Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (7 page)

Lucan had sworn to guard the Grim Marches from dark magic, and both Mazael and Molly were creatures of dark magic. 

How he hated the Demonsouled.

They were, he realized, the source of most of his pain.

The idea came to him full-formed, almost as if he had heard it from someone else. Marstan had been a student of the Old Demon, and he had tried to possess Lucan. Lucan had been victorious, had gained the necromancer's knowledge and power, but the resultant personality changes had driven his betrothed Tymaen away. If not for Marstan, Lucan could have been wed to Tymaen.

He could have been happy.

If not for the Demonsouled. 

They would pay for that. 

He would find a way to make all the Demonsouled pay, to rid the world of them forever.

And the answer lay within his grasp.

Ardasan had said the high lords had forged the Glamdaigyr as a weapon to steal the might of the Demonsouled. What had the revenant meant?

Lucan didn’t know, but he knew how to find out.

“Lucan!” said Mazael. “Are you coming?”

For a moment Lucan considered killing both Mazael and Molly where they stood. He dismissed the idea as too risky. Both father and daughter possessed the ability to heal quickly, and Lucan doubted he could kill both of them at once. 

He would regret killing Mazael, true. But he was a thing of dark magic, and Lucan had sworn to defend the Grim Marches from dark magic.

“Of course,” said Lucan, making himself smile. “I’m coming, never fear.”

Chapter 7 – Sanctuary

“At last,” said Riothamus, leaning upon his spear. 

Arnulf grunted. “At least they didn’t move south without us.”

The countryside had grown hillier as they traveled south from Skullbane, the forest thicker. Their progress had slowed considerably, and it had taken a great deal of time to steer the oxen and pigs around every obstacle.

The two mammoths, of course, had simply plowed their way through anything in their path. 

But after nine days of hard travel, they stood upon the lip of a wide valley. A narrow river flowed through the valley, heading north for the Iron River itself. Thick forests lined the valley’s slopes, though many of the trees had been cut down by now.

The Tervingi nation filled the valley.

Or what was left of it. 

Great masses of tents lined the river, and Riothamus saw thousands of people going about their business. Plumes of smoke rose from countless campfires, and hundreds of mammoths wandered the trees, stripping the branches of any remaining leaves. A dozen tiny black dots circled overhead – skythains, riding their griffin mounts. No Malrags would come within twenty miles of the Tervingi host without the knowledge of the keen-eyed skythains. 

“Merciful gods,” said Ethringa, surprise on her lined face. “How many?”

Arnulf squinted. “About ninety thousand, I’d deem. Perhaps fifteen or twenty thousand men fit to fight.”

“So great a host,” said Ethringa.

“Aye,” said Arnulf. “If we meet the Malrags, they’ll regret it sorely.”

But he shared a look with Riothamus. Both men knew that the Tervingi had once been far more numerous. 

Now this valley held all that remained. 

“Come,” said Arnulf, pointing. “Athanaric has his camp near the river.”

The swordthain led the folk of Skullbane down the hillside and towards the great camp. Hundreds of banners floated in the autumn wind over the tents of the warriors. Once, an encampment of Tervingi warriors would have flown the banners of a dozen different hroulds. Now, only two different banners remained. One was green with a white horseman, the banner and sigil of the hrould Athanaric. The second was black, with a red eye in the center.

The sigil of Ragnachar and his demon-worshipping orcragar. 

Arnulf made sure to keep well away from Ragnachar’s banners. 

They entered the camp. Spearthains kept watch on the edges, keeping an eye out for any Malrag raiders that eluded the vigilance of the skythains. The women went about their business, carrying water from the river, tending to the children, or herding the chickens and the sheep. Parts of the camp could have been mistaken for any other Tervingi hold and village. 

But there were no Tervingi villages left.

A pavilion stood at the edge of the water, a massive green-and-white banner hanging over it. Arnulf spoke with the spearthains on guard, and one of them disappeared into the tent.

A short time later the hrould Athanaric emerged. 

He was in his late fifties, still strong and vigorous despite his age, his hair and beard the color of gray iron. His green cloak stirred in the wind, revealing the chain mail beneath it, and the broadsword and dagger hanging at his belt. He looked over the assembled refugees, face solemn, and then he smiled.

“Arnulf,” he said, voice deep.

“Hrould,” said Arnulf, bowing. “I bring you honored guests, and I speak on their behalf.”

Ethringa stepped forward and bowed. “I am Ethringa daughter of Jordanic, the holdmistress of Skullbane.”

Athanaric bowed in return. “And I am Athanaric son of Athaulf, a hrould of the Tervingi nation. I bid you welcome, and pledge you the protection of my sword and the hospitality of my roof.” He beckoned, and one of his bondsmen hurried forward, bearing a golden goblet of wine. Athanaric offered it to Ethringa, and she drank and handed it back to him. He drank from it in turn, completing the ritual of host and guest. 

“Thank you for the welcome, hrould,” said Ethringa.

“You are indeed welcome,” said Athanaric. “So few of us are left that it is good you have come. Is Fritigern here?”

“Alas,” said Ethringa. “He fell in battle against the Malrags, a week ere your emissary reached me. 

Athanaric sighed. “That is ill news, indeed. Still, we must press on. Arnulf!”

“Aye?” said Arnulf.

“Take the holdmistress to my seneschal, and find her folk and beasts a place in the order of march,” said Athanaric. “We break camp and leave on the morrow.”

“So soon?” said Riothamus.

Athanaric nodded. “Aye, witcher.” Like Arnulf, he showed no fear of Riothamus. No doubt his long association with the Guardian had inured him to magic. “All those who can be gathered have been gathered. It is past time that we marched for our new homeland.” 

“If we are to leave the graves of our fathers,” said Ethringa, “best we get it over with at once.”

“Indeed,” said Athanaric. “Yet if we linger, the whole Tervingi nation shall dwell in one great grave.”

“This way, holdmistress,” said Arnulf.

“Witcher,” said Athanaric. “The Guardian thought you might return today. She bade you to meet her at the usual place by the river.”

“Hrould,” said Riothamus. He bowed and left the pavilion. 

Riothamus threaded his way through the camp, dodging women carrying jars of water, children playing at being swordthains and spearthains, and the occasional renegade chicken. Most of the Tervingi got out of his way with fearful glances, some making the ritual signs to ward off evil. The Dark Elderborn had been wizards of great power, and the Tervingi did not tolerate wizards. Only the fact that Riothamus was the apprentice of the Guardian kept the Tervingi from dragging him outside the camp and stoning him to death.

Riothamus ignored their fearful glances. He was used to them, after all.

Then he encountered some men who did not get out of his way. 

There were four of them, swordthains in mail, their expressions cold and stern. Over their armor they wore the ragged black cloaks favored by Ragnachar’s thains. And unlike most of Ragnachar’s thains, these men had scars on their foreheads and cheeks – an eye, cut into their skin in imitation of Ragnachar’s sigil.

Orcragars. Worshipers of the Urdmoloch, like Ragnachar himself. The orcragars believed that the Urdmoloch blessed them with demonic power, giving them strength and speed beyond that of ordinary men. And perhaps they were correct – the orcragars fought with a brutal ferocity unlike the other Tervingi, and recovered from wounds and illness faster. 

Riothamus wanted nothing to do with them. But both Athanaric and the Guardian agreed that the Tervingi needed every sword. 

“The witch’s errand boy,” rumbled the lead orcragar. “Off to wipe the drool from her chin?”

The orcragars laughed. 

“I am carrying out the errands of the hrould Athanaric,” said Riothamus, keeping his voice calm. Neither the Guardian nor the Guardian’s apprentice could use magic to kill mortal men, but he might be able to elude the men with a spell. Or they would cut him to pieces. But he did not think the orcragars would kill in the middle of the camp.

He hoped.

“Athanaric is a feeble old man,” said the orcragar. “Ragnachar is mighty and battle. He should lead the Tervingi, not that cringing old man! If he led the Tervingi, we would conquer new lands for ourselves.”

“Which explains how the Malrags drove Ragnachar from his hold,” said Riothamus.

The lead orcragar stepped closer. “Do not think to hide behind the Guardian’s skirts, worm. Her power is pathetic, and her strength wanes. She cannot save you.”

Riothamus smiled. “If you think so, then tell her that yourself. Surely you have nothing to fear from a feeble old woman.”

The orcragars did not move.

“Ah,” said Riothamus. “I thought not. Good day, noble thains.”

He stepped around the orcragars and walked calmly away, though his back itched in anticipation of a sword until the orcragars were out of sight.

The Guardian awaited him at the edge of the water.

She was an old woman, quite possibly the oldest man or woman he had ever seen. Her white hair hung in a thick braid down her back, and she wore strange amulets of bones and polished stones over her loose clothes of wool and leather. A peculiar cloak, fashioned entirely of ravens’ feathers, hung from her narrow shoulders. 

She leaned upon a long wooden staff in her right hand. It gleamed like burnished bronze in the pale light, and a line of runes had been cut into its length. 

The Guardian looked at him, her eyes like pale discs of blue ice in her lined face. 

“You’ve returned,” she said, her voice strong despite her withered frame.

“I have, Guardian,” said Riothamus with a bow.

She snorted. “I told you to call me Aegidia. We’ve known each other long enough for that, boy.”

“As you wish, Guardian Aegidia,” said Riothamus, and he hid his smile. It was an old game between them.

“Impudent boy,” said Aegidia, but the words had no sting. “Come. Walk with me.”

She headed into the camp, moving at a good pace despite her limp and need to lean upon the staff. Riothamus followed, watching the Tervingi react to her. They feared her, as they feared him. But there was respect as well. Aegidia had been the Guardian of the Tervingi for decades, for as long as anyone living could remember. For all those years she had wandered among the Tervingi, protecting them from dark magic, acting as judge and arbiter between them.

And when she died, the bronze staff would pass to him. 

He did not want to think about that burden.

“The Sight came upon me as I meditated,” said Aegidia. “I saw you, standing alone atop a broken skull. A black cloud came upon you, filled with rot and corruption. Yet you called out to the heavens, and a storm drove the black cloud away.”

“Malrags,” said Riothamus. “They attacked Skullbane while we were there, but Arnulf was able to drive them off with my help.”

“Ah,” said Aegidia. “I thought as much.” She snorted. “The Sight would be more useful if it were not so damnably metaphorical.”

“It has served you well,” said Riothamus. The “Sight”, the peculiar mixture of prophecy and farseeing that Aegidia could use, let her see far-off events and warned her of impending danger. Yet it showed what it willed, and the answers it offered did not always please her. 

She had never tried to teach it to Riothamus. Perhaps the power came from the Guardian’s staff of office. 

“You did well, convincing Ethringa,” said Aegidia. “I knew her as a child. She was stubborn then, and has grown into a stubborn woman.”

“I did nothing but fight the Malrags,” said Riothamus. 

“And that was enough,” said Aegidia. “Ethringa had put her trust in steel swords and strong arms. That is not enough to save our people. If you had not been there, the Malrags would have overwhelmed Arnulf and seized Skullbane. Ethringa saw that she had no choice but to join the rest of the Tervingi.” 

They stopped to let a mammoth pass. The Tervingi feared Aegidia, but the great elephantine beasts feared nothing. The mammoth lumbered to the water and lowered its trunk to drink. 

“Will we truly leave tomorrow?” said Riothamus.

“We shall,” said Aegidia. “It is past time. The lands north of the Iron River have fallen to the Malrag hordes. We are safe here, but not for long. Malrag warbands have been seen crossing the river. Including the one you saw at Skullbane.”

Riothamus frowned. “That warband came from the south. Not from the north.”

“Perhaps it circled through the hills,” said Aegidia. “The land north of Skullbane is unsuitable for attack, which is why Fritigern built his hold there.”

“Not that it matters,” said Riothamus. “No Tervingi will ever return to Skullbane.” 

He felt a pang. He had grown up here. The wooded hills and deep valleys were his home. He had spent his life wandering through them, first with Aegidia as she traveled, and then on his own as he carried out her errands. 

But his mother and father had died here. 

He remembered the burning hold, remembered the howling Malrags. 

Perhaps it was better to leave. 

But the memories would never leave him, he knew.

“We must be ready,” said Aegidia. 

“To leave?” said Riothamus, shaking away the memories. 

“Yes,” said Aegidia. “But more. The Sight is…unclear. Our future is clouded.”

“Do you think we’ll be safe?” said Riothamus. “Or shall we all die on the march?” 

Aegidia sighed and rested her forehead against the staff.

“I know not,” she said after a moment. “Perhaps we will. Perhaps we will not. The future is nothing but a changing shadow.” She took a deep breath. “We may reach our new homeland, or we may not. But I know there will be strife. There will be fighting and death, before the end.”

They walked in silence for a while.

“There is a question,” said Aegidia, “that I must ask you.”

“I know,” said Riothamus. 

“A man in golden armor, with a sword of blue fire in his right fist,” said Aegidia. “Did you see him?” 

It had been the very first question she had asked him, all those years ago.

She had stopped the Malrags from killing him in the burning wreckage of Rigotharic’s hold, the lightning falling and the earth rising at her command to kill them all. She had tended to his wounds and taken him as an apprentice. 

And then she had asked him that question, as she asked it of everyone.

Riothamus shook away the memories.

“No,” he said. “No, I did not see him. I’m sorry.” 

Aegidia nodded, unruffled. “I will see him before I die. I first saw him when I took up the staff of the Guardian, when the Sight came upon me in power. The fate of the Tervingi people is in his hands, and I must find him.”

“As you say,” said Riothamus. 

“Get some rest,” said Aegidia. “We have a long journey ahead of us.” A sad smile flickered over her face. “And who know what will happen before we reach our destination?”

###

The next morning the Tervingi nation broke camp and marched south. 

Athanaric marched at the front, surrounded by his thains and bondsmen. His mammoths and oxen lumbered after him, laden down by food and supplies. Ragnachar and his thains marched at Athanaric’s left. Ragnachar himself wore elaborate black plate armor, his face hidden beneath a helm wrought in the likeness of a snarling dragon. Rumor claimed he had braved a tomb of Old Dracaryl, defeated an ancient wizard-shade and claimed the devil’s armor for his own.