hardly,” said Skalatan. “The minds of humans are…conflicted, warring between their reason and their emotions. The mind of a San-keth is cold. Orderly. Rational. This world is a place of chaos and madness. With the power of the Demonsouled, I shall remake this world as a place of rationality and order. To the benefit of the San-keth, yes. But also to the benefit of the humans and the Elderborn and the other sapient races that live upon this world.”

“And why are you telling me this?” said Lucan. “You all but admitted that you are going to march the Aegonar south to claim Knightcastle. I assume you have a reason for explaining your entire plan to me?”

“Correct,” said Skalatan. “I wish for you to aid me.” 

For a moment Lucan was not sure he had heard the San-keth correctly.

“Aid you?” said Lucan. “Are you serious? You actually expect me to aid you?”

“I do, if you can be made to see reason,” said Skalatan. “You have seen firsthand the carnage the Demonsouled have wrought, the chaos their power has unleashed.”

“Which is why I shall destroy that power,” said Lucan.

Caldarus’s voice rang over the Hall of Triumph in outrage. “Again and again the Justiciar Order has been the shield of mortal men from the dangers of dark magic! And you expect us to simply…”

“It is unlikely that you will destroy the power,” said Skalatan. “Rather, help me take the power for myself. I shall be the god this world needs. A human can be corrupted by power. I need not cite the example of the Demonsouled. But the mind of a San-keth is cold and logical, and I shall remake this world according to logic. No more war, no more famine, no more disease. I shall do all this and more.”

“You would be wise to submit, Grand Master, Lord Malden,” said Skaljar. “Already all of Greycoast is overrun, and soon we shall move south!”