Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (2 page)

Chapter 2 – The Pact Fulfilled

Lucan Mandragon opened the door to his tower room.

He regretted the loss of his workshop below Castle Cravenlock, but he knew better than to challenge Lord Mazael over it. Losing the books looted from the San-keth temple was inconvenient, but Lucan could live without them. He would have to find a new space to work. Master Othar’s old tower, perhaps.

He shut the door, turned, and froze in place.

A scream threatened to rise in his throat.

The Old Demon stood in the corner, watching him.

All at once Lucan remembered everything. The dead forest. The reapers and the hooded shadows. The manifestation wearing his father’s guise. The black city and the fight with the manifestation’s dragon form.

And the bargain he had made with the Old Demon.

“Lucan,” said the Old Demon, grinning. “You owe me a favor.” 

“No,” said Lucan, backing toward the door.

“Yes,” said the Old Demon. He stepped forward, the hem of his black robe rustling against the stone floor. A smile danced on his thin lips, and a faint red gleam flickered within his gray eyes. “Oh, don’t bother running.” He crooked a finger, and Lucan felt a surge of magical power. “You won’t be able to get the door open.” 

Lucan looked at the door, looked at the window, and back at the Old Demon 

“Ah,” said the Old Demon. “You’re thinking about attacking me, aren’t you? Perhaps striking hard enough that you can hammer through my wards and escape?” He spread his hands, grinning. “You’re a strong wizard, Lucan. Even stronger, now that I’ve grafted that stolen Demonsouled power to your soul. If you hit me hard enough, you might just escape.”

“No,” said Lucan. His mouth had gone dry.

The Old Demon lifted an eyebrow. “And why not?” 

“You can’t hurt me,” said Lucan, “because you’re half-spirit, and so bound by the laws of the spirit world. Which means you cannot attack me unless I first attack you. Which means you cannot hurt me.”

The Old Demon smiled. “Yes. Good. Very good. I chose you well, Lucan.” 

“Chose me for what?” said Lucan.

“You were almost correct,” said the Old Demon. “I can’t hurt you unless you attack me first.” He grinned, and for an instant his teeth looked very sharp. “Or…unless you make a deal with me.” 

Lucan said nothing.

“Which, I remind you,” said the Old Demon, “that you did.” 

“So what do you want?” said Lucan.

“Nothing too onerous,” said the Old Demon. “Merely that which is rightfully mine. You remember, I trust?”

“My conscience,” said Lucan. “You want my conscience.”

The Old Demon gave a slight nod.

“Why?” said Lucan. “What possible use could you have for it?”

The Old Demon blinked. “A use for it? You think I have a use for your conscience? Lucan. What would I do with it? Sell it? Eat it? Hardly.”

“Then why do you want it?” said Lucan. 

“Because,” said the Old Demon. “You’re not going to need it any longer.”

“Why not?” said Lucan. 

“You’re going to do some work for me,” said the Old Demon.

“I will not,” said Lucan.

“You will,” said the Old Demon, smiling. “And do you know what the best part is? I won’t have to make you do it. You’ll do it freely, of your own will.” He stepped closer. “You’ll harvest for me, Lucan, you’ll reap for me…and you’ll do it cheerfully. Joyfully, even.” 

“Reap?” said Lucan. “Harvest? Harvest what?”

The Old Demon smiled. “Time to find out.”

He stepped forward, the hellish light in his eyes brightening, and his right hand darted forward. Claws, long black, filthy claws, sprouted from his fingertips. 

Lucan just had time to flinch, and then the Old Demon’s hand sank into his chest. 

He screamed in agony, every muscle in his body going rigid at once. He pawed at the wall, trying to keep his balance, but toppled to the floor. The Old Demon stooped over him, grinning. Somehow, impossibly, his arm had sunk to the elbow in Lucan’s chest. 

“This,” said the Old Demon, “is really going to hurt.”

Lucan felt the Old Demon’s fingers flex against his ribs, and pain erupted through him. His heels drummed against the floor, and his palms slapped against the rough stone. He felt the Old Demon’s fingers ripping through him, tearing through his mind.

Memories darted through his agonized thoughts. 

His long trek through the spirit world, fighting against the Demonsouled corruption devouring his soul.

The bloodstaff shattering in his hands, Malavost’s laughter filling his ears. 

Tymaen turning away from him in horror and fear.

Marstan trying to seize control of his mind.

The look of disgust on Richard Mandragon’s face when he realized his son could use magic.

“Yes,” murmured the Old Demon, his eyes like dying coals in his gaunt face. “Perfect. You, Lucan. You are the instrument I have sought for all these centuries.”

“No,” gasped Lucan.

Gods, how had it ever come to this? He had made so many bad choices. The desperate agreement with the Old Demon. Forging the bloodstaff from Mazael Cravenlock’s blood. Using the dark magic he had inherited from Marstan. 

Losing Tymaen.

“Ah,” said the Old Demon. “There it is.” 

Where had it gone all wrong? He had wanted to use his powers for good, to defend the people of the Grim Marches. But Marstan had twisted him, Marstan had corrupted him…

“Just a little tug,” murmured the Old Demon. 

Lucan screamed.

And Marstan had studied under Simonian of Briault.

An alias for the Old Demon.

“And here we are,” said the Old Demon.

He stood and ripped his hand free from Lucan’s chest in one fluid motion. 

Pain exploded through Lucan, and darkness swallowed him.

When his vision cleared, he found himself on the floor. He grabbed at his chest, expecting to feel blood and torn flesh, but his skin felt smooth and unbroken. He sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The Old Demon stood in the corner, still watching him. A tiny sphere of pale blue light danced and flickered over his right palm. 

Lucan swallowed. “Is that…”

“Your conscience?” said the Old Demon. “It is. Tiny little thing, isn’t it?” He laughed. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” 

“You did this to me,” said Lucan.

“Oh?” said the Old Demon. 

“You taught Marstan,” said Lucan, “you twisted me, you turned my entire life into your puppet…”

“Do stop whining,” said the Old Demon, examining the tiny sphere of light. “It is most unbecoming.” He grinned. “But, yes. Remember this, Lucan. All your woes, all your pain…I did it to you. The Demonsouled did it to you. Remember that.” He titled his head to the side. “How do you feel?”

“I feel…” Lucan frowned. The horrible pain in his chest and limbs had vanished. “I don’t feel anything different.” 

In fact, he felt a little better. As if a burden had been taken off his shoulders. 

“You won’t,” said the Old Demon. “And that is entirely the point. Nothing will feel different. And you’ll even feel good as you do me a little favor.”

“I won’t do anything for you,” said Lucan. 

The Old Demon’s smile was indulgent. “I think not.”

He flicked a finger.

Invisible force seized Lucan, slammed him into the tower wall with terrific force. He would have screamed, would have fought, but he could not even draw breath. 

“You’re going to fall asleep now,” said the Old Demon, “and when you wake up, you will forget our little chat.” 

Lucan growled, trying to fight his way free from the spell. He reached for his magic, trying to summon arcane power, but the Old Demon’s magic was like a tower of iron. Lucan could no more have opposed the Old Demon’s strength than he could have tried to extinguish the sun. 

“But don’t forget,” said the Old Demon, “that the Demonsouled are the cause of your woes. Every ill that has befallen you, every last shred of pain…lay it at the doorstep of the Demonsouled.” He grinned. “Of me.”

He snapped his fingers. 

The pressure holding Lucan vanished, and he collapsed to the floor.

Darkness swallowed him.

###

Lucan blinked.

He felt the cold stone floor resting against his cheek.

Confused, he sat up, leaning against the wall. His tower room was deserted. 

Why the devil was he on the floor? 

He stood up, frowning.

He remembered walking through the door, considering a new location for a workroom. And then…and then…

Nothing.

Lucan turned in a circle, hand raised in the beginnings of a spell. Had he been drugged? Or had someone cast a spell upon him? He worked the spell to sense the presence of magic and felt nothing, save for the wards against the San-keth and the undead Timothy deBlanc had cast over the entire castle. 

There was no trace of any spell cast upon Lucan. And had he been drugged, there would have been other symptoms – dizziness, nausea, something.

So what had happened to him?

Tentatively he reached for the well of Demonsouled power within him, left behind by whatever strange ordeal he had suffered after the destruction of the bloodstaff. But the power was quiet, waiting for him to call upon it.

“Exhaustion,” muttered Lucan, shaking his head and sitting down upon the bed. That was it. His ordeal with the shattered bloodstaff and Corvad had drained him, and he hadn’t yet recovered. 

And yet…

He felt…better.

Lighter, somehow. As if some heavy burden had been lifted. Or if all his cares had been taken away. For a moment Lucan felt the absurd impulse to go enjoy himself, to get drunk and seduce the first willing woman he could find. Or why bother with willing? He knew enough spells to override the will of another, to force the victim to comply with his wishes…

He shook his head, annoyed. He had better things to do with his time than to debauch himself like a drunken caravan guard. He had sworn to fight dark magic, to keep others from suffering as he had suffered, and he would do it.

Lucan would do whatever was necessary.

He titled his head to the side, puzzled.

For the first time, the thought filled him with anticipation.

###

Darkness swirled, and the creature that some men called the Old Demon stepped out of the shadows and onto the ramparts of Castle Cravenlock’s curtain wall. 

He did not worry that anyone would see him. A hundred nations had risen and fallen in the centuries since he had mastered the spells of concealment and disguise. True, Mazael’s pet wizard had mantled the castle in warding spells, but those spells were like candle flames against the inferno of the Old Demon’s might. It required only a thought to bypass them. With the tiniest effort of will, he could have shattered the spells and left their caster a drooling idiot. He could have killed every last man, woman, and child within the walls, and reduced the castle itself to a pile of smoking slag. 

But only if they attacked him first.

His vast power carried limitations. 

So he had to use others as his tools, as his weapons. 

And he had become very good at it. 

His eyes fell over the dome of the castle’s chapel, and the rage in his mind stirred. Mazael had defied him in that chapel, and few of his children had ever done so. And with that cursed sword of his, Mazael could have hurt him, as the ancients had foretold so very long ago. Mazael could even have killed him.

Mazael could still kill him with it.

But Mazael was going to die soon enough.

The Old Demon had no wish to face Mazael himself…but he was very good at using others as his weapons.

He smiled.

It was time to begin.

He made his way to the courtyard. He could have traveled the shadows to his destination, as his rebellious granddaughter could, but the walk amused him. Castle Cravenlock was old, but the Old Demon was older. He remembered when the Cravenlocks had been the liege lords of the Grim Marches, when the San-keth (at his suggestion) had built their secret temple below the castle, converting the first Lord of Castle Cravenlock to the worship of the serpent god. And he remembered when this castle had been nothing more than one of the outer fortresses of Old Dracaryl, ruled by one of their necromancer-lords.

The high lords of Old Dracaryl, so eager to learn the secrets of necromancy, had been some of his most useful tools. A pity their own dark magic had devoured them. 

Though they had left behind weapons he could put to good use indeed. 

The castle’s gates stood closed, so he walked through the shadows and appeared outside the walls, unseen by the guards. He strode down the road leading from the castle’s gates, lost in his thoughts. How many times had he orchestrated the downfall of kingdoms and empires over the centuries? There had been so many. He could no longer remember them all.

His smile widened.

But this time…this time would be the last time.

It was already in motion. Nations stirred in the barbarian lands east of the Great Mountains. And Lucan and Mazael, between them, would do the rest of the work, whether they willed it or not.

And then, and then…

And then the Old Demon would have what he had sought for so very long. 

He stopped in the darkness below the castle’s craggy hill. Lucan Mandragon thought he knew all the secrets of Castle Cravenlock when he built his secret workshop in the abandoned San-keth temple. The San-keth thought they knew all the castle’s secrets when they constructed their hidden temple. But they were wrong. The Old Demon was ancient, and he knew secrets held by no other living creature. 

Including what the high lords of Dracaryl had left buried beneath the castle. 

The Old Demon lifted a finger, reaching out with his magical senses. He felt the cold, icy power of necromantic magic waiting beneath the rock of the hill. The high lords had left it there, intending to return. But their hubris had destroyed them, and now the power lay forgotten in its ancient vaults. 

Along with the creatures trapped inside. 

Now. How best to unleash them?