Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (18 page)

Ragnachar said nothing.

“Come,” said Riothamus, “you are valiant in battle. Surely you are not unmanned by mere words. Answer the question!”

Ragnachar’s eyes blazed in fury, his lips thinning into a white line beneath his gray beard. Riothamus drew on his magic, ready to defend himself, though he doubted he could unleash enough to stop Ragnachar.

“Yes!” snarled Ragnachar. “The weak deserve to perish! If the Tervingi prove themselves weak, then they too deserve to perish! All of them!”  

Silence answered him. A few of the thains, both Ragnachar's and Athanaric’s, muttered and fingered their swords.

“I would prefer,” said Athanaric, “that the Tervingi lived. Even if we must make peace with the knights to do so. I will not sacrifice our nation because your precious Urdmoloch delights in the cruel slaughter of those unable to defend themselves.”

Ragnachar growled and looked around, eyes narrowed. Riothamus had never seen him so angry. He wondered if Ragnachar would cut him down, or attack Athanaric, or try to kill Aegidia before she could work her magic. 

Riothamus braced himself, preparing to summon a spell.

“Fools, all of you,” said Ragnachar, voice quiet. “Go and crawl to the knights if you wish, and beg for their mercy. I shall have no part of it.”

He stalked away without another word.

###

Molly watched her father stand before Lord Richard. The tension between Mazael and Toraine was like the brief calm before a storm. Had Richard Mandragon not been there, they would have killed each other by now. Or, more likely, Mazael would have killed Toraine. 

How he struggled against his Demonsouled blood.

Just as she did. 

“We must be bold,” said Lord Richard, “and seize the opportunities that appear before us. These Tervingi are such an opportunity. Now that defeat has humbled them, perhaps they will listen to reason. We shall offer the Tervingi a choice. If they swear vassalage to me and to my heirs, I will give them lands upon which to settle.”

Lord Robert frowned. “None of our lands, I hope.”

“Of course not,” said Richard. “The Malrags did not discriminate between lords and peasants. Numerous estates and fiefs lie unclaimed. If the Tervingi agree to swear vassalage, then I shall settle them upon these lands. Their chieftains shall become my vassals, no different than any other lords of the Grim Marches.”

“And if the barbarians refuse?” said Toraine.

Richard shrugged. “Then we kill them all.”

“So be it,” said Mazael, his face hard. 

“Now let us select lords for the embassy to the Tervingi,” said Richard.

Toraine laughed. “The barbarians will simply kill any emissaries. Send someone you dislike, father. Perhaps you should send Lord Mazael, since he is so keen to make peace with the barbarian rabble.”

Mazael grinned at Toraine like a wolf showing its teeth. “Perhaps he should send you, my lord Toraine. Surely the Tervingi would not dare to attack such a mighty warrior.”

“I’ll go,” Molly heard herself say.

All eyes fell on her, and she saw Romaria raise an eyebrow.

“Your valor becomes you, Lady Molly,” said Richard. “Might I ask why?”

Molly could not have said why she volunteered. Perhaps she did not want to destroy an entire nation, to help kill on the scale that Corvad had once dreamed. If she managed to outlive Mazael, she would one day be lady of Castle Cravenlock. Best to assert herself before the lords of the Grim Marches, to show that she could do more than kill and dance through the shadows. 

Or perhaps she only wanted to see that surprised expression on Mazael’s face.

“Because,” said Molly, “my magic lets me walk through the shadows. No need to sacrifice any more lives today, my lord. If the Tervingi are treacherous, I will escape them with ease, and then you can kill them all.”

“Ha! A sound plan,” said Sir Tanam. “You’ve a knack for finding clever women, my lord Mazael.” 

A rumble of laughter went up from the lords.

“If you are sincere,” said Lord Richard, his cold black eyes holding her own. He looked a great deal like both Toraine and Lucan. Yet his gaze lacked the burning hatred of Toraine or the festering resentment of Lucan, and his black eyes held only cold calculation. 

“If you are indeed sincere,” said Richard, “then you would have my gratitude.”

“I am,” said Molly.

“So be it, then,” said Richard.

###

“I will propose an alliance with the knights,” said Athanaric. “I will ask that they bestow lands upon us, and leave us in peace. In exchange, we will fight alongside them in war, and provide them a share of our crops and herds.”

“Tribute,” said one of the thains with derision.

“Aye,” said Athanaric, “and they defeated us, did they not? So some tribute is to be expected. Have not Tervingi headmen always sworn to their hroulds? There is no dishonor or cowardice in making an alliance with a strong overlord. If we do, the knights will be obligated to defend us. And if the Malrags come over the Great Mountains, then we can stand together to fight them off.”

“And what if the knights refuse your terms?” said a headman. “What if they demand that we become slaves, or simply want to wipe us out?”

“Then we fight,” said Athanaric. “I will accept that the Tervingi nation must become a sworn thain of the knights. But I will never accept slavery for our people! And if the knights choose to fight us…well, we shall meet them blade for blade. But perhaps they shall see sense.” 

“Very well,” said Aegidia. “I will go to the overlords of the knights and ask for their terms.”

“No,” said Athanaric. “The knights might try to capture you.”

“I am the Guardian,” said Aegidia. “They would not dare lay their hands upon me.”

“They are foreign,” said Athanaric, “and may not respect our customs. I will go and treat with them.”

“No,” said Arnulf. “If you are slain, who will then command? Ragnachar? He would lead us to ruin.”

“I will ask no man,” said Athanaric, “to endure a danger I myself am too craven to face. If you are slain, Guardian, then we will have no defense from the knights’ wizards.”

“Better that I go,” said Aegidia. “I am old and used up, and have only a few years left. The Tervingi nation needs you, Athanaric…”

“It needs both of you, Guardian and hrould,” said Riothamus. “Which is why I shall present our terms to the knights.” 

“No,” said Athanaric and Aegidia in unison.

“Yes,” answered Riothamus. “I am the best choice. I am the Guardian’s apprentice, so I can speak on behalf of the Tervingi nation. Yet if I am slain, it would be no great loss. I do not command men in battle like Athanaric, and I do not wield an axe or a sword with the skill of Arnulf and the other thains. And as for my spells,” he shrugged, “I am no match for the Guardian, and if I am killed, she could train a new apprentice easily enough.” 

Silence hung over the Tervingi for a long moment.

“Witchers are feared among our people,” said Athanaric at last, “even the Guardian. But I say to you, Riothamus son of Rigotharic, that you are as valiant as any thain.”  

Riothamus made a bow in Athanaric’s direction. “You are gracious.”

“Riothamus,” said Aegidia. “Do not speak of yourself so lightly. Your death would be a grievous blow to the Tervingi nation.” She leaned against her staff. “And to me.”

“Thank you,” said Riothamus.

“But if you are resolved on this,” said Athanaric, “I will not turn you away. Someone must speak to the knights.” He snorted. “And the gods know you are more eloquent than I am.” 

“I am resolved,” said Riothamus.

“Then go,” said Athanaric, “and the hopes of the Tervingi go with you.”

###

An hour later Riothamus walked across the grasslands, his spear held overhead. A white banner fluttered from the shaft, rippling in the wind. He only hoped the knights of the Grim Marches would recognize it as a sign for parley, and not feather him with arrows.

Thousands of men stood outside the ruined village, watching him. 

“I come in peace!” shouted Riothamus, a spell amplifying his voice. “I am an emissary of Athanaric son of Athaulf, a hrould of the Tervingi nation. I wish to discuss terms with your captains and chieftains. Let an ambassador or an emissary come forth to treat with me.”

He repeated the message in Dark Elderborn once more, and then switched to the tongue of the Jutai. The Jutai language was similar to that of the knights, no doubt because the Jutai had lived close to the Great Mountains.

Riothamus saw no hint of movement among the enemy host. Banners floated over their heads – dead men hanging from a stone tower, a crimson dragon on a black field, three crossed swords, a tower atop a mountain, and dozens of other sigils.

He began his greeting again.

A flicker of darkness among the waiting men caught his eye.

Then a pillar of shadow swirled before him, and the woman was there.

She was four or five years younger than Riothamus, and wore dark leather armor, a sword and a dagger sheathed at her belt. Her brown hair had been pulled back into a sweaty tail, and her hard gray eyes watched Riothamus like a hawk regarding a mouse. She was short and slender, yet Riothamus saw that she had the balance of a hunter.

Of a predator.

The thains had spoken of a deadly woman who could walk through the shadows, killing with every step. Riothamus tensed, preparing for her attack, but the woman simply stared at him. If she had wanted to kill him, she could have appeared behind him and buried her blades into his back before he even noticed her. 

“So you must be the Tervingi wizard who caused so much trouble,” she said in Dark Elderborn.

Riothamus blinked. “You know our tongue?”

“I know many tongues,” said the woman. “Flatter yourself not – yours just happens to be one of them. But answer the question. Are you the wizard? The lords of the Grim Marches will want to know, ere they admit you to their camp.”

“No,” said Riothamus. “I am her apprentice, and nothing more.”

“Ah.” A cruel grin flashed over her lean face. “Disposable, then. Who are you?”

“I am Riothamus son of Rigotharic,” said Riothamus, “and the hrould Athanaric has sent me to treat with you.”

“So the Tervingi see wisdom,” said the woman. 

“If you seek to annihilate the Tervingi,” said Riothamus, “then we will fight. If you seek to enslave us, then we will fight. But if you will live in peace with us…then we are willing to do the same.” 

The woman snorted. “Bold words, now that you’ve lost the battle. But some of our lords see matters in the same light. Perhaps you can persuade them.”

“Who are you?” said Riothamus. “If I can ask?”

“You can,” said the woman. “I am Molly of the House of Cravenlock.” She paused for a moment. “Daughter of Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock.” She looked at the lines. “We should go. Lord Richard and the other nobles will want to speak with you. 

“Wait,” said Riothamus. Aegidia would want to know. “One question, if I may.”

Molly shrugged. “Ask.”

“We saw a mighty warrior in golden armor leading your horsemen,” said Riothamus. “Who was he? There are…stories…of such a man among my people.”

Molly laughed. “I doubt that. He’s had that damned armor for less than a year, ever since he killed the dragon.”

Riothamus blinked. “You mean…the golden armor is made from dragon’s scales?” Only a few Tervingi had ever managed to slay a dragon, and the loresingers sang of their names to this day. Little wonder such a potent warrior held the fate of the Tervingi in his hands. 

“Aye,” said Molly. “He killed the thing, so he gets to wear its scales as armor.”

“The man in the golden armor,” said Riothamus, “what is his name?”

“Lord Mazael Cravenlock,” said Molly, “my father. Though it’s not him you’ll treat with. Lord Richard Mandragon, the liege lord of the Grim Marches, wants to see you.”

Riothamus nodded. Mazael Cravenlock. That was the name of the golden-armored man the Sight had revealed to Aegidia, the man who held the fate of the Tervingi in his hands. 

“Come,” said Molly.

Riothamus pushed all thoughts of Aegidia’s visions from his mind. Mazael Cravenlock might hold the fate of the Tervingi in his hands one day, but right now it rested with Riothamus. If he did not convince Lord Richard Mandragon to allow the Tervingi to dwell in peace…

No. He could not think on that.

“Lead the way,” said Riothamus, with a confidence he did not feel. 

Molly nodded, and he followed her into the lines of the enemy.

Chapter 17 – The Lady of Castle Highgate

Lucan and Malaric’s mercenaries rode hard to the northeast. 

The lands were mostly deserted. The Malrags had destroyed most of the villages near the foothills of the Great Mountains, and the barbarian invaders had so far remained in the south. From time to time they passed a fortified hilltop village squatting behind a thick stone wall. Suspicious-eyed militiamen watched them from the ramparts, crossbows and short bows in hand, but did not trouble them.

Not surprising. Fools would not have survived the Malrag invasion. 

“So,” said Malaric. He rode straight as an arrow his saddle, his cloak billowing behind him. Lucan suspected he had adjusted the cloak for maximum dramatic effect. “What do you need to take from Castle Highgate?”

Lucan looked up, stirred out of his dark thoughts. Malaric never tired of trying to pry into Lucan’s secrets, which was annoying. Still, it was a welcome diversion from the endless rolling plains and rocky foothills. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” said Lucan. 

“It must be something of tremendous value,” said Malaric. 

“It is,” said Lucan.

More valuable than anything he had ever possessed.

“Since you are taking such a risk to obtain it,” said Malaric. 

“Hardly any risk,” said Lucan. “The Tervingi are to the south.”

Malaric yawned. “It’s not the Tervingi that should worry you, but your father and brother.”

Lucan scowled. “My father and brother have done nothing but vex me all their life.”

“I suspect,” said Malaric, “if they knew about this little jaunt, they would do more than vex you. They would do their best to kill you.”

“My father and my brother,” said Lucan, “are short-sighted. They are focused on securing the Grim Marches and destroying anyone who stands in their way. I have a larger perspective. I labor for the good of the world, and I will do what is necessary for the good of the world.” 

“Which includes,” said Malaric, “looting ruins of Old Dracaryl for ancient relics. Apparently.”

“Indeed,” said Lucan. 

They rode on, and Lucan found himself thinking more and more about Castle Highgate.

###

“The undead,” said Lucan, “are created in different degrees. Zuvembies, the skeletal carriers of the San-keth clerics, the ebony dead, the crimson dead, even the runedead, are simply automatons. Empty shells controlled dark magical force. They can be powerful, true, can even retain the memories and skills their bodies possessed in life. But they remain automatons. Mere puppets of rotting flesh.”

“So,” said Malaric, “the undead do not have souls?”

They sat in the darkness, some distance from the mercenaries' camp. The massive black mass of the Great Mountains blotted out half the sky, and even in late spring, a cold wind blew down from the rocky peaks. 

And as promised, Lucan shared necromantic secrets with Malaric. 

“Most of them do not,” said Lucan. “No magical force, no spell, can constrain or bind the soul. Even the shades that I am sure you have called up,” Malaric coughed, “are not truly souls. They are only…echoes, footprints, left behind in the spirit world.”

“You said most do not,” said Malaric. “But some do?”

“Revenants,” said Lucan, remembering Ardasan Mouraen. “The mightiest undead of Old Dracaryl. They cannot be created by coercion, only by free choice. It requires a risky spell of the mightiest necromancy. Often an ambitious necromancer would destroy himself in the process. But if it succeeded…the necromancer gained a form of immortality.”

“A form?” said Malaric.

Lucan shrugged. “A revenant never dies. But it need not eat or sleep or drink or lie with a woman. It feels nothing. All that is left is a lust for power, and the need to acquire more.”

Malaric grunted. “A cold existence. What is the purpose of power, if not to enjoy it? Still, to live forever, even in so limited a fashion…” 

“There were many revenants in ancient days,” said Lucan. “But almost all were destroyed in the cataclysm that devoured Old Dracaryl.”

Malaric leaned forward. “And what destroyed Old Dracaryl?”

Lucan thought of Ardasan’s shade, of the Wraithaldr and Randur Maendrag’s plan to cast the Great Rising.

“You will learn, soon enough,” said Lucan.

###

Seven days after leaving Castle Cravenlock, they reached Castle Highgate.

The castle stood high in the foothills, guarding the pass that crossed the Great Mountains to the barbarian lands beyond. Three concentric rings of stone wall, each higher than the next, surrounded a massive drum-shaped keep bristling with catapults and ballistae. It was one of the strongest castles in the Grim Marches, and had never fallen to assault.

The banner of Lord Robert Highgate, a castle gate on a field of white, flew over the keep. 

“Ugly place,” said Malaric. “But strong. I hope that my lord Lucan doesn’t wish to take the castle by storm.” 

“He does not,” said Lucan. “The castle means nothing to me.”

But something within it did. 

The castle's outer gate opened and riders issued from the barbican and headed in their direction.

“Armsmen,” said Malaric. “They have noticed us.”

“Are you surprised?” said Lucan. “Castle Highgate survived the Malrag attack. Hardly a feat one can achieve without constant vigilance. Have your men keep their hands away from their weapons. I wish no trouble.”

The riders from the castle reined up, and their leader, a lean knight in a surcoat adorned with the Highgate sigil, drew closer.

“You have entered the lands of Robert, Lord of Castle Highgate,” said the knight. “Name yourselves.”

“I come with an urgent message for Lady Tymaen Highgate,” said Lucan.

Malaric looked at him, blinked, and then a knowing smile flashed over his face.

“What manner of message?” said the knight.

“Tell her,” said Lucan, “that Lord Mandragon wishes to see her at once.”

###

Tymaen Highgate sat alone in her husband’s solar, looking through the windows at the craggy vista of the Great Mountains. 

Gods, how she hated this castle, this cold, hard place of mountains and snow.

And Malrags.

Her father had been a knight in service to Lord Richard Mandragon, and she had grown up in the court of Swordgrim. Lord Richard's castle had the pomp and splendor of the court of the liege lord, the tournaments and jousting, the splendid ceremonies in the castle’s chapel. There had been her friends, the other noble-born girls of the court. There had been the promise of happiness to come. A life of purpose, serving as the wife of a powerful and respected lord.

And now…this.

The grim, cold fortress of Castle Highgate. The lonely mountain villages, filled with hard and silent peasants. And her husband, a boorish man, more interested in drinking and fighting than in her, save for when he came to bed. He had gone south to war, to fight the barbarians coming out of the mountains.

And Tymaen found she did not care if he returned or not.

She gazed out the windows at the mountains, indifferent. Eventually her husband’s seneschal would come to present the day’s business, to discuss the castle’s supplies and the problems of the servants. Tymaen would force herself to attend diligently. She was a lady of a noble house, and she would not shirk her duties. 

But, gods, how she hated this castle, her husband.

Her life.

The door to the solar opened, and her husband’s seneschal, a doughy man named Reed, entered. The man labored diligently, but was perhaps the single most boring speaker Tymaen had ever heard, and seemed unable to make a point without an hour of tedious speech. She straightened up in her chair and put a serene, aloof expression on her face.

“Master Reed,” said Tymaen. “You have the day’s business, I trust? I am sure you will want to discuss exactly how many sacks of grain remain in the storehouse.”

She rebuked herself. It was beneath a lady to show impatience or annoyance, even with the servants.

“No, my lady,” said Reed, bowing. “Something more urgent. A mercenary company has arrived outside the gates. They say they come with a message from Lord Mandragon.” 

“Mercenaries?” said Tymaen, blinking. “My husband is in the south, fighting the Tervingi. Bid them to march south until they find him.”

“My lady,” said Reed. “The mercenaries say the message is for you, personally, and no one else.”

“Me?” said Tymaen, blinking. “Why would Lord Richard send me a message?” 

“I suspect it is a ruse,” said Reed, glowering, “in order to gain access to the castle and take you for ransom.” 

Tymaen lifted an eyebrow. “As if my lord would pay it.”

Reed blinked. Tymaen rebuked herself again. 

“These are my instructions,” said Tymaen. “Admit the leaders of the mercenaries to the outer courtyard, but the rest are to remain outside the walls. If they are telling the truth, then I shall receive their message and send them on their way. And if they play me false, the armsmen can shoot them full of quarrels.” 

“As my lady wishes,” said Reed, though his disapproval was plain.

“Come, now,” said Tymaen, rising from her chair. “If the mercenaries bear a message from Lord Richard, it would be a grievous insult if I turned them away. Now bid my maids come so I can look presentable.”

Reed bowed, and hastened to carry out her commands. 

A short time later her maids arrived, and after they finished Tymaen strode into the outer courtyard of Castle Highgate, wearing a fine blue gown and a cloak adorned with the Highgate sigil to keep the chill at bay. Four armsmen escorted her, hands resting on their sword hilts.

The two mercenary leaders awaited her below the barbican gate.

The first man was tall and handsome, with a neat-trimmed beard and moustache, his cloak thrown back to billow dramatically in the wind. He performed an elegant bow as she approached. The second man was short and lean, and wore a hooded black cloak over a long black wizard’s coat. Tymaen’s lips thinned, for just a moment. Why had the guards admitted a wizard? A wizard of sufficient skill and power could wreak all manner of chaos. 

“My lady Tymaen,” said the handsome man. “I am Malaric of Barellion, a captain of valiant mercenaries. Lord Mandragon bade me to deliver him to you.”

“Wait,” said Tymaen. “I thought Lord Richard sent a message…”

The cloaked man drew back his black hood, and Tymaen’s heart skipped a beat.

He had not changed, not even a little bit, in the last five years. She had seen him at a distance, of course, after Mazael Cravenlock had slain the dragon, and later at Lord Mazael’s wedding to that terrifying wolf-woman. But she had not seen him up close, and he looked no different than the day she had broken their betrothal. He had the same black eyes and unruly black hair, the same hard lines of jaw and face. 

“Lucan?” said Tymaen, her voice faint. 

Lucan bowed. “My lady Tymaen.” His tone was calm, and his face grave, but she knew him better than anyone, and she saw the tension around his eyes. 

“What,” Tymaen licked her dry lips, “why have you come here?”

“I must speak with you,” said Lucan. “You are in very great danger.” 

###

Her maids and armsmen led Lucan to Lord Robert’s solar.

“We can arrange provision for your men,” said Tymaen, sitting down. “Master Reed will see to it.”

“Thank you,” said Lucan. The provisions would come in handy, once they reached the mountains. But for now that was a distant concern.

Tymaen held his full attention. 

She looked as he remembered, with large blue eyes and long blonde hair. The blue gown fit her well, and unlike most married noblewomen, she had not grown fat. She had used to enjoy hawking and riding in the plains outside of Swordgrim. Did she have the opportunity here? 

He still loved her. Even after what she had done to him, even after everything that had happened to him, he still loved her. Why had he stood by as she wed Lord Robert? Lucan could not recall his reasons. There had been something that had held him back, but he could not remember what it had been.

As if part of himself had been lost. 

Tymaen’s voice drew him out of his thoughts.

“Lucan,” she said, “you claim my life is in danger?”

“It is,” said Lucan. He looked at the armsmen. “Leave us. My words must be for the lady alone.”

They looked to Tymaen.

“Go,” said Tymaen.  Lucan recognized the forced smile she used while under strain. “If I am not safe with the son of our liege lord, then I am not safe anywhere.” 

The guards bowed and departed. 

It was the first time Lucan had been alone with her in years.

“So,” said Tymaen, adjusting her sleeves, not meeting his eyes. “How am I in danger?”

“Lord Mazael Cravenlock,” said Lucan, “is Demonsouled.” 

Tymaen stared at him.

“What?” she said at last. 

“He is a Demonsouled of great power,” said Lucan. “A child of the Old Demon himself, in fact.”

“That is ridiculous,” said Tymaen. “Lord Mazael is a warrior and captain of great renown. He threw down the Dominiar Order, drove back the Malrags, slew a dragon…”

“And where,” said Lucan, “do you think he gained the strength to perform these mighty feats? I have seen him in battle. I have seen him take mortal wounds, only to have them heal moments later. Where does he draw the strength for that? He is Demonsouled, Tymaen. A Demonsouled, a son of the Old Demon, is one of the most powerful lords of the Grim Marches.”

“And he wants to kill me?” said Tymaen. “Is that why my life is in danger?”

“He wants to kill us all,” said Lucan. “He wants to kill everything. That is the nature of the Demonsouled. He may fight it, but his corrupted soul will devour him in the end. If he is not stopped, think of the thousands that he will kill, of the nations he will raze. I must stop him.” 

“How?” said Tymaen. “If he really is Demonsouled, how are you going to stop him?” 

“Not just him,” said Lucan. “I will stop all the Demonsouled, now and forever. Never again will they plague the earth.”