Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (42 page)

Epilogue

Night fell, and the Old Demon walked along the shore of the Lake of Swords. 

He gazed at the waters where Swordgrim had once stood. No trace of the mighty castle remained, not even a hint. The Old Demon stared at the waters for a long time, the waves splashing against the rocky shore. 

“Well,” he said at last. “I certainly did not intend for that to happen.”

He had been there when the high lords of Old Dracaryl had raised Night Sword Tower, when the Grim Marches had been the outer march of their empire. And he had been there when Randur Maendrag had lost control the Great Rising and destroyed Dracaryl. It was all gone, now. Dracaryl was dust, and Swordgrim broken rubble below the waters. 

But the Old Demon was still here. He had outlived them all. 

He grinned.

He would outlive the world itself. 

“I did not intend for that to happen,” said the Old Demon, “but I told Lucan the best games are the ones where you win, no matter the outcome.” 

He turned, walking west along the shore. Had anyone observed him, they would have only seen an old man in a black cloak, rambling along the lake. Which, he supposed, was an accurate observation. He was millennia old. And for all that time, all those long centuries, he had been working toward his goal.

It was almost within reach, now. 

Just a few more things to do.

One of which lay on the shore just a few yards ahead. 

The Old Demon stopped and gazed at the corpse.

Lucan Mandragon lay motionless upon the stony shore, the Banurdem resting upon his brow, his hands still clutching the Glamdaigyr. The sword’s sigils flared to life as he approached, and the Old Demon felt the sword’s malevolent joy. And why not? He was the sword’s master. True, Randur had forged it, believing he had done so with knowledge stolen from the Old Demon. 

Knowledge that the Old Demon had wished him to steal.

The Old Demon’s grin widened. 

The game was rigged, and he would win no matter the outcome. 

“Soon,” he told the sword, “very soon, we will be reunited, you and I.”

He looked at Lucan’s corpse, saw the spells still lingering upon the dead flesh.

And within it.

“You’re about to learn,” said the Old Demon, “that you should be careful from whom you steal power. Which I think you would have realized by now.”

He turned his face to the west and walked into the shadows, leaving Lucan behind.

How strange that his most effective tool would not be Demonsouled at all. 

###

Lucan Mandragon’s eyes shot open.

He felt no pain. That was certainly peculiar. The last thing he remembered was the blue flash as Lion plunged into his heart, the grinding roar as Night Sword Tower collapsed around him...

As Tymaen screamed.

That brought pain.

Lucan sat up with a choked scream, his fingers gripping the Glamdaigyr’s hilt like curled claws. 

Tymaen was dead. He had failed her, failed the world. He had been so close to destroying the Demonsouled. And then Mazael had come, Mazael and his damned brother, and they had ruined everything.

And Tymaen was lost to him.

Lucan doubled over, weeping. He sat like that for a long time, curled over the Glamdaigyr. 

Bit by bit, a few details penetrated his grief-choked mind.

The first was that no tears fell from his eyes.

The second was that he felt no physical pain, none at all. 

The third was that he should be dead. Lion had pierced his heart, and the tower had collapsed around him. How was he even still alive? 

He noticed that he was not breathing, that his heart was not beating.

Lucan surged to his feet in a panic, moving with a speed and grace he had never possessed in life.

He was dead. Dead.

Or undead, rather.

Randur Maendrag, his distant ancestor. Lucan had stolen his power, drained it through the Glamdaigyr.

Randur had been a revenant. 

And Lucan had stolen his power…including, it seemed, the spells that had raised Randur’s corpse as a revenant. 

And after Lucan had died, those same spells turned him into a revenant. 

He had become a monster. Lucan stared at the Glamdaigyr, wondering if he should fall upon it and destroy himself. Tymaen had been right. He had gone too far, caused too much destruction, and all of it for nothing. 

He had gotten Tymaen killed.

His cold hands trembled.

The Demonsouled had killed Tymaen. If Mazael had not intervened, Tymaen would still live. The Demonsouled would have been destroyed, and Tymaen would have seen the new world rise form the ashes. Lucan had made mistakes, but if not for the Demonsouled, Tymaen would yet live. 

He would still destroy the Demonsouled…and he would make them pay for Tymaen’s death.

He took two steps and stopped.

Malaric stood further down the shore, staring at him.

“You survived,” said Lucan, his voice cold.

“And so did you,” said Malaric, tilting his head to the side. “Though…after a fashion.” He shrugged. “You found the Wraithaldr in Morvyrkrad. And I wondered…what else might you have found there? The secrets to becoming a revenant, perhaps?”

Lucan stared at him. Malaric was too clever. Yet a plan started to form in Lucan’s mind, drawn from Randur’s memories. Randur had known many secrets, and in those secrets held another way to destroy the Demonsouled.

They would pay for Tymaen’s death. All of them. 

“Come,” Lucan said, beckoning. “We have a great deal of work to do.”

###

In Knightcastle, Lord Malden Roland lay dying.

He struggled to rise, but he could not. The disease had gone too far. Yet his people needed him. The dead rose in the night to attack the living, sigils of green fire upon their brows. His sons Tobias and Gerald were good men, but Malden was the Lord of Knightcastle. He would not abandon his people.

Yet it seemed that disease and old age would leave him no choice.

A dark shadow loomed over his bed.

“Are you death, come to take me at last?” spat Malden.

“No,” said Lucan Mandragon. “Would you like to be young again?”

THE END

Thank you for reading SOUL OF SORCERY. Look for next book in the DEMONSOULED series, SOUL OF SKULLS, in January 2013. To receive immediate notification of new releases, 
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Soul of Skulls bonus chapter – A Village of the Dead

On the morning of his thirty-eighth birthday, Mazael Cravenlock watched the undead swarm over the rocky hill. 

Gaunt figures, their faces sallow and their eyes empty, wandered over the slopes. Most wore peasant clothing, their garments ragged and decaying. Upon their foreheads blazed a sigil of emerald fire, the same ghostly light glimmering in their eyes. The creatures were called runedead, and they were stronger than lesser undead.

Mazael flexed the fingers of his sword hand. 

He knew just how strong they were. 

A ruined village stood atop the stony hill. Once Morsen Village had been the fief of Sir Gaith Kalborn, one of Mazael’s knights. Gaith had been a secret proselyte of the San-keth, a worshipper of the serpent god, and perished for his folly. Corvad’s Malrags had devastated the village, the survivors huddling in the ruins of their San-keth temple as Mazael rode in pursuit of Corvad.

He supposed any survivors had perished during the Great Rising, when generations of dead buried beneath the temple rose with runes of green fire burning upon their foreheads. 

As so many villages had perished.

A column of darkness swirled next to Mazael, and his hand fell upon his sword hilt. The darkness vanished to reveal a lean woman of twenty or so, dressed in leather armor and a dark cloak. A slender sword rested in a scabbard at her belt, alongside a dagger fashioned from a tooth of the dragon Mazael had killed at Arylkrad. Her brown hair had been tied in a ponytail, and her gray eyes were the exact color and shape of Mazael’s. 

The same color and shape of his father’s, come to think of it.

“Daughter,” said Mazael. “You enjoy startling me.”

“I didn’t startle you,” said Molly Cravenlock. “If I had, you’d have put Lion through my heart.” She squinted at the ruined village. “You know, I thought this place was a miserable sty when I first came here. It hasn’t improved.” 

When she had first come here, she had sworn to kill Mazael. Subsequent events had changed his daughter’s mind. Mostly. 

“How many?” said Mazael.

“At least three hundred,” said Molly. “I think after we had our…disagreement, the villagers dumped the corpses in the temple.”

“So when Lucan cast the Great Rising,” said Mazael, “the corpses rose and killed everyone in the village.”

“Who then rose as runedead in their turn,” said Molly. 

Mazael remembered the pillar of green fire erupting from Swordgrim, remembered the uncounted legions of undead rising with green fire upon their brows. He had stopped Lucan Mandragon, had ended the Great Rising. 

But if Mazael had not saved Lucan, if Mazael had not taken the Glamdaigyr back to Castle Cravenlock, then the Great Rising would never have happened.

And so many who had perished would now live.

The rage that always smoldered beneath his thoughts burned hotter. 

“Something’s controlling the runedead,” said Molly, shaking Mazael out of his dark thoughts. 

“It looks like they’re wandering,” said Mazael.

“No,” said Molly. “Well, the outer ones are. The ones atop the hill are standing guard. Something’s controlling them.”

“An awakened runedead?” said Mazael.

“Probably,” said Molly. “Gods know we’ve seen enough of them.”

The runedead, Riothamus had told Mazael, were only shells animated by necromantic force. The souls of the dead had gone to whatever fate awaited them. Yet the runedead retained shards of the memories and skills they had possessed in life. And sometimes their undead minds awakened, gained a malevolent and insane form of will. It happened quite often with runedead wizards. 

And Mazael wondered how many San-keth high priests had been buried beneath the village.

“Then Earnachar was right,” said Mazael. “The runedead of the hill country are moving in organized raids.”

“Gods,” muttered Molly. “The damned gasbag will never shut up about it.”

Mazael grunted. “He is one of the chief headmen among the Tervingi.”

“That doesn’t make him any less of a gasbag.” 

Mazael walked along the valley to where his men awaited, Molly trailing after him. He had brought four hundred men. One hundred were his sworn knights, and another hundred were mounted armsmen in his service. Another hundred were archers, peasant militia from the villages near Castle Cravenlock.

And the final hundred men were Tervingi swordthains, grim men with yellow hair and beards, clad in ragged shirts of mail. From time to time the swordthains and the knights glared at each other. They had fought together for months, ever since Lucan had unleashed the runedead upon the world. Before that they had been mortal enemies, had faced each other at the great battles of Stone Tower and Swordgrim.

Old suspicions died hard. 

Three men and a woman approached as Mazael drew nearer. 

“Well, hrould?” said one of the men, a middle-aged Tervingi swordthain with a hard face and ragged yellow beard. “How many do we have to kill again?” 

“About three hundred, Arnulf,” said Mazael. “Something’s controlling them. Probably a runedead San-keth cleric.” 

Arnulf son of Kaerwulf, a headman of the Tervingi, nodded. “Best get on with it, then.”

“Did I not say that it was so?” said a second man, also Tervingi. While Arnulf was tall and rangy, the second man was short and squat. Despite his size, he bore not a trace of fat. “Did not I, Earnachar son of Balnachar, warn you of the organized runedead? Just as in the days of old, when the scouts sent word to mighty Tervingar of the Dark Elderborn host, and…”

Mazael saw Molly mouthing the words to Earnachar’s oft-repeated speech and stifled a laugh.

“You are correct, Earnachar,” said Mazael. “The runedead of the hills are indeed organized, and something is controlling them.”

Earnachar scowled. “And what shall you do about it, hmm? You are our hrould, despite not being of Tervingi birth. Shall you let your folk perish beneath the cold hands of the runedead? Ragnachar would not have let this…”

“Lord Mazael,” said the third man, Tervingi like the others, “has come at your call, Earnachar.” He was still under thirty, lean and strong with thick black hair and bright blue eyes. He wore leather and chain mail, and in his right hand he carried a staff of bronze-colored wood. From time to time the symbols carved into the staff flickered with golden light. 

“So he has, Guardian,” said Earnachar, “but this…”

“Lord Mazael has come to defend your folk,” said Riothamus son of Rigotharic, shifting his grip on the Guardian’s staff. “But a hrould has the right to call upon his loyal headmen for aid.”

“And you are right, Earnachar,” said Mazael, voice quiet. “Ragnachar would not have let things come to this pass. Ragnachar would have led the Tervingi to their destruction, and your children would have risen as runedead. None would be left to sing the songs of mighty Tervingar.”

Earnachar scowled again, but gave a sharp nod. He had been a loyal follower of Ragnachar, though he had never worshipped the Old Demon. And he was afraid of Mazael.

He had seen what Mazael had done to Ragnachar. 

“Is there any sign of the runedead San-keth?” said the woman. She was only a few inches shorter than Mazael, her long black hair pulled into a braid to reveal the delicate points of her ears. Romaria Greenshield Cravenlock was the daughter of a human man and an Elderborn woman, and her Elderborn heritage gave her uncanny senses, superhuman skill with a bow…and certain other advantages. 

Mazael met his wife’s blue eyes. She was one of the very few people who could meet his gaze without flinching. 

“No,” he said. “And if a runedead San-keth is controlling these runedead, it won’t show itself. The San-keth lurk in the shadows and send others to do their killing for them.” 

Arnulf grunted. “A man should do his own killing.”

“True,” said Molly. “But they’re serpents, not men.” 

“And there is no one to kill here,” said Mazael. “Only undead to destroy.”

“Yes, hrould,” said Earnachar, “And how shall you destroy them? My folk have settled in these hills, and we must have pasture for our flocks! Or shall you leave us all to starve?”

Earnachar feared Mazael, but that never seemed to shut him up.

“We will deal with these runedead as before,” said Mazael. “The swordthains and armsmen will form a shield wall, between these two hills.” He pointed. “The knights will wait atop the hill, ready to strike.”

“And the archers?” said Romaria, checking her bowstring. She carried an elegant composite bow, a gift from the Elderborn bowyers of Deepforest Keep. Mazael had seen her use that bow to put a shaft through a man’s eye at fifty yards. 

“Behind the shield wall,” said Mazael.

“What will that avail us?” said Earnachar. “Arrows will not harm the runedead devils. Even with wizard’s oil and…ah, your own particular sword, hrould.”  

"No," said Mazael, "but once the arrows are set aflame, they will annoy and hinder the runedead. Which will make it easier for the shield wall to hold. And then when the runedead are committed, the knights will strike...and Riothamus will show them what he can do." 

He looked at Riothamus, and the Guardian of the Tervingi nodded. Riothamus's powers had been formidable even before he had taken up the Guardian's staff. Now Mazael suspected that the young man was one of the most powerful wizards in the world. 

Certainly Riothamus had held his own against Lucan. 

"And what task, noble father," said Molly, "do you have for me?"

"You'll do what you do best, beloved daughter," said Mazael. "You'll annoy them." 

Arnulf grunted. "The Lady of Shadows is formidable in battle." 

Earnachar frowned. "Black witchery, that's what it is."

Molly smirked at him. "Come over here and say that, mighty headman."

Earnachar's frown deepened. "Why? You'll just flit through the shadows and gut me."

Molly's smirk vanished, her eyes narrowing. "You..."

"Enough," said Mazael. "If you want to fight, destroy some runedead. Take your places, all of you." 

The men took formation, the archers lining up behind the thains and armsmen. The knights climbed the sides of the valley, preparing for their charge. Molly drew her sword and dragon's tooth dagger, and Riothamus gazed at the ruined village, hands tight around the Guardian's staff.

Mazael took a deep breath and drew his sword. 

The sword's crosspiece and pommel were golden, the pommel worked in the shape of a roaring lion's head. The long steel blade flashed blue in the morning sun, and the weapon jolted in Mazael's hand. He called the sword Lion, and the ancient blade had been forged long ago by the greatest wizards of the High Elderborn, imbued with mighty power to fight creatures of dark magic. 

The sword trembled in his hand, and then the blade burst into raging azure flames. 

"Well, father?" said Molly.

Mazael tapped the flat of Lion's blade against Molly's sword and dagger, and the fire leapt from his sword to her weapons. Molly rolled the blades through a quick flourish, her eyes wary. She knew the bite of that azure flame.

Given the demon-tainted blood that flowed through her veins. 

Mazael walked through the lines, slapping Lion against the weapons of every man. Soon it seemed as if a field of blue flames crackled in the valley. Mazael glanced towards the runedead milling around the slopes of the hill, half-expecting that whatever mind controlled the undead would attack.

But the runedead made no response. Perhaps they would not attack until they felt threatened. 

Mazael stopped next to Romaria and touched Lion to her quiver, spreading the sword's fire to her arrowheads. 

"You're growing patient in your old age," she said with a smile. 

"Oh?" said Mazael. 

"You didn't cut Earnachar's head off," said Romaria, glancing at the headman. Earnachar stood before his swordthains, exhorting them to fight with valor, just as mighty Tervingar had once upon a time. 

"I cannot say I was not tempted," said Mazael. "I could have let Molly kill him." 

"Or," said Romaria, "you could just ask him about mighty Tervingar. He'll talk until he passes out." 

Mazael barked a laugh. For a moment he forgot the battle, forgot the runedead, even the Demonsouled rage simmering beneath his thoughts. If not for Romaria, that rage would have consumed him long ago. It would have twisted him into someone like Ragnachar, someone like Amalric Galbraith.

Or, worse, into someone like his father. 

He squeezed Romaria's hand, and walked to the front of the shield wall. Arnulf nodded at him, and Earnachar lifted his chin like a bulldog spoiling for a fight. 

Mazael took a deep breath and strapped his shield to his left arm, Lion a torch of blue fire in his right hand. The runedead wandering the slope of Morsen Village's hill still paid no attention. 

Time to change that.

Eagerness filled him at the thought of battle. He wanted peace for his lands and his people, but his Demonsouled nature never stopped thirsting for blood. In times of peace he struggled to keep himself in check. Then the Tervingi and the Great Rising had come, and with them incessant war. 

Not enough war to satisfy his Demonsouled nature...but enough, perhaps, to slake it for a time. 

"Archers!" shouted Mazael. "Begin!" 

###

Riothamus took a deep breath, his fingers tight against the Guardian's staff.

His staff, now.

He had been the Guardian ever since Aegidia had given him the staff, moments before she perished from Ragnachar's treachery. The Tervingi nation respected him and feared him, and heeded his counsel. 

He felt like an imposter. 

Aegidia had been the Guardian for decades. Riothamus had borne the staff for less than a year. Aegidia would have known how to reconcile the folk of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi. She would have known how to deal with the runedead. 

But Aegidia was dead, and Riothamus had no choice but to carry on in her stead. 

His eyes strayed to where Molly stood next to her father, sword and dagger ready. She looked sleek and deadly in her dark leather and cloak, the image of an assassin of the Skulls. Deadly and lovely.