Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (13 page)

Molly dropped from her saddle, relieved.

She detested horses. She was only a mediocre rider at best, and she loathed fighting from horseback. 

She couldn’t walk through the shadows when she sat atop a horse.

The mammoths thundered towards Mazael’s lines, and she felt a thrill of terror. Gods, but those things were huge. How could she possibly face them? 

Then the Demonsouled rage filled her, and she welcomed it. 

Molly sprinted forward, sword in her right hand, dagger in her left. The growling hymn of the barbarians thundered in her ears, and the archers on the mammoths looked toward her.

She saw them raise their bows.

Molly took another two steps and sprang into the shadows.

Darkness swallowed her.

She reappeared atop the nearest mammoth, standing on the edge of the platform. The archers turned towards her, stunned. The driver sat below her, perched on a leather saddle between the mammoth’s broad back and its enormous head. 

The archers raised their bows, and Molly stepped off the platform. She landed behind the driver, plunging her sword and dagger into his back. The man stiffened, eyes bulging, and Molly kicked him off her blades and sent him plummeting to the ground. 

The reins fell, and the mammoth continued its course.

The archers drew their bows, and Molly whirled and stepped into the shadows. 

She reappeared atop the next mammoth, perhaps twenty yards from the first beast. Again Molly jumped from the platform, her blade ripping into the mammoth’s driver. The man fell dead, taking the reins with him. The archers bellowed and aimed at her, and Molly sprang back into the shadows.

She reappeared atop the back of a third mammoth and killed another driver.

And another. And still another.

###

Romaria watched the shadows flicker atop the mammoths as Molly jumped from beast to beast, cutting down driver after driver. The woman’s training at the hands of the Skulls, coupled with her Demonsouled strength and ability to walk through the shadows, made her into an brutally efficient killer. In a matter of moments, Molly had killed all eight drivers. 

Not that it mattered, since the mammoths continued their plodding charge at Mazael’s lines.

Darkness swirled in front of their horses, and Molly reappeared, blood dripping from her weapons.

“Done,” she said.

Mazael nodded. “Aulus.”

Aulus lifted his war horn and blew a long blast. In one smooth motion, the horse archers broke offer their attacks and galloped back.

The mammoths lumbered after them.

“Romaria,” said Mazael.

She nodded, dropped from her saddle, and changed even before she struck the ground.

She reached into herself, into the raw earth magic of the Elderborn half of her soul, and took the shape of the great black wolf. The nearby horses nickered and shifted in sudden fear, and Romaria darted forward, racing across the plains. 

She made straight for the nearest group of mammoths.

The great beasts outweighed her by many tons, and could crush her with a single stamp of their massive legs. Yet they were still herd animals, and a wolf was a predator. Romaria raced past the mammoths, growling, and the beasts reacted with fear. Their trunks curled in alarm, and they reared up on their hind legs, trumpeting. The archers on the platforms scrambled for balance, and a few tumbled to the ground. 

And with the drivers dead, the barbarians could not steer the mammoths. 

Romaria darted close enough to sink her fangs into a mammoth’s hind leg, the musky taste of its fur filling her mouth. The beast bellowed in rage, trying to catch her, but she was already moving. The mammoths veered in circles, two attempting to trample her, while the other two fled. 

Romaria ran in front of the shield wall, making for the second group of mammoths. As she did, she saw brilliant flashes of light. Lucan and Timothy had unleashed their magic, throwing bursts of light into the air before the mammoths’ eyes. A simple spell, but the mammoths reacted with panic. Romaria darted through the second group of mammoths, and the beasts trumpeted with terror.

One mammoth turned to flee and forced its way through the barbarian shield wall, the ranks dissolving in sudden panic. 

The barbarians’ song faltered. 

###

Mazael watched the mammoths wheel in terror.

“Sir Aulus,” he said, pointing Lion.

Aulus nodded and blew his war horn. 

The horse archers turned, riding towards the panicking mammoths. Fires flared among the militiamen as they lit torches. Only fire and magic harmed the undead, so Mazael had commanded that all the men in his service carry the means to set their weapons ablaze. The men grumbled at that, but had soon come to see the wisdom of it.

The archers raised their bows and loosed a storm of flaming arrows at the mammoths. 

The panicked mammoths screamed in fear and stampeded in all directions. Some took off for the open plains, a few archers still clinging to the platforms. One thundered towards Mazael’s men. Sir Hagen shouted orders, and the horsemen parted to let the enraged mammoth through. The beast passed through untouched, and kept running once it passed Mazael’s lines. 

The rest stampeded into the barbarian shield wall.

A yell of panic went up from the barbarians, their formation dissolving into chaos. The men scrambled to get out of the mammoths’ paths, falling into each other. Some were not fast enough, and found themselves crushed beneath the mammoths’ massive feet.

Mazael’s blood thundered in anticipation.

“Now, Aulus,” he said, his voice icy calm.

Aulus blew a long, ringing blast on his horn. 

The knights and armsmen surged forward, the horse archers veering off. Mazael rode at their head, a shield on his left arm, Lion gleaming in his right. Behind him galloped the knights, their lances lowered to present a solid wall of razor steel. 

The barbarians, to their credit, tried to recover. Some of them began shouting commands in their tongue, and the spearmen tried to form themselves into a semblance of a line. 

But it was too late.

The horsemen crashed into the barbarians, trampling them beneath steel-shod hooves. A ragged-haired barbarian in chain mail thrust a spear at Mazael. He caught the point on his shield, twisted, and brought Lion around in an underhanded slash. The sword’s point tore open the barbarian’s throat, and the man fell beneath the churning hooves of the horses. 

The entire barbarian formation collapsed, the men fleeing. Mazael struck again and again, Lion a gleaming blur in his fist, his arm running red with blood. Some of the barbarians charged at him, but his Demonsouled blood filled him with strength and power. Even those who managed to land blows found their weapons turned by the golden dragon scales of his armor. Mazael slew and slew, his blood singing with dark joy.

Eventually, he forced himself to stop. 

“Hold!” roared Mazael. He galloped to his banners, to Sir Aulus and Sir Hagen. “Hold! Aulus! Call formation.”

Aulus obeyed, blasting out the call to reform on his war horn. Reluctantly, Mazael’s men returned, organizing themselves back into formation at the foot of Redcrest’s hill. The remaining barbarians fled in all directions, desperate to get away from the horsemen. 

“We should ride them down and destroy them utterly, my lord,” said Hagen.

“We could,” said Mazael, “but we won’t. They’ll go running back to their chieftains, spreading terror and fear. Perhaps that will make them think twice before raiding again.” Or, more likely, it would inspire their leaders to gather their forces, giving Lord Richard the chance to smash them utterly. 

“A solid victory, my lord,” said Hagen.

Mazael looked over the battlefield. A few of his men had fallen in the fighting, but hundreds of the barbarians lay dead, their bodies torn and trampled by blade and hoof. A wave of nausea went through Mazael. 

He had done this. 

Aye, the barbarians had attacked his lands and people, and deserved nothing but destruction – and Mazael had destroyed them. And he had enjoyed destroying them, had reveled in it.

Molly was right. He was a monster. 

He shook aside the thought. He could brood later. He had a duty to defend his lands and people. 

“Sir Hagen,” said Mazael. “Detail some men to see to the bodies. I’d prefer not to have plague spreading through my lands. Send some of Sir Tanam's lads to keep an eye on the fleeing barbarians. If they try to reform and make mischief, I want to know.” 

“My lord,” said Hagen, turning to carry out his commands.

Mazael dropped from the saddle and walked to Molly and Romaria, who had resumed her human form. In her wolf shape, Romaria had terrorized the mammoths, while Molly had danced through the barbarians, flickering in and out of the shadows. 

“So much for the barbarians,” said Molly. “For such big fellows they don’t fight very well.”

“They put too much faith in their mammoths,” said Mazael. “If they had handled the beasts better, we might be fleeing now instead of them. Sir Tanam! Join us!”

Mazael walked through the field of the slain, the stench of blood and death filling his nostrils, until he found what he sought. A dying barbarian lay upon the ground, pinned by a spear through his gut. He looked up, hate and terror twisting his face, and snarled something.

“You said you know their tongue?” said Mazael.

“Aye,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “They’re speaking a dialect of Dark Elderborn. A corrupt dialect, I think, but I can understand it.” 

“The Dark Elderborn?” said Mazael. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“When the empire of the High Elderborn collapsed,” said Romaria, gazing at the dying barbarian, “some of them turned to the worship of the Old Demon, whom they called the Urdmoloch. The Dark Elderborn built an empire of their own in the middle lands for centuries, but they fought against each other constantly, and their empire collapsed when their slaves revolted. There are a few minor kingdoms left, but little else. Most of the barbarian nations beyond the Great Mountains were once the slaves of the Dark Elderborn, and speak a form of their language.” 

The barbarian snarled at Mazael, spitting words in the tongue of the Dark Elderborn.

“What is he saying?” said Mazael.

“He says he is a swordthain of Athanaric, a hrould of the Tervingi nation.”

Molly frowned. “A hrould?”

“Sort of a…chieftain, a warlord,” said Romaria. “Something like a liege lord. A thain is a free man who swears his weapon in service to a hrould. Much like a knight sworn to a lord.” 

“Ask him why the Tervingi came here,” said Mazael.

Romaria spoke the question, and the Tervingi growled a response. 

“He says the Tervingi have come to claim a new homeland, far from the Malrags,” said Romaria. The barbarian kept speaking. “The Tervingi warriors will gather in a great host, and their mammoths will sweep aside your horsemen like chaff. He says that the Tervingi nation will claim your lands, your fields, and your women. He says that you are too weak to stop him.”

Mazael leaned closer, locking eyes with the dying Tervingi.

“Tell him,” he said, “that the Tervingi are welcome to try.”

Romaria translated, and the Tervingi shivered and spoke something else.

“He asked if you are kin to someone named Ragnachar,” said Romaria. “A hrould and warrior of renown among the Tervingi, I gather.”

Mazael nodded. “Tell him that I thank him for his information. And tell him that he has fought valiantly, and I will not leave him to die slowly.”

Romaria repeated his words in Dark Elderborn. 

The Tervingi blinked, sighed, and nodded. He leaned back, exposing his throat.

Mazael ended it in one short, sharp sweep of Lion. And as he promised, the Tervingi died quickly. 

He cleaned the blade, expression grim.

“Sir Tanam,” he said at last. The Old Crow stepped to his side. “Send a messenger to Lord Richard at once. Tell him what we have learned. And tell him that these Tervingi are going to gather their host and attack in strength soon.”

Tanam grunted. “How can you be certain?”

Mazael pointed up.

A pair of dark specks circled in the sky, far overhead. 

“The surviving Tervingi will carry the tale,” said Mazael, “and those griffins will spread news faster than a horse can run. Once the Tervingi realize that we are fighting back, this Athanaric and the other hroulds will gather their men. Lord Richard needs to be ready to meet them.”

Tanam nodded. “It will be done.” 

“In the meantime,” said Mazael, “we’ll make camp here, once we’ve dealt with the slain. Hagen! Send someone to find Timothy and Lucan. I want them to raise wards around the camp, lest the Tervingi try to slit our throats in the night.”

His men obeyed. Mazael strode among them as they dealt with the dead Tervingi and raised the tents, praising their courage and those who had shown particular valor. Men needed to know that their lord looked after them, that he took notice of their efforts. 

“My lord!” 

Timothy hurried over, his long black coat brushing against the grass.

“Ah, good,” said Mazael. “I’ll need you to put a ward around the camp…”

“My lord,” said Timothy, “there is a problem.”

“What is it?” said Mazael. He blinked. “Where’s Lucan?” 

“He’s gone,” said Timothy.

“Gone?” said Mazael, astonished. “One of the Tervingi killed him?” The thought stunned him. The idea that Lucan Mandragon, wizard of power, would fall to the spear of a ragged barbarian raider was preposterous.

“No, my lord. He took his horse and fled the battle. He said he had something more important to do.”

Chapter 13 – Sword and Crown

Lucan rode hard to the southwest. His horse wheezed beneath him, but Lucan drove the beast onward. The creature was only a tool, and he did not care if it lived or died. 

He had greater matters to consider.

The barbarians would keep Mazael occupied for the rest of the day. By the time Mazael crushed them, Lucan would have reached Castle Cravenlock. He would have time enough to do what he needed to do.

The first step in the great work to rid the world of Demonsouled. 

Eventually Mazael would pursue him. But the war against the barbarians would keep him occupied for weeks, perhaps even months. Lucan planned to be long gone from Castle Cravenlock by then.

Mazael would not find him until it was too late. 

Lucan rode on, mind filled with his purpose.

###

At dawn, Lucan’s horse refused to go any further. But he was only a few miles from the castle, so he walked the rest of the distance, leaving the horse to its own devices. Castle Cravenlock loomed over him, but Lucan veered towards the town.

And the remaining camps near the tournament grounds.

Most of the merchants and peddlers had vanished with the barbarian attacks, fleeing to safer venues in Knightcastle and the High Plain. Yet some had stayed. The armorers and the blacksmiths, who would turn a rich profit supplying arms and armor to the host of the Grim Marches. Many landless knights, hoping to rise to land and glory in the fighting.

And some of the mercenary companies, seeking neither land nor glory but gold.

Lucan headed for one of the mercenary camps, a well-ordered square of rough canvas tents surrounding a crimson pavilion. Two swordsmen in leather and chainmail stood before the camp, and blocked Lucan’s approach. 

“Aye, wizard?” said one. “What’s your business here?”

“Is this the mercenary company of Captain Malaric of Barellion?” said Lucan.  

“It is,” said the mercenary. The man lowered his voice. “If you’re a renegade, the captain could use your skills. And he won’t ask too many questions.”

Lucan smiled. “Tell Malaric that Lucan Mandragon wishes a moment of his time.”

That got the guards’ attention. 

A short time later Lucan found himself ushered into the crimson pavilion and into the presence of Malaric himself. 

Despite its coloring, the pavilion's interior was austere. A cot, a camp chair, and a table laden with maps were the only furniture. A pair of racks held a variety of weapons and armor, and three open chests stood against one wall of the pavilion, filled with books. Just as Lucan expected, the captain valued his literature. 

Malaric himself leaned against the table, watching Lucan.

The mercenary captain was a lean, fit man in his early thirties. He wore gleaming black boots, black pants, and a black leather vest over a spotless white shirt. His blond beard and mustache had been trimmed with razor precision, and a fine sword and dagger hung from his leather belt. The man looked like any one of the minor nobles infesting the city of Barellion. Yet he had the balance of a master swordsman, and his green eyes the cold glitter of a hardened killer. 

And Lucan sensed the aura of dark power that hung about him. Not as strong as Lucan’s magic, but still potent enough. 

“Lord Lucan,” said Malaric, executing a neat little bow. “You do me great honor. No son of the House of Mandragon has ever graced my humble tent.”

“Consider yourself fortunate,” said Lucan. “My father is a tedious bore, and my brother a murderous thug.”

Malaric gave a polite laugh. “Does your lord father wish to hire my swords? My men are all capable veterans.”

“What you mean,” said Lucan, “is that your men are practiced killers, and not overburdened with scruples.”

Malaric gave a lazy shrug. “Twelve in one hand and a dozen in the other. War is coming, my lord Lucan. And wars boil down to killing, in the end.” He smiled. “My men and I are very good killers.”

“Not surprising,” said Lucan, “given that you are an assassin of the Skulls, sent here to kill Lady Molly Cravenlock.”

Malaric’s easy smile froze in place. Lucan watched him, intrigued. He wondered if Malaric would deny it. He wondered if Malaric would try to kill him. He watched the gears turning behind Malaric’s eyes.

At last the mercenary captain sighed and leaned against the table. 

“What gave me away?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Lucan. “But I know all about you, Malaric of Barellion. I know you are the bastard son of the Prince of Barellion. I know you studied at the wizard’s brotherhood, only to have them sentence you to death when you practiced dark magic. I know you took refuge with the Skulls of Barellion, and have served as a wizard and an enforcer for them ever since. And the only reason for you to be here is to kill Molly Cravenlock, who turned her back on your brotherhood.” 

Malaric frowned. “I see the reputation of the Dragon's Shadow is quite deserved. How did you know all this?”

“You knew Marstan, the necromancer?”

Malaric nodded.

Lucan smiled. “I killed him and claimed his powers for my own.”

That was mostly true, anyway.

Lucan watched Malaric mull this over.

“I assume,” said the mercenary captain at last, “that you are not telling me this for my personal edification. And that you have something in mind other than hiring me to fight against the barbarians.”

“Correct,” said Lucan. “I am going on an expedition.”

“To where, if I may ask?” said Malaric.

“To a ruin of Dracaryl, untouched since the old high lords destroyed themselves,” said Lucan. “The journey will be dangerous. Hence, I wish to hire capable assistance.”

“And why,” said Malaric, a glint in his eye, “do you wish to find this ruin of Old Dracaryl? Such places are dangerous. The high lords were not hospitable.”

“Within the ruin are some relics I require,” said Lucan. No need for Malaric to know what kind of relics. 

Malaric smirked. “A treasure hunt, then.”

“You will be richly repaid,” said Lucan. “I do not lack for gold. And save for the relics, anything we find within the ruin is yours.”

Most likely, the only thing that Malaric and his men would find within Morvyrkrad was an agonizing death. But Lucan planned to rid the world of the Demonsouled, and Malaric and his men were expendable tools to reach that goal.

“No,” said Malaric.

Lucan blinked. He had expected some negotiation, but not so flat a refusal. 

“Why not?” he said. “Are you so adverse to gold?”

“Gold is nice,” said Malaric. “But some things are better. My life, for one.”

“I came to hire you, not to kill you,” said Lucan.

“You might not kill me,” said Malaric, “but the Skulls certainly will. They frown on deserters. Which is why I am here to kill Molly Cravenlock.” He offered Lucan a thin smile. “And you, my lord Lucan, do not seem the sort of man to worry unduly about the welfare of his hirelings. In fact, I am quite sure you would kill us all if you thought it expedient.”

He was smarter than Lucan had expected.

But Lucan had something more enticing than gold to offer.

“I can pay you,” said Lucan, “in more than gold.”

Malaric snorted. “In relics? Only a fool goes digging through the ruins of Old Dracaryl. However tantalizing their secrets, they’re best left alone.”

Lucan smiled. “Secrets? Is that how you wish to be paid?”

Malaric opened his mouth to speak…and then fell silent.

“I know what you really want,” said Lucan. “Secrets. The forbidden knowledge of the arcane, magical spells forgotten by any other living man. That’s why you studied dark magic until the wizards’ brotherhood declared you a renegade. That’s why you joined the Skulls – to learn the secret spells of their wizards. And that is what I can offer you.”

Malaric said nothing, but his eyes glinted with interest. No, it was more than mere interest – it was the lust for knowledge, for forbidden magical secrets. 

“And I know secrets,” said Lucan. “Marstan studied under Simonian of Briault, once of the great necromancers of our age.” A false identity for the Old Demon, but Malaric didn't need to know that, either. “And Marstan spent decades delving into necromancy, plumbing ever deeper into its secrets. And all his skills and knowledge belong to me now.”

“Ah,” said Malaric. “So is that what you’re offering me? Secrets?”

“To teach you,” said Lucan. “I know spells you can find nowhere else. And I will be willing to teach you.”

Not enough to threaten Lucan, of course. Still, he doubted Malaric could muster the arcane power to threaten him. Not with the well of stolen Demonsouled power in Lucan’s mind. 

“I shall require gold for my men,” said Malaric, “and a good deal of it. I am willing to be paid in spells of dark magic, but they are not.”

“Understandable,” said Lucan. “They shall be paid, generously.”

“And you will share your knowledge with me?” said Malaric. “Freely, and without compulsion?”

“I shall,” said Lucan.

If necessary, he could always kill Malaric later. 

Malaric held out his right hand. “Then we have an accord.” 

Lucan gripped it. Malaric had the cold, hard hand of a killer. 

“When do you wish to set out?” said Malaric.

“Today.”

Malaric frowned. “That will be difficult. We will need to gather supplies.”

Lucan snorted. “I suspect a man like you is always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

Malaric grinned. “I cannot argue with that.”

“I want to leave by midday,” said Lucan. “I shall have sufficient funds that we can purchase supplies along the way. But I want to be well away from Castle Cravenlock by nightfall.”

Malaric looked at him sidelong. “Why? You have some mischief planned?”

“Not at all,” said Lucan, stepping toward the pavilion’s entrance. “I merely need to take some tools with me. Have your men waiting north of Castle Cravenlock. I will meet you there by midday.”

He left without another word.

###

The guards challenged him at the castle gate.

“Lord Lucan,” said the armsman atop the wall, a crossbow in hand. “What news from the east? Has Lord Mazael been victorious?”

“He has,” said Lucan. He had no doubt Mazael would crush that ragged warband. “There are more barbarian raiders abroad, and some of them have wizards in their midst.” The lie rolled easily off his lips. “Lord Mazael sent me here, lest the barbarian wizards infiltrate the castle.” 

“Damned savages,” said the armsman, waving Lucan inside. 

Lucan hurried through the courtyard and to the castle’s cellar. The stairs were deserted, and he sealed the door with a quick spell.

He had no wish to be disturbed during this business.

He walked to the vault's steel door and considered his options.

His power exceeded Timothy’s, but the older man had done an excellent job of preparing the wards over the vault. If Lucan simply blasted through the wards or tore open the door, Timothy would know at once. Nor could Lucan take the shape of a wraith and walk through the door, as he had done with Ardasan's sword. The Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem were far too powerful to take with him in wraith-shape. 

A subtler approach might succeed.

Lucan cast a spell of his own, blue light flaring around his fingertips. A shimmering blue shell appeared over the steel door. Lucan focused his will and gestured. For a moment the blue shell flickered and pulsed, fighting with the wards. And then it disappeared. It had been pulled into the wards, becoming part of them.

Altering the spell to Lucan’s will. 

He cast another spell, and the intricate locks sealing the door came loose. 

A deep breath, and Lucan pulled open the heavy steel door. He felt Timothy’s wards come to life, the power straining against his magical senses. Magical force gathered over the door, preparing to burn Lucan to ashes where he stood.

But the power crashed against his ward.

Lucan hesitated, probing the wards. Had Timothy been within the castle, he would have realized what was happening at once. Not even Lucan’s spells could have stopped the alarm. But Timothy was a day’s ride to the east, no doubt flinging blasts of fire at the barbarians. The minute Timothy set foot within Castle Cravenlock, the spells would alert him.

But by the time Timothy returned, Lucan would be long gone. 

Lucan strode into the vault. Flickering blue and green light crawled over the stone walls as his spells strained against Timothy's wards. The light fell over the rough wooden table filling most of the chamber.

Over the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem.

The Glamdaigyr was a two-handed greatsword of gleaming black metal. The pommel had been fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s skull, sigils of ghostly green fire burning in a row down the center of the blade. The Banurdem was a diadem of black metal, a glowing emerald set in its center. It had been shaped like a long serpentine dragon, the emerald cradled in its claws.

Lucan felt the power radiating from the diadem and the sword, power far greater than his own.

He took a deep breath, lifted the Banurdem, and set it upon his head. 

At once he felt its cold power fill him, like freezing water pouring into his heart. His magical senses extended, growing stronger and stronger, until he could sense every trembling thread of power in the clashing wards. With this diadem, he could sense every undead creature for miles, and take control of them with ease. He could even take control of dragons with the Banurdem.

His hands closed around the hilt of the Glamdaigyr.

And if the Banurdem's power was a fire, the Glamdaigyr was the sun itself. 

He shivered, his pulse pounding in time to the throbbing light of the Glamdaigyr’s sigils. The weapon felt like a shard of living ice in his hands, a spike of hungry darkness. And the sword was so hungry. It yearned for life and power and warmth, to drink them in and fill the endless ravening void…

On impulse, Lucan lifted the Glamdaigyr and touched the blade to the wall. At once the lights vanished, the wards drained into the sword. Lucan flinched as he felt the spells’ stolen power pour into him, the strength adding to his own. He felt stronger, and for a wonderful instant, a terrible instant, he wanted to march through the castle, killing everyone in sight, and feasting upon their lives…