Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (20 page)

Richard kept talking, and a realization came to Mazael. He had known Molly less than a year, and Richard had raised Lucan. Yet Mazael cared more about Molly than Richard cared about Lucan. Lord Richard Mandragon’s sons were his tools and his weapons. If he had any affection for them, it was the sort of affection a blacksmith had for his forge, or a carpenter for his hammer. 

Little wonder both men had become so ruthless. 

###

Ragnachar walked alone in the darkness outside of Swordgrim, his expression calm.

His expression was always calm. He had learned, long ago, that if he did not keep himself calm at all times, if he did not keep himself under control, the inferno raging within his heart would destroy him. 

His father had told him that, and his father was older than the Tervingi and the noble Houses of the Grim Marches. 

And as always, the thought of his father brought a blistering headache.

Ragnachar closed his eyes and waited for the pain to stop.

He was so tired. 

It had been an endless struggle for his entire life, and he was so tired of it, and sometimes he just wanted to let himself go, to rest, to relax…

To kill everything in sight.

Ragnachar opened his eyes. 

He saw the host of the Tervingi, his countrymen, feasting in Lord Richard’s pavilions. Eating the meat and drinking the ale of the men who had conquered them. It disgusted him, the weakness, the way any weakness disgusted him. 

They could have conquered the Grim Marches, and instead they sat eating the scraps of their new master.

The inferno of rage filling his heart redoubled, threatening to spill over his iron control. 

Soon. He would release it soon, kill and kill until the lust of his burning heart was slaked. He had done as his father had asked, and brought the Tervingi to the Grim Marches. He suspected his father wanted the Tervingi slaughtered to the last man, woman, and child. 

Just as well. He would kill the Tervingi for their contemptible weakness.

And he would kill every other living thing in the Grim Marches. 

A dozen of his orcragars stood on the shore, awaiting him. 

“Come,” commanded Ragnachar, and the orcragars, those who had partaken of his tainted blood, followed. 

###

A week after the ceremony, Castle Cravenlock came into sight atop its crag.

Mazael grinned. “Home at last.” 

His knights and armsmen rode behind him, Romaria and Molly and Sir Hagen and Timothy at his side.

“Ugly place,” said Molly. “Have I told you that, Father? It is an ugly castle.” 

“And you, daughter,” said Mazael, “will inherit it one day.”

Romaria laughed.

“Don’t think I'm growing sentimental,” said Molly, “but I hope you will live many years, so I don’t inherit this ugly castle for quite some time. I would be embarrassed to be seen with it.”

They rode through the barbican, and Mazael steered Hauberk for the stables. Yes, it was good to be home. His militiamen would return to their homes in time to plant a crop, and his knights would return to their fiefs. Some men had been lost, but not as many as Mazael had feared, and…

A shout reached his ears.

Mazael turned, saw that Timothy had reined up in the barbican.

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“The wards around the Glamdaigyr,” said Timothy. “They’re…they’re simply gone. My lord, I think the sword has been taken!"

Chapter 19 – Betrayal

Mazael hurried down the cellar stairs, Romaria, Molly, and Timothy at his heels. 

“I don’t understand,” said Timothy. “My wards are simply gone. That’s not possible. Even a wizard of great power could not make the wards disappear. There would be remnants…”

Mazael nodded, his mind racing. The Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem were relics of vast power, capable of wreaking tremendous harm. None of the guards had noticed anything amiss, so someone must have crept into the castle and taken them unawares. But who? An agent of the San-keth? A renegade wizard like Malavost? A Demonsouled like Mazael?

The Old Demon himself? 

Mazael shuddered to think what his father might do with a weapon like the Glamdaigyr.

Though given the Old Demon’s power, he might not need a weapon like the Glamdaigyr. 

Mazael reached the vault and stopped before the massive steel door, Lion ready in his right first. Before the sword had always burned with blue flame near the vault, responding to the Glamdaigyr’s aura of dark power. But now the sword was cold.

“Open it,” said Mazael, as Romaria and Molly drew their blades. 

Timothy nodded, produced a heavy key from his coat, and thrust it into the lock. It released with a massive clang, and Timothy tugged the door open, the hinges groaning. 

Inside the vault stood a wooden table and nothing else.

The Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem were gone. 

Timothy stepped into the vault, running his hands over the walls and muttering a spell. 

“Romaria,” said Mazael.

Romaria nodded, sheathed her sword, and blurred into the form of the great black wolf. She paced back and forth before the door, sniffing, claws clicking against the stone floor. She jumped onto the table, sniffing as Timothy worked his spells. 

Then she walked back into the cellar and took human form once.

“Anything?” said Mazael.

Romaria shook her head. “The vault stank of the Glamdaigyr, of its necromancy. That overpowered any other smells.”

“My lord,” said Timothy. “I think I know what happened.”

“What, then?” said Mazael.

“It wasn’t possible to break the wards, so someone suppressed them long enough to enter the vault,” said Timothy. “And then the intruder used the Glamdaigyr to drain away the wards entirely.” He sighed. “I…should have anticipated the possibility, my lord.”

“Even if you had,” said Mazael, “what could you have done? From what I understand, the Glamdaigyr can drain away the energy from any spell. There’s no defense against it. What could you have done to stop it?”

He thought for a moment.

“The Tervingi wizard,” said Mazael. “Aegidia, the Guardian. Would she have the power to suppress your wards long enough for the Glamdaigyr to destroy them?”

“Aye, my lord,” said Timothy.

“It seems unlikely, though,” said Romaria. “Ragnachar might steal the Glamdaigyr, if he could get his hands on it. But I doubt any of the Tervingi even knew that the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem existed, let alone where to find them.”

“Lucan knew,” said Molly, her voice dark. 

Mazael nodded. “Would he have been able to suppress the wards?”

“Almost certainly,” said Timothy. “I…ah, I built the wards with a wizard of his power in mind, my lord. He would have been able to suppress them, but only briefly. But once he had the Glamdaigyr in hand...”

“And he had plenty of time to indulge in a little robbery before going to Castle Highgate,” said Molly. 

Mazael hesitated. He trusted Lucan a great deal, yet both Romaria and Molly had told him that he put too much trust in Lucan.

Perhaps he should have listened to them.

“Come,” said Mazael, and climbed the stairs to the courtyard.

He stopped the first servant he saw, a maid carrying a bundle of washing.

“Stop whatever you are doing,” he said, “and bring me Sir Hagen at once. I have a task for him.” 

###

A few hours later Mazael stood outside the castle’s barracks, speaking with one of his armsmen.

“Aye, my lord, I saw Lord Lucan,” said the armsman, a grizzled veteran named Cole. “I had duty at the gate a few days after you rode to war against the barbarians. Lord Lucan arrived, said you had bade him to search the castle for any Tervingi wizards.”

“And you admitted him?” said Sir Hagen, frowning behind his close-cropped black beard.

“Aye, sir knight,” said Cole. “No reason not to admit him. We all know Lord Lucan is high in your lordship’s trust.” Mazael’s mouth twisted at that. “Did I do ill, my lord?”

“No,” said Mazael, voice cold. “The error was mine, not yours. How long did Lucan stay?” 

“Perhaps an hour, I think, but no more,” said Cole. “He went into the keep.”

“When he departed,” said Mazael, “did Lucan have a sword with him? It would have been a black two-handed greatsword.” 

“Not that I could see,” said Cole. “Had quite a few saddlebags on his horse. Suppose he could have hidden the sword in there.”

Mazael nodded. With Lucan’s magic, he wouldn’t need anything so mundane as a saddlebag or a cloak to hide the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem. 

“Thank you,” said Mazael.

Cole bowed and left. Molly and Romaria approached as he did.

“We talked with the servants,” said Romaria. “Several of them remember seeing Lucan go into the keep.”

Mazael nodded, smacked his right fist into his left palm.

“Damn it,” he said. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

He badly wanted to kill something. 

“I told you it was a mistake to trust him,” said Molly.

“I know!” said Mazael, his anger welling up. He forced it back down, forced himself to calm. 

“The courtyard,” said Romaria, “isn’t the place to discuss this.”

Mazael nodded. “Aye. The council room.”

###

A short time later Mazael, Romaria, and Molly sat at the table in the council room behind the great hall. He had sent Timothy to strengthen the wards around the castle, to alert them if Lucan or the Glamdaigyr returned. 

“You were right,” said Mazael, “both of you. I should have been more suspicious. I thought he had earned my trust. He saved my life so many times. I had thought…I had thought the bloodstaff was a mistake. An error he committed, and regretted after he suffered the consequences. I was wrong. He wants magical power, as much magical power as he can hold, and damn the consequences to himself or anyone else.”

“After you and Lucan saved me, I thought he smelled…rotten,” said Romaria.

“That was probably the corruption from the bloodstaff,” said Mazael. 

“Most likely,” said Romaria. “But there was more to it than that, I think. His lust for magical power has overthrown his reason.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Mazael. “He told me that he swore to defend the Grim Marches from dark magic, that he would wield any tool he could find. Including dark magic itself, it seems. I thought the business with the bloodstaff would cure him of that, but…” He shook his head. “I should not have trusted him, that is plain. And leaving the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem where he could find them was also folly.” 

“Father,” said Molly with a roll of her eyes. “Stop maundering.”

Mazael glared at her, his anger rising.

“You made a mistake trusting Lucan, obviously,” said Molly. “But not even the great Mazael Cravenlock can change the past. So what are you going to do about it?”

She was right.

And that was a very good question. 

“I have to go after him,” said Mazael.

“You can’t,” said Romaria. “You are needed here.”

“You can hold Castle Cravenlock in my name while I am gone,” said Mazael. “You are my wife, after all, and a lord’s wife can rule the castle in his absence.”

“The gods know how long you’ll be gone,” said Romaria. “And think of how much mischief Toraine will make in your absence. We have peace with the Tervingi for now. How long before Toraine starts pushing them? He’ll find some pretext for a war.”

“Lord Richard thinks he can control Toraine,” said Mazael.

“Lord Richard thought he could control Lucan, too,” said Molly. “That worked well.” 

“Besides,” said Romaria. “You don’t even know where Lucan is going. The message from Castle Highgate said the mercenaries were going into the mountains. He might be going to Arylkrad, to look for more relics of Dracaryl. He could be going to some other ruin we know nothing about. Or he might even be going into the middle lands. You could spend a year wandering the world and never come close to finding him.” 

“And what kind of trouble could Lucan work with the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem in that time?” said Mazael. “He could raise a host of the undead, or take control of one of the Malrag hordes that drove the Tervingi over the mountains. Perhaps he’ll take command of a dozen dragons and burn Swordgrim down to slag. I have to stop him.”

“How can you stop him,” said Molly, “if you don’t even know what he plans?” 

Mazael sighed and slapped his hand against the table.

They were right. He could not go galloping off into the mountains to chase Lucan. He had too many responsibilities here. Yet he had trusted Lucan, and Lucan had stolen the Glamdaigyr.

The gods only knew what he would do with it now.

And it was Mazael’s fault.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But once he returns, we will have a reckoning.”

###

That night, Mazael lay beside Romaria, and dreams filled his mind.

In his dream a pulsing column of crimson light illuminated the darkness, revealing banks of black clouds that writhed and twisted like dying things. Mazael turned and saw that he stood in a ruined temple of black stone. Enormous pillars, thicker than the oaks of the Great Southern Forest, rose against the sky like jagged black fangs. Massive walls towered overhead, covered in elaborate carvings. The spectacle reminded Mazael of the ruined temple of the High Elderborn that had crowned Mount Tynagis.

He turned. Behind him the temple ended in a jagged cliff, a precipice that plunged a thousand miles. At its base more black clouds billowed and writhed, illuminated by flickering arcs of blood-colored lightning.

Mazael turned away from the cliff, looking at the pillar of bloody light rising from the temple’s heart.

It…drew him, somehow.

He picked his way through the ruined temple, making his way around the heaps of jagged black stone from the long-collapsed roof. He felt a curious throbbing in his blood as he drew closer, a throbbing that matched the pulsing of the pillar of light

He stepped through a broken arch and into a vast chamber.

Or what had been a vast chamber. Once, it must have been a huge cylinder of black stone topped by an wide dome. But now only a few ragged fingers remained of the dome, and great breaches marred the curved walls. A round platform, perhaps a hundred yards across, lay on the center of the floor. The pillar of blood-colored light rose from the center of the platform, a dozen yards wide, pulsing and thrumming like a heartbeat. 

A man wrapped in a black robe stood at the edge of the platform, gazing into the crimson light. He turned his head, his profile outlined against the bloody glare. He had a hooked nose and a lean, almost gaunt face, his brown hair streaked with gray at the temples. 

Mazael knew those features at once, and a terrible jolt of fear and rage went through him.

The Old Demon.

“You,” snarled Mazael, reaching for his sword, but nothing hung at his belt. 

His father turned, a faint frown on his face. His gray eyes were mirror images of Mazael’s, but a crimson haze, the same color as the pillar of light, burned deep in his eyes. 

“Well,” said the Old Demon. “Isn’t this a surprise?” 

Mazael reached for his belt, looking for a weapon, any weapon.

“Oh, don’t bother,” said the Old Demon. “You’re not really here, so you can’t hurt me. Of course, I’m not really here, either. I suppose we could insult each other, or resort to rude gestures, but that would quickly grow tedious.”

Mazael stared at the Old Demon. He had not seen his father for years. Not in person since that terrible day in Castle Cravenlock’s chapel, and not in his dreams since the battle against Amalric Galbraith. 

“Why now?” said Mazael. “Why bring me here?”

“I didn’t bring you here,” said the Old Demon. 

“Don’t be absurd,” said Mazael. “You brought me here. This is one of your dreams of blood and death. Next you’ll start telling me to kill my family and to give in to my Demonsouled blood.”

The Old Demon sighed. “Why bother? We did that before, and you refused me. You made your answer, and I doubt it has changed. So why bring you here again? To bellow threats at each other? How unbearably dull.” 

“Then this isn’t one of your dreams?” said Mazael.

“Must I repeat myself? No.”

“Every word that comes out of your mouth is a lie,” said Mazael. 

“Believe me or not,” said the Old Demon, “it is no concern of mine. Let me be blunt, my son. You refused me, and I have no further use for you. I will kill you if it happens to be convenient, or if you get in my way, but you can’t stop me.” 

He turned away from Mazael, gazing at the pillar of light. Mazael frowned, and waited for an attack, or an offer, or…anything.

Instead the Old Demon simply ignored him. 

“If you didn’t bring me here,” said Mazael, “then who did?”

He didn’t expect a response, but his father answered.

“This did, I suspect,” said the Old Demon, nodding at the pillar of light. Mazael felt the thrumming beneath his boots, spreading from the column. 

“What is it?” said Mazael. “A vision?”

“Not at all,” said the Old Demon. The ancient monster’s tone was almost amicable. “This place is quite real. It was once part of the material world, but it’s trapped within the spirit world now.” He grinned at Mazael, his red-glazed eyes full of malicious glee. “Do you know what this place is, my son?”

“No,” said Mazael.

“You should,” said the Old Demon. “This is where the Demonsouled were born. The High Elderborn of old let in the darkness from outside the world here, right here. They sought to free one of the ancient demons of old and bind its power, and offered the mighty demon their women as part of the pact. The first of us were born here. They’re all gone now. The High Elderborn, my brothers and sisters, all consumed in the destruction of the great demon…but I am still here. The eldest and greatest of the Demonsouled, here where the Demonsouled were born.” His grin widened, and for a moment his teeth seemed like yellowed, twisted fangs. “And here where all the Demonsouled shall die.”