Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (41 page)

And invisible force wrenched Toraine forward and slammed him upon the blade of the Glamdaigyr.

Toraine screamed and aged before Mazael’s eyes as the black sword drank away his life. In a heartbeat he looked fifty years old. A heartbeat after that he looked a hundred years old, and then a thousand. Then only a ragged skeleton hung upon the Glamdaigyr, black dragon’s scales falling to the floor. 

Lucan shook the Glamdaigyr, and the bones clattered against the floor, the dust blowing away. 

“You killed him,” whispered Tymaen. “You killed your own brother.”

“He tried to kill me,” said Lucan, voice toneless. “And his death was necessary.”

“Necessary,” spat Mazael. “You’re fond of that word. How many more deaths will be necessary?”

“Yours, to begin,” said Lucan, turning towards him. “I assume you slew Ragnachar? The Glamdaigyr captured the power released by his death, and that power served as the catalyst to work the Great Rising. How much more power will I draw from your death, my lord Mazael? How many more runedead will I raise? It would be appropriate if your death provided the power to rid the world of the Demonsouled forever.”

He strode toward Mazael, the Glamdaigyr drawn back to stab. 

###

Riothamus summoned another volley of lightning, ripping apart the wave of runedead charging towards him. 

And, for just a moment, nothing was attacking him.

He risked a look at the army. It stood fast against the runedead, Romaria’s clear voice ringing over the fray as the archers loosed volley after volley. Riothamus was exhausted, his head pounding, his heart thundering with the exertion of loosing so much magic in so short a time. Even the Guardian had limits. Yet the men needed his aid, and he knew he should fling his spells into the fray.

He looked at Night Sword Tower. Molly was up there, facing Lucan Mandragon. She needed his help…

Then darkness swirled, and Molly appeared before him, the grass burned by his spells crunching beneath her boots. 

“Molly?” said Riothamus. 

“Help me,” said Molly.

Darkness swirled next to her, and a man appeared. He had a sleek, predatory look about him, and his sword blade glimmered with a necromantic spell. Even without trying, Riothamus sensed the dark magic rolling off the man. A series of mighty necromantic spells rested upon the swordsman, filling him with power.

The swordsman advanced on Molly, blade raised, and Riothamus leveled his staff.

The swordsman's green eyes widened, and he glanced at Molly.

"The Tervingi wizard," said the swordsman.

"You're right, Malaric," said Molly. "I can't defeat you by myself."

“Oh,” Malaric said. “That was clever.” 

Golden fire burst from the staff and hammered into Malaric, tearing at his spells. Malaric screamed, burns appearing on his skin as his spells collapsed, but for some reason the burns healed almost at once. Malaric threw himself to the side, vanishing into a swirl of shadow.

He did not return.

###

Tymaen watched Lucan stalk towards Mazael, the Glamdaigyr drawn back to strike.

Mazael was Demonsouled. He deserved to die. The world would be better without the Demonsouled. Lucan had said so.

Lucan had said a lot of things…and in the last hour he had wrought more horrors than she had seen in her entire life. 

It was her fault. She should have refused Lucan. She should have talked him out of his mad plan, made him see reason. Instead she had followed him like a love-blinded fool, and now his armies of runedead would kill everyone in the Grim Marches.

And thousands upon thousands more throughout the world. 

She had dreamed of doing something significant with her life, and instead she had helped Lucan to kill countless innocents. 

She had to stop him from doing anything worse.

Her eyes fell upon the Wraithaldr, revolving within the column of pulsing green flame. Lucan had cautioned her not to touch the staff or any of the sigils he drew upon the floor. The spell was a delicate thing, he said, involving fantastic amounts of magical force. 

Delicate enough, perhaps, that she could disrupt it?

Tymaen ran at the pillar of green fire and flung herself at the staff, intending to knock it out of the light. The light washed over her like liquid ice, like a torrent of freezing blood, and she struck the staff.

She bounced away as if it had been made of iron instead of black crystal.

Tymaen staggered back, her boots scraping through the sigils. Agony flooded through her, every vein in her body turning to ice, filling her with so much pain that she could not even scream.

“Tymaen!” shouted Lucan.

The Wraithaldr still revolved within the column of green light, but Tymaen’s shove had knocked it askew, and it spun faster and faster. A horrible keening sound, like metal under stress, came from the staff, and the tower began to shake. She heard Lucan shouting, heard the Wraithaldr’s shriek, but it all seemed so terribly distant. 

The Wraithaldr screamed, and the staff exploded.

Shards of burning dark crystal shot in all directions, plunging into Tymaen’s heart and throat and chest.

A brief moment of pain, and then everything went black.

###

Mazael hit the floor and rolled as Lucan’s spell released him. 

He scrambled back to his feet. The tower trembled and quaked around him, and the pillar of green fire began to bore into the stone like a massive drill, hot chips of rock spraying in all directions. The clouds spun faster and faster overhead, the wind rising to a howling gale. 

Tymaen Highgate stood before the widening column of fire, her chest transfixed by a shard of black crystal as long as Mazael’s forearm. She turned towards Lucan, held out a hand toward him, and then fell upon her face.

Dead.

###

Lucan screamed.

This could not be happening.

This could not be happening!

The pain flooded through him, worse than anything he had experienced, even worse when she had broken their betrothal. She had been lost to him, and he had reclaimed her from Lord Robert. Now to lose her again…it was too much. 

The Demonsouled had done this to him.

Still screaming, Lucan whirled to face Mazael, all his power summoned for a killing spell.

###

Mazael sprang forward as Lucan raised the Glamdaigyr, shadows and ghostly fire dancing around the black sword.

He drove Lion forward, and the blade sank to the hilt into Lucan’s chest.

Lucan sagged, his eyes going wide, his right hand still clutching the Glamdaigyr.

“I’m sorry,” said Mazael.

Lucan turned his head, looked at Tymaen, his face filled with horror and regret.

Then he slid from Lion’s blade, dead, and the glyphs on the Glamdaigyr’s blade went cold and dark. 

A roar filled his ears, and the pillar of fire widened. Mazael lost his balance, grabbing at the battlements for support as the turret cracked and splintered around him. The floor titled, the pillar of fire chewing through it. Mazael looked for the stairs, but it was too late. The pillar of fire had engulfed them, and Night Sword Tower would collapse any second…

“My lord!”

A griffin flashed past, Toric on its back. 

He rammed Lion into its scabbard and jumped over the crumbling battlements.

The griffin hurtled past him, and Mazael grabbed the beast’s right hind leg. The griffin shrieked in annoyance, wings flapping as it tried to deal with the unexpected weight, but the griffin’s flight leveled out as it swooped away from Swordgrim and towards the battle below. 

Mazael hauled himself up to the saddle, and behind them the pillar of green fire devoured Night Sword Tower. 

And then it exploded. 

###

A ripple went through the massed runedead.

Romaria lowered her bow, frowning, her arms and shoulders aching. The runedead lost their precise formation, some surging forward to attack, others wandering away across the plains. This time the shield wall held easily against the scattered attacks, the runedead mass disintegrating into an incoherent mob. 

The mind controlling the runedead had been defeated.

Lucan was dead.

Romaria let out a long breath and looked at Swordgrim just in time to see it explode.

The pillar of green fire pulsed, expanding to colossal size, and ripped through the stone walls and towers of Swordgrim like paper. Burning chunks of stone rained in all directions, ripping through the scattered runedead and falling into the lake like hail. The ground heaved beneath Romaria’s feet, and for a dreadful moment she wondered if the pillar of green light would expand and consume the entire world…

Then the green light winked out, and Swordgrim was gone.

Utterly gone. Not even one stone of the massive castle sat atop another. Even the finger of land upon which it had stood had vanished. The lake boiled and writhed, massive waves sloshing at the shore.

Romaria stared at the empty spot where Swordgrim had stood. Mazael had been atop Night Sword Tower, and not even a child of the Old Demon could have survived an explosion like that.

Then she saw the griffin descending towards the army, a leather-clad swordthain and a man in golden armor upon its back.

Chapter 36 – The Lord of the Tervingi

Mazael spent the rest of the day and the better part of the night in Hauberk’s saddle, driving the runedead from the field. 

With Lucan dead and the Banurdem destroyed, the undead lost the eerie, precise coordination that had almost defeated the Tervingi and the men of the Grim Marches. Yet the creatures still attacked with brutal ferocity, retaining the skill at arms they had possessed in life. Others fled across the plain, or back into the lake. 

It would take years to hunt them all down. Riothamus said the runedead would most likely lurk in ruins, lying in wait for any travelers. But Lucan’s terrible spell had touched the entire world. How many thousands of runedead had he raised? How many thousands had died in the chaos?

At least Riothamus had managed to spread Lion’s fire to every blade in the world, if only temporarily. 

But by sunrise, the runedead had been driven away, and the streets of Sword Town were safe.

The refugees started arriving, along with the requests for aid and assistance. Every village in the Grim Marches had a graveyard or a crypt below its church. Some of the villages had managed to fight off the runedead. In others, the villages had managed to escape, fleeing to the imagined safety of Swordgrim.

And some villages were wiped from the face of the earth.

Mazael worked through the day, commanding the lords as they raised new defenses around Sword Town, and overseeing the townsmen as they found places for the terrified peasants. 

At last Romaria led him to a bed in the Red Theobald's house, and he collapsed into a black and dreamless sleep.

###

A week later the lords and knights of the Grim Marches and the headmen and holdmistresses and thains of the Tervingi nation met in council, gathering in the town’s domed church.

With Swordgrim destroyed, it was the only structure large enough to hold so many lords, knights, and thains. 

Mazael walked to the stairs of the dais, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor. Men in armor filled the pews, knights in chain mail, lords in gleaming plate, Tervingi thains in ragged hauberks. The headmen and the nobles sat mingled together. All trace of the enmity between the folk of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi had vanished. 

Facing an army of animated corpses, Mazael supposed, would do that. 

“My lords,” said Mazael. Riothamus, Molly, and Romaria stood at his side. “We have faced the Malrags in battle, and the war between our two peoples, and the attack of the undead. Now the war against the runedead will continue.”

Sir Tanam rose. “My scouts have been following the undead. They report that some of the runedead seem to have…awakened, gained minds of their own. Much like the balekhans among the Malrags. These awakened runedead have bands of undead at their command, and have made strongholds for themselves in ruins and other lonely places.” 

Lord Robert stood. “And we’ve heard word from the neighboring lands, from the Burning Plains and the High Plain and Knightcastle. The same thing has happened there. We have reports that renegade wizards are able to take command of the runedead and use them for nefarious purposes of their own.” 

Riothamus stepped forward. “But we will face no additional runedead. The spell Lucan created broke with his death. No further runedead will arise.”

One of the Tervingi headmen, a yellow-bearded man named Arnulf, snorted. “Aye. That leaves only a few hundred thousand to smash.” 

Toric the skythain rose and stood beside Arnulf. “We must take action. The gods only know what the runedead will do if we leave them alone. Or some vile renegade like Lucan Mandragon will take command of them and raise another army.” 

“And we need to be on guard against the neighboring lords,” said Lord Jonaril. He did not stand, since he had taken a sword to the thigh during the battle. “We have been terribly weakened, even with our new Tervingi friends. The other lords will try to use the chaos seize our lands.”

“We need a liege lord,” said Sir Tanam.

“The House of Mandragon is now extinct,” said Lord Astor Hawking. He sighed and shook his head, his lean face pinched with pain. “Ragnachar murdered Lord Richard. Lucan slew Toraine, and Mazael slew Lucan. Where shall we find a new liege?”

Mazael closed his eyes. He knew where this was going. 

“Perhaps we would be better without one,” said a holdmistress, a sour-faced woman named Ethringa. “Toraine became liege lord, and he almost led your folk to ruin. Perhaps it would be better to have the lords and thains govern our folk in council, as the Tervingi nation did of old.”

Lord Robert shook his head. “That will not work, I fear. Your hroulds tried to govern themselves, and in the end Ragnachar almost led your nation to ruin.”

"True," said Ethringa. "Too many cooks spoils the stew."

“Nicely put. And we face many foes,” said Tanam. “We must unify, my lords and thains, and respond as one to any threats. If we do not, we shall be destroyed, either by the runedead, the Malrags, or the neighboring liege lords.”

“An heir of the House of Mandragon,” said Lord Jonaril, “should become the liege lord of the Grim Marches.”

“There are no Mandragons left,” said Lord Astor, “and Swordgrim is no more. How can the Lord of Swordgrim be the liege lord of the Grim Marches when Swordgrim is a pile of broken stone at the bottom of the Lake of Swords?”

“Were Athanaric still alive,” said Arnulf, “I would suggest that he become lord of both our peoples. But our hroulds are slain. Perhaps the Guardian should oversee the Grim Marches.”

“I refuse it,” said Riothamus. “The Guardian’s office is to protect the Tervingi nation from danger and stand vigilant against the powers of dark magic. Not to rule over the Tervingi.” 

“There is another answer, my lords,” said Tanam. “The lord of the House of Mandragon was not always the liege lord of the Grim Marches. Once the House of Cravenlock ruled the Grim Marches.”

“No,” said Mazael. “I object. Because my ancestors once ruled the Grim Marches does not mean that I should do so now.”

He didn’t want this. He had fought it at every turn. Lord Malden would have allied with him, he knew, to overthrow Lord Richard and claim the Grim Marches. But Mazael wanted the Grim Marches to have peace, and he didn’t want to rule over them. He always feared becoming a Demonsouled tyrant, a man like Amalric Galbraith or Ragnachar. 

But now, it seemed, that temptation would be thrust upon him. 

“I shall be blunt, Lord Mazael,” said Robert. “What your ancestors did is irrelevant. We need a liege lord, and you are the only man here we can all agree to support. You’ve been victorious in battle, again and again, and we need a commander who can lead us in war.”

“And you will listen to the counsel of your vassals,” said Lord Astor, “unlike that fool Toraine.”

“The Tervingi nation respects strength,” said Arnulf, “and generosity. You are victorious in battle, and open-handed to your followers. Just as a proper Tervingi hrould should be.” 

"More," said Ethringa, "again and again you have shown us mercy, when Toraine would have killed us all."

“As Guardian of the Tervingi nation,” said Riothamus, gesturing with his staff, “you are free to ignore my counsel. But it is my counsel that the lords of the Grim Marches choose Lord Mazael as their new liege lord, and that the thains of the Tervingi nation choose him as their new hrould.” 

Mazael took a deep breath, intending to refuse. What would happen if he did refuse? Could the vassals unite behind another noble? Or would the Grim Marches devolve into a dozen squabbling principalities? Would the Tervingi remain at peace, or would they go to war against the bickering lords? And what if a renegade like Malavost or an ambitious San-keth priest took command of the runedead? 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Very well,” said Mazael. “If this is the decision of the lords and thains of the Grim Marches, then I have no choice but to accept.” 

Robert walked to the dais, drew his sword, and went to one knee, laying the blade across his leg. 

“I, Robert of the House of Highgate, Lord of Castle Highgate, do swear fealty and loyalty to you, Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock…”

After he finished Arnulf came and went to one knee before Mazael.

“I, Arnulf son of Kaerwulf, do swear as a headman and a swordthain in the service of the hrould Mazael of the hold of Castle Cravenlock…”

And one by one the lords and knights and headmen and holdmistresses of the Grim Marches strode before Mazael and pledged their loyalty, fealty, and obedience. He knew some of the lords would have preferred Toraine, and would turn on him given the chance. And that many of the thains had eagerly followed Ragnachar to war, and would rise again if given the chance.

But, Mazael vowed, he would do his utmost to keep them from having that chance.

###

“Do you think it will work out?” said Molly.

Riothamus shrugged. They stood upon the walls of Sword Town, the sunset giving the Lake of Swords the appearance of a sheet of burning steel. Workmen swarmed over the walls, trying to repair the damage from the battle, but for now Riothamus and Molly were alone. 

“For the moment,” said Riothamus. “There are still too many runedead for the lords and the Tervingi to squabble among themselves. It will take some time to defeat them. After that…we will see, I suppose. No one can see the future.”

She laughed. “Not even the mighty Guardian?”

“No,” said Riothamus. “Not even the Guardian.” The Sight came upon him in flashes now, showing visions of possible futures. In some the Malrags came down from the mountains once more. In others he saw a poisoned arrow lying in a pool of blood. In still others he glimpsed Mazael leading an army to the west.

But in every potential future he saw the grinning shadow of the Urdmoloch, laughing and waiting. 

Mazael held the destiny of the Tervingi in his hands…and he would face the Urdmoloch, once day. 

“I don’t know what will happen,” said Riothamus.

Molly took his hand. “No one does.” 

“I suppose not,” said Riothamus. “We can only do the best we can in the present.”

She smiled. “That’s wise.”

"You're absolutely right," said Riothamus, bracing himself.

Her smiled widened. "I'm glad you agree with me."

Riothamus took a deep breath. “Marry me.”

Molly blinked and stared at him, and Riothamus suddenly felt like a complete fool. 

“Unless it’s a bad idea,” he said, aware that he was babbling and could not stop. “You will be the liege lady of the Grim Marches one day, and perhaps…”

“Oh, for the gods’ sake,” said Molly. “Of course I will marry you.”

She kissed him, and for a moment Riothamus forgot the runedead.

###

“I wonder if the Old Demon was wrong,” said Mazael.

He sat atop Hauberk, outside the walls of Sword Town. Nearby the host of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi nation gathered for battle. Mazael had decided to split his men into groups, and then strike hard and fast, taking the main holds of the runedead. The wizards had developed a burning oil to rub on sword blades, an oil that produced a flame harmless to living flesh but dangerous to the runedead. 

With luck, they could secure the Grim Marches from the runedead by autumn. 

“Of course he lied,” said Romaria, sitting on her own horse. “That’s what he does.”

Mazael shook his head. “Not that he lied, but that he was wrong. He seemed so sure that I was about to die.” He sighed. “He must have known what Lucan intended. Maybe even aided him secretly.”

“Why would the Old Demon want to kill all the Demonsouled?” said Romaria.

Why indeed? The Old Demon wanted to devour the strength of the Demonsouled for his own. He could hardly do that if Lucan killed them all.

Couldn’t he?

A memory of the strange black temple and the column of bloody fire flashed through Mazael’s mind.

“Maybe the Old Demon intended Lucan to kill you,” said Romaria, “but you stopped him. Lucan did a lot of damage…but you stopped him, in the end.”

“My fault,” said Mazael. “I should have seen the treachery coming. You and Molly both warned me.”

“You trusted him,” said Romaria. “And it is always hard to believe ill of a friend.” 

Mazael gave a short, sharp nod. He had failed with Lucan. But he would not fail again, he vowed. He would make the Grim Marches safe and secure, and he would maintain the peace between the lords and the Tervingi.

And if the Old Demon returned…Mazael would deal with him then.

“Come, my lord Mazael,” said Romaria, adjusting her reins. “Your host awaits.”

Mazael sighed. “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”

He snapped his reins, and he and Romaria rode to join the men.