Soul of Swords (Book 7) (27 page)

Behind him a thousand knights and armsmen packed the plaza, and answered his shout with one of their own. Hugh raised his lance, a shield waiting on his left arm, and stood up in his stirrups. 

Horns rang from the gatehouse, and with the groan of iron gears and the creak of stressed timbers, and the Gate of Merchants swung open. Hugh whispered a quick prayer under his breath, put spurs to his horse, and galloped through the Gate, his men following.

The fields east of the city were in chaos. The shattered runedead host swirled like a storm-tossed sea. Vast stretches of land had been reduced to glowing ashes, and the dragon still circled through the sky, carving lines of glowing fire through the runedead. Blasts of green lighting fell from the sky, rebounding from the gray-cloaked figure upon the dragon’s back, and Hugh knew that Skalatan and Lucan Mandragon were locked in a colossal duel of magic. 

But that, for now, was not his concern. Lord Malden’s banner still flapped overhead, a ragged force of armsmen and knights surrounding him. If Hugh could reach the Lord of Knightcastle and cut him down, it would break his control over the runedead. And with Skalatan keeping Lucan Mandragon busy, it would give the men of Greycoast a chance to drive the runedead from the field.

Of course, they would then have to deal with Skalatan and the Aegonar.

But at least they would be alive to do so.

“Oil!” shouted Hugh, igniting the wizard’s oil coating the steel head of his lance. A flare of white fire shone around the lance’s head, and for a moment it looked as if he carried a giant torch. Montigard blew a blast on his war horn, and the knights and armsmen behind him lit their wizard’s oil, and for an instant it looked as if a wave of white fire rode towards the disorganized runedead.

Then the enemy was upon them. Hugh dropped his lance, raised his shield, and set himself in his stirrups. 

And the men of Greycoast thundered through the disorganized runedead. 

Hugh speared one runedead with his lance, and then another, even as his horse trampled one underfoot. The runedead were powerful foes, but they were still essentially infantry. Footmen could stand against a charge of heavy horsemen, but only if they formed ranks, had the proper weapons, and stood their ground in the face of the charge.

And the runedead were disorganized, their lines broken, and Hugh’s men tore through them.

Lord Malden’s banner drew closer.

###

Skalatan summoned more power, and a pulse of icy blue light surrounded him.

The last of the dragon’s fire faded away.

“Clever of him,” said the dragon, “to fling my own fire back at you.”

“Indeed,” said Skalatan. “Lucan was always clever. Like a child discerning the operation of his father’s crossbow, only to shoot himself in the gut. But he is not strong enough to resist your fire. Finish him.”

The dragon looped over the battlefield, coming around for another pass at Lucan. Skalatan saw the Gate of Merchants open, saw the Prince’s horsemen thundering towards Lord Malden. A bold move, indeed, and one that might well prove effective, especially if Skalatan destroyed Lucan. 

Below, the dark figure of Lucan stopped, and Skalatan saw the deeper darkness of the Glamdaigyr waiting in his hands. 

The dragon dove, more fire erupting over its fangs.

###

Lucan cast a spell, armoring his body in layers of overlapping wards. 

An instant later fire poured from the dragon’s mouth.

He raised the Glamdaigyr and caught the burning blaze upon the point of the blade. At once the black sword drank the dragon’s fire, its wrath and magic draining into the weapon.

And pouring into Lucan.

He screamed as the burning pain erupted through him, the fire threatening to devour the spells that maintained his undead state. His wards, designed to hold the fiery power at bay, sparked and hissed as the magic fought to consume them. Lucan pulled all the power into himself, shaping it despite the agony, and forced it into a spell.

He pointed the Glamdaigyr, and green lightning ripped from the sword’s tip and stabbed into the dragon’s belly as the creature shot overhead. 

Skalatan had warded himself against the emerald lightning…but the dragon had not.

The dragon bellowed in pain and fury, a spasm going through its limbs. Again Lucan struck, the last of the fiery power transforming into another jagged gout of green lightning. The bolt tore a smoking groove in the dragon’s flank, and its right wing twitched and went limp. 

The dragon circled once and crashed into the battlefield, digging a tremendous furrow into the ground as it crushed runedead and living men alike beneath it. 

Lucan staggered forward, intending to finish the dragon…and almost fell.

He looked down, saw burns upon his hands, felt the smoke rising from his sleeves and collar. 

The dragon fire had done too much damage to the spells binding him, and they were beginning to unravel. 

###

Malden looked back and forth in rage.

His mighty army had crumpled around him, torn apart by dragon fire. At least half of his runedead had gone up in smoke, their ashes blanketing the ground. And most of his living troops had broken, fleeing in every direction. 

“Fight!” he roared, waving his sword overhead. “Stand and fight!”

But no one heeded him, save for a few of his most loyal household knights. 

The charge from the Gate of Merchants drew closer, and Malden realized that if he had did not act at once, they were going to reach him.

And they would kill him. He had thought to live forever, but if he did not act now, he was going to die.

“Withdraw!” he shouted, the words bitter in his mouth. “Withdraw and return to Knightcastle.”

He rode to the south as fast as his horse could manage, his household knights galloping after as they left the Roland banner behind.

###

Skalatan’s carrier picked itself up, the spine creaking within his coils. 

The dragon thrashed and roared, badly injured by both Lucan’s attacks and its sudden landing. Skalatan lifted the drachweisyr and released the magic holding the dragon. At once the great creature dissolved into wisps of white light, fading back into the spirit world. It would take the dragon at least a few weeks to heal. 

No matter. He did not require the dragon to finish off Lucan Mandragon. He had dealt with the revenants of Old Dracaryl before, and he knew exactly how much damage the spells upon their undead bodies could absorb. 

Lucan had exceeded that limit.

Skalatan strode across the battlefield, seeking his foe. 

###

Lucan stumbled, the world spinning around him. 

He had to get away. His spells were repairing themselves – he could see the burns on his hands and arms fading, the pain ebbing somewhat – but slowly, so slowly. It would take him time to recover.

Time that he did not have. The dragon had vanished, but when Skalatan found him…

He drew on the last of his power. A sheet of gray mist rose up before him and parted, seeming to form a pathway somewhere else. Through the mist Lucan saw a path of damp earth wending its way through a barren forest. 

It was not a mistgate, not quite. In his undead state, Lucan was strong enough to conjure one. But the massive magical aura of the empowered Door of Souls extended into the spirit world, making the creation of mistgates all but impossible. This was a…shortcut through the spirit world, a pathway, the same sort of spell he had used to travel from Morvyrkrad to Swordgrim before the Great Rising. It would last a short time before it expelled him back into the material world, depending upon how far he traveled, but it would suffice to get him away from the battlefield.

A pity it would not allow him to enter the spirit world for longer. Otherwise he could have dispensed with the Door of Souls entirely, and not bothered with the black daggers and the runedead. He could have skipped the Great Rising, and Tymaen would still live…

His thoughts were drifting as the spells upon his flesh broke down. He had to go, now. 

Lucan staggered through the pathway, and it closed behind him.

###

Skalatan felt the ripple of power as Lucan’s pathway closed. 

He hissed in annoyance. He had come so close to ridding himself of Lucan! But perhaps it was just as well. Lord Malden’s army had been broken, and Lucan’s ability to harvest life force had been badly crippled. If Skalatan destroyed him, the Old Demon would simply find another puppet to use. 

But now Skalatan had an opportunity. With Lord Malden’s army destroyed and the runedead scattered, the host of the Aegonar and the host of Greycoast could strike for Knightcastle at once. The remainder of the runedead had marched east with Caldarus to confront Mazael Cravenlock. Either Caldarus would destroy Mazael and then return to Knighcastle, or Mazael would destroy Caldarus and march on Knightcastle. 

Either way, Skalatan had the time he needed to seize Knightcastle and open the Door of Souls himself, untroubled by the Old Demon. 

He looked around the battlefield, saw Hugh Chalsain’s horsemen smashing through the remainder of the runedead. Hugh would make a valuable ally for the attack on Knightcastle. He would, of course, plan to betray Skalatan at the earliest opportunity, 

But once Skalatan became the new god of the San-keth, Hugh could not possibly betray him. Indeed, once Hugh accepted his place in the new order, he would serve his new god with utter devotion. 

Until then, best to minimize the chance of treachery. Skalatan was alone on the battlefield, and Hugh might decide to rid himself of a potential foe. 

Skalatan worked a simple spell, cloaking himself and his carrier in magic to obscure their presence, and waited for Ryntald and the Aegonar warriors.

###

Hugh reined up, seeking more runedead to fight.

But there were no foes left.

He looked around, dazed. The fields beyond the Outer Wall were a desolation of ash and embers, of burned corpses and shattered war engines. The stench of blood and burned flesh filled his nostrils, and he heard the cries of wounded men.

But the enemy was gone.

And despite the devastation, the Outer Wall and the gates still stood. Barellion had not fallen.

“We won,” said Hugh, stunned.

He had never felt so utterly exhausted in his life.

###

Lucan stumbled through the mist-choked path in the spirit world. 

He had made a very serious mistake.

Runeshadows, hundreds of them, swarmed the boundaries of the path. The nature of the magic required to travel through the spirit world meant the path was warded, but the runeshadows pressed against it, their hisses of icy hatred echoing inside Lucan’s head. He hurried along as fast as he could manage, the Glamdaigyr dangling in one fist, the burns upon his legs and torso aching.

It had been a long time since he had felt physical pain. The sensation had not improved.

A column of mist appeared a dozen yards away, and through it Lucan saw the green hills and low gray mountains of northern Knightreach. Just a few more steps, just a few more steps…

The warding upon the path failed, and the runeshadows poured over him.

Lucan screamed as they touched him, fresh pain flaring through his limbs. The visions of the men and women and children who had perished upon the black daggers flooded through his mind. Worse, every touch drained a little more energy from him, a little more magic. Before, he had been strong enough that the runeshadows’ touch could not harm him. Now, in his weakened state, they might destroy him.

Lucan flung out his hands, and green fire ripped from his fingers, shredding dozens of the runeshadows into mist. But still they came, and he broke into a lurching run, throwing green fire in all directions. 

He threw himself through the curtain of mist and staggered back into the material world. He found himself on a deserted hillside overlooking a forested valley and a small river flowing towards the Riversteel.

The pathway to the spirit world closed behind him.

Lucan took two steps forward. The Glamdaigyr fell from his nerveless fingers, and he felt the strength pour out of his agonized limbs. 

“So close,” he muttered.

Then he fell onto his face, and blackness swallowed him. 

###

The next day Hugh rode from the Gate of Bishops, flanked by his chief lords and knights, the banner of the House of Chalsain flying from Montigard’s lance. 

The Aegonar host had come. 

Twenty-five thousand Aegonar warriors waited north of the city, standing in orderly ranks, their crimson banners with the stylized S flying in the breeze. The most powerful earls and seidjars waited at the head of the host, flanked by a guard of ulfhednar in their bronze helms. Hugh spotted Skalatan in their midst, standing at the side of High King Ryntald. 

He reined up before the Aegonar nobles.

For a moment the lords of Greycoast and the earls of the Aegonar nation stared at each other.

Hugh dropped from the saddle, took a deep breath, and walked towards Ryntald.

“High King of the Aegonar,” he said, extending his right hand.

Ryntald gripped it. “Prince of Barellion. Congratulations on your victory.”

“Your Herald,” said Hugh, looking at Skalatan, “kept his word.”

“Indeed I did,” said Skalatan in his hissing voice. “What use is one’s word, if one does not keep it? High King, Prince, I suggest you make plans together. We have won a respite, but our foe will not stop until he is destroyed.”

Hugh stared at Ryntald for a moment.

“This isn’t over,” Hugh said, voice quiet. “I will not forget what you have done to my lands and people.”

Ryntald’s smile was cold and humorless. “The strong rule and the weak submit, Prince of Barellion. I suppose time will tell which one of us is the wolf and which one is the sheep. But we can kill each other once Lucan Mandragon is vanquished. In the meantime, we have a campaign to plan.”

Ryntald was right, damn him.

“Yes,” said Hugh. “We do.”