Soul of Swords (Book 7) (9 page)

“You have seen the armies of runedead that surround my castle,” said Malden. “Your band of pirates would have little chance against them.”

Skaljar laughed. “Your army of rotting men, lordling? The Heralds of Sepharivaim are the masters of sorcery, and they shall turn your host against you.”

“You will not become a god,” said Lucan. “Nor will I, nor anyone else. I will destroy the power and free the world from its influence. 

“If you spurn my offer,” said Skalatan, “then you will make it all the easier for the Old Demon to claim the power. And I assure you that he would be a much, much crueler master than I.”

“The Old Demon?” said Lucan. “Don’t be absurd. I will not aid the Old Demon.”

Skalatan said nothing, and Lucan wondered if he had surprised the old serpent. Skaljar and Caldarus continued to shout at each other, while Malden glared at both. 

“For all your power,” said Skalatan, “I forget how young you are. How blind. Everything you have done has been at the Old Demon’s design, not your own.” 

“I am working to destroy the Demonsouled,” said Lucan. “I doubt the Old Demon would approve.”

“Approve?” said Skalatan. “He desires all the Demonsouled to perish, that he might devour their strength for his own. He gave Randur Maendrag the knowledge to create both the Great Rising and the magical instruments needed to cast it, the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem and the Wraithaldr.”

Lucan remembered descending into the black depths of Morvyrkrad, remembered fighting the revenant that had once been his ancestor Randur Maendrag. Randur had boasted of his prowess, of how he had stolen the knowledge to create the Glamdaigyr and the other instruments. 

“He stole the knowledge from the Old Demon,” said Lucan. 

“Because the Old Demon permitted him to steal it,” said Skalatan. “Just as he permitted you to find the instruments of power and work the Great Rising. And just as you now labor to open the way to Cythraul Urdvul. But you will not use it. He will, and he will travel through the Door of Souls to become a god.”

“Ridiculous!” said Lucan. 

“No,” said Skalatan. “I have fought him for centuries before you were born…and he has spun his plots for centuries before that. The San-keth are master manipulators, but the Old Demon could teach us lessons in subtlety. He never confronts his foes directly. Indeed, he is half-spirit, and bound by the rules of the spirit world, and so cannot attack unless he is first attacked.”

Something about those words stirred an unpleasant echo inside Lucan’s head. He had heard them before, he was sure of it.

But where?

“He turns others into his tools and weapons,” said Skalatan, “and he has grown most skilled at it. And you, Lucan Mandragon, you are his greatest weapon. With you, he destroyed almost all of the remaining Demonsouled and gathered their power in Cythraul Urdvul to await his coming. And you work to open the Door for him so that he might at last claim their power for himself.”

“This is impossible!” said Lucan, rage growing behind the ice of his mind. “I…”

“Ah,” said Skalatan, his head leaning closer. “You do not remember. You do not even suspect. You made a pact with him, giving him power over you…and he has completely removed the memory of the pact from your mind. Perhaps he made other alterations to your intellect as well, to make you more amenable to his wishes.”

“You are lying,” hissed Lucan, the fury threatening to break out of control.

A memory wavered at the edges of his vision, a strange black city of crumbling fortresses, a crimson dragon that breathed blood-colored fire, and a man’s mocking laughter…

“I often lie,” said Skalatan, “but with you, I have been truthful. I urge you to ally with me and aid me in gaining the power. Only with my help can you break free. For if you persist in your course, the Old Demon will either gain the power and become a god…or I will destroy you when I come to Knightcastle.”

“No,” whispered Lucan.

Again the image of the black city wavered before his eyes. 

It could not be! Lucan had been certain, utterly certain, of the rightness of his course. He would free the world of the Demonsouled curse forever! Many innocent people had died, but their sacrifice would be validated when Lucan was victorious and destroyed the power of the Demonsouled. 

But if he had been wrong…

If he had been wrong, if he had been manipulated, that meant all those people had died for nothing.

It meant that Tymaen had died for nothing. 

Again he saw the life draining from her blue eyes as the crystal shard transfixed her heart. 

Lucan’s fury erupted. 

He screamed and thrust out his hand, a sigil of crimson fire blazing to life on his palm. The blast struck Skalatan, shattering the illusionary image and digging a molten furrow into the gleaming floor. Lucan stared at the damaged stone, the fury thundering in his ears, his fingers trembling.

He was so angry that he almost felt alive again.

He looked up, saw the Aegonar and Lord Malden and Caldarus staring at him in shock.

“Get out,” hissed Lucan, gesturing at the Aegonar. “I said to get out! Did you not hear the Lord of Knightcastle and the Grand Master? They will not submit to your wretched serpent.”

Skaljar drew himself up. “Do not insult great…”

Lucan flung out his hand. Invisible force erupted from his fingers, fueled by his fury, and psychokinetic force hammered into the Aegonar embassy, driving them to their knees. 

“I said to leave!” said Lucan. “Now! If you are still within Knightcastle by the time the sun goes down, I will send you back to your precious Herald in pieces! Go!”

At last fear touched the expressions of the grim Aegonar warriors, and they all but fled from the Hall of Triumph.

Lucan stalked towards the dais, and he saw the same fear mirrored in Caldarus and Malden. He had never before lost his temper in front of them. 

A distant part of his mind supposed it must make for a terrifying sight.

“You were right to turn them away, Grand Master,” said Lucan. “They were trying to corrupt us with their lies. To pour honeyed words into our ears, to make us doubt our noble purpose.”

Skalatan’s motives were clear enough. He desired the power of the Demonsouled for himself, had hatched that ridiculous story in hopes of convincing Lucan to stop. Well, the serpent would be unsuccessful. Lucan would destroy the power of the Demonsouled, would keep anyone from claiming it.

“It seems we now face two foes,” said Lord Malden, “not just one.”

“You speak wisdom, my lord,” said Lucan, his voice quiet as his mind considered the problem.

Mazael Cravenlock was a dangerous opponent…but Skalatan was just as formidable. Worse, the San-keth archpriest commanded considerable magical power, and likely had access to spells that neither Lucan nor Randur Maendrag had ever seen. Skalatan and the Aegonar would come for Knightcastle and the Door of Souls, once they defeated whatever resistance remained in Greycoast. Lucan had never met Hugh Chalsain, but both Lord Richard and Toraine had spoken dismissively of the boy, and Lucan doubted Everard Chalsain’s youngest son would put up much of a fight.

It would not take long for Skalatan to prepare his attack.

Perhaps less time than it would take Lucan to open the Door of Souls.

He needed to delay his foes. He did not care what happened to Malden and Caldarus and Knightcastle, but if they slowed his enemies long enough for Lucan to do his work…

“We do face two dangerous foes,” said Lucan, looking back and forth between Caldarus and Malden. “Fortunately, we have more than enough runedead to destroy them both.”

Chapter 8 - The Herald of Sepharivaim

Skalatan turned his head, his tongue tasting the air.

His skeletal carrier sat within his tent at the heart of the Aegonar host, his coils wrapped around the skeleton’s spine and hip. His tongue tasted the meditative incense he used to aid certain spells, and the scent of sweat and horses and the dozens of other odors that accompanied an army on the march. 

For a moment Skalatan sat motionless, his mind turning over events, examining them as a blacksmith examined a half-finished blade. 

It seemed that Lucan Mandragon had chosen destruction. 

Skalatan had not expected to sway him. The Old Demon was most skilled at binding his servants. Still, the attempt had cost Skalatan nothing.

Now he would simply have to destroy Lucan. 

But only after he resolved the problem of Barellion. Barellion blocked the way south to Knightcastle, and Skalatan could not lead the Aegonar into Knightreach until he had dealt with the city. Fully half of Greycoast remained in the hands of the Prince of Barellion, and most of the surviving lords and knights of Greycoast had rallied to their new Prince. Hugh Chalsain had proven an unexpectedly capable leader. 

Not for the first time, he reflected that Malaric had been a poor choice of tool.

But those were merely obstacles. No matter how cautious the plan, no matter how capable the servants, setbacks were inevitable. True, Malaric had been a fool…but Skalatan had gained something useful from him. 

He reached with his carrier’s skeletal hand and opened the chest next to his chair.

Black velvet lined the box, and upon a pillow rested a yellowing human skull. Dozens of runes had been carved upon the skull’s jaw, cheekbones, and brow, flickering with bloody light. Skalatan had wielded arcane force for centuries, had delved deeper into the secrets of dark magic than all but a few of his race.

Yet the potency of the magic within the skull still surprised him. 

The skull had once belonged to Corvad, Mazael Cravenlock’s bastard son. After Mazael slew Corvad, Malaric had found the skull, and had unlocked its power with necromantic spells. The skull gave its bearer all the powers of a Demonsouled without the crippling bouts of murderous insanity. 

Skalatan knew better than to wield such dangerous tools.

And why bother with the power of a Demonsouled when he played for the power of a god?

He had another use in mind for the skull. But he had to reach Knightcastle before the skull would be of any value. In the meantime, he had to neutralize the obstacle of Barellion.

“Attend me,” said Skalatan, voice quiet.

At once the flap to his tent opened, and a lean man with red hair stepped inside. He looked like any other young Aegonar man, save that he had yellow eyes with vertical black pupils. He was a calibah, a changeling, the son of a human mother and a San-keth father. 

“Honored archpriest,” said the calibah, going to one knee. 

“Rise, Nizius,” said Skalatan. 

Nizius stood, his dark leather armor creaking, his sheathed sword tapping against his leg. 

“The messengers I sent into Barellion,” said Skalatan. “Have they returned?”

“They have, archpriest,” said Nizius. “They report that the assassins prove most…amenable to your requests.”

“I thought as much,” said Skalatan. “The assassins have performed much work for the San-keth in the past.”

“May I speak bluntly, honored archpriest?” said Nizius.

“I would prefer it,” said Skalatan. Too many of the San-keth regarded the calibah as idiotic half-breeds or as expendable fodder. Skalatan had no compunction about spending their lives to achieve his goals, but neither did he regard them with contempt.

Such wasteful emotion prevented clear thinking. The humans had a proverb that a good craftsman respected his tools, and Skalatan had come to see the wisdom in that. 

“The assassins’ brotherhood believes in no god but their own power and wealth,” said Nizius. “So long as you continue to pay them, they will remain loyal to your design. But if they find a higher bidder, they will betray you at once.”

“I thought as much,” said Skalatan. “And the other task? Did you find the tomb?”

“It is where you said it would be, honored archpriest,” said Nizius.

Skalatan’s coils tightened around the skeleton’s spine, his scales rasping against each other.

At last, he had found the final piece. 

“Near a place called Castle Rutagne on the border with the Stormvales,” said Nizius, “ruled by a lord named Karlam Ganelon, a vassal of the Prince of Barellion.”

“Good,” said Skalatan.

“The ruin is…easily accessible,” said Nizius. “Frankly, I am surprised that the humans did not plunder the tomb long ago.”

“Superstitious fear of the Dark Elderborn would have kept them at bay,” said Skalatan. “There have been no Dark Elderborn west of the Great Mountains for thousands of years, but the tales persist. The tomb itself is likely warded. I suspect after the first few fools who dared to enter failed to return, the ruin acquired an evil reputation, and only the mad or the foolish brave it now.”

Nizius nodded. “None of your messengers entered the ruin. They felt the presence of powerful magic within.”

“They acted wisely,” said Skalatan. 

“One other thing, honored archpriest,” said Nizius. His lip twisted with distaste. “The messengers discovered a hidden shrine to Sepharivaim beneath Castle Rutagne. It seems this Lord Karlam is one of the craven proselytes of this barbarous land, timidly hiding in the shadows and offering his prayers in secret, lest the worshippers of the false gods find him.”

“Yes, I know,” said Skalatan. Nizius was young, and his devotion to Sepharivaim burned like a torch in his chest. A pity the object of his zeal was long dead, but Skalatan would put Nizius’s energy to good use. “Do not disparage him. Every tool has its use…even a grasping fool like Lord Karlam Ganelon. Who has already contacted the leader of the assassins’ brotherhood, I expect.”

Nizius blinked…and then comprehension spread over his face. “Ah.”

“Very good,” said Skalatan. “One path to victory can fail. Better to have many paths. Has the High King returned?”

“Yes, archpriest,” said Nizius. “He is meeting with the High Priest Korvager and the chief earls in the center of the camp. I believe he plans to make a move against Barellion soon…with your approval, of course.”

“Of course,” said Skalatan. “Come. Let us see what the High King intends.”

He sent a mental command to his carrier, and the undead skeleton strode from the tent, Nizius following at his heels. He had never understood his people’s obsession with acquiring limbs. According to the doctrine of the San-keth priests, the gods of the Elderborn and the humans had stripped the serpent people of their limbs, condemning them to crawl in the dust for all time. 

He stepped from the tent, and a hundred Aegonar warriors fell to their knees, gazing at him with reverence.

Why bother with limbs? 

It was so easy to turn the humans into willing, even eager, servants, something his brethren had never grasped. Once Skalatan claimed the power of the Demonsouled, in his new world the San-keth would rule, of course, but the humans and the Elderborn would serve joyfully, grateful for their place in the new order, free from war and famine as their masters saw to their needs. In his new order all humans and Elderborn would live in harmony, content to serve their San-keth rulers.

He dismissed the thought as his undead servant carried him through the camp. His plans had already been laid. Now he must see them to fruition. 

A short time later he came to the center of the camp. Dozens of Aegonar earls stood outside the High King’s tent, speaking in low voices. They bowed and made way as Skalatan walked past them. A score of seidjar stood outside the tent, surrounding their High Priest. Korvager wore only a pair of ragged trousers, his chest exposed, and dozens of swirling serpent tattoos covered his skin. The bronze rings piercing his arms had developed a patina, and his bloodshot eyes shone with zeal. 

And power. Even for a human, Korvager was a capable wizard. 

“Great Herald,” said Korvager, bowing. “How might we serve the will of Sepharivaim?” 

“I understand the High King plans to cross the river?” said Skalatan.

“He does,” said Korvager, “though I doubt the crude stratagem of a simple warrior will gain the Herald’s approval.”

“That,” said a quiet voice, “is for the Herald to decide, High Priest.”

Ryntald, the High King of the Aegonar, stepped from his tent and bowed before Skalatan. He was tall and lean, and unlike most Aegonar men, he preferred to keep his red hair and beard close-cropped. He wore the gold-edged scale armor of the other earls, but upon his brow sat the golden serpent diadem of the High King of the Aegonar and the Anointed of Sepharivaim. 

Skalatan had put Ryntald on the throne of the Aegonar nation after Agantyr had fallen. Agantyr had been a vicious warrior and a formidable commander, but a man of simple tastes and intellect. Ryntald was of a more philosophical bent, and smarter than his predecessor. Which meant he would be a more effective leader in the short term, but in the long term, it might prove difficult to control him. And Ryntald, perhaps, was one of the few among the Aegonar capable of guessing Skalatan’s true intentions.

No matter. If his plans succeeded, Skalatan would have no need to control Ryntald. And if Ryntald discerned Skalatan’s true intentions, perhaps he would be wise enough to support them.

Willing servants made for better tools than duped slaves. 

“Great Herald,” said Ryntald, straightening from his bow.

“High King,” said Skalatan.

“Has Earl Skaljar’s embassy returned yet?” said Ryntald.

“No,” said Skalatan, recalling his conversation with Lucan. “I fear they shall be unsuccessful. Though the effort cost us little enough.” 

“Earl Skaljar’s efforts would have been needed here,” said Ryntald. “Still, you know best, Herald.” Skalatan felt a flicker of amusement. Agantyr would never have questioned him. “But since I doubt this Malden son of Roland will surrender Knightcastle to us without a fight, I suggest we make plans for an attack.” 

“You speak wisely,” said Skalatan. “How shall you proceed?”

“Korvager,” said Ryntald. “Fetch Hjalsk.” 

Ryntald and Korvager utterly detested each other, but Ryntald was the High King, and the two men would not quarrel in front of the Herald of Sepharivaim. 

“High Priest,” said Ryntald. “The Herald is waiting.”

Korvager glared for a moment longer, and then stalked away. He returned a short time later with a stocky, gray-haired man in scale armor, his eyes wide as he saw Skalatan. He knelt at once, bowing his head.

“This is Hjalsk,” said Ryntald, “a freeholder and a carpenter from the hill country of the Aegonath Isles, and a warrior in Earl Skaljar’s retinue. I believe he can get us across the river.”

“You may rise,” said Skalatan, and Hjalsk climbed to his feet, his eyes still wide. “Tell me of your plan.”

“Pontoons, great Herald,” said Hjalsk.

“You mean rafts?” said Skalatan.

“Forgive me, great Herald, but not quite,” said Hjalsk, his manner relaxing as his mind turned to his field of expertise. “Rafts float, aye, but I’ve in mind something sturdier, something able to bear a great weight and remain afloat. We build dozens of boats, ensure they are airtight, and atop them mount planks to create a walkway. If we lash them together with stout ropes, we can create a bridge across the River of Lords that will permit the entire host to cross within a day.”

“You are sure of this?” said Skalatan. 

“Yes, great Herald,” said Hjalsk. “We did much the same in the hill country of the Aegonath Isles. When the snow melts and the rivers flood in the spring, any wooden bridge would be swept away. So we build the pontoon bridges as we need them, and take them down once the rivers freeze in the winter.”

“Can you build sufficient pontoons to create the bridge?” said Ryntald.

“I believe so, High King,” said Hjalsk. “There are many skilled carpenters among the thralls…and fear of our warriors makes them work diligently. And we have much cut lumber left over from the attempt to cross at Castle Bridge.” Korvager scowled. The plan to cross over the ruins of the Castle Bridge had been his idea, and Hugh Chalsain had thwarted it. “We could assemble the necessary pontoons within ten, perhaps twelve, days. More, if we had unskilled labor to do some of the carrying.”

“You shall have all the men you require,” said Ryntald. 

“I do not doubt the carpenter’s skill,” said Korvager, glaring at Ryntald, “but that level of activity will be noticed from the southern bank of the river. Our foes will see our preparations, and make ready to hold the bank against us.”

“The preparations can be done out of sight,” said Ryntald. “Prince Hugh has so far kept all his forces across the river.”

“But his men patrol the southern bank,” said Korvager, “and will notice the minute we assemble this floating bridge. Even if the plan proceeds flawlessly, it will take at least a day to assemble the bridge, and another day for the bulk of the army to cross. If Prince Hugh strikes us while we are vulnerable, we could lose thousands of warriors.”

“Which is why,” said Ryntald, voice quiet, “we shall ask the Herald of Sepharivaim for aid.” He turned to Skalatan and bowed again. “If you can fashion a mistgate…”

“Did you not listen to the wisdom of the Herald?” snarled Korvager, stalking closer to Ryntald. “We cannot use a mistgate to move our forces again! There is too much disruption in the spirit world! Using a mistgate at best will fail, and at worst will lead to utter disaster.”

He was not wrong. Save for the Door of Souls, it was impossible for a mortal to physically enter the spirit realm. A mistgate took advantage of that fact by forcibly joining a portion of the material world and the spiritual realm. A mortal who stepped through a mistgate entered the spirit world…and was instantly expelled to a location of the caster’s choosing, the distance limited only by the caster’s power.