Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (17 page)

Sensible, but in a few moments Lucan would prove him utterly wrong. 

He strode towards the runedead, feeling the weight of the Banurdem beneath his mask and cowl. The high lords of Old Dracaryl had forged that diadem, and with it Lucan had the power to command the undead.

Any undead. 

He didn't know if he could command of all thirty-five thousand of Caraster's runedead, but he could certainly dominate enough of them. He would turn the runedead against each other, and then track down Caraster and destroy him.

Lucan drew on the Banurdem's might, and sent his will towards the advancing runedead, commanding them to halt.

Nothing happened.

He frowned and channeled more of the diadem's magic, sending an irresistible command. For a moment the charging runedead faltered, and the sigils upon their brows flared with crimson flame instead of green.

Lucan had never seen that happen before. 

But the crimson flame passed, and the runedead resumed their charge.

Somehow, Caraster bound the runedead which such power that even the Banurdem could not break his control.

And for a moment, Lucan was at a loss. 

Perhaps he should try to break the binding upon the undead? That might work, but even his power could not break the binding upon thirty-five thousand runedead at once. His next impulse was to summon the Glamdaigyr. With the greatsword, he could drain the spells binding the runedead...

No. Gerald had seen the Glamdaigyr at Arylkrad. If Lucan used the sword, Gerald would very quickly realize who he was. Lucan would have to kill him then, which would generate unwelcome complications. 

Hundreds of runedead closed around him, reaching for him with dead hands.

If subtlety had failed, then it was time to resort to raw force. 

Lucan pulled off his gloves and summoned power. Magic flooded him, a river of raw might, drawn from his own strength, the stolen Demonsouled power in his thoughts, and the knowledge and experience he had taken from Randur Maendrag. Any mortal wizard who tried to use that much magic would die instantly, burned to ashes...but Lucan had left his mortality behind. 

He raised his hands, sigils of crimson fire burning on his palms, the bloody light falling over the runedead.

And hundreds of them erupted into raging flames, the fire chewing into dead flesh. Lucan strode through their ranks, the heat from the inferno making his cloak billow around him, and wherever the crimson light fell, the runedead burned. More undead rushed him at Caraster's command, but it was like chaff trying to attack a candle flame. The inferno spread, and Lucan paused to cast a few wards around himself, lest the fire grow hot enough to harm even him. 

He felt a surge of magical power in the air, and dark clouds roiled overhead. A moment later rain fell in sheets from the sky, quenching the burning runedead, leaving Lucan in a field of charred, twisted corpses. 

Interesting that Caraster had the strength to conjure a rainstorm - that kind of spell required a great deal of raw power. 

Another wave of runedead charged at Lucan, thousands of them, a solid mass of dead flesh. Lucan flexed his fingers, gathering more power, and started another spell. He had seen the Malrag shamans use the spell during Ultorin's invasion of the Grim Marches...and Lucan had put it to good use since.

He lifted his right hand, and a bolt of green lighting screamed out of the sky and slammed into the earth with a resounding thunderclap. The blast incinerated a dozen runedead, and flung a dozen more to the ground, their rotting clothing on fire. The spell was a potent one, and as a living man, Lucan had barely possessed the strength to cast it. 

But he had far more power at his disposal now. 

Another lighting blast howled out of the sky, another, and another, a steady volley of the bolts falling like rain. Lucan moved forward at a slow pace, and the volleys of lightning drove the runedead before him. They charged, trying to reach him, and failed. The emerald lightning ripped them to burning shreds, and if any drew too close, he flung a blast of psychokinetic force. A storm of magic howled through him, and he directed it with his will, raining destruction upon the runedead. 

Then the runedead trembled, and they shifted into wraiths of smoke and green fire.

All of them. 

Lucan stood in a sea of wraiths, tens of thousands of them flowing towards him. He guessed Caraster's plan well enough. In wraith form, the runedead were immune to physical attacks, including fire and lightning. If enough of them surrounded Lucan and shifted back to material form all at once, they could overwhelm him. 

But Lucan understood the runedead. He knew the spells that bound their undead flesh. And he had stolen the memories of Randur Maendrag, the most powerful necromancer Old Dracaryl had produced. 

Randur had known how to create the runedead...and he knew how to destroy them. 

Lucan lifted his hands, sheets of green flame erupting from his fingers. The flames tore into the immaterial runedead, cutting through them like a scythe through wheat. Any runedead touched by the green flames dissolved into gray smoke. Lucan's fire blasted through the runedead, unhindered by physical obstacles. Thousands of them vanished into smoke, covering the plains outside of Tumblestone with gray ash. 

He resumed his stride forward, still unleashing emerald fire. He could force his way through the runedead, find Caraster, and kill him. Then he could turn his undivided attention to the Door of Souls...

The runedead shifted back into material form, turned, and fled. 

Lucan lowered his hands, the green fire winking out. The runedead retreated across the plan, hastening away from the gates of Tumblestone. He supposed Caraster himself led the rout. 

Lucan stared after the undead army, puzzled. 

How had Caraster been able to bind the runedead so strongly? The Banurdem was a relic of Old Dracaryl. It ought to have dominated Caraster's runedead as easily as a key sliding into the proper lock. One renegade wizard should not have been able to block the Banurdem, let alone control thirty-five thousand runedead at once. 

The sooner Lucan unraveled Caraster’s mystery, the better. 

Fortunately, figuring out how he had bound the runedead should prove simple enough.

Lucan made a hooking motion and cast a spell. His will caught one of the fleeing runedead, suspending it in the air. The undead creature went motionless and floated through the air towards Lucan. 

He strode back towards Gerald Roland's host, the trapped runedead floating behind him. 

###

"Gods save us," whispered Adalar, staring at the battlefield.

Gerald kept his face impassive. A commander of armies, both Mazael and Lord Malden had told him, must never show doubt, hesitation, or fear before his men. No matter how frightened a commander became, no matter how badly the battle went, the commander must always show confidence and surety before his men.

It was a struggle to do so now.

Gerald had never seen such a display of magical wrath. 

He had seen battle magic before. The fire-spells of wizards like Timothy deBlanc and Circan. The fury both Lucan Mandragon and Malavost unleashed during the siege of Deepforest Keep, and the mad sorcery of the Great Rising.

But he had never seen anything like this.

Ataranur had smashed the runedead like insects, mowing them down like wheat before the reaper. At least a third of the runedead host lay destroyed, reduced to charred, smoldering husks. The rest fled in disarray to the south. Ataranur had put fear into Caraster. It was the single biggest defeat the rebel had suffered since he had first taken control of the runedead in southern Mastaria.

"Sir Gerald," said Circan, his voice hoarse. "The sheer amount of magical power Ataranur conjured...no member of the wizards' brotherhood could have done it. The entire wizards' brotherhood, working in concert, could not have managed it. Perhaps...perhaps he is truly High Elderborn, as he claims." 

"Perhaps," said Gerald. 

Gerald spurred his horse and rode to meet Ataranur, his knights and captains following. The masked wizard moved with an unhurried stride, a runedead floating after him, the sigil upon its forehead pulsing and flaring with crimson light.

Crimson light? Gerald had never seen a runedead with a crimson sigil upon its brow. 

"I take it," said Gerald, reining up, “there were complications?"

He would not show fear before Ataranur.

"Indeed," said Ataranur, his hollow voice annoyed.  "Caraster has bound the runedead so utterly that even I could not break the spell. I had hoped to destroy him, yet he has eluded me. Still, Tumblestone should be safe for now. I suspect Caraster will withdraw across the River Abelinus and prepare a new attack." 

"That will give my father time," said Gerald, "to gather his forces." 

"And for the Justiciars to rally our Order," said Sir Commander Aidan, giving a hard look at Ataranur. "For steel and valiant men, not witchery, shall overcome this evil." 

Gerald found himself impressed. Few men would have the courage to challenge Ataranur after that display of magical might.

But Ataranur seemed not to care.

"I will study this runedead," said Ataranur, "and discover how Caraster has bound it. Perhaps I will find a way to undo the spell. If I can, Caraster will lose control over his hordes, and you can defeat him easily enough."

Ataranur walked away, the runedead still floating after him. Gerald watched him go, thinking. Who was the masked wizard? And what did he really want?

Gerald suspected Ataranur’s ultimate goals boded nothing good for Knightcastle. 

And with the power Ataranur had just displayed…Gerald doubted he could oppose the wizard.

"Come," said Gerald to his companions. "Let us make for Tumblestone, and see if we can offer any assistance to Lord Agravain."

They rode for Tumblestone’s gates.

###

A few hours later Lucan straightened up, the remains of the destroyed runedead spread out around him. 

Its skull rested in his hand, a faint sigil of red light pulsing upon the forehead. He gazed at it with trepidation. 

He had discovered how Caraster was controlling the runedead. 

Was the Old Demon himself trying to stop Lucan?

He pushed aside the thought and headed for Tumblestone. A short walk brought him past the host encamped outside the walls, the men drawing away from him in fear. Lucan strode through Tumblestone's massive gates and into the market plaza. The city and its buildings had been constructed of stone to withstand the bay’s fierce storms, and walls and towers of gray stone loomed over Lucan. Sir Gerald Roland conferred with his chief captains on the steps of a stout stone church. 

Even from a distance, Lucan heard the argument.

"This is completely unacceptable," said Sir Commander Aidan Tormaud, his face flushed with emotion.

"What other alternative do we have?" said Gerald. "I am no happier about this than you are, Sir Commander. But without his aid Tumblestone would have fallen."

"And we," rumbled silver-haired Lord Agravain, "would all be dead." 

"I have no difficulty using wizardry," said Lord Nicholas, voice quiet, "if it will bring us victory against Caraster and his corpses." 

"Bad enough that we must rely upon the wizards and their oil," said Aidan, shooting an annoyed glance at Circan, who remained impassive. "But this...my lords, you know your history. No wizard of such power has walked the earth for centuries. And those that did were the cruel high lords of Old Dracaryl, who tried to subdue the earth with their vile necromancy. Your own ancestors, Sir Gerald, warred against those necromantic tyrants. And now we have such a necromancer in our midst."

"Ataranur," said Gerald, "has done no necromancy that I have witnessed."

"Sir Gerald," said Aidan, “you know I trust your leadership, and that I have not always agreed with our Grand Master's more...stringent positions. But you cannot rely upon this masked necromancer. A man of such power cannot be controlled. He will turn on..."

Lucan stepped closer, and the Justiciar fell silent. 

The lords and captains stared at him.

"I have found," Lucan said, holding up the skull, "how Caraster is controlling his runedead."

"How?" said Gerald. 

Lucan rotated the skull to face him. "Do you see the sigil upon the forehead?"

Gerald frowned. "Crimson? I've never seen a runedead with a crimson sigil." His frown deepened. "That...looks familiar, almost." He snapped his fingers. "Ultorin's bloodsword. The flames of his bloodsword were the same color. The precise same color." 

"Exactly, sir knight," said Lucan. He closed his fist, and the skull crumbled into dust. "The flames are the same color because they came from the same source of power."

Gerald's eyes narrowed. "That means..."

"Caraster is Demonsouled," said Lucan, "and he's using his blood to bind the runedead to his will.”

The lords looked at each other in consternation, while Gerald bowed his head in thought. 

Lucan stared at Aidan Tormaud. Perhaps it had been a mistake to use his powers so openly against the runedead. The Justiciars despised magic, and Lucan's display of power would turn them against him. Grand Master Caldarus might push Lord Malden to banish Lucan from Knightcastle…and Lucan would need Malden’s unwitting help to open the Door of Souls.

And if Caraster was Demonsouled, he was a far more powerful adversary than Lucan had suspected.

He watched Aidan, and an idea came to him.

Perhaps he could use one problem to solve the other.

Chapter 17 - The Compass

"I'm afraid," said Riothamus, "that this is going to hurt."

Mazael looked up from the window, his smile bleak. 

"At this point," he said, his voice a rasp, "a little additional pain will make no difference." 

The Lord of Castle Cravenlock looked terrible. Dark circles ringed his bloodshot eyes, and his haggard face had grown sallow. Streaks of gray had appeared at his temples and in his beard that had not been there before Malaric’s attack. Mazael appeared as if he had aged five years in the last five days. 

But the hard light in his eyes never wavered. If there was a way to save Romaria, Mazael would find it. 

"Do it," said Mazael, looking out the window.

Through the window Riothamus saw the tree in the courtyard, Romaria lying against it. 

"I am ready, Guardian," said Timothy.

Riothamus got to work. 

He stood over the worktable in Timothy's tower workroom. Shelves lined the round walls, cluttered with books and scrolls and jars and the other tools of Timothy's spells. Mazael sat at the table, right arm resting on the scarred wood. Timothy waited with a set of jewelers' tools spread out before him. 

Next to Mazael's hand rested an ornate bronze compass that Timothy had made, a round metal case as wide as Riothamus's hand. Riothamus had never seen a compass before (or the ocean, for that matter), but Timothy assured him it would work for the spell. The older wizard had already disassembled the compass, the magnetic needle lying on the table.  

Riothamus drew a dagger and slashed Mazael's forearm, blood welling up. A muscle twitched below Mazael’s eye, but he gave no other sign of pain. Riothamus caught the blood in a glass cup, watching it fall drop by drop.

It looked no different than any other blood...but its power kept the poison from killing Mazael and held Romaria’s death at bay.

And if Riothamus was correct, it would let him find the archpriest whose venom had coated Malaric’s daggers. 

He picked up the needle and dropped it into the cup while Timothy bound and bandaged Mazael’s arm. That wasn't necessary - Mazael's Demonsouled nature would heal the cut in a matter of moments. But Timothy did not know that Mazael was Demonsouled, and Mazael preferred to keep it that way. The gods only knew how Mazael’s vassals would react if they ever learned the truth, though Riothamus supposed Ragnachar’s old followers would start worshipping Mazael as a god…

He pushed the thought out of his mind, held up the cup, and began casting a spell. His left hand closed around the Guardian's staff, drawing upon its power. The blood flared with light, and then burst into brilliant golden flames.

Mazael growled, his hands balling into fists. As before, the spell drew on the power of his Demonsouled blood. Mazael's eyes screwed shut, the cords in his neck bulging, and for a moment Riothamus thought he would fall.

But then his eyes opened.

"Gods," he muttered. "You weren't lying about the pain."

Riothamus nodded and looked into the cup.

The blood had vanished, and now a faint golden glow radiated from the needle. If Riothamus was right, the needle would no longer point north. Instead, the essence of the archpriest's venom had been bound into the needle, and it would point towards the San-keth cleric.

Allowing Mazael to track him down. 

"Permit me, Guardian," said Timothy, taking the cup. He took the needle from the cup with a pair of tweezers and mounted it in the compass's bronze housing. 

"Your skill is remarkable," said Riothamus. “Not even the best goldsmiths among the Tervingi could do that. You..."

"Guardian," said Timothy, not looking up from the compass, "your words are kind, but please do not talk just now. I need to concentrate." 

Mazael snorted, and Riothamus fell silent. 

Timothy worked quickly, with the sort of skill that made the task only look easy. After a few moments he had reassembled the compass and cast several spells over it to focus and refine the tracking spell Riothamus had placed upon the needle. Timothy held up the compass, squinted at it for a moment, and then set it on the table.

"I believe it is finished," said Timothy.

"Is it working?" said Riothamus. The glowing needle swung back and forth, and at last settled to point at the wall.

"It's working," said Mazael, getting to his feet. 

"How do you know?" said Riothamus.

"It's pointing west," said Mazael.

"Slightly to the northwest, I think," said Timothy. He unrolled a set of maps and made a set of calculations on a wax tablet. Most of the lands west of the Grim Marches claimed to be part of the same realm, the same kingdom, though liege lords like Mazael acted like sovereign kings in all but name. 

"Guardian," said Timothy. "Does the spell upon the needle allow you to estimate the distance to the archpriest?"

"Yes," said Riothamus, laying one hand upon the compass. He concentrated for a moment. "I think...yes. Four or five hundred miles away. No more than that." 

"Just as well," said Mazael. "More than five hundred miles would put you into the western sea."

"Greycoast," said Timothy, pointing at a peninsula jutting into the western sea. Riothamus scrutinized the map. This Greycoast was west of a place called the High Plain, and north of another peninsula named Knightreach. If Riothamus remembered correctly, Lord Mazael's sister Rachel was married to the son of the Lord of Knightcastle. Riothamus wondered what she was like. Probably some gray-eyed warrior with a temper, much like Molly.

"The Prince of Barellion rules Greycoast," said Mazael. "I wonder what a San-keth archpriest is doing there."

"It is entirely possible," said Timothy, "that there is a hidden temple of San-keth proselytes in Barellion. It is the largest city in the realm, with fifty thousand people." 

"And the archpriest could be on the move," said Riothamus.

Mazael grimaced. “Can he block the compass?"

"No," said Riothamus. "Not without removing his fangs and the organs that produce poison, which would be fatal to a San-keth. So long as the archpriest still lives, no spell or ward can block the compass." 

"Good," said Mazael. 

Timothy frowned. "Both the Lord of the High Plain and Prince Everard of Barellion might object if you took an army through their lands, my lord. Or the lords of the Stormvales, for that matter."

"I'm not bringing an army," said Mazael. "I will go alone." 

"My lord," said Timothy, "the San-keth are a formidable foe, and..."

"They are," said Mazael, "but an army will avail us nothing. The San-keth hide in the shadows and leave the fighting to their puppets and proselytes. Well, that compass will strip away their shadows. I will find the archpriest, take his blood, and return."

"I will not," said Riothamus, "permit you to go alone." 

Anger flashed in the older man's eyes. “How do you intend to stop me?"

"You are the hrould of the Tervingi nation," said Riothamus, "and if you die, the Tervingi nation will almost certainly go to war with the lords of the Grim Marches. Therefore, as Guardian of the Tervingi nation, it is necessary that I accompany you, to keep you alive. Additionally, by attacking you, Malaric has attacked a Tervingi hrould. Both Malaric and the San-keth are wielders of dark magic, and I am within my rights to bring them to justice."

The anger in Mazael's eyes hardened, and Riothamus felt a twinge of alarm. How much of a grip did Mazael have on himself?

Then Mazael sighed. "I suppose you are right. I cannot simply ride west and kill everyone in my path, much as I might wish it." He took a deep breath. "We shall leave on tomorrow. As soon as I can make the necessary arrangements." 

###

An hour later Mazael stood in the great hall of Castle Cravenlock, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his arms and legs and head.

Many of the Tervingi headmen and Mazael's vassals had arrived soon after Malaric's attack. Rumors had spread that Malaric had killed him, and most of the powerful men of the Grim Marches had set out for Castle Cravenlock at once, lest civil war break out and they find themselves at a disadvantage.

More than a few of the headmen and lords were disappointed that Mazael still lived, but he did not care what they thought.

He was going to save Romaria, or die trying. 

"My lords, knights, and headmen," said Mazael, looking at the assembled nobles and Tervingi. "You may have heard the rumors, and most of them are true. Malaric of Barellion, at the instigation of the San-keth, attempted to assassinate me during the moot at Cravenlock Town. I was wounded, but I survived. Lady Romaria was wounded and lies near death. This is an attack upon both the lords of the Grim Marches and the thains and headmen of the Tervingi."

Riothamus stood at his side, face impassive, the staff of the Guardian in hand. His idea about declaring the attack an assault upon the Tervingi nation had been a clever one.

"Hrould," said Earnachar son of Balnachar, his chest puffing out. Besides him Arnulf son of Kaerwulf rolled his eyes. "This craven attack upon you is an insult to the Tervingi nation. I propose we gather our swordthains and spearthains at once. Let us lay siege to the city of Barellion, and demand that its Prince surrender Malaric to us. If he does not, we shall raze his city and seize his lands for ourselves."

Arnulf snorted. "From which you shall carve wide estates for yourself, no doubt."

Earnachar smiled. "To the victor goes the spoils." 

"Your valor does you credit, Earnachar son of Balnachar," said Mazael, "but Malaric is a bastard and a renegade. No doubt the Prince of Barellion would gladly slay him and surrender his head. And Malaric acted at the instigation of the San-keth archpriest that provided the venom."

Toric, one of the Tervingi headmen, spat. "The serpents are ever treacherous."

"Mighty Tervingar," said Earnachar, "slew them whenever he found them."

"Mighty Tervingar showed wisdom," said Mazael. "The Guardian has worked a spell that will allow me to follow the archpriest wherever he goes. I shall hunt him to the ends of the earth and repay him for this grievous assault upon the Tervingi nation. Malaric of Barellion shall face justice for his crimes."

He remembered Malaric plunging that poisoned dagger into Romaria's chest. 

Once Mazael found him, Malaric would regret it. Bitterly. 

"I shall accompany the hrould," said Riothamus. "Malaric used dark magic, and it is the task of the Guardian to ensure that the Tervingi are protected from dark magic. I shall find him and defeat him."

"But if you leave, hrould," said Earnachar, his eyes glittering with opportunity, "who will rule the Grim Marches?"

"Aye," said Lord Robert Highgate, one of Mazael's nobles. A plump keg of a man, he was nonetheless a capable battle commander. "The realm is unsettled, with more refugees and wandering bands of runedead crossing our lands every day. A firm hand is needed. Who will oversee the Grim Marches in your absence?"

"You will," said Mazael.

"Me?" said Robert, blinking in alarm.

"All of you," said Mazael. "Earnachar, Arnulf, Toric, Lord Robert, Lord Astor Hawking, and Lord Jonaril Mandrake will govern the Grim Marches in my absence. I expect you to defend the Grim Marches and maintain peace and order. Act as you will against runedead and bandits, but an attack upon another lord or one of my vassals will require each of you to consent."

The headmen and lords gave each other uneasy looks. Some of them were allies - Arnulf and Toric had been friends for years, while Lord Robert and Lord Astor had acted in concert since the earliest years of Lord Richard Mandragon's rule. Yet Earnachar loathed Arnulf and Toric, and Lord Astor could not stand Lord Jonaril. Mazael hoped the rivalries would keep the lords and headmen in check. 

He would have named Molly castellan of Castle Cravenlock in his absence, but she would likely wind up killing half of his vassals from sheer annoyance. She was not yet ready for such a responsibility Besides, he suspected she would insist on accompanying him, just as Riothamus had. 

"My lord," said Robert, scratching his chin, "are you sure this is...wise?"

"Of course I am sure," said Mazael. "My lords and headmen, I am certain you will maintain the peace in my absence. Because if you do not, and I return to find the Grim Marches rent by strife and civil war, I will be...wroth, my lords. Most wroth."

Dead silence answered his pronouncement. 

"Fortunately," said Mazael, "I have utter confidence that I shall return to find the Grim Marches at peace."

"Yes," said Earnachar, his voice strained. "Of course." 

Arnulf nodded. "You will have peace awaiting your return, hrould." He grinned and slapped Earnachar on the back, who responded with a sickly smile. 

"Thank you, my lords and headmen," said Mazael. "I vow that this attack upon the Tervingi nation and the honor of the Grim Marches shall be avenged."

And he vowed that he would save Romaria's life, too.

If he could.

###

"I am coming with you, of course," said Molly. 

Riothamus frowned. "I would prefer if you didn't." 

They stood on Castle Cravenlock's curtain wall, watching the sun go down and paint the plains the color of blood. 

Molly raised her eyebrows. "And just why not?" 

"You could be hurt or slain," said Riothamus. "And you are the heir to Castle Cravenlock...which means one day you will be the liege lady of the Grim Marches. It's time the headmen and the lords learned to obey you."

Molly scoffed. "I could be hurt, aye...but I can heal far more quickly than you. And the lords can look after themselves for a few months." She glared over the walls. "This is my fault."

Riothamus frowned. "Malaric wounded Romaria, not you."

"Aye," said Molly, "but if I had killed that rat at Swordgrim, none of this would have happened." She shook her head. "If had figured out how he had gained the powers of a Demonsouled, perhaps I could have found a way to stop him."

"Or he could have killed you," said Riothamus.