Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (4 page)

“I sense something,” muttered Riothamus, straightening up. Dread tightened in his gut.

“What?” said Arnulf.

“I don’t know,” said Riothamus.

But he did, deep down. 

He cast the seeking spell, his magical senses reaching out. 

And he sensed the corruption in the forest, a black mass like a rotten tumor. 

A black mass moving closer to the ringwall of Skullbane. 

His eyes opened widened. “Malrags. At least eighty. Heading for us.” 

Ethringa grabbed Arnulf’s arm. “Call your men and come inside my walls. If you stay out here, the Malrag devils will butcher you all.”

Riothamus knew Arnulf wanted to go blade to blade against the Malrags. Yet Arnulf was no fool, and he only had thirty men to stand against eighty or more Malrags. 

But if they retreated within the walls of Skullbane, they would be trapped here until they starved to death or the Malrags slew them all.

“No,” said Riothamus. “Listen to me. We must face them outside the wall. I can help.”

“Do not listen to him!” said Ethringa. “He is a witcher, a wielder of dark arts. Perhaps he is even in league with the Malrag devils! Come into the walls, before…”

“No,” said Arnulf. “We are Tervingi, and all men must die. And if this is our day to die, we shall do it as men, rather than hiding like rats in a hole. Come!” 

He strode down the hill, Riothamus following, as Ethringa slipped back into Skullbane’s ringwall. A dolorous iron bell rang from Skullbane, the clanging echoing off the hillside, the pigs squealing in terror in their pens. An alarm bell, summoning the men of Skullbane to arms.

What few of them were left. 

“Get in line!” roared Arnulf, his massive axe in his right hand, his shield on his left arm. “A wall of shields! Facing the trees, now! Let’s show those Malrag devils how men of the Tervingi fight!” The swordthains and spearthains hastened to obey, forming themselves into a wall of shields and spears and swords. 

Yet there were only thirty of them. 

A moment later the Malrags emerged from the trees.

Dozens of Malrags, clad in ragged black chain mail, black axes and spears waiting in their hands. Black veins threaded their leathery gray hides like the roots of a dead tree, and their blank white eyes focused on the Tervingi warriors. Riothamus saw no Ogrags among their numbers, which was a relief, nor any balekhans or shamans. 

But still more Malrags than they could face.

They rushed forward, gray lips peeling back from their yellowed fangs. 

Arnulf stepped forward from the shield line. “You have a plan?” he said, voice low.

“Aye,” said Riothamus, eyes fixed on the Malrag warband. 

“Better do it, witcher,” said Arnulf. 

The Malrags roared and surged forward, charging for the shield wall.

Arnulf bellowed a war cry and slammed the flat of his axe against his shield. He began to shout a song in his raspy voice, bellowing one of the ancient songs repeated by the loresingers of the Tervingi throughout the generations. It told of Tervingar, the great hero of old, and his rebellion against the cruel tyranny of the Dark Elderborn. The swordthains and the spearthains took up the song, and soon their shouts echoed over the hills, louder even than the Malrags’ howling war cries. 

Riothamus stared at the creatures. For a moment he was six years old again, his father’s hold burning around him, and the Malrags howled for his blood…

But he was not six years old any longer, and he had other weapons. 

Riothamus closed his eyes and concentrated, hands wrapped around the oak shaft of his spear. The magic welled up in him, drawn from the bones of the earth beneath his boots, the wind moaning overhead, even the tangled roots of the trees threading through the ground. The power flooded through him, almost more than he could contain. Yet he channeled and focused it, as the Guardian had taught him, and cast a spell. 

He threw out his hands, fingers hooked into claws, and glared at the sky.

Lightning ripped down from the gray clouds.

Arcs of blue-white fire stabbed into the charging Malrags with a deafening thunderclap, and the blast incinerated a dozen Malrags, and threw a score more to the ground. The Malrag charge came to a confused halt as the creatures tripped over each other, and the thains’ war song trailed off in shock.

But Riothamus was not done. 

He began another spell, arms trembling with fatigue. He didn’t have enough strength left to manage something so dramatic again, but as the Guardian had so often told him, subtlety often defeated brute force. 

He swung his right hand in an arc, and his will drove magical power into the earth beneath the Malrags’ armored boots.

A ripple went through the ground. 

And the Malrags began to sink as the earth beneath them turned to quicksand.

The burnt corpses sank at once, along with the Malrags stunned by Riothamus’s lightning blast. Dozens more found themselves caught in the quicksand, roaring in fury as they tried to pull themselves free. The remaining Malrags charged at the shield wall, weapons drawn back to strike.

But Riothamus’s spells had destroyed fully half of the creatures.

“Fight, men of the Tervingi!” roared Arnulf, and the Malrags crashed into the shield wall.

###

After the battle, Riothamus leaned on his spear, watching the black blood of the Malrags soak into the earth.

Two swordthains and one spearthain had been killed, yet every last one of the Malrags had been slain. The survivors had high spirits as they cleaned their weapons and claimed trophies from the corpses of the Malrags. 

Riothamus wished he could share their enthusiasm.

For every Malrag that lay dead below the ringwall of Skullbane, a hundred more could take its place.

Perhaps even a thousand more. 

He saw Ethringa making her way from the gates of Skullbane. Other women of the hold followed her, along with men in chain mail. Yet the men were either too old or boys too young for war. 

Skullbane’s fighting men rested beneath the burial mounds. 

Arnulf grunted and rested his hands upon the handle of his massive axe.

“You have shamed us this day, Arnulf son of Kaerwulf, swordthain of the hrould Athanaric,” said Ethringa. She did not look at Riothamus. “You shed blood in defense of our homes.”

Arnulf shrugged. “Your attackers were Malrags. I go out of my way to kill Malrags. Even if I were not defending Tervingi.” 

“They will not stop,” said Ethringa, “will they?”

Riothamus shook his head. “No, holdmistress. Great hordes of Malrags stir in the northern lands, and more come south every day. And too many of our people have been slain at their hands.”

“The graves of our fathers are here,” said Ethringa, looking at the mounds, “and those of our fathers’ fathers, as well. Shall we abandon them?”

“If you stay here,” said Riothamus, “they shall be forgotten anyway. The Malrags will come for you and kill every last man, woman, and child in Skullbane. And when you are dead, who then will remember your fathers?”

Ethringa gazed at the dead Malrags for a long moment. “And so Athanaric and Ragnachar agree that the Tervingi must leave these lands?”

“Aye,” said Riothamus.

“Where, then?” said Ethringa. “Where can we go? We dwell in the middle lands, between the east and the west, and we are surrounded by perils. Other nations, the serpent people, the Dark Elderborn, the dragons, the Malrags…all have realms of their own in the middle lands. Where can we live free, and not perish or know the slaver’s lash?”

“A new homeland,” said Riothamus. “In the mountains, south of here. A harsh land, true, but farmland enough to support those Tervingi who remain. There we can be safe against our foes.” 

“And what do you think, swordthain?” said Ethringa. “Does it not gall you to leave our home?”

“It does,” said Arnulf, “but if we stay, the Malrags will kill us all.” He shrugged, his hard face impassive. “Once we had a score of great hroulds, mighty warriors of renown. Now only Athanaric and Ragnachar are left. Perhaps it would be better if we stayed and fought to the end. But if we stay, we shall die, and none will be left to remember the Tervingi.”

It was perhaps the longest speech Riothamus had ever heard Arnulf make.

Ethringa bowed her head. “So be it.”

###

They left the next morning.

Arnulf’s swordthains took the lead, while the spearthains screened the columns’ flanks. Behind them came the remaining folk of Skullbane, their possessions and foodstuffs strapped to their backs. Herdsmen tended the pigs, and the two remaining mammoths lumbered at the end of the column, laden with baggage and food. Ethringa marched up and down the line, exhorting her people to greater speed. 

“Too many women and children,” said Arnulf.

Riothamus walked at his side, the ground shaking a bit every time one of the mammoths took a step.

“Skullbane still had some of old Fritigern’s thains,” said Riothamus. “Older men, but they know how to wield a spear.”

“Aye,” said Arnulf, “but not nearly enough of them. If a Malrag warband of any size finds us, half the folk of Skullbane will be dead before we can stop them. You’ll have to keep watch for any Malrags, witcher. Best to avoid them until we rejoin Athanaric.” 

Riothamus took a deep breath. He had still not recovered from the battle, and every use of the sensing spell wore him out a little more.

But he had no wish to see anyone else fall to the Malrags’ blades.

“Aye,” he said.

The column marched on, and Riothamus cast the seeking spell again and again, forcing it through his weariness.

Chapter 4 – Tremors

"Your new armor, my lord," said Rufus Highgate. 

Mazael doubted that anyone in the Grim Marches had ever seen anything quite like it. 

It began with a coat of gleaming steel chain mail. That, it itself, was not remarkable. Most knights and armsmen wore chain mail.

But no other knight wore a coat of golden dragon's scales over the mail. The larger scales provided plates for his shoulders and elbows, while the coat of smaller scales hung to his knees. The dragon's scales were far lighter than any armor Mazael had ever worn, and more flexible.

Yet the scales were much stronger than steel, and impervious to heat and flame. 

“Your armor looks magnificent, my lord,” said Rufus, stepping back. When his father, Lord Robert of Castle Highgate, had sent Rufus to serve as squire, the boy had been arrogant and haughty. A year of fighting Malrag warbands had rubbed away most of his hard edges. 

Mazael grunted. “It’s too light.”

Rufus smirked. “Not many knights say that about their armor, my lord.”

A stab of rage shot through Mazael’s skull as the boy’s tone, and for a moment he considered snatching his dagger from the table and driving it through Rufus’s throat…

He shook aside the thought, disgusted at himself. 

He could not indulge his Demonsouled nature, not even for a moment. 

Rufus buckled a sword belt around Mazael’s waist. Lion hung on the right side, and an ornate curved dagger, fashioned from a dragon's fang, on the left. Then a black cloak adorned with the sigil of the House of Cravenlock, three crossed silver swords, went over his shoulders. 

“I think that is everything,” said Rufus.

“It is,” said Mazael. “Thank you. Come.” 

He left the King’s Tower, Rufus following, and went to the courtyard below the barbican, his armor and cloak keeping the autumn chill at bay. Many of Mazael’s knights and vassals waited before the gates, their armor polished, their surcoats and tabards crisp and clean. Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael’s armsmaster, stood before the waiting armsmen, grim and tall in his black and silver surcoat. Timothy deBlanc, Mazael’s court wizard, fidgeted in his long black coat. 

Romaria stood near the wizard, clad in a long blue gown that matched her eyes, a silver diadem on her black hair. She preferred a leather jerkin, trousers, and a worn green cloak, but since she had agreed to wed him and become the lady of Castle Cravenlock, she had begun wearing gowns more and more. 

Though she still wore a short sword and a dragon’s tooth dagger at her belt. 

There was no sign of Lucan. 

Not surprising, considering how well he got along with his older brother. 

“Mazael,” Romaria said with a smile, and kissed his cheek. “That armor is splendid.”

Mazael snorted, the golden scales flashing as they reflected the sun. “Aye, and it will draw the eye of every archer on the field of battle.”

Another voice laughed. “And it would turn every arrow that hit you.”

Molly stood behind Romaria. Unlike Romaria, she refused to don gowns. Her only concession to formality was a black cloak over her usual dark clothes, her sword and dagger riding in her belt. 

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. 

Molly’s smile had an edge. “And it will send every foe on the battlefield running to come cut you down and claim that armor. Though…I don’t think you’d mind that very much.” 

Mazael didn’t answer. But the prospect of standing alone in battle, and cutting down every foe who came at him…the thought pleased him. Very much. He would butcher his way through his foes, and…

He pushed aside the dark musings. He needed to keep his wits about him. If today went wrong, the Grim Marches might fall into war before winter. His Demonsouled blood wanted war, but his mind knew better. For the sake of his lands, for the sake of his knights and vassals and the peasants who dwelled on their estates, he would keep the peace. 

A blast of trumpets rang out below the walls. 

Mazael’s sword hand closed into a fist. 

Assuming, of course, that Toraine Mandragon even wanted peace. 

Molly stepped to his shoulder. “You know, your armor isn’t completely unique.”

Mazael said nothing. Through the open gates he saw a band of horsemen riding for the castle’s barbican. They flew two banners from their lances. One was a black dragon on a crimson field, the sigil of Richard the Dragonslayer of House Mandragon, Lord of Swordgrim and the liege lord of the Grim Marches. The second showed a sigil of a stone tower, a corpse hanging from its battlements.

The personal sigil of Toraine Mandragon, Lord of Hanging Tower and Lord Richard’s heir. Lord Richard was known for his open-handed generosity. Yet if one of his vassals rebelled, Lord Richard sent Toraine to settle matters.

And Toraine was not known for mercy. 

“Lord Richard and Toraine both have suits of dragon scale armor,” said Molly, “don’t they?”

“Aye,” said Mazael. “Richard ventured into the Great Mountains as a young man and a slew a dragon with his own hand. Twenty years later Toraine repeated the feat.”

Molly smiled that nasty smile of hers. “And now you're wearing dragon scale armor. One might think you were planning to overthrow Richard.”

“I’m not,” said Mazael. The first of the horsemen rode through the gate. “And we’re about to find out just what Lord Richard thinks.” 

He took a deep breath, and Toraine of House Mandragon, Lord of Hanging Tower, rode through the gate.

The Black Dragon was in his late twenties, with black hair, black eyes, and the lean build of a master swordsman. A curved sword hung at his belt, and he wore armor fashioned from black chain mail and black dragon scales. Toraine was young, but had a fearsome reputation. One that was deserved, too – Mazael had seen him in battle against the Malrags. 

Toraine looked Mazael over. His lip curled in something between a sneer and a smirk. 

Then he vaulted from his saddle in a single smooth motion and sketched a shallow bow. “Lord Mazael.” 

Mazael responded with a bow of the exact same depth. “Lord Toraine. Welcome to Castle Cravenlock.” 

“Indeed,” said Toraine. “I am sure you are as pleased to receive me as I am to visit.” 

“Truly,” said Mazael. “Your insight is keen, my lord.”

Toraine’s eyes narrowed. A pair of pages hastened forward and took his horse, and Toraine's eyes fell on Romaria. A mocking smile flickered over his lips. It made him look a great deal like Lucan.

“My lady Romaria,” said Toraine. “Wearing proper women’s clothing? I never thought I would see it. Perhaps the prophesied end of days is upon us, and the Destroyer has come with a burning sword to lay waste to the realms of men.” 

Romaria laughed. “Why should we need the Destroyer to destroy anything? We have you, my lord.”

Toraine scowled, and looked at Molly. “And who is this?” He looked at Mazael, and back at Molly, and Mazael saw him understand.

“This is Molly of House Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “My daughter.” He paused. “And my heir.”

Molly’s mouth fell open, just a bit.

“Your heir?” said Toraine. “Some bastard whelp you fathered on a roadside whore twenty years ago? She will be the heir to Castle Cravenlock?” He snorted. “Not surprising, given that your half-breed wife will be sterile as a mule. So when you’re dead, the whore’s daughter will rule Castle Cravenlock? How splendid.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed, her hand twitching toward her sword hilt, and Mazael put his hand on her shoulder. She glared up at him.

“My lord Toraine,” said Mazael, his voice soft, the fire in his blood pounding in his ears like a war drum. “You should apologize and withdraw your comments about my betrothed and daughter.”

A dead silence fell over the surrounding knights and armsmen. Mazael saw hands inching towards swords and shields.

“Or?” said Toraine, amused.

“Or I will name you a craven in front of your men,” said Mazael, “the sort of cringing dog who prefers to insult women rather than wield a sword and face a foe. You can decline, proving that you are in fact a coward. Or you can fight, and I’ll cut you to pieces. The choice, my lord Toraine, is yours.”

Toraine’s sword hand balled into a fist. For a moment Mazael saw a future painted in blood before his eyes. Toraine would accept, and Mazael would kill Lord Richard’s eldest son and heir. And then Lord Richard would declare war in vengeance, and the Grim Marches would drown in blood. 

Mazael wanted to stop it, even as his Demonsouled nature yearned for blood. But no lord could accept such insults without answer, even insults from the son of his liege lord.

Mazael saw the same calculations pass over Toraine’s face, and some of the anger passed.

“Perhaps I spoke in…haste,” said Toraine. “I withdraw my remarks, and offer my apologies.”

Mazael felt a wave of relief. “My lord is gracious.” 

But also some disappointment. He badly wanted to kill Toraine.

“I am,” said Toraine. “Now, come, Lord Mazael. We must speak privately. My lord father has…thoughts about your betrothal to Lady Romaria, and he dispatched me to speak in his name.” 

“Of course,” said Mazael. “This way.”

###

Lucan watched the confrontation from his tower window.

He had no wish to meet his brother. Lucan detested Toraine He wanted nothing more than to walk down to the courtyard, conjure his most powerful spell, and rend the flesh from Toraine’s bones. 

So why not do it?

Why not butcher Toraine where he stood, repay him for all the pain he had inflicted on Lucan over the years?

He blinked.

Lucan could not think of a single reason why not.

Yet he hesitated.

Consequences. 

If he slew Toraine now, there would be consequences. His father would blame Mazael, and the Grim Marches would erupt into civil war. The San-keth would take advantage of the situation, and the gods only know how the Old Demon would exploit a war between Mazael and Richard. Lucan could hardly protect the Grim Marches from dark magic then.

He closed his eyes, shivering…and something brushed against his magical senses.

He opened his eyes and scanned the crowd in the courtyard, wondering if Toraine had brought a wizard in his retinue. But no one in the courtyard was casting a spell. Lucan cast the spell to detect the presence of magic. He felt the wards Timothy had worked over the castle, the potent magical power in Mazael’s sword, the warded vault in the heart of the castle Timothy had built to guard the dangerous artifacts taken from Arylkrad…

Yet he felt nothing else.

Wait. 

There. The faintest of hint of power, coming from beneath the castle itself. 

Something left over from the San-keth temple? That seemed unlikely. The San-keth temple had been destroyed, and Mazael had ordered Lucan’s secret workshop purged. 

Besides, the power was coming from even lower than the temple, from the base of the hill.

Lucan frowned and focused his spell.

###

“His heir?” said Molly, disgusted. “Has he lost his mind?”

She stood with Romaria atop the curtain wall, watching the pages and squires lead Toraine’s knights and armsmen to their lodgings. Mazael had disappeared with Toraine into the keep. No doubt they were shouting at each other even now. 

She wondered if Mazael would kill Toraine. She hoped so – Toraine was the sort of man she would have enjoyed killing when she had still been a Skull.

She would enjoy killing him now.

“You are Mazael’s heir,” said Romaria, unruffled by Molly’s irritation. Molly had yet to find a way to annoy the older woman. “You are his only living child, and the only living child he will ever have. That makes you the heir of Castle Cravenlock.” 

“Idiocy,” said Molly. “I don’t want Castle Cravenlock.”

“Then what do you want?” said Romaria.

Molly opened her mouth and found she did not have an answer.

She wanted Nicholas Tormaud back, to lie in his arms again, but Corvad and her grandfather had killed him. She wanted to be free of her Demonsouled blood, but the only way to be free of it was to kill herself, and she wasn’t ready to die quite yet. She wanted revenge on her grandfather, but the Old Demon would crush her like a gnat in a direct confrontation, and anyway she had no idea where to find him. 

“I want to get very drunk,” said Molly.

“I doubt that,” said Romaria. “The sort of discipline the Skulls teach is not easily discarded.”

That was true enough. Molly felt uneasy if she did not practice with her weapons at least an hour every day. 

“Then it doesn’t matter what I want,” said Molly. “Life goes around in circles. Corvad killed Nicholas, and then Mazael killed Corvad. Mazael will kill Toraine, or Toraine will kill him. Or Mazael will kill Toraine, and then Lord Richard will kill him in vengeance. It’s just one bloody circle. That’s all life is. Misery and struggle and then death.” Her face tugged into something like a grin. “Misery and death and nothing else.” 

“You don’t believe that,” said Romaria. “Else you would have felt no grief when Nicholas was slain.”

“I am done talking about this,” said Molly. Let Mazael kill Toraine, or let Toraine murder her father, it was all the same to her.

She took a step and stumbled. 

Molly blinked.

She never stumbled. Not since the training the Skulls had beaten into her.

She stared at the rampart, her anger and pain drowned in sudden confusion.

“Did you trip?” said Romaria, walking to her side.

“I…think the ground just moved,” said Molly.

###

“My father,” said Toraine, “does not approve of your impending marriage.” 

Mazael and Toraine stood in a small room behind the castle’s Great Hall, where Mitor and his advisors had once sat in council. A long wooden table ran the length of the room, and sunlight shone through the narrow windows, throwing the chamber into light and shadow. A carafe of wine and a row of goblets sat on the table, and Toraine helped himself. 

“Don’t you fear,” said Mazael, “that I might have poisoned the wine?”

“Of course not,” said Toraine, taking a long swallow. “Your brother Mitor kissed the serpent, and he would have poisoned the wine. But not you, my lord Mazael. When you kill a man, you like to feel your sword in his gut, look him in the eye as he dies.” He smiled. “Like me.”