Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (22 page)

“What?” said Gerald. “Father, this is an outrage!”

Tobias scowled. “You might have allowed Caldarus to build a preceptory in Castle Town, but the right of high justice in the town still belongs to you!”

Gerald expected Lord Malden to react in outrage. He had allied himself with the Justiciars, but he had always been jealous in defense of his rights. 

Yet Malden only looked distracted, his right hand fiddling with a sheathed dagger at his belt.

“I’m sure,” said Malden at last, “that Caldarus had his reasons.” 

“Father!” said Tobias. “The Justiciars are killing your people in your town, and you accept it without question?”

Malden blinked, and some of his old anger came into his face. 

Then his hand strayed to that dagger again.

“See to it,” he said, and walked away without another word.

“My lord,” said Lord Tancred, blinking after Malden. “The supplies…”

Malden ignored him. 

“Sir Commander,” said the sergeant. “Please, you must come at once.”

Aidan nodded. “Lead the way.”

Tobias gave a sharp shake of his head. “Brother, with me. Perhaps we can get to the bottom of this.”

Aidan scowled. “This is Justiciar business…”

Tobias scowled right back. “If your Grand Master has decided to start executing the people of Castle Town at random, then it is damned well Lord Malden’s business, too. Lead on.”

Aidan nodded and let the sergeant lead them from the camps to the gates of Castle Town. As they hurried through the streets, Gerald saw the faces of frightened men and women, heard the angry murmurs in the air. Something had happened, something dreadful. But what? 

Then they reached the street before the Justiciar preceptory, and Gerald froze.

Grand Master Caldarus stood on the steps, his armor spattered with blood. A sword waited in his right hand, and a black dagger in his left, marked with a peculiar sigil of green light. It looked a great deal like the Glamdaigyr, that black sword of necromantic magic Mazael had found in the depths of Arylkrad. A dozen Justiciar commanders and preceptors surrounded Caldarus, and each man carried one of those odd black daggers. 

A score of dead men lay in the street below the preceptory, men in the clothes of laborers and merchants. Had the Justiciars started cutting down people in the streets?

“Caldarus!” said Tobias, his hoarse bellow echoing over the rooftops. “What is the meaning of this?”

Caldarus stepped forward, and Gerald’s anger vanished in sudden shock.

The Grand Master was younger. He now looked like a vigorous man of forty. His white hair had turned iron-gray, and many of the lines had vanished from his face.

Just like Lord Malden.

So Gerald was not surprised, not surprised at all, to see Ataranur standing motionless besides the stairs. 

“The meaning,” said Caldarus, descending the steps to glare at Tobias, “is that your peasants are corrupt and wicked.”

Tobias blinked when he saw Caldarus’s youthful appearance, but recovered at once. “Is that it, Caldarus? You’re going to start slaughtering people in the street if they fail to bow deeply enough?”

“We hired our servants from the folk of Castle Town,” said Caldarus, “and they poisoned both the meat and the wine at the bidding of Caraster. Most of the high officers of the Justiciar Order have gathered for the attack on Caraster, and their deaths would have crippled the Order. Were it not for Ataranur’s intervention, we would have been slain.”

“All the servants?” said Aidan, blinking. “But, Grand Master, many of them have been in service to the preceptory for years! Surely they could not all have turned upon us.”

“They did,” said Ataranur, his hollow voice silencing Aidan. “At Caraster’s command, they tried to poison your brother officers.” The eyeholes of his mask regarded Aidan. “Had you remained, Sir Commander, you would have fallen victim as well.” 

“So we slew them all, of course,” said Caldarus. 

“The right of high justice belongs to my lord father,” said Tobias, “not you.”

Caldarus smiled, showing his teeth. “But any man may defend himself.”

“And these?” said Gerald, gesturing at the dead men.

“The families of our treacherous servants, of course,” said Caldarus. "The traitors could not have carried out their plans without the knowledge of their kin. So, they, too suffered the ultimate price."

"You murdered them!" said Gerald.

Caldarus sneered. "I did justice, squeamish boy. The gods have favored the Justiciar Order. They awakened Ataranur to bring his powers against the runedead, and his magic has healed us. And with his aid, the Justiciar Order shall cleanse the world of evil." His eyes seemed to glow with fanaticism as he pointed the black dagger at Gerald. "And we shall hunt down the rest of their traitorous families, and their friends, and..."

"You most certainly will not!" thundered Tobias. "You have already murdered innocent men and women under my father's protection! You will not murder any more!"

"Do not think to stop me, you strutting fool," said Caldarus. "I am the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order! I will have their lives!" His eyes shone with something like hunger. "And you will not stop me."

"Then you're a damned fool," said Tobias. "If you kill one more man under the protection of the House of Roland, then you will have war with Knightcastle!"

"So be it!" said Caldarus. "Then..."

Gerald drew his sword, as did Aidan. His mind raced as he considered the odds...

"My lords," said Ataranur, his hollow voice cutting through the argument. "This is folly. Both the Lord of Knightcastle and the Justiciar Order are on the side of righteousness. Why should they come to blows? Let the Grand Master pay an indemnity for the lives of these townsmen, and then you can focus upon your true foe. Caraster will not rest." 

"He speaks wisdom, Grand Master," said Aidan. "For the House of Roland and the Justiciar Order to shed each other's blood as Caraster marches is folly."

For a long moment no one spoke. Gerald's hand tightened around his sword hilt. 

"Very well," said Caldarus, sheathing his sword and that black dagger. "Inform Lord Malden I will meet with him this afternoon, to discuss our plans for the offensive."

He marched back into the preceptory without another word, leaving the corpses to lie on the street, and his officers followed him.

Save for Ataranur, motionless by the stairs.

"What did you do?" said Gerald.

He did not expect an answer, but he received one anyway.

"The same thing I have always done," said Ataranur. "What is necessary."

###

"It's a dreadful scandal, my lady," said Elsie, shaking her head as she helped Aldane build a castle out of wooden blocks. "Since his lordship has gotten well, three of the maids and two of the porters have gone missing. They simply vanished! Left behind all their clothes, too."

"Perhaps," said Rachel, cradling Belifane on the balcony, "they ran away."

"No doubt that is it, my lady," said Elsie. "No, young lord - there, yes, there. Isn't that a fine tower! No doubt they simply ran away."

But Rachel could not make herself believe it. The times were perilous, and the walls of Knightcastle were tall and strong. Why would a servant abandon a secure position behind Knightcastle's walls to flee?

It made no sense. 

"Some of the other servants are saying things," said Elsie, picking up another block. "That the serpents wander the Trysting Ways again, like they did in the days before your wedding to Sir Gerald..."

"We shouldn't discuss such things," said Rachel, "in front of the children." 

"Of course, my lady," said Elsie, and then the door to the sitting room opened.

Gerald entered, wearing his armor and surcoat, his face grim. 

"Husband," said Rachel, turning to him. 

"Elsie," said Gerald, voice calm. "Could you take the children for a moment?"

"Of course, Sir Gerald," said Elsie. Rachel handed her Belifane, and the old woman led Aldane by the hand from the room.

"Gerald," said Rachel once Elsie had left. "What's wrong?" 

He told her what had happened in Castle Town, and her eyes grew wide. She had never liked the Justiciars of Knightreach, and had always been distrustful of Grand Master Caldarus.

But she never would have thought the old man capable of butchering innocent townsmen in the street.

"And Father would hear none of it!" said Gerald, as angry as she had ever seen him. "He said that the Justiciars had the right to defend themselves, and that was that! He spent all his time fingering that..."

His voice trailed off.

"Fingering what?" said Rachel.

"That dagger," said Gerald. "That black dagger at his belt. Identical to the one Caldarus and the Justiciars carried. And Ataranur was there, as well."

"He is dangerous," said Rachel. "When I talked to him..."

"Which I still think was a terrible risk," said Gerald.

She waved a dismissive hand. "I know, but he would not have slain me in front of so many witnesses. But, Gerald, when I spoke to him, I think he was...sincere." She took a deep breath. "He's not like Simonian or Skhath. I think...I think he truly believes he is going to save the world. And if anyone stands in his way, he'll kill them without mercy or hesitation. Including you." 

"So he wants to save the world," said Gerald. "But if Ataranur thinks he can sacrifice Knightcastle to save the world, then he is grievously mistaken."

Rachel's hands tightened against his fingers. He sounded so determined, so sure of himself. But Ataranur frightened Rachel, frightened her in a way she had not felt since she had left Castle Cravenlock. 

If Gerald challenged him, she feared her husband would not survive.

Chapter 21 - Rage

Riothamus looked around the misty forest. 

The road wound its way through the bottom of the valley, green hills rising above them. Trees clung to the mossy slopes, their roots winding around boulders and heaps of broken rock. Thick banks of fog masked the hills’ crowns, with white fingers reaching across the road.

“The perfect place for an ambush,” said Riothamus, fiddling with his saddle. He would never get used to horses. 

“Aye,” said Molly, leaning back to look at him. She cared for horses just as much as he did, but at least she was the better rider. “We’ve reached the Stormvales. Nothing but hills and valleys for a few hundred miles. Lots of petty little lords and knights. They all swear fealty to old Lord Hiram Stormcrest, but they fight each other…and sometimes raid travelers.” She laughed. “If they try to rob us, they’ll have an unpleasant surprise.”

Riothamus nodded and looked at Mazael. He rode some distance ahead, face grim and hard. No doubt the venom in his veins caused him constant pain, though he never complained. He gripped his mount’s reins with one hand, glancing from time to time at the compass in his other hand.

He never let the thing out of his sight. Step by step, they were drawing closer to the San-keth archpriest. 

And to Malaric…and whatever allies he had gained. 

Riothamus let his eyes fall half-closed, and reached for the Sight.

He did not understand it, not fully, and he suspected it would take him decades of practice to become comfortable with it. He knew many of his predecessors as Guardian had ever really mastered it. The Sight allowed him to see into the spirit world, granting him the ability to view magic, watch events in far-off places, and even to see glimpses of the past and the future. 

The Sight came at his call, and Riothamus swept it over the valley, seeking for foes. A bizarre mix of distorted images flashed before his eyes, echoes of things that had happened here. Wars had been fought in these valleys, armies marching past, and he saw the ghostly echoes of the runedead.

But there were no enemies nearby.

Riothamus turned his Sight to the west, seeking for Malaric.

A vision shimmered before his eyes, the same thing he saw every time he tried to use the Sight to find Malaric.

A skull, wreathed in crimson flames, shielded by a pair of wings.

Except the wings were fashioned from steel, with sword blades in lieu of feathers. 

He could not figure out what that meant.

###

They stopped and made camp in a clearing off the road, and Molly stretched with relief.

“Damned horse,” she muttered, looking at Mazael.

But her father was already asleep. He had rubbed down the horses and put the saddles away, and Molly had expected him to remain awake. But he lay motionless by the fire, his eyes closed. Even asleep, he looked…tired. And hard. The lines of his face cut more deeply into his skin, and there was gray in his hair and beard that had not been there a month ago. 

Yet for all that he seemed relentless. Neither mountains nor rivers nor an entire army of enemies would stand between him and the archpriest whose venom threatened Romaria. 

Would she be as determined, Molly wondered, if Malaric had poisoned Riothamus instead of Romaria? She shivered to think of harm befalling him. Of course, she knew how she would react. When Corvad had killed Nicholas Tormaud and blamed Mazael, Molly had sworn vengeance. She would have ripped the world apart to get at Mazael…and because of that, Corvad had almost transformed her into a Malrag Queen. 

Riothamus stepped into the circle of light from the fire.

Molly stepped forward, put her hand in his hair, and kissed him.

Riothamus smiled. “What was that for?” 

“Well,” said Molly with a grin. “My lips were dry.”

“I love you, too,” said Riothamus.

They stood in silence for a moment

“I’ve had a look around,” Riothamus said at last. “There’s a village about two miles north of here. Empty, like all the others we’ve seen. No sign of any living villagers or the runedead.” 

“Perhaps we’ll have a peaceful night,” said Molly.

Riothamus sighed. “We may have other problems.”

Molly snorted. “Beyond the obvious?”

“Aye,” said Riothamus. “Your father has been talking to himself.” 

Molly said nothing. She had seen it herself.

“It’s as if he’s talking to someone who isn’t really there,” said Riothamus. “He’s careful not to let us overhear him, but he sometimes makes mistakes.”

“Do you think,” said Molly, “that the poison damaged his mind?”

“Possibly,” said Riothamus. “Probably, even. Or the Demonsouled power is driving him mad. The poison is still in his blood. It’s being filtered out, but slowly. It’s doing continuous harm to him, which means the Demonsouled power has to heal him constantly.”

“And Demonsouled power,” said Molly, voice quiet, “can scramble the wits.”

She knew that well. 

“If we face enemies…when we face enemies,” said Riothamus, “we may have to stop him. He could go berserk and kill everything in sight.”

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “He’s been controlling himself for a long time now. He knows what Demonsouled rage feels like.”

“But he’s always relied on Romaria,” said Riothamus, “to balance him.” He shrugged. “A man with a wife works harder than a man without. And with Romaria, he had a reason to keep himself in check. But now…”

“He does have a reason to hold himself in check,” said Molly. “If we fail, Romaria dies.”

###

Again Mazael found himself standing on the balcony outside Cythraul Urdvul, the pillar of crimson flame stabbing into the black vortex of the sky. 

Morebeth awaited him near the railing, her black gown stirring in the cold breeze. Her gray eyes glimmered in her pale face, reflecting the crimson glow of the fiery pillar. 

“Do you know,” she said, “what the most amusing part of this is?”

“None of it,” said Mazael. “I find myself singularly unamused.”

“It is a cruel joke,” said Morebeth, “that our father has played upon both us and the rest of the world.” She gazed at the black mass of Cythraul Urdvul. “Did he offer to make you the Destroyer?”

“He did,” said Mazael. “He promised to make me the lord of the world,  that the kings of the earth would kneel before me. But only if I slew both Mitor and Rachel.” His hands curled into fists at the memory. He had almost done it, too. But Skhath had killed Mitor, and Romaria had stopped him from killing Rachel. 

And for that, she had spent two years locked in a dreamless sleep while Mazael believed her dead.

“I didn’t become the Destroyer,” said Mazael, “but Romaria suffered for it. As she does now.”

“Such is the fate of anyone who loves a Demonsouled,” said Morebeth.

“I tried to send her away,” said Mazael. “After Malavost fell. I thought she would remain behind as the new Champion of Deepforest Keep. But she followed me, and I was too weak to send her away.”

“Because you love her,” said Morebeth, voice distant. 

“Yes,” said Mazael. 

“She saved you,” said Morebeth, “from becoming the Destroyer, as our father wished. And here is the cruel joke. There never will be a Destroyer.”

Mazael frowned. “But one day the Destroyer will rise and trample the kingdoms of men underneath his feet. Every peasant child knows that. The Amathavian church teaches it. So do the Elderborn druids, and the San-keth clerics. Gods, I even once heard a Malrag balekhan talk about it. Everyone knows that prophecy.”

“And why,” said Morebeth, “do you think that is?”

Mazael said nothing.

“Our father made it so,” said Morebeth. “He has spread that tale in every nation and land for over thirty centuries. There never will be a Destroyer. He sows his children like seeds across the nations, and he gives the Destroyer’s sword to those who grow strong enough. He lets them wax mighty…and then he arranges their downfall, and their power is drawn here.” The fiery pillar reflected in her cold eyes. “To await the day when he will claim it.”

“So what is he waiting for?” said Mazael. The floor thrummed beneath his boots, pulsing in time to the burning pillar. “There must be enough power in that fire to make him into a god a dozen times over. Why hasn’t he claimed it yet?”

Morebeth frowned. “I don’t know. He is…waiting for something, I think. I suspect he seeks a way to enter the spiritual world in his material form. Not even our father can enter the spirit world in physical form, and to claim the power, he needs to be here in his material body.” Her frown deepened. “And he requires something else. Some instrument, some method that will actually allow him to claim the power without destroying himself. He cannot simply reach out and touch it. Even he is not strong enough for that. The power would burn him to ashes. He needs something that will let him take the power, but what such a thing might be, I cannot image.” 

“I don’t know, either,” said Mazael.

“Nor do I,” said Morebeth, “but I fear we shall find out soon.”

###

The next day Mazael led Riothamus and Molly further west. From time to time he saw flashes of Morebeth as well, standing amongst the trees as she watched him.

He ignored her. His attention remained focused on the road ahead and the compass in his left hand. The glowing needle had begun to move very slightly. The San-keth archpriest was heading south, but not quickly. No more than four or five miles a day. 

Let him run. No distance would suffice to keep Mazael from tracking the archpriest down. 

“Lord Mazael,” said Riothamus, his voice cutting into Mazael’s thoughts. “There are people ahead. About a score or so, I think.”

“Bandits?” said Mazael. 

Riothamus shook his head. “There are women and children among them.”

“Travelers, then,” said Mazael.

“Or refugees,” said Molly. 

“We’ll let them pass,” said Mazael. The delay annoyed him, but a few moments to let some peasants pass would do harm.

He reined up alongside the road, and the peasants came into sight. 

There were about twenty-five of them, men, women, and children. All looked tired and hungry, their clothes dirty and ragged. The leader, a rail-thin man in his forties, flinched when he saw Mazael.

“Oh, gods,” said the man, “not more. Please no more.”

Mazael frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The man closed his eyes. “Please, we have nothing left to take. All our goods are gone, along with the food. All we have left is our clothing. Please, sir, if you have any mercy, let us pass in peace.”

“We are not robbers,” said Mazael. “What is your name?”

“Ryker,” said the peasant, “once the bailiff of Bluepeak Village, but our knight was slain in the Great Rising, and the runedead swarm through our fields. They attacked every night, and we had no choice but to flee.” He swallowed. “We heard…we heard that Lord Mazael welcomed any who came to the Grim Marches, so long as they came in peace.”

“He does,” said Mazael. “I have just come from the Grim Marches.”

He glanced back at Molly and Riothamus, and they nodded and kept silent. The San-keth had many spies, and Mazael would not take the chance that one traveled in Ryker’s party. 

Ryker rubbed his face. “The Grim Marches lie only a few days away. But…but bandits fell upon us, sir, and took all our goods. We have no food.” He shook his head. “You should take another path, sir knight. Your armor and sword are very fine, and the bandits will kill you to take them.”

“Will they?” said Mazael, voice soft. 

The rage was always in his mind, threatening to boil over like a pot under pressure. So many people had been killed in the Great Rising, and so many more had lost their homes since Lucan cast that thrice-damned spell. But to see these desperate, starving men and their families was like oil thrown upon the inferno of his rage. 

He wanted to kill someone.

He was going to kill someone.

“These bandits,” said Mazael, surprised at how calm his voice was. “How many of them were there?”

“Close to thirty or forty, sir,” said Ryker. “Maybe as many as fifty.”

“Wait here,” said Mazael. “We shall return presently.” He glanced back at his companions. “Follow me.”

“Father…” said Molly, her voice tight.

“Follow me or wait here,” said Mazael, spurring his horse to a walk. 

After a moment Molly and Riothamus followed him.

“Sir knight!” said Ryker, his voice full of fear. “There are too many of them! They will kill you and…”

His voice trailed off, and Mazael kept riding.

A short time later he came to the bandits’ ambush. They had felled a pair of trees to block the road, and a half-dozen men waited behind the trees, short bows in hand. Mazael glimpsed more men concealed in the branches overhead and waiting in the undergrowth.

One bandit stood before the barricade, his bearded face split in a grin. He wore a shirt of rusting chain mail and carried a massive spiked battleaxe in his right hand. The weapon looked far more ornamental that useful.

“Welcome, travelers!” said the armored bandit. “You seem to be lost.” 

Mazael said nothing and stared at the bandit, battle plans flickering through his mind. Riothamus, he knew, would not use his magic to kill, though his spells could do numerous other things. And Molly would have no compunction about killing anyone who attacked her.

He kept staring at the armored bandit, whose grin wavered just a bit.

“See,” said the bandit, “this is my road, and there’s a toll for passing through. We’ll take your horses, and that fine armor and sword of yours.” His eyes flicked over Mazael’s armor of dragon scales and Lion’s golden pommel. “And any food you have, too. Then you can go peacefully on your way. Wouldn’t want…”

“Stop talking,” said Mazael.

The armored bandit blinked in surprise.

Mazael dropped from the saddle. Fighting from horseback would be useless in the thick trees. He reached up, pulled his shield down from the saddle, and slid it onto his left arm.

The bandit laughed. “Now, I can appreciate gallantry, but surely you don’t mean to fight! We have you outnumbered twenty to…”