Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (9 page)

Ardasan tried to flee, but Lucan gestured, and the shade froze in place.

“Come, then,” said Lucan, grinning. “You’re a knight of Old Dracaryl, and I am merely a ragged little barbarian wizard. Claim my flesh.” The threads of fire dug into Ardasan’s chest. “Surely it is within your power.”

“Let me go!” screamed Ardasan. 

The threads reached Ardasan’s head, and the sword upon the floor blazed with blood-colored fire. 

And Ardasan’s memories poured into Lucan’s mind.

He shifted through them like paging through a book. Most of them were worthless to him, and he discarded them into nothingness. An image of the Glamdaigyr flashed before his eyes, and Lucan dug deeper into Ardasan’s fracturing mind, sifting through more and more memories. Arylkrad floated before his thoughts, and then a dark cavern below the mountains…

There. The way to Morvyrkrad. 

Lucan seized the memory, ripped it from the unraveling threads of Ardasan’s mind, and stored it deep within his thoughts.

“Mercy,” whispered Ardasan.

“You’re just a shade. You’re not even a soul. You’re only the remnants of Ardasan,” said Lucan. “So, no.”

He summoned more Demonsouled power. 

The sigil in the black sword blazed like an inferno, and the weapon shattered. The shards melted into pools of molten metal, and then crumbled into ash.

Ardasan’s shade wailed once more, dissolved into wisps of smoke, and ceased to exist.

Lucan sighed, stepped over the candles, and walked for the exit. He cast a spell as he strode, unleashing flames over the floor of the chamber. It would leave no trace of his activities behind. 

The map to Morvyrkrad shone in his head like a torch. 

It would take preparations. He could hardly undertake such a journey alone. But once he was prepared, once he had equipped himself, he would go to Morvyrkrad and claim both the Wraithaldr and the spell of the Great Rising.

And then he would rid the world of the Demonsouled forever.

Chapter 9 – The Moot

The entire Tervingi nation gathered in a hollow at the foot of the mountain. 

Thousands of men, women, and children lined the slopes of the surrounding hills, and thousands more filled the floor of the hollow. The steady murmur of conversation filled Riothamus's ears, rising and falling against the sides of the mountain. A few spearthains and swordthains patrolled the outer camps, making sure the baggage and the animals did not fall prey to Malrags or other predators.

But most of the Tervingi had gathered here, and they would decide the fate of the nation.

Though Riothamus wondered if they would simply decide how the Tervingi nation would die. 

He stood at the edge of the hollow with Aegidia, the old woman’s fingers drumming against her staff. Nearby waited Athanaric himself, with Arnulf and his other chief headmen and thains. 

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” said Aegidia.

Athanaric shook his head. “I am not. But we have little choice. We cannot enter the valley. So we must decide upon a new course.”

“And suppose the nation makes a poor choice?” said Aegidia.

“We are Tervingi,” said Athanaric. “We have no kings. By tradition the assembled nation must make a decision of this importance. And this may be the most important decision we ever make.”

Or the last.

“So be it,” said Aegidia.

She strode to a fallen boulder, climbed atop it, and lifted her staff. She struck it against the boulder once, twice, three times, and her magic made the sound of a thunderclap roll over the hollow. 

Silence fell over the Tervingi. 

“Hear me!” said Aegidia, her magic carrying her voice over the hollow. “Hear me, headmen steeped in renown! Hear me, holdmistresses wise and prudent! Hear me, ye valiant thains of sword and spear! Hear me, ye daring thains of the sky! Hear me, freeborn warriors bold and freeborn women valiant! Hear me, sons of Tervingar! I am Aegidia, the Guardian of the Tervingi nation, the bearer of the bronze staff, a trust that extends back to the dawn of ages! By my office, by my rights as Guardian, I call the Tervingi nation to moot!” 

The echoes rolled off the mountains. 

“Athanaric son of Athaulf has called for this moot,” said Aegidia.

Athanaric stepped forward. He wore his finest armor, his green cloak streaming from his shoulders, a torque and diadem of gold glittering on his arm and brow. He looked like the very image of a mighty Tervingi hrould, victorious in battle and generous to his thains and headmen. 

“I would address the moot, Guardian!” said Athanaric. 

Aegidia pointed her staff at Athanaric. “Speak.”

Athanaric climbed to the top of the boulder, his cloak rippling in the cold wind. His voice rose over the assembly, amplified by Aegidia’s spell.

“I am Athanaric son of Athaulf,” said Athanaric. “I have held a sword since the age of nine, when my father fell in battle and I took up his blade. I have fought many foes since then, and never have I shown my back to the enemy once battle was joined! Now a choice lies before us. We hoped to take sanctuary in the mountain valley, yet the Malrag devils wait for us there. I have never shown my back to the enemy once battle was joined, but if we try to take that valley, we shall perish.” 

No one answered him. 

“I propose we return north, to the graves of our fathers!” said Athanaric.

A murmur went through the crowds, and a frown spread over Aegidia’s face. 

“Yes, the Malrags have overrun our lands,” said Athanaric. “Yes, the Malrags have slain many of our kin, have scoured the land like locusts devouring a harvest. But we are fewer now, with fewer mouths to feed. Let us return to the northern hills and fortify them. If we raise strong walls, we may yet reclaim our lands.”

That was folly. The Tervingi could not build fortifications strong enough to stop the Malrags. Even if some of the holds managed to survive, it would be only a matter of time before the Malrags wore them down. Athanaric had to know that.

“And even if we fall, even if the Malrags overwhelm us,” said Athanaric, “then we shall die as warriors. We shall die as true sons of Tervingar! If the Tervingi are to perish, then let us perish gloriously, and our bones shall lie with our fathers’ forevermore!” 

Perhaps Athanaric already knew how his plan would end. 

“Let us retake our homeland and die as warriors!” bellowed Arnulf, ever loyal, from the front ranks of Athanaric’s thains. 

“We will drive the Malrags away at the point of our swords!” shouted another. More voices rose in approval.

But not very many. 

The rest of the Tervingi remained silent. They had seen the Malrag hordes descending upon their homeland. They knew how many holds had been razed, how many farms burned. Every last man, woman, and child had lost kin to the Malrags. 

If they returned to their homelands, they would die on the axes and spears of the Malrags. 

Athanaric climbed down from the boulder, and other thains approached Aegidia. One suggested that the Tervingi attack the valley and drive out the Malrags. Only a few people thought such a course possible. Another proposed that they build ships and rafts, and float down the Iron River until it reached the sea in the distant east. This plan generated some enthusiasm, but support vanished when a bondsman pointed out that they would have to leave behind their mammoths, oxen, and other animals. 

Without their animals, the Tervingi would starve in short order. 

“Guardian!” Toric the skythain approached the boulder, his leather armor creaking. “I beg leave to speak.”

“You may address the moot,” said Aegidia.

“I am Toric son of Torvmund,” said Toric, climbing to the top of the boulder, “a skythain sworn to the service of the hrould Athanaric. And in his service I have flown griffins from one end of the middle lands to the other, from the Great Mountains in the west to the Endless Forest in the east. I have seen that the world is a large place, full of many lands. Let us not march north to die upon Malrag blades, or south to spill our blood upon the slopes of the mountains. Instead, let us go east, to the lands beyond the Endless Forest. If we travel by land, we need not abandon our cattle.”

Aegidia frowned. “The journey through the Endless Forest would be long and perilous. And the eastern grasslands and jungles are ruled by many kings and princes.”

“This is true,” said Toric. “Yet they are minor kings and petty princes. One of them cannot overcome the assembled Tervingi nation, and they quarrel amongst each other too much to unite against us. We can seize a new homeland there, and live among the grasslands and jungles of the east. Aye, it would be a different land than this, a different life. But it would still be life, not death upon the blades of the Malrags.” 

“I doubt not your boldness, Toric,” said Athanaric, “and you have won great renown in my service. Skythains can fly over the Endless Forest, but the Tervingi nation must march through it. And few have ever entered the Endless Forest and returned to tell the tale, thanks to the spider-devils among the trees.”

“Forget both the north and the east!” shouted a thain Riothamus did not know. “Let us circle around the mountains to the south. There are lands yet unclaimed there, far from the reach of the Malrags.”

Aegidia shook her head. “We dare not. The Dark Elderborn yet linger south of the mountains. Were we to return to their lands, the sons of Tervingar might find themselves enslaved once more.”  

“There are risks on whatever path we take,” said Toric. “But the least risks and the greatest rewards are to the east.”

“And we might perish in a distant land, far from the graves of our fathers,” said Athanaric. “If we are die fighting, then let us do it upon our ancient lands.” 

“Why shall we die at all?” shouted another thain. “Let us go around the mountains! Surely we can…”

“No!” said still another man.

The moot dissolved into chaos. Thains shouted at each other, and a few even drew weapons. Athanaric sprang back about the boulder, shouting for order, but the moot was too far gone for that. Aegidia closed her eyes and leaned her forehead upon her staff. 

Then her eyes popped wide open, and she stared hard into the crowds, her expression grim.

A ripple went through the moot. Some men fell silent, and others lowered their weapons. The silence spread, and an aisle formed through the crowds. A large man in elaborate black plate armor strode through the aisle, the hilt of a two-handed greatsword rising over his right shoulder. None of the Tervingi dared to meet his gaze. A dozen of his orcragars trailed after him, keeping a safe distance.

Even his own orcragars feared Ragnachar. 

Ragnachar stopped before the boulder, gazing up at Aegidia and Athanaric. Aegidia stared back, her expression flat.

“Guardian.” Ragnachar’s voice was deep and calm. “I wish to address the moot.” 

“Why?” said Aegidia. “To convert the Tervingi to the worship of your precious Urdmoloch?”

Ragnachar’s black helm, wrought in the shape of a snarling dragon, did not move. “Many of the Tervingi already worship the Urdmoloch, Guardian. But that is not my business today. I am a hrould of the Tervingi nation, and I have the right to address the moot on this matter.” 

“He does have that right, Guardian,” said Athanaric. 

Aegidia stared at Ragnachar. To Riothamus’s astonishment, she looked…trapped. Perhaps even frightened. He hadn’t thought anything could frighten Aegidia.

“Very well,” said Aegidia. 

Ragnachar climbed to the top of the boulder and removed his helm. He had a lean, hawkish face, marked with deep lines. A curtain of ragged gray hair fell over his temples and brow, and a close-cropped gray beard shaded his jaw. Eyes the color of steel glinted as he looked over the assembled Tervingi.

Utter silence hung over the moot.

“I am Ragnachar, the son of no one, a hrould of this nation. I have slain every foe I ever faced, and everything I have, I claimed at the point of my sword.” He drew his sword, the steel glimmering, and grounded the blade, his hands wrapped around the hilt. “You have heard many words tonight. Noble Athanaric suggests we return to our homes and drive out the Malrags. Bold Toric argues that we should travel east and claim a new homeland in the grasslands.” 

He lifted his massive sword with one hand, swept it over the crowds. 

“But we can do neither,” said Ragnachar. “If we return north, the Malrags shall slaughter us to the last child. If we go east, many of us will die on the journey, or perish in the webs of the Endless Forest. Only a few will survive to reach the east, and will live their miserable lives as slaves in the courts of the eastern princes. And if we go south, the Dark Elderborn will overwhelm us, and raise us as zuvembies to serve in the ranks of their hosts.”

“So what will we do?” shouted a thain. 

“We shall not go north to die on Malrag blades,” said Ragnachar. “Nor will we go east to perish in the webs of the Endless Forest, or south to die in the ruins of the Dark Elderborn. We shall go west.”

Puzzled silence answered his pronouncement. 

“West?” said Aegidia. “What is west, save for the Great Mountains and the ruins of Old Dracaryl?”

“There are lands beyond the Great Mountains and the wreckage of Dracaryl,” said Ragnachar.

“You speak of the realm of the knights,” said Aegidia.

Athanaric snorted. “A tale of the loresingers.” 

“No,” said Ragnachar. “It is real. I traveled there in my youth, long ago. The land of the knights is a rich land, filled with farm and pasture. And the people dwelling there are weak. They are fat and well-fed, used to living in comfort. This, sons of Tervingar, is what I propose. Let us march west, cross the Great Mountains, and leave the Malrags and the Dark Elderborn behind forever. Let us claim the land of the knights, and take a new homeland from them.”

“Shall we make war against men we have never met?” said Athanaric. 

“Yes,” said Ragnachar. “For they are only men. We cannot stand against the Malrags and the Dark Elderborn. But we are Tervingi! No mortal man can stand against the valor of our nation! Do we fear any man?”

“No!” shouted one of the orcragars. A dozen more thains took up the cry. Some of them were sworn to Athanaric.

“Shall we die here while other men live fat and happy upon their lands?” said Ragnachar. “Shall you watch your sons bleed upon the earth and the Malrags feast upon the flesh of your daughters while the sons and daughters of other men live in safety and plenty?”

A thousand voices answered him. “No!”

“Then let us claim a new homeland, far from the Malrags!” said Ragnachar. “Perhaps the hroulds of the knights will see wisdom, will allow our nation to settle peacefully. But if they do not, then we will take what is ours by right! A new homeland!”

The moot roared back at him.

“A homeland free of the Malrags, a homeland where we can live in peace and plenty!” said Ragnachar. “A homeland where your sons and daughters can grow up free of fear! A homeland where we can dwell secure from all our foes! Let us go west!”

“West!” roared the moot. “West! West! West!”

Riothamus looked at Aegidia, wondering if she would intervene. But the Guardian’s eyes were closed, both hands clenched around her staff. Athanaric stood with his hand on his sword hilt, face drawn. Ragnachar looked over the Tervingi, and for an instant Riothamus thought he saw a glimmer of red light in his gray eyes.

But he looked again, and the red light vanished. 

One of the orcragars began to sing in a deep, bellowing voice, singing the song of Tervingar leading the escaped slaves from the shattered empire of the Dark Elderborn. The other orcragars took up the song, and then the thains, and the bondsmen, and soon the entire moot roared the song, the words louder than a storm.

The moot had made its decision.

The Tervingi nation would go west.

###

“This is madness,” said Athanaric.

Riothamus stood with Aegidia and the hrould as the moot dispersed to the camps. Ragnachar and his headmen had taken charge. Tomorrow, the Tervingi would begin the long march west to the Great Mountains.