Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (22 page)

Molly shrugged, uncomfortable. How would Riothamus react if he knew that she was Demonsouled? “I don’t have much magic. Just enough to do my little trick.”

“And you have great skill with a blade,” said Riothamus. “Shieldmaidens used to be common among the Tervingi, but our women are too few now, and are needed to bear children. I saw you during the battle. You could have held your own against any of the shieldmaidens of old.”

Molly snorted. “I’m capable with a blade, but no more. Mazael and Romaria are better. It’s the shadow-walking that gives me an edge.”

“You crossed blades with Ragnachar and survived,” said Riothamus. “Few can make that boast.” 

Molly shivered. She had been enjoying her talk with Riothamus, so much that she had almost forgotten her true purpose.

“Ragnachar,” she said, her voice low. “Is it true what they say? That he worships the Urdmoloch?”

Riothamus looked around, and then took her arm. Molly’s instincts took over, and she almost attacked him, but she held herself in check. He steered her into an empty garden behind one of the village’s houses. No one was around to overhear. 

“Aye,” said Riothamus, voice quiet. “He does worship the Urdmoloch, is devoted to him in heart and soul. He hates this.”

Molly frowned. “This village?”

“This peace,” said Riothamus. “The Urdmoloch teaches that only the strong are worthy to survive, that the weak should either be slain or used as cattle.”

“Charming philosophy,” said Molly. She had once believed it herself. And it sounded a great deal like her grandfather. 

“Ragnachar wanted the Tervingi to conquer the Grim Marches and exterminate or enslave your folk,” said Riothamus. “And barring that, he would rather fight to the death than make peace. Our vassalage is intolerable to him. He has withdrawn with his orcragars and his closet followers to his fief at Gray Pillar, and has not come forth since.”

“Do you think he will attack?” said Molly.

“He cannot on his own,” said Riothamus. “Most of his own followers want peace, as do Athanaric and the Guardian. His orcragars will follow him into battle, aye, along with his most devoted thains, but that would come to no more than fifteen hundred men. Lord Richard and Lord Mazael would crush him utterly. He will probably try to find some excuse for war, some reason for the entire Tervingi nation to rise up.”

Molly’s expression darkened. “Like if he murdered Athanaric or Aegidia, and then cast the blame upon Lord Richard. The Skulls took contracts of that nature.”

“Then it seems clear,” said Riothamus, “that our task is to keep Athanaric and the Guardian safe from harm.”

“Aye,” said Molly, remembering what she had discussed with Mazael. “Why not just kill Ragnachar?” 

“To murder him?” said Riothamus.

“Yes,” said Molly. All at once she felt uncomfortable. “You have considerable magic. You could do it. Why not simply kill him and have done with it?”

“I doubt I could,” said Riothamus. “Even the Guardian doesn’t think she could defeat Ragnachar in battle, and her magic is far stronger than mine.” He lowered his voice. “Aegidia believes that Ragnachar is more than a worshipper of the Urdmoloch. She says he is the son of the Urdmoloch – no one knows who Ragnachar’s father is. If Ragnachar truly is demon-blooded, it would explain his prowess in battle, and make him extremely difficult to kill.”

“Demonsouled,” said Molly, her mouth dry. “Here, we call such men Demonsouled.”

“Demonsouled?” said Riothamus. “An apt term. And if he is…Demonsouled, a son of the Urdmoloch, I doubt I could kill him. But even if he were a normal man, I would not use my magic to kill him.”

“Why not?” said Molly. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Because I am to be Guardian after Aegidia dies,” said Riothamus. “Hopefully not for many years yet, but it will happen. And the Guardian swears never to use his magic to destroy human life, but to preserve and defend it. I am not Guardian yet, but I will try to be worthy of that title.”

“But that…that…” said Molly, at a loss. She had some power, as a granddaughter of the Old Demon, and she used that power to kill. She could not imagine doing otherwise. She was Demonsouled. Killing was what she did, and she could use that power for good or for evil. But to not kill, to refuse to kill…

She felt Riothamus staring at her, watching her confusion. 

“That is very noble,” Molly said at last, voice quiet.

“It is no more than what is required of me,” said Riothamus.

“But…do you refuse to fight at all?” said Molly. “If a Malrag warband attacked Stone Tower right now…”

“The Malrags?” said Riothamus, and he smiled. “The Malrags aren’t human. They are only demon spirits housed in shells of corrupted flesh, and I may strike them down with a completely clear conscience.” He lowered his voice. “And just between you and me…I rather like watching Malrags get thrown around by lightning bolts.”

Molly burst out laughing, and Riothamus’s cheeks flushed in sudden embarrassment, which only made her laugh more.

She had never met anyone quite like him. 

“We’re probably too late to make the feast,” said Riothamus, “but I know the bondswoman who supervises Athanaric’s kitchens, and I cured her brother of poisoning. I’m sure she would give us some food, and I know a quiet place we can eat.”

Molly smiled. “I would like that.”

They wound up talking through the night.

###

The next morning Molly found Mazael sitting on the steps to the keep, nursing a clay cup of water.

“You look rather the worse for wear, Father,” said Molly, putting one boot on the step. 

Mazael grunted and scratched at his jaw. “Athanaric can hold his ale. I’ve never seen a man that age drink so much and stay upright.” He grunted. “Even with my particular…knack for healing, my head still feels like it’s going to split.” 

“You shouldn’t have drunk so much, then,” said Molly, sitting beside him.

“Probably not,” said Mazael, taking another swig of water. “Athanaric will make a good neighbor, I think. He wants to keep the peace, and he’ll keep a tight rein on his headmen and thains. Throws a hell of a feast, too. What did you find?”

“I think Ragnachar will try to kill Athanaric or Aegidia and blame it on us,” said Molly. 

Mazael nodded. “Makes sense. That’s what Amalric did. He butchered the leadership of the Dominiar Order and blamed it on Lord Malden.” He looked at her for a moment, and then frowned.

“What?” said Molly, looking over her shoulder. She half-expected to see an enemy with drawn steel.

“You’re smiling,” said Mazael.

“I am not.”

“You are,” said Mazael. “You never smile.”

Molly shrugged. “Is it forbidden for the heir to Castle Cravenlock to be in a good mood?”

“No, but you never are,” said Mazael. He thought for a moment. “Just what did you do last night?”

Molly thought of Riothamus.

“I had a good talk,” she said at last.

Chapter 21 – Child of Shadows

The Red Valley opened before the mercenaries.

Malaric frowned. “Pleasant place.”

The valley had changed little since Lucan’s last visit. Pools of lava still steamed on the valley’s floor, providing warmth for strange and exotic plants. Steles of black basalt stood throughout the valley, carved with reliefs and inscriptions in the style of Old Dracaryl.

And on the far side of the valley, perched upon a rocky crag, stood Arylkrad itself. 

The vast black castle, a dozen times larger than Swordgrim itself, loomed against the mountains. Dozens of delicate black towers, almost like wavering shadows, rose over a high wall reinforced with bastions. A great dome rose from the center of the castle, built over the chamber that had once housed the Glamdaigyr. The black fortress looked as if it had been carved out a single piece of black marble, and some of the towers appeared to have been melted into place. 

As if by dragon’s fire.

“Behold,” said Lucan, leaning across his saddle to take Tymaen’s hand. “Arylkrad.” 

He felt Tymaen shiver. 

“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “And so terrible.”

“As were many of the works of Dracaryl,” said Lucan.

He gazed upon the black castle with pleasure. Here was the first step on the road. The path to Morvyrkrad, the Wraithaldr, and the Great Rising began here. 

The road to freeing the world of the Demonsouled forever. 

One of the memories he had stolen from Ardasan came to the forefront of his thoughts. Arylkrad in its glory during the height of the high lords’ power, dragons circling overhead, its walls guarded by undead and controlled Malrags. Slaves filled the valley, toiling for their masters, while embassies from many nations came and offered tribute, hoping to save themselves from the wrath of the high lords…

But it was gone now, and Dracaryl was nothing but dust and ruins. 

And Lucan would succeed where they had failed. 

“To the castle,” Lucan told Malaric, Tymaen’s hand still in his. “Once inside, we shall make for the great domed chamber.” He sorted through Ardasan’s memories, recalling the map to Morvyrkrad. “The entrance to the caverns is in there.”

Malaric barked orders to his men, and the mercenary company formed up in escort as they marched down the road into the valley, hands on their weapons, eyes sweeping for any sign of threats.

Yet their gaze kept drifting to the black mass of Arylkrad.

“What sort of defenses can we expect?” said Malaric.

“None,” said Lucan. “Corvad’s Malrag warlocks destroyed the wards sealing the castle. There were undead and Malrag guardians within, but Corvad and Mazael defeated them. After Mazael slew Corvad, his wizards destroyed any remaining spells and artifacts within the castle, and he emptied the treasury and took it back to Castle Cravenlock.”

“Pity,” said Malaric. “The undisturbed treasury of a high lord would be quite a boon.” 

They reached the valley’s floor. A row of stone cairns stood near one of the lava pools, a rusting sword thrust into each heap of stones.

“Those look recent,” said Tymaen.

“They are,” said Lucan. “A dragon made its home in this valley for centuries. Mazael slew it, and those are the graves of his men that fell in the fighting.”

Malaric frowned, scratching at his beard. Somehow, despite the rigors of travel, he had kept it neatly trimmed. “So a dragon laired here? For centuries?”

“Aye,” said Lucan. “Mazael’s men took the beast’s scales and claws back to Castle Cravenlock. So there’s nothing left for you to loot.” 

“I am more concerned with the implications of the dragon’s death, my lord Lucan,” said Malaric. “All kinds of unpleasant beasts dwell in the Great Mountains. Fear of an ancient dragon would have kept them away. Now that the dragon is dead, any number of creatures might have claimed the valley for their own.” 

“Eventually,” said Lucan. “But dread of the dragon will keep them away until…”

A hideous, howling roar echoed from Arylkrad’s gates.

A heartbeat later a black tide of misshapen forms issued from the castle’s gates. 

A Malrag warband. And a large one, at that. 

“Damnation,” muttered Lucan.

Malaric’s sword jumped into his hand. “Wedge formation! Prepare to charge! Ride them down when I give the signal!”

“No!” said Lucan.

Malaric glared at him. 

“There’s not enough room for a cavalry charge,” said Lucan. “You’ll ride through them once, and then get pinned against the base of the cliff.” 

Malaric looked at the Malrags pouring down the road. “They outnumber us three to one. If we don’t fight them from horseback, we’ll lose. I trust you have a better idea.”

“I do,” said Lucan, flexing his fingers. Tymaen stared at him, her blue eyes full of fear. But there was no reason for her to fear. He would protect her from anything. “I will deal with them.”

Malaric’s eyebrows rose. “You?”

Lucan nodded.

“Very well,” said Malaric with a sardonic smile. “Let’s see what you can do.” He stood up in his saddle and pointed his sword. “Hold position! I said to hold your positions, dogs! Lord Lucan is going to save us.”

Lucan rode forward, drawing on his magic. He considered summoning the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, and then dismissed the thought. He wouldn’t need the relics for so trivial a threat.

Especially with the powers he already possessed.

He reached for the well of stolen Demonsouled power in his mind. 

It surged forward at his command, augmenting his own strength with its burning might. Again Lucan felt the murderous rage that accompanied the power, but unlike the fury of the bloodstaff, he could keep it under control. He raised his hands, fiery light glimmering around his fingers.

The Malrags howled their battle cries and surged towards him, a mass of black armor and leathery gray hides.

Lucan thrust out his hands. Sigils of crimson fire flickered on his palms, and the fiery light fell upon the front ranks of Malrags. 

The creatures burst into raging flame. A firestorm roared through the Malrags, dozens of them collapsing into charred piles of bone and half-melted armor. Yet the remaining Malrags continued their charge, still howling. The creatures had no fear of death. If Lucan slew them, their spirits would be reborn in bodies of corrupted flesh spawned by the Malrag Queens far below the surface of the earth. 

They charged right past one of the lava pools.

Lucan poured both his own power and the fiery wrath of his stolen Demonsouled strength into another spell. Then he beckoned, his fingers hooked into claws, and shouted. 

A fountain erupted from the lava pool, raining chunks of liquid stone upon the Malrags. A score went down, their heads burning, while dozens more stumbled with sudden wounds. Lucan swung his arms, and the lava surged out of the pool in a roiling wave and crashed over the Malrags. 

All of them. 

Every last remaining Malrag burst into flames, their war cries dissolving into crackling gurgles, their armor melting into their charring flesh.

The stench was considerable.

Silence fell over the valley, save for the hissing of the Malrag flesh burning to ash in the lava.

Malaric stared at him, his expression the blank, calm mask he used when he was very alarmed. It was just as well. The man would benefit from some healthy fear of Lucan.

“We’ll have to wait for a few hours for the lava to cool,” said Lucan. “But after that, we can continue to Arylkrad.”

Malaric managed a nod. 

###

A few hours later they left the horses in the valley, and then climbed the crag and entered Arylkrad.

A high, vaulted corridor of black stone led into the citadel’s heart, lit by a pale green glow, the walls carved with reliefs displaying the glory of Dracaryl. Lucan felt the lingering presence of the ancient wards, the spells Corvad had shattered to enter the castle. Here and there lay piles of bones – the black bones of a Malrag, or the ancient bones of one of the undead the high lords had created to guard Dracaryl. 

“This is a dark place,” said Tymaen, shivering inside her cloak. 

“It is,” said Lucan. “The high lords of Dracaryl were not kindly men. But I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

She smiled at him. “I know.”

The corridor ended in a high domed chamber, and Lucan held up his hand for a halt.

“What the devil is that?” said Malaric, his voice low.

The chamber was empty, save for a statue beneath the exact center of the dome. The statue was fashioned in the likeness of a young woman in a sleeveless robe, eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest, hands resting on her shoulders. It looked lifelike, almost disturbingly so, as if the statue had been fashioned out of flesh and blood instead of mere stone. 

“There are spells of considerable power upon that statue,” said Malaric. “Is it dangerous?”

Lucan decided to lie. “Quite. This is the one guardian we could not overcome. It is called an oracle spirit, and the high lords bound it into the statue. If any man hears its voice, it will drive him irrevocably mad.”

“So how do we get past it?” said Malaric. “Stop our ears with clay and hope for the best?”

“No,” said Lucan, stepping forward. “I can disable it temporarily. I must do so alone. I can protect myself, but no others.”

Malaric gestured. “Be my guest.”

Lucan smirked and strode toward the statue. True, the words of an oracle statue could drive a man mad, but only if he was unprepared to hear the truth. And Lucan had questions he needed answered.

He stopped before the statue and made sure that Malaric and the others could not overhear him. “Spirit. Heed me.”

The statue’s eyes opened, shining with green light, and its stone lips moved as if they were made of flesh. 

“Lucan Mandragon,” said the statue in a woman’s voice of unearthly beauty. “Son of Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer. Wizard and wielder of stolen power. Shadow-marked, shadow-bound, and shadow-maimed.”

Lucan sighed. Spirits ever loved their grandiloquent speeches.

“And I know you,” said Lucan. “You are an oracle spirit, bound to stone so that you might share your wisdom with any who ask.” 

“I might share my wisdom,” murmured the spirit, “but it is rarely heeded. Is that why you have come, shadow of the dragon? That you might learn what doom awaits you? For it is indeed a black doom.” 

“Undoubtedly,” said Lucan. “All men are mortal, and I am no exception.”

“As you shall soon learn,” said the spirit. 

Lucan felt a twinge of alarm, but pushed it aside. Spirits were not bound by time as men were, and a thousand years might seem but a fleeting instant to them. 

“I am not here for riddling prophecies,” said Lucan, “but for answers to my questions.”

“Then ask, child of shadows,” said the statue, “though you may find the answers to be riddles.” 

“First,” said Lucan, “some months ago I spoke with the shade of Ardasan Mouraen, a knight of Old Dracaryl.”

“I saw your struggle with him,” said the spirit, “for the threads of the future wound through your confrontation. The dooms of many were decided in that moment.”

“Were they?” said Lucan. “So. Did Ardasan tell me the truth?”

“The dead knight,” said the spirit, “spoke the truth as he knew it.”

“Why?” said Lucan. “Why not lie to me?”

“Because, shadow-marked child,” said the statue. “The dead knight believed the knowledge would lead to your ruin. As it shall.” 

That explained why Ardasan had cooperated. Though Lucan would prove harder to kill than either the spirit or Ardasan knew. And it meant that Ardasan had told him the true route to Morvyrkrad. 

“Then my second question,” said Lucan. “The Wraithaldr. Do you know of it?”

“The third of three, shadow-bound child,” said spirit, “the third artifact forged by the ancient necromancer-lords, the relics that led them to their doom. The first, the Glamdaigyr, the sword to steal the strength of the living. The second, the Banurdem, the crown to command the dead to serve. And the third, the Wraithaldr, the staff to raise the dead from their long sleep.”

“So you know of the Wraithaldr,” said Lucan. “A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed. Tell me. Does it yet remain in Morvyrkrad?”

“The staff lies in the tombs of the ancient lords,” said the statue, “not far from the hand of Randur Maendrag, whence it fell when his dark magic devoured him.” 

“Good,” said Lucan. “A final question, and I shall leave you to your musings. Do you know of the Great Rising?”

The spirit did not answer, did not speak for so long that Lucan wondered if it had heard him. 

“The Great Rising?” said Lucan. “Do you know of it?”

“It is a rising,” said the spirit, “and also a slaying and a reaping. A bold plan, to steal the power of a slain demon god and claim it for one’s own. The lords of Dracaryl dared to dream such mad dreams, and their dreams destroyed them. Or made them wish that they had been destroyed.”

“Will the spell work?” said Lucan. “Ardasan claims it would raise thousands of runedead across the world, runedead that will hunt and kill every last Demonsouled. Will it work?”

“You can work the Great Rising, shadow-maimed child,” said the statue, “but the cost will be more than you can imagine.”

“If it rids the world of the Demonsouled,” said Lucan, “then the cost is well worth it. The Demonsouled have caused me too much pain, and I will make sure no one ever again suffers at their hands as I have suffered.”

“And what of you, shadow-maimed child?” said the oracle spirit. “Will you repay yourself, for all the harm you have done to yourself?”

Lucan felt a surge of irritation. “What does that even mean? Child of shadow? Shadow-maimed child, shadow-marked and shadow-bound?”

“You are a puppet who dances upon strings of shadow,” said the spirit. “The shadow of Marstan, who tried to turn you into his vessel. The shadow of your father, who tried to turn you into a weapon. The shadow of your brother, who tormented you. Those shadows left scars upon your soul, and the Old Demon has gathered up those scars like chains, and makes you dance upon them.”