Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (24 page)

“What of the Justiciars?” said Tobias. “Shall they sit upon their horses and watch the battle from afar?”

“The Justiciar Order,” said Caldarus, a hint of a sneer on his face, “has a greater task.” 

“They shall rid Knightreach, indeed, the realm itself,” said Lord Malden, “of all evil.”

“How?” said Tobias.

“The Great Rising,” said Ataranur, “was not the work of a mortal wizard, nor was it the wrath of the vengeful gods. Instead, it is a consequence of our sins. Mankind has grown too corrupt. There are too many worshipers of the serpent god, too many followers of the ancient Elderborn gods, too many who indulge in wickedness of all kinds. The runedead are a physical manifestation of their sins, brought as a plague upon mortal men.”

“That is absurd,” said Gerald. “Lucan Mandragon worked the Great Rising and it destroyed him.”

Malden’s lip curled in contempt. “Are you a wizard of the High Elderborn, my son? Do you understand the intricacies and secrets of magic?”

“Not at all,” said Gerald, “but I do know a fallacious argument when I hear one.” 

Malden ignored that. “The Justiciars shall start in Castle Town, and move from village to village, testing the purity of the peasants’ hearts. Those who are innocent shall be spared. Those who are evil, those whose crimes have helped bring the runedead down upon us, shall be slain.”

“Father, this is madness,” said Gerald. “To divide our forces in the face of Caraster’s horde, to…”

Malden surged to his feet, his eyes wide with fury. “Do you question me, boy? I am the Lord of Knightcastle! You will obey my commands, or by all the gods, I’ll…”

“Father,” said Tobias. “This is…unseemly.”

Malden fell silent, and at last managed a curt nod. “You will obey me. Do you understand?”

“As you say,” said Gerald, voice cold.

Malden strode to the edge of the dais, ignoring his sons. “Be glad, my lords and knights! For soon Caraster will be crushed, and a new and better world shall be ours. Prepare your knights and armsmen. Caraster comes to us, and we shall defeat him!”

The lords and knights moved to the doors. They would disperse to their armsmen and sworn knights, and gather the host of Knightreach for battle.

Against one hundred and fifty thousand runedead. 

“This is madness,” said Tobias to Gerald. “We cannot prevail against that many runedead. Is this a game? Does our father want to bring an end to Knightcastle?”

“I don’t know,” said Gerald, looking at Ataranur.

He doubted Malden wanted to destroy Knightcastle…but he had less faith in Ataranur.

The wizard looked at him for a moment, the steel mask unreadable, and then left without a word.

###

Rachel hurried through the crowds filling the High Court. 

The lords and knights walked to the stables and waited for the pages and squires to bring their horses. Gerald had left with Tobias to oversee the gathering of the host. Lord Malden had disappeared with Grand Master Caldarus and Ataranur, undoubtedly to plot the next phase of their plan. 

Whatever it was. Rachel didn’t know how they planned to rid the world of evil, but she suspected it involved killing many innocent people.

Unless she took action.

Gerald would not move against Ataranur until Caraster was defeated, and she understood his reasons. But if she could find proof to discredit Ataranur, to lower his standing in the eyes of Malden and Caldarus, Gerald might not need to take action against him. 

Rachel found Circan the wizard standing near the stables. 

“Lady Rachel,” he said with a short bow, his pale hair falling over his brow. “Forgive me, but…”

She caught the sleeve of his black coat.

“Listen to me,” she said. “We must speak.”

“What is it?” said Circan. 

“You are marching with Lord Tobias and Sir Gerald?” said Rachel.

“Aye,” said Circan, his mouth twisting in a frown. “And it is just as well. I have seen the Justiciars watching me. If their Grand Master truly intends to rid the world of evil, they might start with every wizard they can find.” 

“But not Ataranur,” said Rachel. 

“No,” said Circan. “Not Ataranur.”

Rachel took a deep breath. “I need you to spy on him.”

Circan said nothing.

“He has some hold over both Lord Malden and the Grand Master,” said Rachel, making sure no one was listening. “Some way to twist them to his will. Maybe it has something to do with the way or healed them, or…”

“The daggers,” said Circan. “It has something to do with the daggers, I’m sure of it. They’re magical…and they give off an aura of necromancy.”

Rachel sucked in a breath. “Necromancy? You must tell my husband.”

Circan nodded.

“But he won’t act on it,” said Rachel. “Not until Caraster is defeated. But you’re the only wizard I trust, Circan. And you need to find…something I can use against Ataranur. Something to discredit him, to unmask him.”

“His real identity, perhaps?” said Circan. “I will aid you if I can, my lady. I fear Ataranur’s influence will lead Knightcastle to destruction. But my magical power is as nothing next to his. I will do what I can.”

Rachel nodded. “Thank you. That is all that I can ask.” She shook her head. “Though…I have the most peculiar feeling that I have met him before.”

“Indeed, my lady?” said Circan. “So do I. I cannot but my finger on it…but I am sure I have spoken with Ataranur somewhere before, though I cannot remember how.”

“Then he cannot be an ancient High Elderborn wizard,” said Rachel. “I would remember meeting such a man, I think. Maybe he is Malavost come back from the dead to bedevil us.”

Circan laughed. “I doubt that, my lady, given that you slew him.” 

Rachel nodded. No, she did not think Ataranur was Malavost returned from the dead. But she was increasingly certain she had met him before, somewhere.

She just could not place it.

Chapter 23 – Embrace The Serpent

The Aegonar kept Hugh captive.

His days were a misery of pain and thirst. The Aegonar bound his hands behind his back, shoved a hood over his head, and put a collar around his neck, dragging him on a leash like a bound pet. If he stumbled, they dragged him until he got up, the rope digging into his neck like a noose. Or they kicked him, laughing and hooting at the entertainment, until he scrambled to his feet. 

Gods, how he loathed them.

At night they tied his leash to an iron stake, pulled off the hood and undid the rope binding his hands, and then permitted him some stale bread and water. The day’s exertions left him ravenous, and Hugh knew he needed to keep his strength up to escape.

An opportunity would come. It had to come.

Assuming he could slip past five hundred Aegonar warriors. 

After he ate, Ryntald came and spoke with him.

The earl – Hugh assumed that was the Aegonar title for a high nobleman – was different than the others. The warriors were violent brutes, while the ulfhednar were murderous madmen. The seidjar were also madmen, but even more dangerous. Unlike the other Aegonar, Ryntald never raised his voice, never shouted, and kept his beard and hair close-cropped. His eyes had the cold focus Hugh had only seen in master swordsmen.

The earl, he suspected, was more dangerous than his men.

“Tell me,” said Ryntald. “Why were you attacking our raiding parties?”

“To buy time,” said Hugh. He saw no reason not to answer the earl’s questions. If he refused, the Aegonar would beat it out of him. Still, he would not volunteer information. 

Ryntald nodded. Hugh’s laconic answers never troubled him. “To do what?”

“Allow the peasants to escape,” said Hugh.

“Ah,” said Ryntald. “I understand. You wished to distract us so your thralls could escape. And to gain time for your father to gather his chieftains and earls. I assume that is it, no?”

Hugh glared at the earl. “My father will summon his vassals and drive you into the sea.”

A corner of Ryntald’s thin mouth curled. “Perhaps.”

He left without another word. 

A few days later he came again.

"Tell me," he said, "about your brother."

Hugh shrugged. "Which one? I have six."

Ryntald's expression did not change. "If what the Herald has said is true, you have seven. Six full brothers, and one-half brother."

"Malaric?" said Hugh, sudden anger overriding his caution. "You want to know about Malaric? Why?" He spat his bastard half-brother's name as if it was poisonous. "I suppose he's behind this. He allied himself with you and invited you to invade Greycoast in his name."

Again Ryntald's mouth curled in the merest hint of a smile. "Not at all. If you must know, we will kill him on sight."

"Why?" said Hugh.

"Suffice to say, he...offended one of the Heralds," said Ryntald. "What has he done to earn your hatred?"

"He murdered my mother," said Hugh. 

Ryntald said nothing, and to Hugh's surprise, he kept speaking.

"Malaric fancied himself a wizard," said Hugh. "He summoned a horror from the spirit world, and my mother stumbled across him. His pet spirit slew her, and he blamed her for it. Father banished him, and the murderous coward joined the assassins' brotherhood." He had never liked Malaric, though to be fair, Malaric had always detested him. "Father should have had him executed. He's going to cause trouble one day, mark..."

Hugh fell silent, realizing he had said too much. 

"Ah," said Ryntald. "That explains a great deal."

"About what?" said Hugh.

"You forget," said Ryntald, "that I am the one asking questions, Sir Hugh."

He left without another word.

The earl visited every night. He asked about Barellion, about its people and customs, about the beliefs of the Amathavian church. He asked a great many questions about knights, about fighting from horseback. Hugh was not surprised - the Aegonar seemed to have no cavalry, and however ferocious their warriors, they would be vulnerable to a charge of heavy horsemen.

Strangely, he never asked questions about Prince Everard, or Hugh's older brothers.

###

On the twelfth day of his captivity, someone yanked off Hugh's hood in the middle of the day.

He looked around, blinking, and found himself in the middle of the Aegonar host. 

In every direction, he saw thousands of Aegonar warriors. Some sat around campfires, cleaning weapons and eating bread. Others stood in clumps, talking and laughing. Still others practiced with weapons. From time to time an ulfhednar strode past, and the warriors gave the man a wide berth. Seidjar walked through the ranks, the bronze rings in their flesh glittering in the sun, and the warriors gave them an even wider berth. For a moment Hugh thought about making a run for it. But two of Ryntald’s warriors stood on either side of him, and he dismissed the idea as suicidal.

“Do you know,” said Ryntald, stepping into Hugh’s field of vision, “where we are?” 

Hugh looked around, noting a forest to the west.

“Near the Bannered Forest,” he said at last. “A week north of the city.”

“Very good,” said Ryntald, turning. “Follow.”

Hugh had no choice but to obey. 

Ryntald led him through the Aegonar. The warriors saluted as Ryntald passed, banging their fists against their chest, and he acknowledged them with a nod. Hugh saw captives, hundreds of women and children put into service as slaves. Most had been beaten into submission, and now waited on their Aegonar masters. Rage burned in Hugh at the sight, but he could do nothing about it.

Not yet, anyway. 

Everywhere he saw the red banners of the Aegonar, adorned with the stylized S of the black serpent. 

They came to a massive crimson pavilion, the red banner flying overhead. Four ulfhednar guarded the tent, their bronze helms making their faces looking bestial and inhuman. A seidjar stood near the tent, watching them approach. The priest 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 were cold.

“Earl Ryntald,” said the seidjar. 

“High Priest Korvager,” said Ryntald. “So good to see you again.” 

Korvager sneered at Hugh. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” said Ryntald.

Korvager spat, and then backhanded Hugh. The blow caught him by surprise, and he fell against one of Ryntald’s warriors. The man cursed and shoved, and Hugh landed on his knees before Korvager, blood trickling from his mouth. 

“Pathetic,” said Korvager. “You should have killed him and mounted his head atop your spear. That would show this Prince and his dogs that they should submit.” 

“The Herald wished for the Prince’s heir to be captured,” said Ryntald, “and the High King commanded it.” His smile made him look wolfish. “Do you wish to defy the commands of the High King and the wishes of the Herald, Korvager?”

“Do not play games with me,” said Korvager. “You will regret it.”

The seidjar stalked away without another word.

Ryntald glared after him, and then shook his head. 

“I bring a captive to the High King,” he said to the ulfhednar. “As commanded.”

One of the ulfhednar nodded, and Ryntald strode through the flap, his warriors pulling Hugh after them. 

The tent’s interior was gloomy, lit only by a pair of metal braziers. A wooden chair rested in the center of the room, and upon the chair sat a huge Aegonar warrior in his forties. His face looked as if it had been hammered from granite, and his armor gleamed with gold. A golden diadem rested upon his graying red hair, a twisted serpent similar to a seidjar's bronze diadems. 

The Aegonar’s grim expression did not change as he looked Hugh up and down.

Behind the throne stood a figure draped in a ragged gray robe, features concealed beneath a cowl. A peculiar green glow shone in the robe’s sleeves. 

Ryntald dropped to one knee and bowed his head, his warriors following suit. One of them drove a fist into Hugh’s side, and he fell to his knees with a grunt of pain.

“I, Ryntald, earl of the Aegonar, kinsman to the High King, and sworn follower of Sepharivaim, do seek audience.”

The Aegonar on the throne nodded. “And I, Agantyr, High King of the Aegonar and the Anointed of Sepharivaim, do grant that audience. Rise, kinsman.”

Ryntald rose, though the warriors remained on their knees. Hugh thought about rising, and then decided he didn’t want to get punched again. 

“You have done as I asked?” said Agantyr. His voice was a rasping rumble.

“I have, my king,” said Ryntald, gesturing at Hugh. “Behold Hugh Chalsain, a knight, the youngest son of the Prince of Barellion.”

Agantyr rose to his feet and glared down at Hugh. Behind him the gray-robed figure circled around the throne. Hugh felt the weight of eyes within the gray cowl, and saw a shape within it. 

It did not look like a human head. 

“He looks weak,” said Agantyr. “Unworthy.”

“Nevertheless,” said Ryntald. “His attacks bedeviled our raiding parties.”

“So they did,” said Agantyr. His hard eyes narrowed. “You caused me a great deal of trouble, Sir Hugh.”

Hugh forced moisture into his dry throat. “Give me a sword, and I’ll cause you more trouble yet.”

The warriors on their knees bristled, but Agantyr barked a short laugh.

“Defiant, eh? I like that. It amuses me.” His face remained stern and unyielding as he settled upon his throne. “Perhaps you will be of use to me. Or perhaps I shall have you fed piece by piece to my dogs.”

The robed figure’s hood rotated to face the High King. “His defiance, High King, would serve you well, properly channeled.”

The hair on the back of Hugh’s neck stood up.

The voice that came from the hood was a dry, hissing rasp, a wind blowing dead leaves over the floor of a crypt. Nothing human had a voice like that.

“Ah,” said the robed figure, “you understand, I see.”

The robed shape lifted a hand, and Hugh saw that its fingers were nothing but bones joined by sparking flickers of green light. The skeletal hand drew back the cowl, and Hugh saw the head of an enormous serpent, its scales crimson and black, runes of green fire drawn upon the coils of its neck.

“You’re a San-keth serpent priest,” he said, voice hoarse. He had never seen one, but his tutors had spoken of them. The San-keth clerics were necromancers, and used their spells to animate human skeletons to serve as their carriers. 

“You should be honored,” said Agantyr. “For you are in the presence of the Herald of Sepharivaim, Skalatan himself. It was he who first came to our homeland, long centuries ago, and taught our forefathers of the serpent god. It was he who taught us that we are the chosen of Sepharivaim, that it is our glorious destiny to bring the world under the sway of great Sepharivaim.” 

Skalatan’s forked tongue flicked at the air. “And you have done well. Already you take the first steps upon that road.” 

Hugh looked back and forth between the earl and the High King. They truly believed themselves the chosen of Sepharivaim, and his name they would conquer all of Greycoast and Barellion itself. Here was an entire nation of serpent worshippers, a nation the San-keth could wield as a weapon against their foes.

He looked at Skalatan with unease. How many centuries had passed since the serpent priest had begun converting the Aegonar? Just how long had the San-keth been planning to conquer Barellion?

And why?

The San-keth’s wedge-shaped head rotated to face him, the unblinking yellow eyes regarding him as the forked tongue flicked back and forth.

“This one is clever,” said Skalatan. “Clever enough to see the danger. But wise enough, I wonder, to do what must be done?”

“Enough,” said Hugh.

Agantyr scowled. “Do not speak disrespectfully to the Herald of Sepharivaim.”

“This is all for a reason,” said Hugh. “You went to a great deal of effort to capture me. Why? 

“Not you specifically,” said Agantyr. “We required a son of Everard Chalsain. You were the closest one at hand.”

“A hostage?” said Hugh. “I am the youngest of seven sons. My father will not surrender an inch for my sake.”

It pained him to say it, but it was nonetheless true. Everard Chalsain had never been cruel, merely…distant. His father regarded him as a potential asset, a tool to arrange a favorable marriage, and perhaps a useful lieutenant. Nothing more. 

“I have no need of hostages,” said Agantyr. “Instead, we shall make you Prince of Barellion.”

Hugh blinked. “What?”

“The High King’s offer is a simple one,” said Ryntald. “Accept the worship of Sepharivaim, and swear as a vassal to the High King. In exchange, you will be made Prince of Barellion, and have a free hand to rule in Greycoast. So long as you allow temples to Sepharivaim in your lands, provide men for the High King’s campaigns, and do not join his enemies, you will remain as Prince.” 

Hugh blinked. “But that is folly.” The warriors beside him growled, but Agantyr, Ryntald, and Skalatan remained unmoved. “You have strength enough to conquer Greycoast outright, if fortune favors you. Why try to create a puppet Prince?”

“Because,” said Agantyr, “Greycoast is not our true target. It is merely an obstacle on the way to Knightcastle.”

“Knightcastle?” said Hugh. “Why the devil do you want Knightcastle?”

“That,” said Skalatan, “is a secret known only to those high among the faithful.”

“Then I will never know,” said Hugh. “For you desire to crown me as your puppet Prince, and use me as a figurehead to give your crimes an air of legitimacy. I refuse.”

Skalatan’s head titled to the side. “You have no wish to become Prince?”

“None,” said Hugh. “I have no right to it. My father is an old man, but if the true gods will it, he will have some years yet. And when he dies, Rodric will become Prince. And if some mischance falls Rodric, then another of my brothers will take the diadem. They all have more of a right to Barellion than I do. I spurn your offer.”

Silence answered him.