Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (28 page)

“And you have done well,” said Romaria. “You defended your people from the Malrags, and kept Lord Malden from going to war against the Grim Marches.”

“Yet men still say I slew my brother to claim the castle,” said Mazael. “If I kill Toraine and become liege lord, what will they say then?”

“Does it matter?” said Romaria. “You didn’t seek out the lordship of Castle Cravenlock, and you don’t want the liege lordship of the Grim Marches. That, I think, makes the difference. If you had claimed them by force, by your own will, you would be no different than Amalric or Corvad or any other Demonsouled tyrant. Yet Castle Cravenlock came to you as a burden, not a prize.”

A trumpet blast rang out, and the men outside the castle’s walls began to form up. 

“We had best march,” said Mazael. He had sent word to Castle Cravenlock, bidding Molly to gather all the men she could find and march to Swordgrim. Hopefully they would prove useful against the Tervingi…and help keep Toraine in check. “And perhaps Toraine will yet see reason.”

“Or he’ll take a Tervingi arrow through the eye.”

Mazael snorted. “You cheer me.” 

###

An hour later the lords and knights of the Grim Marches marched to the east, six thousand men strong. Scouts rode for the towns and castles to rouse the remaining knights and militias. 

Toraine rode at the head of the host, a dark shadow in his black dragon scale armor. Mazael and Romaria rode a short distance away, the Cravenlock banner flying overhead. 

He wondered what was happening at Castle Cravenlock. Stone Tower was only a day’s ride away from the castle. He had left Sir Hagen in command, and Sir Hagen had a steady head on his shoulders. But what would Molly do? He knew firsthand the difficulties of controlling Demonsouled rage. If she decided to take matters into her own hands…

Mazael gripped his reins, and rode to face the Tervingi.

Chapter 27 – Morvyrkrad

The cavern of Malrags had been the most horrifying thing Tymaen had ever seen.

Then they drew closer to Morvyrkrad. 

The tunnels widened, the floors smooth and level as they descended deeper into the earth. From time to time she saw carvings in the wall, images of robed men with staffs riding the backs of dragons to lay waste to their enemies. 

“The road to Morvyrkrad,” said Lucan. His voice grew distant, as it usually did when he spoke of Old Dracaryl. “Slain high lords were buried here. And those who…ascended, who became revenants, dwelled here as well.”

”Indeed?” said Malaric. He seemed calmer, more confident, after the battle with the Malrags. Though when the mercenaries stopped to rest, he often moved to the edge of camp, sitting alone with Corvad’s skull. “Why did the revenants retire here? Having become immortal, I thought they would wish to rule over Dracaryl forever.”

“They did,” said Lucan. “The word of the high lord revenants was as law in Dracaryl. But they grew…torpid, over time. More interested in their studies and magical experimentations, and less interested in the mundane business of ruling and conquest. Something about immortality, I expect, some aspect of it that the human mind cannot handle.”

Malaric grinned. “I would like to put that to the test.” 

Tymaen shivered. Save for Lucan’s runedead, she had seen no other undead in her life, and she wished to keep it that way. “Will there be any revenants in Morvyrkrad?”

“No,” said Lucan. “The collapse of the Great Rising destroyed them all.” 

Disturbing things began happening soon after that.

They saw skeletons half-melted into the wall, bones jutting from the rock as if the stone had swallowed them. Flashes of green fire flickered in the air, forming into spectral images of screaming men and begging women. Sometimes Tymaen could not shake the feeling that unseen eyes gazed upon her, or that invisible insects crawled upon her skin.

“The wreckage of the Great Rising,” Lucan told her. Even Malaric seemed troubled, but Lucan remained unafraid. “The aftereffects of the spell are…lingering, it seems.”

That night Tymaen had nightmares of green flame, of rotted corpses exploding from the earth to hunt down the living, sigils of fire burning upon their foreheads.

The sound of screaming awoke her. She sat up in her blankets just in time to see one of Malaric’s mercenaries fall upon his sword. 

“He went mad,” Lucan said, after things had calmed down. “Exposure to the remnants of the Great Rising overthrew his reason.”

“He wasn’t that level-headed to being with,” said Malaric, gazing at the corpse. “He once killed a man over a game of dice.”

“Nevertheless,” said Lucan. “Keep watch over the rest of your men, and make sure they don’t start acting strangely.”

Three more men killed themselves in the following two days. Tymaen made sure to stay close to Lucan. The nightmares grew worse and worse.

And then they reached Morvyrkrad itself.

###

Lucan took a deep breath, his fingers flexing.

The tunnel ended in a wide, high cavern, almost like the nave of a church. Dry, brittle bones carpeted the cavern’s floor. At the far end rose an enormous archway of carved black stone, at least forty yards high. Once it had been sealed with elaborate bronze doors, but now the doors lay twisted and broken below the archway, black with tarnish. Ornate statutes of robed men flanked the archway, and beyond the ruined doors, Lucan saw a pale green glow.

The gates of Morvyrkrad.

Within those gates lay the Wraithaldr and the spell of the Great Rising, the final pieces Lucan needed to rid the world of the Demonsouled forever.

Assuming Lucan lived long enough to claim them.

Even without trying, he sensed a great deal of dark magic behind those gates. 

Malaric let out a long breath. “So. Morvyrkrad.”

Lucan nodded.

“It looks,” said Tymaen, her voice small, “it looks like a dreadful place.”

“It is,” said Lucan. “The high lords of Dracaryl were not kindly men. And it was here that Dracaryl perished.” 

“Lucan,” said Tymaen, “can anything good come out of such a place?”

“It will,” said Lucan, gripping her hand. For a moment he was annoyed that she would doubt his plan, but she did not have his knowledge, so he could not blame her for not seeing the larger view. “What I take from Morvyrkrad will allow me to rid the world of every last drop of Demonsouled blood.” 

“A more immediate problem,” said Malaric, “is how we get out of Morvyrkrad alive.” 

“I will go, alone” said Lucan. 

“Then we will await you here,” said Malaric, relieved. 

“You can’t go in there alone!” said Tymaen.

“I shall,” said Lucan. “I can protect myself easily enough. I may not be able to protect anyone with me.” He squeezed her hand and released it. “Malaric. You will ensure that she is safe until I return.”

Malaric gave him an easy smile. “Of course.”

Lucan stared at him. “I needn’t tell you what will happen if any harm, any harm at all, comes to her. And I know about your little trick with the skull. So perhaps that will provide you with incentive enough to keep Lady Tymaen safe.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing a hint of fear appear in Malaric’s eyes. “She will be kept safe, I swear.”

“Good,” said Lucan. He leaned closer and kissed Tymaen. “I will be back in a day.” She stared at him, blue eyes full of fear, and managed a nod.

He turned his back on them, walked across the cavern, and entered the gates of Morvyrkrad.

###

Stone thrones lined the towering corridor.

And upon each throne sat a robed skeleton, an iron staff rusting in its hands.

Lucan walked slowly, his magical senses seeking for any traps or wards. His reflection, dark and distorted, danced in the polished black stone of the walls and floors. From time to time, streaks of green fire crackled within the walls, like flame behind dark glass. 

Mighty currents of dark magic flowed through the air around him. The broken remnants of the Great Rising, Lucan suspected. And he sensed something even stronger waiting ahead, something that radiated dark power like heat from the sun.

The Wraithaldr.

He looked at the skeletons upon their thrones. These had once been revenants, the undead high lords of Old Dracaryl. Yet the Great Rising had left only dry bones in rotting robes upon the thrones for eternity. He felt the dark power lingering in their bones, the echoes of the mighty forces they had wielded in life and undeath. 

The empty eyes of the nearest robed skeleton seemed to draw him. Lucan hesitated, and then touched the skull.

A thunderous voice filled his head.

“Fool!” screamed the voice. “Randur Maendrag has doomed us! His folly has overthrown us! Eternity was ours, the world was ours, and his quest for power ruined us! Curse him! Curse him! Curse…”

Lucan jerked his hand back, and the voice faded. 

He hesitated. He had Ardasan’s memories, but Ardasan had not been a high lord, and had never been inside Morvyrkrad itself. Yet each of the skeletons had once been the revenant of a high lord. If their memories lingered in the bones, they would know the layout of Morvyrkrad, along with any remaining traps or defenses.

And more importantly, they would know where to find the Wraithaldr and the book of the Great Rising. 

Lucan summoned the Banurdem. Green flame swirled around his head, and the icy black metal pressed against his brow and temples. He put his hand again on the skull, and felt the mad voice screaming inside his head.

“Silence!” said Lucan, pouring his mind through the Banurdem. “I command it!” 

“Who are you?” whispered the dead voice. “You bear the Banurdem, the second of the three great instruments, and you are of the blood of Dracaryl.”

“I am alive, and you are not,” said Lucan. “You are only the echo of a revenant, and you will tell me what I wish to know. Where is the Wraithaldr, and where is the spell of the Great Rising?”

“The Great Rising!” said the voice. “Randur’s folly. His pride doomed us all! He sought to slay the Demonsouled and steal their power. He promised we would become as gods! We forged the three great instruments and worked the spell – and everything was lost!”

“Your errors are not my concern,” said Lucan. “Where is the Wraithaldr? I command you to tell me!”

He poured more of his will into the Banurdem, and the voice shrieked.

“Ah!” it said. “You are of Randur Maendrag’s blood! Go, then, and complete your ancestor’s folly. The Wraithaldr lies where it fell, in the Chamber of Summoning. No doubt the book lies there as well. We were fools. We sought to control powers beyond our reach, and they devoured us. And you, too, shall be devoured, unless you turn back.”

“No,” said Lucan. “I will not.” 

“We were deceived,” hissed the voice. “Randur told us he forged the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem and the Wraithaldr by his own arts. But he lied! The greatest of the Demonsouled taught him how to forge the three instruments, and they served his purpose, not Randur’s!”

Lucan blinked. The Old Demon had taught Randur how to make the Glamdaigyr? A sudden sense of terrible unease flooded him. The Old Demon…something about the Old Demon…

It didn’t matter. 

The Old Demon might have indeed given Randur the knowledge of the Glamdaigyr and the Great Rising, but Lucan would use the Old Demon’s own tools to destroy him and the other Demonsouled. 

“Fool,” snarled the voice. “If you walk Randur’s path, then you shall share Randur’s fate, and taste the death that never ends…”

“Silence,” said Lucan, jerking his hand away from the skull. 

The dead voice faded into nothingness.

Lucan gazed at the skeletal shape in its dusty robe. Its words about the Old Demon played in his head. What had it meant? And why did Lucan feel as if he had forgotten something important, hideously important, about the Old Demon? He had never met the Old Demon, never even laid eyes upon the creature. 

He shook aside the doubts. He could not turn back. And if he could rid the world of the Demonsouled, it would be well worth the risk.

Lucan pressed on, keeping the Banurdem on his brow. It would prove useful if he encountered any more undead.

###

He drew ever deeper into Morvyrkrad’s black depths.

The place was a rambling maze, a dozen times the size of Arylkrad. He walked through a hall lined with enormous black sarcophagi, the lids carved with effigies of long-dead high lords. Ardasan’s memories did not tell him if the sarcophagi held dead high lords or hibernating revenants.

Lucan made sure not to touch the sarcophagi.

Another chamber, a huge library lined with shelves of ancient books and scrolls, tempted him more. Lucan stopped and gazed at the books. Those shelves held the accumulated necromantic lore of Old Dracaryl. Just think of what he could do with those spells!

 Yet potent wards shielded the stone shelves, wards Lucan’s magic could not penetrate. But with the Glamdaigyr, he could drain away the power of the wards…

He kept going. The wards were so potent Lucan doubted he could survive the amount of power the Glamdaigyr would channel into him. That had been Randur Maendrag’s error, trying to channel the power of the Demonsouled. Lucan didn’t want the power. He only wanted to free the world from it.

He kept going, moving closer to the massive source of dark power thrumming against his senses. From time to time undead guardians challenged him, mindless creatures of terrible power, and Lucan dismissed them with the Banurdem.

And then, at last, he entered the Chamber of Summoning.

A huge dome stretched overhead, rising over a broad dais. Rings of skeletons in moldering robes lay sprawled around the dais. The high lords of Dracaryl, Lucan guessed, devoured by the Great Rising. Atop the dais rested a massive stone throne, another robed figure slumped in its depths. 

Before the throne floated the Wraithaldr.

It was a staff of rough black crystal, perhaps six feet in length. Flickers of green light pulsed and danced in the depths of the staff. Lucan felt tremendous magical power radiating from the thing, power to match the Glamdaigyr’s might. Power enough to cast the Great Rising, to summon up uncounted legions of runedead. 

Odd that no defenses or ward surrounded the staff.

Or perhaps it wasn’t odd. The Great Rising had destroyed the rulers of Dracaryl. Someone had escaped with the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, obviously, but perhaps no one had claimed the Wraithaldr. 

And Lucan had survived entering Morvyrkrad, but few other men could have done so. 

He climbed the dais, stepping over the bones of the long-dead lords, and stopped before the Wraithaldr. The staff floated a few inches off the ground, revolving slowly. He felt the tendrils of the spell that held it aloft, the final wisps of the Great Rising.

Lucan reached for the staff and froze.

The corpse on the throne was watching him.

It was not a skeleton, but a fresh corpse. The dead body's bloodless face was stern and proud, black eyes glittering like disks of dark stone. It looked a bit like his father, or perhaps like Toraine. Lucan even saw a hint of himself in its features, like gazing upon the face of a long-dead ancestor.

An ancestor…

“Randur Maendrag,” said Lucan. 

The black eyes turned, heavy with power and age, and Lucan took a step back in alarm. 

Randur Maendrag, High Lord of Dracaryl, rose from his throne, ornate black robe flowing about him like a shadow.

“You’re a revenant,” said Lucan, throat dry.

Randur titled his head to the side, regarding Lucan like a spider contemplating a fly. 

“You know,” he said at last, voice a dry rasping, “something of our ways. You wear the Banurdem upon your brow, and I see the print of my blood upon your face. Tell me. Who are you, and why have you come here?”

“I am Lucan Mandragon,” said Lucan. “I am a descendant of your last son, who fled to the Grim Marches after the fall of Dracaryl.”

“Ah,” murmured Randur. The creature seemed to breathe only in order to speak. “So it is true. Dracaryl has fallen. The Great Rising proved more potent than I imagined. How long has it been? Time has lost meaning during my long imprisonment.”