Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (3 page)

The Old Demon whispered a spell, summoning power with the ease of long centuries of practice. He thrust out his hands, focusing his will, and the magic sank into the very rock of the hill itself. He made a twisting gesture, binding the power to the rock, commanding it to wait.

But not very long.

The spell settled into the rock of the hill, latent. 

Mazael had survived the horrors the high lords had left behind in Arylkrad. 

Would he survive the horrors they had left beneath his own castle?

The Old Demon gazed at the hill for a long time.

“And so,” he said to himself, “the end comes at last.” 

He smiled, looking over the plains of the Grim Marches, over the world itself.

The world that would soon belong to him, forever. 

The Old Demon strode into the shadows and left Castle Cravenlock behind.

Chapter 3 – Dead Villages

In his dreams, Riothamus son of Rigotharic was always six years old again.

Riogotharic had been headman of his own hold, with over a hundred swordthains and spearthains sworn to him. Riothamus’s father had been a warrior of renown, tall and strong, his armor and sword fashioned from costly steel. All the clans of the Tervingi nation had respected him.

And none of that did any good when the Malrags came. 

Riothamus ran, screaming, as the hold burned around him, the beams and thatch of the roof vanishing in curtains of raging flame. His father’s thains lay strewn across the muddy ground, their armor ripped apart by the black axes and swords of the Malrags. A blast of green lighting screamed from the black sky, setting the roof of the granary ablaze. Riothamus stumbled from his father’s hall, weeping, and stopped. 

The Malrags ran at him. 

The creatures were gray-skinned, with six-fingered hands and white, colorless eyes. Yellowed fangs jutted from their lips, and their long fingers ended in ragged claws. Black chain mail jingled as they ran, and black axes and spears gleamed in their hands.

Riothamus sprinted, his legs churning at the muddy street beneath his feet. The Malrags surged after him, roaring with glee and bloodlust. 

Riothamus stumbled.

A hard hand closed about his shoulder, and he screamed…

“Riothamus!” 

Riothamus jerked awake, his heart pounding. 

A grim-faced man in chain mail stooped over him, face half-hidden behind a tangled yellow beard. The handle of a massive battle axe rose over his left shoulder, and a broadsword hung from his leather belt. A necklace of Malrag claws dangled from his neck, clicking against his mail. 

“Arnulf,” said Riothamus, blinking.

“You were screaming to wake the dead, witcher,” said Arnulf, his voice a raspy rumble. “Half the camp was up.” 

“Damnation,” said Riothamus. After twenty years, one would think the nightmares would stop. 

Of course, the Malrags hadn’t stopped, either. 

Arnulf snorted. “I’d heard that female demons visited witch-folk in the night for acts of unnatural congress. The way you were screaming, I think the rumors were true.” 

Despite everything, Riothamus burst out laughing. 

“No,” said Riothamus. “No such pleasure, I fear. Just…bad dreams.” 

Riothamus could never recall Arnulf smiling, though the older man’s scowl did fade somewhat. “Bad dreams. Well, you’re still alive. The dead don’t dream.” 

“No,” said Riothamus. “I suppose I’ve woken everyone.”

Arnulf grunted. “Aye. But it’s almost dawn. Past time we got moving.” He straightened up. “Up, lads! It’s a lovely day! And there are Malrags that need killing.” 

The thirty men encamped on the hilltop cursed and bellowed insults, but began climbing to their feet. The swordthains and the spearthains were sworn to the great hrould Athanaric, all veterans of the long wars against the Malrag ravagers.

And all of them, these battle-scarred veterans, kept well away from Riothamus. 

He tried to ignore that.

Riothamus picked up his spear, stretching his sore legs. He walked to the edge of the hilltop. It was a cold, gray day, the sky the color of hammered steel. Steep hills stretched away to the south, their slopes lined with barren trees. The Iron River flowed to the north, almost a half-mile wide. The air was still and silent. 

A deceptive silence.

“Move, you sluggards!” roared Arnulf, pacing the crest of the hill. “Are you warriors or women? Move!” He stalked to Riothamus’s side. Unlike the others, he showed no fear of Riothamus. Of course, Arnulf showed no fear of anything. “Witcher. Any Malrags about?”

Riothamus shrugged. “No Malrags have been seen south of the Iron River since winter.”

Arnulf grunted. “You’re not that stupid. Check anyway.”

Riothamus nodded, drew in a deep breath, and cast the spell, just as the Guardian had taught him. He felt the power rise within him, obedient to his will, and he sent the magic out, soaking into the earth and air around him. For an instant he sensed the wind blowing against his face and the rock beneath his boots, the flow of the Iron River and the rustling of the barren trees.

He sensed no Malrags. A Malrag would have felt like a shadow against his senses, a corruption eating its way through the earth and wind.

The spell faded away.

“Nothing,” said Riothamus. “No Malrags for five miles in any direction.” 

“Only five?” said Arnulf. 

Riothamus shook his head. “I can’t reach any farther. The Guardian can, but I cannot.”

“It will serve,” said Arnulf. “Get moving. I want to reach Skullbane by noon.”

###

They saw the first dead village an hour later.

A few years ago the banks of the Iron River had been lined with villages of the Tervingi. The prosperous villagers had fished the river and logged the trees, trading with the Tervingi clans in the hill country or the other nations further south. But the Malrags had annihilated the other nations and driven the Tervingi from the hills.

And now the village lay desolate.

It squatted by the river’s bank. The stone walls stood like dry bones, their roofs and interiors burned away. Some of the docks had collapsed into the Iron River’s gray waters, and a half-sunken fishing boat jutted from the debris. Bones littered the village’s street. Some were the misshapen skulls and clawed fingers of Malrags, but most were the bones of the men and women and children the Malrags had butchered. 

The hold of the village’s headman stood on a hill over the docks, now nothing more than a half-collapsed shell of loose stone. Riothamus saw the charring where the Malrag shamans’ lightning had ripped into the structure.

“Feasted there, once,” said Arnulf. “Old Eordric the Gray. Fat old bastard, but generous with his beer and his loot. Good man to follow into a fight. Suppose the Malrags did for him when they burned the village.” 

He shook his head, and kept walking. 

They passed three more burned villages, weeds growing in their fields and pens. Sometimes the Malrags preferred to amuse themselves with captives rather than slaughter them out of hand, and Riothamus saw ample evidence of that. In one village a row of empty skulls sat atop the loose stone wall of a sheepfold. In another a line of skeletons lay upon the earth, rusting iron stakes driven through the bones of their arms and legs. Every hour he cast the spell to detect the presence of Malrags, but he sensed nothing.

###

At noon they reached the hold and village of Skullbane.

Unlike the others, the village sat atop a large hill, secure within a stout ringwall of rough stone. It looked prosperous – pigs grazed in vast pens around the base of the hill, and Riothamus even saw a pair of mammoths, their long, furry trunks reaching up to pluck the remaining leaves from the trees. Yet the signs of fighting were everywhere. The docks and fishing boats at the river’s bank had burned, and Riothamus saw that the earth had been churned to mud beneath many running boots. 

And a dozen fanged Malrag skulls hung over the ringwall’s gate. 

“They’ve had hard fighting,” said Arnulf. 

“Aye,” said Riothamus, looking over the hill. 

“A good place for a hold,” said Arnulf. “That ringwall is strong. With those pigs and a source of water, they could hold out for a long while.”

“But not much longer, I think,” said Riothamus. He pointed. “See those mounds?” The Tervingi buried their dead in mounds outside their villages, especially warriors who fell in battle, and dozens of fresh mounds lay at the base of the hill. “They’ve lost many men, and recently. I’ll wager the Malrags have been throwing themselves against the walls, over and over again. They’ll wear down Skullbane eventually.” 

Arnulf grunted. “Poor bastards. Well, maybe they’ll see reason and join Athanaric.” 

“They know we’re here,” said Riothamus. “I saw the swineherds take off running for the gate when we came out of the trees.” 

“Aye,” said Arnulf, scratching at his tangled beard. He lowered his voice. “Any Malrags?”

“A few,” said Riothamus. “Three or four, scattered in the trees around the hill. Scouts, I think.” 

Arnulf spat. “No use chasing them. Lone Malrags are stealthier than cats. Well, if the devils come looking for a fight, we’ll give them a fight. In the meantime, let’s see if the headman will listen to us.”

He gave orders, and the spearthains and swordthains positioned themselves at the base of the hill, while Arnulf and Riothamus trudged to the gate of the ringwall. The gates remained closed at their approach, and no one stirred atop the wall.

Yet Riothamus was sure that someone other than the Malrag skulls watched him.

“Hail!” roared Arnulf, looking up at the ringwall. “I am Arnulf son of Kaerwulf, a swordthain to the hrould Athanaric of the Tervingi nation! I wish to parley with Fritigern, the headman of Skullbane!” 

The echoes ran over the hillside. 

No answer came from the ringwall.

“Perhaps they fled when they saw our approach,” said Arnulf, fingering the hilt of his sword.

“No,” said Riothamus. “They’ve held out this long, even when every other village for fifty miles has been burned. We won’t scare them off.”

The gate, built of heavy logs, shuddered open a few feet.

A woman stepped into sight. 

She would have been pretty, thirty years ago, but despite her gray hair and wrinkles she still had an aura of vigor. She wore a diadem of polished bronze, and a golden torque around her right arm. The wife of a wealthy swordthain, or perhaps even the holdmistress herself. 

“You seek Fritigern?” said the woman. Her blue eyes were cold and hard. 

“Aye,” said Arnulf.

“You’ve come too late,” said the woman. “A Malrag spear took him in the chest seven days past. You’re Athanaric’s men, aye?”

“I am Arnulf son of Kaerwulf,” said Arnulf.

“I heard,” said the woman. “I am Ethringa daughter of Jordanic, the holdmistress of Skullbane. What is your business here?”

“I’ll be blunt,” said Arnulf. “The hrould Athanaric wishes you to join him.” 

“Why?” said Ethringa. “Does the mighty hrould wish me to hold his cups and scrub his floors?” 

“No,” said Arnulf. “He wishes you, and your clan, to come with us when we leave.”

“When we leave?” said Ethringa. “When who leaves?”

“The Tervingi,” said Riothamus. “Those of us who are left.” 

The wind moaned over the hilltop. 

“Why?” said Ethringa. “This is our home.”

“Our home is infested with Malrags,” said Arnulf.

Ethringa lifted her chin. “We are Tervingi. We have fought off the Malrags for generations beyond count.”

“So we have,” said Riothamus. “But we cannot fight them now. There are too many. Countless villages have burned. Thousands of warriors have fallen. If we stay, the Malrags will kill us all. No one will be left to sing the songs of the Tervingi nation.”

Ethringa gave him a disdainful look. “And just who are you, stripling?” 

“I am Riothamus, son of Rigotharic.”

Ethringa sneered. “The witch’s apprentice. Bah! Your kind has no place among the Tervingi.”

“Athanaric thinks otherwise,” said Riothamus. 

“Athanaric may be a great hrould and warrior,” said Ethringa, “but in this, he is a fool.”

Arnulf snorted. “You sound like Ragnachar.” 

Ethringa spat. “That is an insult, swordthain. Were you Ragnachar’s men, I would not even be speaking with you. I care nothing for Ragnachar, his orcragar pets, or the Urdmoloch he worships with such devotion.”

“Ragnachar,” said Riothamus, “agrees with Athanaric. He leads his clans from our lands.”

Ethringa blinked, once. “He does? And what do the other hroulds think?” 

“They think nothing,” said Arnulf. “They are dead.”

For the first time shock flickered over Ethringa’s face. “All of them?”

“Fallen in battle against the Malrags,” said Riothamus. “Athanaric and Ragnachar are the only hroulds left.”

“And if Athanaric said the sun rose in the east,” said Arnulf, “then Ragnachar would say it rose in the west. Yet they both agree the Tervingi must leave the middle lands and find a new homeland.” 

For a long moment Ethringa said nothing, her face blank.

“No,” she said at last. “This is homeland. The blood of my sons has been shed to defend it. I will not abandon the graves of my kin.”

“Then you will die here,” said Riothamus. 

“We will hold out,” said Ethringa.

“How many fighting men do you have left?” said Riothamus. “Or are all of them buried beneath these mounds? Do you have only old men and boys left to carry swords and spears?” 

“We shall endure,” said Ethringa. “We shall fight to the last.”

“Then you will die,” said Riothamus. “If you come with us, the children and the women might yet live. If you stay here you will die…”

“Then let us die,” said Ethringa.

“But…”

“If they want to die, let them,” said Arnulf. “Athanaric sent us to ask Fritigern to come, not to force his folk to march with us.” He looked at Riothamus. “The rest of the Tervingi will reach the fords of the Iron River in another five days. We’d best join them.” 

Ethringa hesitated. “Custom demands that you eat at the table of the hold for this evening.”

Arnulf shrugged. “You are kind, holdmistress. But we are leaving these lands, and you’ll need every scrap of food to hold out here. You may as well have full bellies when the Malrags butcher you.” He turned. “Come. I want to get as far west as we can before night falls.”

Riothamus said nothing, staring at Ethringa, and she looked at him with disdainful contempt. He could argue with her, plead with her, try to sway her to see reason. But she would ignore everything he said simply because he could use magic, because he was the apprentice of the Guardian. 

He turned to go and stumbled, catching himself on the shaft of his spear for balance.

An icy chill washed through him.

Ethringa scoffed. “Are you drunk, witcher? Or have your pet demons begun devouring your flesh?”

Arnulf knew better than to mock him. “What is it?”