Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (21 page)

"Good," said Malaric. "Very good. Also, send some men..."

"Where is Prince Everard?"

The angry voice echoed off the ceiling. 

Malaric looked towards the doors. An old nobleman stalked towards him, his fur-lined robe flapping around his boots. A young woman of remarkable beauty followed him. After a moment Malaric recognized them both. Alberon Stormsea, the lord of Castle Stormsea on Greycoast's northwestern point. All of his sons had died, leaving him only with one bastard daughter, Adele or Anna or something like that.

"Where is Prince Everard?" demanded Lord Alberon. "I am Alberon, Lord of Castle Stormsea, and I demand to see the Prince at once."

"You," said Malaric, turning to face him, "are now speaking with him." 

Alberon scowled...and then all the blood drained from his face as he recognized Malaric. 

"Ah," said Malaric. "You've heard of me, I see."

"What...what happened to Prince Everard?" said the young woman.

Malaric smiled at her. "Dead. The San-keth murdered him, and all his sons. Sir Hugh fell in battle, and..."

"No," said the woman. "No. Hugh was alive when I left him." Her brown eyes narrowed. "And if he still lives, he is the lawful Prince of Barellion, not you, my lord Malaric." 

She could be a problem. "What is your name?"

"Adelaide," said the young woman, watching him as if he were a poisonous serpent. Wise of her. "My lord, Hugh is the rightful Prince, but someone must defend the city. The Aegonar host will not stop, and they may have sent the San-keth to assassinate your father..."

Malaric blinked, puzzled.

"What are you talking about? The Aegonar have a host?" he said. 

"A mighty one," said Adelaide. "At least fifty thousand strong. Almost all of northern Greycoast is overrun. And, worse, the Aegonar worship the serpent god and conquer in his name."

Suddenly  Malaric remembered that ruined keep atop the forest hill, remembered Skalatan's idle rumination about a barbarian nation converted to the worship of Sepharivaim.

A chill went down his spine. 

Chapter 20 - The Corrupted Knights

At midday, Lucan walked alone through the streets of Castle Town. A simple spell of cloaking kept any mortal eyes from observing him. 

Sir Gerald's host had returned to Knightcastle yesterday. With Tumblestone safe and Caraster's attack repulsed, the lords of Knightcastle had gained some time before the next assault. Contingents of Justiciar Knights arrived every day in response to the Grand Master’s summons, and more armsmen, knights, and militiamen gathered beneath Knightcastle’s banner. In a few days, Lord Malden would march south with Grand Master Caldarus to smash Caraster once and for all. 

Unless Lord Malden found himself…otherwise occupied.

Through the Glamdaigyr, Lucan had felt Malden kill three more people with the black rune dagger. The dagger had drained the victims’ life force and transferred it through the Glamdaigyr and into the Door of Souls. But Lord Malden absorbed some of that life energy, making him younger and stronger.

Making him crave it ever more. 

No doubt Malden Roland thought the murders perfectly justified. A servant who had offered impertinence. An armsman whose loyalty he had always doubted. But as time went on, the justifications would become flimsier, and Malden would grow easier to control. 

The high lords of Old Dracaryl had often used such a strategy to control the kings of the barbarian nations east of the Great Mountains. In time the kings became utterly addicted to stolen life forces, like a man enslaved to strong alcohol. Eventually, Lucan would control Malden without the man even realizing it.

But for now, Malden’s vassals held his attention. And that gave Lucan a few days to deal with the Justiciars before they turned against him. He also needed more stolen life force, much more than Malden’s lone dagger could provide.

One problem could solve the other.

He made for Castle Town’s central square. 

The chaos of the Great Rising had not been good for Castle Town. Lucan had already seen the terrified peasants camped outside the gates. Now he saw the men and women huddled in doorways and alleys, their faces gaunt and hungry. 

Again he felt…regret, perhaps? Not guilt. Lucan could not remember the last time he had felt guilty about anything. Perhaps it was an effect of his undead state. Yet even before his death and rebirth as a revenant, he had felt no guilt. He had betrayed Mazael Cravenlock, stolen the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, taken Tymaen from her husband, murdered his brother, and worked the Great Rising. In hindsight, he could see how much of that had been foolish. Yet at the time he had felt no guilt, had been certain of the rightness of his actions. 

Yet looking at the ruin he had wrought, he still felt no guilt. He knew he should. But why not? 

For a searing moment he remembered a ruined black city of crumbling towers and shattered palaces, a crimson dragon circling overhead, and the mocking laughter of an ancient horror…

Lucan scowled and shook his head. 

What was done was done, and he had work before him. Yes, he had done terrible things. But if he could rid the world of the Demonsouled, no matter how bloody the cost, everything he had done would be worth it. A new world would rise, one free of the bloody tyranny of the Demonsouled. 

Lucan looked at the poor huddled in their alleys and doorways. He would give their pain meaning. Once the Demonsouled had been destroyed, a new world would rise from the ashes, a world made possible by their suffering. 

Lucan kept walking and came to the Justiciar Order’s preceptory in Castle Town. The preceptory was a fortified keep in itself – a four story tower, with barred doors and narrow windows. Lord Malden had permitted the Justiciars to build this fortified refuge within one of his own towns. 

Foolish, really. Well, Lucan would turn Malden’s foolishness to good use. 

He cast a spell, and his body became wispy and insubstantial, a wraith of smoke and green light. As a living man, the effort to cast this spell had been tremendous. As a revenant, the effort was trivial, even while keeping his cloaking spell in place. Lucan walked to the preceptory’s doors, invisible to the sergeants at guard there. 

A single step carried him through the doors and into the tower. A simple ward would have kept him from entering, the same ward placed upon Castle Town’s walls to keep the runedead out. But the Justiciar Order feared and loathed magic, feared it so much they refused to study it, and therefore had no defense from it. 

And therefore no defense against Lucan. 

He shifted back into material form in the preceptory’s hall, keeping his cloaking spell in place, and found himself in the middle of an argument. Dozens of Justiciar commanders and preceptors sat at a long wooden table, Grand Master Caldarus at their head. 

“We have had our disagreements in the past, Grand Master,” said Sir Commander Aidan Tormaud, arms folded over his gleaming cuirass and blue surcoat. 

Caldarus lifted his white eyebrows. “You have not been zealous enough in securing our rights in Knightreach, Sir Commander. We alone shield the realms of men from dark magic and serpent worship. To support our noble mission, we require estates, manors, and incomes.”

Lucan circled the table, examining the Justiciars. Trenchers and cups had been set for a meal, but no food and drink had been brought forth yet. 

“Regardless,” said Aidan, “we now face a greater threat, one more powerful than either the runedead or Caraster.”

“Ataranur,” said Caldarus.

“My brothers,” said Aidan, looking around the table, “you know I am not prone to exaggeration. I have seen as many battles as any of you. So believe me when I say that I have never seen a wizard of Ataranur’s power. In the space of a few moments, he destroyed a third of Caraster’s runedead.”

“Caraster will undoubtedly gather more,” said Caldarus. 

“And Ataranur will destroy them in turn,” said Aidan. “Grand Master, we do not know how Caraster commands so many runedead. Yet I am certain Ataranur will prevail. And when he does…”

“We shall have to decide what to do with him,” said Caldarus. “A wizard of such fell power cannot have the ear of Malden Roland.”

“Perhaps,” said one of the preceptors, “he truly is a High Elderborn, come to aid us in our hour of darkest need.”

“The High Elderborn?” said Caldarus with a sneer. “The High Elderborn spawned the Dark Elderborn and brought the Demonsouled into the world. They are no friends of mankind. And they have all been dead for millennia. No, I believe Ataranur is simply another renegade come to exploit the Great Rising.”

“How then shall we defeat him?” said Aidan.

“Easily,” said Caldarus. “We will wait until he destroys Caraster for us. And then when he is weakened, we shall kill him. Caraster’s runedead hordes will fall apart, and we shall destroy them one by one. The people will know that the Justiciar Order is their one true shield against dark magic, their saviors against the scourge the gods have brought upon us.” 

“Our spies in the Grim Marches,” said one of the commanders, “said that Lucan Mandragon wrought the Great Rising.”

“The Dragon’s Shadow!” spat Caldarus. “Bah. I met him once, years ago. A wretched boy, still pining over the woman who left him for that gluttonous pig Robert Highgate. A fool.” Lucan smirked behind his mask. “No, my sons, no mortal wizard could have worked the Great Rising.” Caldarus’s scowl deepened. “It is the punishment of the gods, brought us on for our sins. Our towns and cities are dens of debauchery and fornication. Men pray to the San-keth and the Demonsouled in the shadows, and…”

Caldarus continued talking, and the Justiciar officers listened with the polite expressions of men who had heard the speech before. Lucan ignored them and entered the preceptory’s kitchens. A half-dozen cooks toiled to prepare the Justiciars’ midday meal. Several sets of pork ribs stood ready. The Justiciars ate well, even while the peasants starved in the streets. 

Lucan drew out one of the glass vials he had taken from Marstan’s hidden workshop. He sprinkled a few drops from the vial into the wine pitchers, and then moved onto the pork ribs. None of the cooks saw him, their eyes turned aside by his cloaking spell. 

When he finished, he returned to the hall.

“I must excuse myself, Grand Master,” said Aidan as Lucan entered. “Lord Malden and Lord Tobias are meeting with Lord Tancred and Lord Nicholas to plan the march south, and the Justiciars must have a voice there.”

“Go, my son,” said Caldarus. 

Aidan rose, bowed to the Grand Master, and departed the hall. 

Lucan stood in the corner to wait.

A moment later a small army of maids and serving men entered, bearing the Justiciars’ meal. They set out pork ribs before each man, and filled the cups of wine from the pitchers. The Justiciar officers began eating, some with more enthusiasm than others. Caldarus, as befit his grim, ascetic appearance, only sipped lightly as his wine.

No matter. It would only take a few drops. 

The men displayed symptoms a few moments later. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, and a few of the Justiciars scowled, rubbing their shoulders or their arms. Caldarus frowned, the lines digging deeper into his face. 

“You will excuse me, my sons,” he said. “I fear our meal does not sit well with me.”

“Nor I, Grand Master,” said a preceptor.

“Nor I, also,” said a commander.

Caldarus frowned. “I shall have a word with the cooks. Perhaps…”

He stood, wavered, and collapsed into his chair. 

“Grand Master!” said another commander, shooting to his feet.

But his legs crumpled beneath him, and the Justiciar fell with a clatter of armor. 

“Poison!” rasped Caldarus, clawing at the arms of his chair. “My sons, we have been poisoned!” He raised his voice. “Someone fetch a surgeon, now! Now!”

But the Justiciars were too weak to act. Some slumped onto the table, gagging and coughing, staining their fine surcoats with grease. A few sagged into their chairs, panting. Others toppled backwards onto the floor, trying to crawl for the doors. 

Lucan released his cloaking spell and stepped to the Grand Master’s side.

“Alas,” said Lucan. “I fear that I am too late.” 

Caldarus’s pale, sweating face glared up at him. “You! This is your doing, wizard! Your treachery!”

“It is not,” said Lucan. “I discovered that Caraster had subverted your servants. They loathe and hate you, and hearken to Caraster’s message of a world without lords and priests and wealthy men. At his bidding, they poured poison into your wine.” 

“You lie,” hissed Caraster. 

“I do not,” said Lucan. “Have you not seen how sullenly the maids serve you, resentful of their rightful betters? Little wonder they listened to Caraster’s lies.”

Caldarus said nothing, but Lucan saw the doubt bloom in his cold eyes.

“Antidote,” said the Grand Master. “Is there an antidote?”

“There is not,” said Lucan. “All that remains is to avenge yourself on your faithless servants.” 

He reached into the bag that dangled from his shoulder, drew a black dagger marked with a sigil of pale green flame, and placed it into the Grand Master’s hand. 

Caldarus stared at the weapon. “What…”

One of the cooks, a doughy middle-aged woman, entered the hall, drawn by the shouting. 

“Grand Master!” she said, running to his chair. “Oh, Grand Master, what has happened?”

“You!” snarled Caldarus. “This is your work!” 

The woman blinked. “I don’t understand. I…”

Lucan summoned power and reached into her thoughts, taking control of her muscles.

“Yes,” said the cook at Lucan’s silent command. “I put poison into your wine at the command of Caraster. I will laugh as I watch you die, you stupid, useless old…”

Caldarus screamed, heaved himself out of his chair, and buried the black dagger in the woman’s chest. The blow found her heart and killed her at once. And as she died, Lucan felt the surge of stolen power, felt it flow through the Glamdaigyr and into the waiting Door of Souls. 

But a portion of the power lingered in Caldarus.

The old man straightened up. Some of the lines had vanished from his face, and a few streaks of gray now appeared in his white hair. 

“What…what happened?” he said, blinking.

“You struck down your poisoner,” said Lucan, “and by the mercy of the gods, you are healed. In fact, I suspect you will be a touch stronger than you were previously.”

Caldarus nodded. “Yes…I feel better. Better than I have in years. I…it seems I was wrong about you, Ataranur.” He looked at the table. “But my officers…”

“If we act quickly,” said Lucan, “we can save them.” 

He reached into his bag, and drew out more black daggers. 

###

Gerald followed his father and older brother through the camp, listening as they argued with Lord Tancred and Sir Commander Aidan. 

Now that he had returned to Knightcastle, much of the responsibility of command had returned to Malden and Tobias. Gerald found that he did not miss it. Gods, but he was sick of leading men to battle, of sending them to die against runedead and Malrags and other horrors. 

There had been so much death already…and he was weary of it. 

He forced himself to pay attention as his father argued with Lord Tancred about supplies. Gerald would command part of the host of Knightreach in the coming battle, and a good commander made sure to know his men and his supplies. Yet Gerald wanted to slip away, to spend the afternoon with Rachel and his sons. He had barely seen them in the last few months, and Aldane and Belifane had gotten so big. Before much longer they would take service as pages, to start leaning the knightly skills for themselves. 

Gerald could only hope that Knightreach was at peace by then.

A shout cut into his thoughts.

“Sir Commander!” 

A Justiciar sergeant ran past the tents, his blue tabard spattered with blood.

Gerald reached for his sword.

“What is it, man?” said Aidan.

“You must come at once, Sir Commander,” said the sergeant. “The Grand Master…sir, I fear he has gone mad. He’s killed all the servants in the preceptory as spies of Caraster! And he’s started attacking the townsmen…”