Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (11 page)

Then the heralds called Mazael, and he rode again. He faced four opponents, and defeated them all. His Demonsouled strength and power gave him an edge they could not match, and his healing allowed him to recover from the battering of their lances. 

He realized that he might well face Toraine. 

The thought filled him with both concern and anticipation. If Toraine lost, he would not take it well, and add the defeat to his growing grudge against Mazael. 

And if Mazael’s hand slipped, if he drove the broken end of a jousting lance through Toraine’s throat…

He pushed aside the thought.

He rode to the end of the lists, where Rufus and the pages stood, waiting to take Mazael’s shield and lance. 

Lucan Mandragon stood there, wrapped in his cloak, gazing at the blue sky. 

Mazael swung from his saddle, handed his lance and shield to the pages, and walked to Lucan’s side.

“I thought you didn’t care for tournaments,” said Mazael.

“I do not,” said Lucan, voice distant. “When I was a boy, I wanted to be a knight, not a wizard. They remind me too much of what could have been.” 

“So why are you here?” said Mazael. “Is something amiss?”

“Possibly,” said Lucan.

Mazael looked around the crowds, his mind racing through the possibilities. San-keth changelings among the spectators, waiting to strike? A Malrag warband raiding from the Great Mountains? A renegade necromancer?

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“I’m not sure,” murmured Lucan. “Something to the east. I think…a wizard of great power cast a spell near the Great Mountains.”

“Necromancy?” said Mazael.

“No,” said Lucan. “Not even dark magic. Just a spell of great power.”

“It might have nothing to do with us,” said Mazael.

Lucan snorted. “Yes, that’s terribly likely.”

He fell silent, gazing at the nobles’ box, and Mazael followed his gaze.

Lucan was staring at Tymaen Highgate.

“Why did I let her go?” said Lucan. He sounded almost bewildered. 

“I’m sorry?” said Mazael. 

“I let her go,” said Lucan. Growing anger entered his voice. “I let her go to that fat fool Highgate. Why? Why didn’t I take her? She was rightfully mine. Why did I let her go?”

“Because she left you and accepted Robert Highgate’s proposal,” said Mazael. “She rejected you, because of the changes Marstan’s memories wrought in you. You told me that.”

“I did,” said Lucan. “But I could have won her back. What stopped me? Something stopped me from taking her…but I cannot remember what.” He shook his head, confusion on his gaunt face. “I fear I have lost something, but I cannot remember what it was.” 

“Lucan,” said Mazael, “you have always been a good friend. You’ve made some foolish mistakes, yes. But so have I. Without your help Morebeth would have killed me and the Malrags would have overrun the Grim Marches.”

The confusion vanished from Lucan’s face, replaced by cold, sharp clarity. “I did it to defend the Grim Marches from dark magic, as I swore to do. And I will do whatever is necessary to do it.”

“Just don’t destroy yourself in the process,” said Mazael, “as I have almost done. And as you almost did.”

Lucan walked away without another word.

Mazael shook his head. He was not sure what had happened to Lucan after the bloodstaff had broken. It had left scars upon him, though, deep scars. A man would never recover from scars like that, but he could learn to live with them.

But would Lucan learn to live with them?

Toraine won ride after ride, and Mazael was almost certain he would face Toraine in the final match of the tournament. And it would be so easy to kill Toraine during the ride. If Mazael’s lance wavered just for a moment, or if his blow struck Toraine’s horse, he could ensure that the Grim Marches would have peace. No one would blame Mazael for a jousting accident. And then Lucan would become the liege lord of the Grim Marches when Lord Richard died.

For some reason that thought unsettled Mazael almost as much as the prospect of Toraine becoming liege lord.

He shook aside his doubts and walked to the nobles’ box, trying to ignore the whisperings of his Demonsouled blood. Molly stood at the railing, watching the jousting, while Romaria peered up the sky, her hand shielding her eyes. 

“Well, Father,” said Molly. “It looks like you get to ride against Toraine. Try to make it look like an accident.” 

Her words chilled him.

“It’s a joust, not battle,” said Mazael. “The goal is not to kill anyone.” He looked at Romaria. “What is it?” He her followed her gaze and saw a tiny dark speck far overhead. “Not a dragon, I hope?”

She said nothing.

“Romaria?” said Mazael.

“I think,” she said, voice quiet, “that’s a griffin.”

“A griffin?” said Mazael. “Aren’t they legendary?”

“No,” said Romaria. “They’re extinct here, but still numerous on the eastern side of the Great Mountains. The barbarian nations of the middle lands tame them and use them as mounts.” She took a deep breath. “Mazael…I think someone’s riding that griffin.” 

“A barbarian with wanderlust?” said Mazael. A darker thought occurred to him. “Or a scout for a raiding party?”

Romaria didn’t answer.

The trumpets rang out, and a herald strode into the lists, proclaiming that the final match of the day would be Lord Mazael Cravenlock of Castle Cravenlock against Lord Toraine Mandragon of Hanging Tower. Mazael turned, steeling himself…

At that exact moment a horseman galloped onto the lists, the horse sweaty and exhausted, the rider dusty and haggard.

“My lord Mazael!” shouted the rider, a young man dressed the leather armor of the militia. “Is Lord Mazael here? I have dire news for him! I must speak with him at once!”

A murmur went through the spectators.

“I am here!” said Mazael, descending from the nobles’ box. “What news?”

“I come with grim tidings,” said the rider. “Warbands are raiding the eastern villages. Dozens have already fallen, and the castles are sore pressed. We need aid, badly.”

“Warbands?” said Mazael. “Malrags?” A stab of dread went through him. Gods, had they fought off Ultorin’s horde only to have another wave descend from the Great Mountains?

The rider shook his head. 

“No, my lord,” he said. “Not Malrags. Barbarians."

Chapter 11 – Followers of the Urdmoloch

The little village put up a ferocious fight. 

According to the herdsmen Athanaric’s thains had captured, the village was named Iron Fall. Which was a strange name, since the village had neither a waterfall nor an iron mine. But an earthwork wall surrounded the village, topped with sharpened wooden stakes, and the villagers wielded their short bows and spears with skill. For a moment Riothamus wondered if Athanaric’s raiders could take the village.

Then the mammoths lumbered into the fray.

The Tervingi had labored for days in the Great Southern Forest, cutting down trees to create war towers for the mammoths’ backs. Now three mammoths strode toward the village, their faces and head veiled in chain mail. Swordthains and spearthains crouched in the towers, shields raised to ward off the arrows. 

“Should we use our spells?” said Riothamus.

“No,” said Aegidia. “The Guardian’s power must be used to defend the Tervingi nation. Not to slaughter defenseless men and women. Even in circumstances as desperate as this.” 

The mammoths reached the wall, and the thains leapt from the towers, shouting battle songs. Riothamus saw Athanaric in their midst, his steel sword a blur. The thains on the mammoths threw down rope ladders, and the rest of Athanaric’s raiding party scrambled up to join the fight.

The struggle was soon over.

###

After the battle Riothamus stood with Aegidia in Iron Fall’s square.

Athanaric’s thains scoured the village and its barns, claimed any food and cattle they found, and loaded it onto wagons outside the village. At Athanaric’s order, they only took half of the food, and did not touch the villagers’ seed stock. He claimed this would keep the villagers from turning against the Tervingi.

Riothamus doubted it. He saw the angry glances the villagers threw at the Tervingi, heard the women of the slain defenders wailing in their homes. These people would turn on the Tervingi at the first opportunity. 

After the food was secured, Athanaric ordered all the villagers herded into the square.

“People of Iron Fall!” he shouted. The language used by the folk of the Grim Marches it was similar to the tongue of the Jutai. “I am Athanaric, a hrould of the Tervingi nation.” 

Silence answered his pronouncement. 

“We are now your hroulds,” said Athanaric. “The Tervingi need a new homeland, and we have chosen to settle here. Your hroulds cannot stop us, and if they face us, we will defeat them in battle. So I urge you to return to your farms and workshops, and to go about your work with diligence. We shall protect you from all attackers, and in return, you shall feed us.” 

Still the villagers said nothing.

“Be loyal to us,” said Athanaric, “and we shall be generous. But rebel against us, and we will crush you utterly.” 

He left without another word.

###

“They will turn on us,” said Aegidia, “at the first opportunity.”

“I know,” said Athanaric.

Riothamus walked with the Guardian and the hrould as the warband left Iron Fall. Ragnachar and Athanaric had agreed on a strategy for the conquest of the Grim Marches. The women, children, and those too weak or sick to fight would remain with the wagons near the foothills of the mountains, at a ruined village called Gray Pillar. Meanwhile Ragnachar’s and Athanaric’s thains would split into dozens of raiding parties, striking as many villages and securing as much food as possible. They would draw the attention of the lords of the Grim Marches, who would summon their knights to drive out the Tervingi. Then Ragnachar and Athanaric would gather their forces, crush the knights, and claim lordship over the Grim Marches. 

It was a good plan.

It might even work.

“Aye,” said Athanaric. “They’ll rebel against us as soon as they get their nerve up. Which means we have to defeat their lords as soon as possible. Once we break their lords, they’ll see that it is useless to fight against us. They will settle down then, especially if we rule with a light hand.” 

“Assuming we can defeat their lords,” said Riothamus.

Athanaric glanced at him. “You think we cannot, witcher?”

“I think the folk of the Grim Marches are not as soft and weak as Ragnachar made them out to be,” said Riothamus. “You saw all those ruined villages near the mountains. All those Malrag bones. I think the Malrags attacked them.” 

“Then they are weakened enough that we can defeat them,” said Athanaric.

“Perhaps,” said Aegidia, thin fingers drumming against the bronze wood of her staff. “But there are no Malrags here. The lords of the Grim Marches were victorious. They are battle-hardened, and know how to fight. A battle against them would be risky.”

“I know,” said Athanaric, “yet I see no better option.”

“Maybe we can make peace with the lords of the Grim Marches,” said Aegidia.

Athanaric barked out a laugh. “Forgive me, Guardian, but that’s not likely. We have invaded their homes and raided their villages. If these lords were strong enough to fight the Malrags, they won’t hesitate to fight us.”

“Yet maybe they will see wisdom,” said Riothamus. “We have seen so many empty villages. The Malrags seem to have killed most of the people in the entire southeastern quarter of the Grim Marches. We could easily settle there without disturbing the rest of the villages.”

“Settle there as what?” said Athanaric. “As the thralls of the lords? Have we escaped from the Malrags and the Dark Elderborn only to end as slaves to the lords of the Grim Marches?” 

“We could negotiate from a position of strength,” said Aegidia. 

“To do that, we must first have a position of strength, Guardian,” said Athanaric. “And to gain that position of strength, we must win victories. I hope you are right, that we can find a way to live in peace with the folk of the Grim Marches. I am weary of killing. But until the Tervingi are safe, I will fight.”

They marched on.

###

The next day they found a village Ragnachar’s thains had raided. 

Unlike Athanaric, Ragnachar’s men had made no effort to be merciful. 

Every house in the village had burned, smoke still rising from the charred stone walls. Corpses lay scattered down its main street – the defenders, Riothamus realized, slain as they fought to protect their homes. 

A much larger pile of corpses lay in the center of the village.

The women and children.

Riothamus’s hands curled into fists, his breath hissing through his clenched teeth. This village looked no different than dozens of Tervingi holds he had seen, holds where the Malrags had slaughtered the bondsmen and burned the houses. It looked no different than his father’s hold, after the Malrags had come. 

“Why?” demanded Riothamus, as Aegidia and Athanaric looked over the wreckage. “Why did he do this?”

Athanaric shook his head, face grim. “Probably because they defied him. Ragnachar was never one to show mercy, not for any reason.” 

“He is no better than a Malrag!” said Riothamus.

“He is a hrould of the Tervingi,” said Aegidia.

“To hell with him!” said Riothamus, turning away from the piled dead. “We fled our homeland because the Malrags did this to us! And now we do the same thing to the folk of the Grim Marches. How are we any better than the Malrags?” 

“We did what was necessary…” began Athanaric.

“You did what was necessary,” said Riothamus. “I was not happy about taking the villagers’ food, aye, but you left them enough that they will not starve, and you did not slaughter them.” He shook his head, the anger building within him. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to draw on his magic and rip lightning down from the sky. “He did the same with the Jutai. And now he does the same to the folk of the Grim Marches.”

“It is deplorable, yes, but he is still Tervingi,” said Aegidia. 

“And you countenance this?” said Riothamus, glaring at her.

Aegidia would not meet his gaze. Riothamus was stunned. She was the Guardian of the Tervingi nation, the mightiest wielder of magic he had ever encountered…and she could not meet his gaze when he spoke of Ragnachar. 

“What is it?” said Riothamus. “What hold does he have over you? You never confront him, never challenge him.”

“Enough!” said Athanaric. “This quarreling achieves us nothing. Yes, I do not care for Ragnachar. But if we fight amongst ourselves now, the lords of the Grim Marches will crush us utterly. We must move on.”

Athanaric and his men left the dead village behind.

But the images of the slain burned in Riothamus’s mind.

###

They came across Ragnachar’s camp later that day.

The sun touched the western horizon, turning the endless plains the color of blood. Ragnachar’s warband, four hundred warriors and twenty mammoths, camped on the bank of a creek. A dozen orcragars patrolled the boundaries of the camp, their ragged black cloaks fluttering in the breeze.

Athanaric grunted. “Best we camp separately. Ragnachar’s pet orcragars are ill-tempered, and will kill a man for looking at them the wrong away.”

Riothamus stared at the camp. No doubt the orcragars and thains rested from their slaughter at the village. He heard laughter and carousing from within the camp, along with an occasional Tervingi war song. They were celebrating what they had done…

Something inside his mind snapped. 

He found himself stalking toward the camp, ignoring Aegidia’s shouts. One of the orcragars blocked his way, sneering. The setting sun painted the scars on the man’s cheeks and forehead with bloody light.

“One Athanaric’s dogs?” said the orcragar. “Go slinking back to your master.”

“I will see Ragnachar now,” said Riothamus. 

The orcragar laughed. “You will not, fool. Ragnachar is making his devotions to the mighty Urdmoloch. A craven woman like you is not welcome. Go crawl back to Athanaric and lick the feeble old fool’s boots.”

“I am Riothamus son of Rigotharic,” said Riothamus, “the apprentice of the Guardian, and I will speak with Ragnachar.”

The orcragar growled. “The old hag’s pet? Run off, now, before I get angry.”

“You will let me through,” said Riothamus, “or you’ll see what a witcher can do when he gets angry.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, but the orcragar blinked first. 

“Fine,” he said, stepping aside. “You want to see Ragnachar, go. I’ll laugh when he tears your heart out.” 

Riothamus stalked past without another word.

And as the orcragar had promised, he found Ragnachar in the midst of a ceremony. 

The sight was so bizarre that Riothamus froze, his rage forgotten. 

A score of orcragars stood in a ring at the center of the camp, Ragnachar at their head. A swordthain knelt before Ragnachar, one of the Jutai men who had sworn to the hrould. Ragnachar held up his left hand, blood glimmering in his palm. 

“Do you pledge yourself to the Urdmoloch?” said Ragnachar. “Do you give your soul to him?”

“I so swear,” said the swordthain.

“Then receive his gift and his blessing,” said Ragnachar, “in this blood.”

And he turned his hand and let the blood drip into the swordthain’s opened mouth. 

The swordthain screamed and collapsed to the ground, thrashing as if poisoned. Two of the orcragars seized him, pinned his arms and legs in place. Ragnachar knelt, drew a dagger from his belt, and carved the image of an eye onto the trembling man’s forehead and cheeks. 

“Rise, then,” said Ragnachar, “as a wielder of demon power and rage, as an orcragar.”

The new-made orcragar climbed to his feet. And as Riothamus watched, the bleeding cuts on his brow and forehead healed, leaving only the livid scars of an orcragar.

How was that even possible?

Then Riothamus remembered his fury, and dismissed the question for later.

“Ragnachar!” he shouted.

The cold eyes of the orcragars fell upon him, like a pack of wolves considering a sheep.

But Riothamus was no sheep.

He stalked closer. Ragnachar gazed at him without expression, a statue of black metal in his armor. 

“What did you wish?” said the hrould.

“That village,” said Riothamus.

“What about it?” said Ragnachar.

“You murdered everyone there,” said Riothamus.

“I did not,” said Ragnachar.

“You deny that you killed them?”

“Of course not,” said Ragnachar. “I deny that I murdered them. Murder is an unlawful killing, and there is no such thing as unlawful killing. There are only the strong and the weak. The strong may take what they like from the weak. Including their lives, if necessary.”

“Spare me the ravings of your damned Urdmoloch,” said Riothamus.

An angry rumble went through the orcragars, and some of them reached for their weapons, but Ragnachar himself remained calm. 

“That is the truth of life itself,” said Ragnachar. “If you are too weak to see it, that is not my concern.” 

“Why did you kill those villagers?” said Riothamus.

“Because I said I would,” said Ragnachar. “I told the villagers that if they did not surrender, I would kill every living thing within their walls. They did not surrender, and so I killed them all. I do not make threats unless I intend to fulfill them. Perhaps the next village will think twice before refusing to yield to me.” 

“You’re a fool, and a murderous one,” said Riothamus. Again an angry mutter went through the orcragars. “You’ve slain innocent people, and ruined any chance that we might have peace with the lords of the Grim Marches…”

Ragnachar’s lip twitched in a sneer of contempt. “Peace? There is no such thing. Life is endless struggle. The strong do what they like, and the weak suffer what they must. We shall either destroy the lords of the Grim Marches, or they will destroy us. Such is the way of the world.”

“This is madness,” said Riothamus. “Do you want to destroy the Tervingi? With this butchery, you are well on your way…”

“Stop taking,” said Ragnachar.

The hrould moved in a blur.

One moment he stood on the far side of the ring of orcragars. The next he stood before Riothamus, his hand clamped around Riothamus’s throat. Riothamus clawed at Ragnachar’s wrist, but the hrould’s arm was like a bar of iron.