Soul of Swords (Book 7) (18 page)

Barellion prepared for the coming siege. 

Every peasant and every last scrap of food had been gathered from the surrounding countryside. Supplies had been laid in, and barricades constructed across the streets, in case the foe broke in through the walls. Crews manned the war engines atop the walls, ready to rain death upon the enemy. Only magic and fire could harm the runedead…and Hugh’s catapults were ready to give the runedead a taste of fire.

“Then you truly knew Lucan Mandragon?” said Hugh. 

“Oh, aye, my lord,” said Montigard. “I’ve told you that story a dozen times. Before I took service with your father, when I still wandered the realm looking for coin and excitement.”

“We all thought,” said Maurus, “that is was another of your tall tales.”

Montigard thumped his chest. “I am wounded. I did indeed save Lucan Mandragon’s life before I came to Greycoast.” He snorted. “Though, given subsequent events, it was perhaps not the wisest choice I have made. Almost as foolhardy as the time I seduced the both the Prince of Travia’s wife and his favorite daughter.” 

“After this,” said Hugh, “I half-expect the Prince of Travia himself to turn up at the head of an army seeking your head.”

“I hope not,” said Montigard. “We have enough foes.” 

Hugh made a fist. “I almost reached him. If I only I could have gotten him to listen…”

“You did what you could, my lord,” said Lord Bryce. “I fear that necromancer has too strong a hold over him. He wavered, we all saw it…and then Lucan conjured those spirits and blamed us.”

“So obvious a lie,” said Hugh.

“Yet Lord Malden is too deep in Lucan’s thrall to see it,” said Bryce. 

“So be it,” said Hugh. “Then it shall come down to swords in the end.”

Barellion’s walls were strong and well-manned. They could hold out against the runedead, at least for a while. But there were too many variables in play. What would Lucan do next? What would Skalatan do? Would the Aegonar attack Lucan, or hang back until the runedead had taken Barellion?

Would aid come from Mazael and the other lords?

Hugh didn’t know.

He only hoped that he would not be the last Prince of Barellion.

###

Skalatan stood on the southern bank of the River of Lords, flanked by Nizius and his calibah bodyguards. 

The Aegonar host poured over the pontoon bridge.

Hjalsk’s plan had worked flawlessly. Skalatan had opened the mistgate, and Hjalsk and his carpenters poured out, thralls carrying lumber and equipment. For all his deferential manner around the High King and the Herald of Sepharivaim, Hjalsk ruled his workers with an iron fist even as he toiled at their side, and within a day the bridge had been completed.

Now the warriors crossed. 

The bridge bobbed alarmingly with their stride, but Hjalsk swore that it would remain intact. Quite a few of the warriors looked a bit green, but none would show fear in front of his fellows, and the crossing continued. Fully half of the Aegonar force had crossed, and Skalatan suspected the entire army would be on the southern bank by nightfall.

Ryntald approached and bowed. “Great Herald.”

“High King,” said Skalatan. “Our foes?”

“Nothing,” said Ryntald. “No trace of them. Their patrols along the bank have been withdrawn.”

“Perhaps the Prince hopes to lure us into a trap,” said Skalatan.

“That is a possibility,” said Ryntald. “There is another, however. The peasants we’ve interrogated claim the lords of Greycoast withdrew in haste to face another foe.”

“Another?” said Skalatan, the suspicion forming in his mind.

“One they fear even more than us,” said Ryntald.

“Lord Malden Roland,” said Skalatan.

Ryntald nodded. “Which means that necromancer you described, the one that trained that rascal Malaric, has come north to make war upon us.”

“Lucan Mandragon,” said Skalatan. 

His coils shifted, pressing against the vertebrae of his undead carrier.

Against the scepter of dragon bone concealed beneath his carrier’s ragged gray robe. 

“Great Herald,” said Ryntald, “I shall speak frankly. Against disorganized bands of runedead, we have been successful. If my warriors must face an entire army of runedead, organized and competently led, we might prevail. Or, more likely, it will be a bloody slaughter. If we are to overcome the necromancer and his runedead, we shall need your aid.”

“Fear not, High King,” said Skalatan, the dragon bone scepter cold against his scales. “I am prepared to deal with Lucan Mandragon.”

###

Lord Karlam Ganelon stood on the ramparts of the Outer Wall and watched the knights and armsmen and militia hurrying through Barellion. The city was well-equipped for a siege, with ample supplies of food and armaments. Lord Alberon had done well to prepare the city, which Karlam suspected meant that his competent daughter had done all the work. 

But the fact that the preparations were necessary at all was appalling.

How had matters become so dire? A year ago Greycoast had been at peace, and Prince Everard had ruled his vassals with a firm hand. Now the northern half of Greycoast had fallen to the Aegonar, the runedead horde had overrun the southern half…and the Prince of Barellion was an untested boy.

An untested boy who had led them to the edge of disaster.

Karlam had to kill him now. Not just for his own ambition, he realized, though he did want the diadem for himself. Barellion needed a strong man to lead it, a man who could rule with a firm hand in these dark times. 

And a man who could deal with the Aegonar and the San-keth. 

With the High King’s friendship, Greycoast could prosper and thrive, could drive back Lord Malden’s runedead. But Hugh would never consent to an alliance with a nation of San-keth proselytes, let alone submit to Ryntald as a vassal. 

Greycoast needed Karlam’s leadership, his foresight, his wisdom.

Which meant he had to kill Hugh Chalsain as soon as possible.

Chapter 16 - Liege Lords

Gerald Roland waited atop his mount. 

“Nearly two hundred men, my lord,” said Adalar Greatheart, walking alongside Gerald’s horse. “Footmen, mostly. But they’re led by a Justiciar knight.”

Gerald nodded. “Have they cooperated?” 

“So far,” said Adalar. “They laid down their weapons, and haven’t made any threats.” 

“Good,” said Gerald. “Have one of the squires fetch Sir Commander Aidan. We’ll need him for this.” 

“Shall we send for Lord Mazael, as well?” said Adalar.

Gerald opened his mouth to agree…and stopped himself. Mazael would say that Gerald was now the liege lord of Knightcastle, that he would need to rule over his vassals with a firm hand. That once Malden and Lucan were defeated, Gerald would need to deal with such concerns on his own.

If they defeated Malden and Lucan.

“No,” said Gerald, “no, there’s no need to trouble him with this. Have the squires bring Sir Commander Aidan.”

Adalar nodded and hurried off.

Gerald rode through the sprawling camp, nodding to his lords and armsmen. He came to the edge of the camp, exchanged greetings with the sentries, and kept riding. Caldarus had sent a dozen minor raiding parties across the Northwater, and while all had been driven back, Gerald would not put it past the Grand Master to attempt a night raid on the camp. 

The defectors waited outside the camp, a group of Tervingi spearthains standing guard over them. Gerald counted two hundred men wearing the blue-and-silver tabards of Justiciar footmen. A middle-aged man in the surcoat of a Justiciar knight stood at their head. His expression was calm, but Gerald saw the tension on his face as he looked at the spearthains. No doubt he had heard all sorts of terrifying tales about the Tervingi. 

“Hrould of Knightcastle,” said one of the spearthains with a nod. 

“Spearthain,” said Gerald, reining up before the defectors. 

The Justiciar knight looked up at him. “Sir Gerald Roland?”

“Aye,” said Gerald.

“I am Sir Cormane,” said the Justiciar. “I had hoped to join your banners. I…”

“You can present your case to Sir Commander Aidan,” said Gerald, turning his head, “at once.”

Aidan approached the defectors, flanked by a troop of Justiciar armsmen.

“Sir Commander!” said Cormane, stepping forward. 

The Tervingi spearthains growled and pointed their weapons at him.

“No, leave him be,” said Gerald. 

The spearthains relaxed, and Cormane swallowed.

“Sir Commander,” said Cormane again. “It is good to see you alive and well. The Grand Master…the Grand Master was most wroth when you escaped Knightcastle.”

“Well, I am still alive, at least for now,” said Aidan. “As is Lord Gerald.”

Cormane frowned. “Lord Gerald?”

“I will be blunt, Sir Cormane,” said Gerald. “You have come to join us, correct?” 

Cormane nodded. “As have the men under my command. Two hundred footmen, all veterans of the war against Caraster.” 

“We would welcome aid,” said Gerald, “but have no illusions about what we intend. We are marching west to conquer Knightcastle. We intend to destroy Lucan Mandragon, and overthrow my father and Grand Master Caldarus.” He took a deep breath. “If you are unable to follow us to that end, then…”

“Return to Caldarus?” said Cormane. “Or you’ll have me executed?”

“No,” said Gerald. “Simply take oaths not to take part in the coming battles, and leave. You can go anywhere you wish, so long as you do not return to Caldarus’s side.”

“Which I would not recommend,” said Aidan. “The Grand Master has rather a short temper where loyalty is concerned.”

“No,” said Cormane. “We will not return to the Grand Master. Not after…not after the things we have seen.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “All the commanders and preceptors have those damned black daggers now, and many of the knights, as well. I fear nearly the entire Justiciar Order has been corrupted. We go from village to village, round up the men, and interrogate them…and then the knights with black daggers strike down the peasants for any reason. Any provocation. They claim the peasants are worshippers of Sepharivaim, or that they secretly supported Caraster. But that is absurd! What does it matter when Caraster has been dead for months? And why would a villager in the Grim Marches have supported Caraster? Why would they even have known about him? It is madness, cruel folly and madness!” There was anguish in Cormane’s tone and eyes.

“The daggers have nothing to do with either the San-keth or Caraster,” said Gerald. “Lucan Mandragon is using them to harvest the stolen lives of his victims. You’ve seen how the wielders of the daggers grow younger?” Cormane nodded. “Some of the life energy rejuvenates them, yes. But most of it goes to Lucan to work some vile necromantic spell.”

“The wizards think the stolen life energy is addictive,” said Aidan. “Most of the men killed by the black daggers were likely innocent, murdered simply to steal their life force.”

“Gods.” Cormane rubbed his face. “And I have been a party to this evil. Gods forgive me.”

“It is not too late to turn from that path,” said Gerald.

“And you have taken the first step by joining us,” said Aidan. 

“Aye,” said Cormane. “I see what the Grand Master and Lord Malden have become. I will join you, Sir Commander, Lord Gerald, and help you stop them.”

“I will not lie to you,” said Gerald. “We face powerful foes, and defeat is likely.”

“Then let us die with honor, as men,” said Cormane, “and not as these…these leeches the knights with the black daggers have become.”

“Well-spoken,” said one of the Tervingi spearthains. “Better to die as a man than to exist as a tomb-wight.” 

“Ah…thank you,” said Cormane. “I see you have some strange allies, my lord.”

“The Tervingi have outlandish customs, but they are valiant warriors,” said Gerald, and the spearthains snickered. “And against such foes as the runedead, all men of good will must set aside their differences.” 

“You are correct, my lord,” said Cormane, turning to face Aidan. “And I will gladly swear to follow you in battle, Sir Commander.”

“Good,” said Aidan. “I shall find a place for your men in the camp…”

Gerald left them to their work.

###

Later Gerald walked through the heart of the camp, the bonfires throwing back the darkness.

A familiar tension charged the air. The men knew that battle would come soon, and Gerald saw them prepare. Armsmen from the Grim Marches checked their armor and sharpened their swords and daggers. Tervingi spearthains tended to their weapons, and the Elderborn hunters checked their arrows and bowstrings one by one. 

He wondered how many of them would survive the coming battle.

He wondered if he would survive the coming battle, if he would ever see Rachel and his sons again. Mazael had thirty-five thousand battle-hardened men. Yet Caldarus had ninety thousand runedead, immune to pain and fear…and the fifteen thousand veteran men of the Order who had remained loyal. And even if they defeated Caldarus, they still had to face Lucan…and Gerald had seen the might of Lucan’s magic with his own eyes.

How could they prevail against such foes?

Gerald forced aside his doubts, keeping his face calm. It would not do to show doubt before the men. If he gave up now, he would be doing Caldarus’s work for him. 

He came to Mazael’s tent, the Cravenlock banner hanging overhead from a lance. He intended to speak with Mazael about tomorrow’s march, but the tent was dark. Not surprising. The gods knew Mazael had enough work to do. Gerald circled around the tent, intending to find his bed.

“You’re up late.”

Mazael sat atop a barrel behind his tent, a clay cup of wine in his hand. He wore the armor fashioned from the golden scales he had taken from that dragon in the Great Mountains. Lion waited at his belt, the golden pommel shaped like a roaring lion’s head. The knights and lords of Greycoast had called Mazael the Golden Knight when he waged war against the Aegonar, and Gerald could see why. Mazael looked older than he was, with gray in his beard and hair…but in that armor, he looked like some hero out of legend. 

“More Justiciars arrived,” said Gerald, “tired of Caldarus and his butchery. Aidan is swearing them to service now.”

Mazael grunted, took a drink from his cup, and passed Gerald a wineskin. “More men of conscience among the Justiciars. I never would have guessed it.” 

Gerald took a drink from the skin and sat on another barrel. The wine was not very good, but it was better than nothing. “We’ll need every man able to hold a spear.”

“Man or Elderborn,” said Mazael. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Caldarus had a few spies hidden among the defectors.”

“That makes sense,” said Gerald. “I will have Aidan keep close watch over the defectors.”

Mazael nodded. “Just keep them separate from the others. But it’s not a grave concern. Caldarus outnumbers us three to one. He doesn’t need to be clever. He just needs to roll right over us. Like a man pushing his way through a hedge, really.” 

Gerald said nothing as Mazael took another drink. If he had despaired…

“Do you think we can win?” said Gerald.

Mazael blinked, took another drink, and grinned. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “No matter how well you prepare, no matter how many men you put into the field, no matter how favorable the land…a battle is a gamble. Throw the dice and see what happens.” He gazed at the fires scattered throughout the camp. “Though I prefer to the load the dice.”

Gerald laughed. “Dishonest, but I approve.”

“Caldarus has the superior force,” said Mazael. “We’ll need to be a bit dishonest. And that’s our advantage. Caldarus has so many runedead he doesn’t need to be clever. Oh, I doubt he’ll turn into an idiot, but he’ll try to overwhelm us with force. Simply roll over us and have done with it.”

“You think overconfidence will be his weakness,” said Gerald.

“I know it will,” said Mazael. Suddenly he laughed.

“What is it?” said Gerald. 

“We always seem to find ourselves in these one-sided battles,” said Mazael. “The runedead.”

“That dragon outside of Arylkrad,” said Gerald, gesturing at Mazael’s armor. 

“Or the Malrags,” said Mazael. “Both at the battle at Castle Cravenlock and the siege of Deepforest Keep.” 

“And the Dominiars,” said Gerald.

Mazael laughed. “Which time? When we faced Amalric outside the walls of Tumblestone?”

“That was almost as desperate as when we fought Sir Commander Aeternis in Mastaria,” said Gerald. 

“Or when we fought Skhath and the San-keth, or Straganis at Tristgard,” said Mazael. 

Gerald found himself grinning. “Or when we outwitted that bandit chief when I was a boy. What was his name again?”

Mazael barked a laugh. “Recarred the Fist. Gods, I haven’t thought about that in years.” He shook his head. “That was fifteen years ago. I hadn’t a coin to my name. I had my horse, my sword, my boots, and that was all. And those damned boots were in bad shape.” He shook his head again and waved a hand at the vast camp around them. “And now…this. Thirty-five thousand men ready to follow me into battle. Where did I go wrong?”

“Perhaps you went right,” said Gerald. 

“How so?” said Mazael. “If I had killed Lucan when I had the chance, none of this would have happened.”

“If you hadn’t come to Knightreach, the Dominiars would have conquered Knightcastle. Rachel would have remained a San-keth proselyte, the Malrags would have destroyed the Grim Marches and Deepforest Keep, and Skalatan would have turned himself into a god,” said Gerald. “That Lucan did such grievous evil was his fault, not yours.”

“Perhaps,” said Mazael.

He stared into the camp, face distant. 

“When you left the Grim Marches, twenty years ago,” said Gerald, “did you ever think that you would return? That you would be the liege lord, one day?” 

Mazael laughed. “Gods, no. I thought I would end up knifed in some Barellion whorehouse. Or dead on a battlefield somewhere. Then I happened to save your father from Recarred the Fist, and I thought I would die as one of his household knights.”

“Then,” said Gerald, “you met Romaria.”

A smile came to the older man’s hard face. “That I did.” He took another drink of wine. “And I met Rachel again…and now instead of a violent vagabond, I am the liege lord of the Grim Marches. I suppose a man can change.”

“Instead of dying upon the floor of a brothel,” said Gerald, “you can die upon the field of battle in a few days.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but Mazael only laughed. “Perhaps. We might well die in two days. Or I might die when this miserable wine poisons me.” He took another drink. “Or we might not. All men die, Gerald. I suppose we can choose to flee from it, and have it overtake us anyway…or to face it as men, and perhaps win another day.” 

“Or die,” said Gerald.

“Or die,” agreed Mazael. He sighed. “I suppose it is harder to face death now, when we have more to lose.”

“Romaria and…Molly, I suppose,” said Gerald. 

“She is…spirited,” said Mazael. He held out a hand, and Gerald passed him the wineskin. “But I love her. And Romaria. I have already lost her once…and almost lost her a second time to Malaric’s poison. And if I live long enough, I suppose I will lose her again. Perhaps the priests are right, and those who are righteous and put their trust in the gods will be reunited in the next life.”

“They are right,” said Gerald. “I believe this. It is a comfort, in these dark times.”

“Nor one I would deny you,” said Mazael. “But even if nothing but oblivion awaits us after death, I will not turn back. The lands and people of the Grim Marches are under my protection. I will not suffer Caldarus to harm them…and I certainly will not allow Lucan to harm them again. And if I have to take Knightcastle and make you the liege lord of Knightreach to do it, then so be it.”

“As you did with Hugh Chalsain,” said Gerald.

“Do you know him?” said Mazael, refilling his cup and passing the skin back.

“I met him as a boy, when we were both squires,” said Gerald. “Some tournament or another at Knightcastle, I forget which one. Not since then.”