Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (25 page)

Hugh knew he had signed his own death warrant. But he would not betray his family to this serpent priest and his dupes. He loved his brothers, even Rodric, who was a pompous windbag. 

He only wished he could have seen Adelaide once last time.

“Your loyalty,” said Agantyr at last, “does you honor. A man who turns his back on his blood is no man at all, and the kinslayer is cursed beyond all other men.”

“However,” said Ryntald, “your loyalty is futile. Your family is dead.”

Hugh laughed. “A likely tale.”

“Very likely,” said Ryntald, “since it is true.”

“Impossible,” said Hugh. “My father and my brothers are behind the walls of Barellion, and you could not have slain them.”

“Correct,” said Ryntald. “We did not slay them.”

A sliver of doubt wormed its way into Hugh’s mind.

“Your bastard half-brother Malaric slew them,” said Ryntald.

Hugh felt his heart fall into his stomach.

“What?” he said.

“Two weeks past,” said Skalatan, no hint of emotion in his hissing voice, “Malaric returned to Barellion. He has obtained a relic that grants him the powers of a Demonsouled without affecting his sanity. Using the relic, he slew your brothers, their wives, their children, and your father himself. He has since declared himself the Prince of Barellion, and prepares to make war upon us.” 

“No,” said Hugh, “no, that’s not possible, that’s not…”

But it was horribly possible. Malaric had practiced dark magic for years, and Hugh had no doubt that his half-brother was capable of any crime, no matter how ghastly, in the name of power.  And if Malaric had found a magical relic that gave him the power to kill the Prince and his family, he would use it.

He would use it without hesitation.

“Gods,” whispered Hugh. “Gods, gods, gods.”

His father and brothers, their wives and children.

All dead.

He started to shake.

And worse, he had sent Adelaide to Barellion, trusting in the Prince’s power to protect her. But Malaric had seized Barellion for himself. If he learned of her relationship to Hugh, what would the usurper do to her?

“He begins to understand,” hissed Skalatan.

“You see,” said Agantyr, “by your own laws…you are now the rightful prince of Barellion.” 

Hugh’s head jerked up. 

The High King was right. 

Agantyr leaned forward. “Hear me well, Prince of Barellion. You shall have my help. It is an honorable thing to avenge one’s slain kin, and I will help you kill Malaric. We shall restore your inheritance to you. And all that I ask in return is that you embrace the worship of Sepharivaim and pledge yourself as my vassal.”

For a terrible moment Hugh wavered. His father and brothers were dead, and Hugh was now the true Prince of Barellion. Greycoast was his responsibility, and it needed him. And worse, Adelaide was in Barellion. Hugh would do anything to save her. 

He looked at Skalatan.

Including selling his soul to the San-keth? Making himself a vassal of the murderous Aegonar? 

“What of,” said Hugh at last, “what of all the men you have slain? All the women and children you have made into slaves?”

Agantyr shrugged. “What of them? They were weak, and we may do with them as we please. The strong do as they wish, and the weak suffer as they must. Sepharivaim teaches this.”

“Those are my people you have murdered and enslaved,” said Hugh. “My people, who have never harmed you, and you have brought fire and sword to their lands. No. I will not swear vassalage to you, Agantyr, the high butcher of the Aegonar, and I will not worship your vile serpent god…”

A fist exploded against the side of Hugh’s head, and the world went white.

He collapsed to the ground, head ringing, and saw one of the Aegonar warriors standing over him, face purple with fury. 

“So,” said Agantyr, “it seems you would rather be a sheep than a wolf. Kill him.” 

The Aegonar warrior drew his sword. 

“I suggest, High King,” said Skalatan, “that we keep him alive for now. Death is so…wasteful.” His tongue blurred through the air. “And perhaps in time, our young Prince can be…persuaded.”

“Very well, Herald,” said Agantyr. “Keep him prisoner. Get him out of my sight.”

The warriors grabbed Hugh, dragged him to his feet, and took him outside. They shoved him into another tent, tied his wrists and his ankles, and bound him to an iron stake driven in the ground.

And then they left him alone in the dim light. 

His father. His brothers. All dead.

Hugh bent his head and wept.

Chapter 24 – Sanctuary

Malaric rose from the enormous bed, the thick carpet soft against his bare feet, sweat cooling on his flushed skin. 

Rosala smiled and stretched, her hair sliding over the pillows. 

“My Prince,” she murmured, “is…energetic.” 

Malaric nodded and walked to the sideboard. A pitcher of wine waited there, and he filled a goblet. He lifted the goblet and drained half of it in one a swallow. Because of the Demonsouled healing granted by Corvad's skull, it took much more wine to affect him. On the plus side, it meant he could drink considerably more.

Rosala rolled over, displaying her body to good effect. “I like that you kept the diadem on. It made…”

Malaric did not care what she liked.

He summoned arcane force and waved his hand. Blue light flared from his fingertips, and Rosala slumped back against the pillows as his spell put her to sleep. She was an enthusiastic lover, but she talked too much. 

He took another swallow of wine and looked around the opulent bedroom. The huge bed could have held four people, and the wood of the furniture gleamed. A thick carpet covered the floor, and the balcony had a fine view of the courtyard of the Prince’s Keep and the harbor beyond. 

The Prince’s Keep. His keep.

His city.

Malaric smiled at the thought. 

Barellion was his…but others wanted to steal it from him. If he was going to keep it, he would have to kill a lot of people.

Best to begin at once.

Malaric finished the wine, tossed aside the goblet, and tugged on the bell pull.

A moment later the door opened, and a dozen noblewomen hurried inside.

Or, at least, they had once been noblewomen. Now they wore the plain gray of servants, their hair cropped to stubble. Every one of them had offended him while he had lived in Barellion, and no doubt they had imagined all sorts of dire fates when he had arrested them. 

Instead, he had stripped them of their titles and forced them to wait upon him hand and foot. He had ordered them to scrub the floor in the great hall while the other nobles watched, and listening to them weep with humiliation had been satisfying.

“My Prince?” said one of the women, head bowed. They knew better than to make eye contact with him. 

“Dress me,” said Malaric.

He held out his arms as they went to work, clothing him in shirt, trousers, boots, and coat. Idly he wondered if they would try to kill him. One of the women had cut his throat while shaving him. 

Of course, her fate would discourage the others from any foolishness. 

“Should we cover her, my Prince?” said another of the women, looking at Rosala's nude, unconscious form.

Malaric shrugged. “If it pleases you.”

He fingered his sword belt. The caethweisyr hung there, secure in its sheath. He turned and stepped into the shadows, leaving the startled women behind. 

He reappeared atop the battlements of the keep, gazing down at the castle and the Inner City. The city looked peaceful, but it was not. Every day more refugees fled from the north, hoping to escape the wrath of the serpent-worshipping Aegonar. And the nobles and knights of Barellion seethed. Prince Everard and his sons had been well-liked and respected.

Malaric was neither.

He smiled, showing his teeth. 

They did not like him, but they had come to fear him. There had been three assassination attempts. Souther’s spies had warned him about the first two, but the third had come as a complete surprise. Malaric killed all three groups of attackers, leaving only one survivor from each group, and then used his magic to rip the identity of the assassins' employer from the survivor's thoughts.

Then he gave a name to Souther and the Skulls. 

Some of the husbands and fathers of the noblewomen he had enslaved had died abrupt deaths. 

Malaric would have to rule through fear, and his apparent invincibility had gone a long way towards establishing that fear. Crushing the Aegonar would provide the rest. Everard and his sons had failed to defend Greycoast from the invaders.

After Malaric destroyed them and rescued the terrified peasants, the nobles would never dare cross him again.

He strode into the shadows and reappeared in the courtyard, before the door to a barracks he had given to the Skulls. A pair of Skulls stood guard outside the door, though Malaric was sure the First Dagger had at least a half-dozen hidden archers on the roof. 

“Is the First Dagger here?” he said.

“Aye, my Prince,” said one of the guards. “In his solar.”

Malaric nodded and walked the shadows to Souther’s lair.

The room had once been the private chamber of a knight in service to the Prince. Souther had repurposed it into a solar. Now his desk and a workbench laden with weapons and tools dominated the room. The First Dagger himself sat in a comfortable chair near the hearth, a cup of tea in hand. A book of romantic poetry lay upon his lap, and he frowned at the volume like a scholar analyzing an ancient text. 

The man had some peculiar tastes. 

“Prince,” said Souther, turning a page. Malaric’s sudden entrances never seemed to startle him. “You are well, I trust?”

“Fine,” said Malaric. “You’ve moved all the Skulls here?”

“Of course not,” said Souther. “The Skulls depend on secrecy to carry out our work. Our presence here is only an…embassy to our Prince, shall we say. Most of our brotherhood remains scattered throughout the city, living out the masquerade that they are servants and merchants and priests and nobles. But when the hour arrives to kill, they put aside their masks to become Skulls.” He sipped his tea. "Which means we shall make excellent spies for you, my Prince. Considering the number of people who want you dead, I think you can appreciate the advantage."

"Any new plots?" said Malaric.

"Oh, some six or seven," said Souther. "But I doubt they will move forward. The Skulls will not accept any contracts against the Prince...so long as the Prince continues to uphold his end of the bargain, of course. Since there are no Skulls available for hire in Barellion, the conspirators must either hire rank amateurs to do the deed, or muster the spine to wield the blade themselves."

Malaric laughed. "I doubt they shall."

"As do I," the First Dagger said. "After you disposed of the previous assassins, none of the nobles will risk their precious persons. So you will remain unharmed for now...so long as they continue to fear you."

"And so long," said Malaric, "as they have no alternative."

"Indeed," said Souther. "The minute they find a suitable rival to you, they will stampede to his side."

"Such as," said Malaric, "Sir Hugh." 

"I am pleased, my Prince," said Souther, "that you perceive the danger." He shrugged. "Still, Hugh is most likely dead. There has been no word of him since he sent Lord Stormsea and his bastard girl to the city. All of Greycoast north of the Bannered Forest has fallen to the Aegonar. If Hugh has not returned by now, he probably never will." 

"Or," said Malaric, "he has been taken captive. Or he is raiding behind the lines of the Aegonar. Or he has escaped and is making way o the city. If he does reach the city, the nobles will rally behind the smirking brat in a moment." 

"I have," said Souther, "dispatched some men."

"The Aegonar will recognize assassins in their midst," said Malaric.

"They would," said Souther, taking another sip of tea, "but the men I have chosen are adept at disguise. They will pass as Aegonar easily enough. Especially since they can speak the San-keth tongue. Based on the reports entering the city, fluency with the San-keth tongue is a mark of distinction among the Aegonar." 

"So you have sent the men?" said Malaric.

"Fear not," said Souther. "If Hugh is not already dead, he soon will be." 

"Good," said Malaric. The Skulls were effective killers, and Souther's logic rang true. Hugh was almost certainly dead already. 

But if he was not, he was a threat to Malaric's rule. If Hugh was alive, if a trueborn son of the House of Chalsain still lived, the nobles would rally to him in a heartbeat. 

And Malaric would not leave his fate solely in the hands of the First Dagger. 

"You've done well," said Malaric.

Souther lifted a single eyebrow. "Of course I have. I do not tolerate failure. And so long as you continue to honor our agreement...you, too, shall continue to do well."

"Yes, yes," said Malaric. "I signed the decrees. Those manors you desired have been transferred to your control."

Souther smiled, and Malaric strode into the shadows.

He reappeared in a corridor of the main keep, a narrow wooden door before him. Two armsmen stood guard at the door, and straightened at his approach. 

"My lord Prince," said the senior of the two men. 

"Have they cooperated?" said Malaric.

The armsman grimaced. "The old man finally stopped shouting. Should we open the door?"

Malaric smiled. "No need."

He walked through the shadows and reappeared in the sitting room on the other side of the door. Traditionally, the suite had housed the Prince of Barellion's noble-born prisoners, and Malaric saw no reason to discontinue the tradition. Lord Alberon Stormsea sat before the hearth, scowling, while Adelaide paced back and forth behind his chair. 

"Do stop pacing, daughter," said Alberon, his voice querulous. "You shall give me a headache."

"I cannot sit, Father," said Adelaide. "This is..."

She saw Malaric, and her eyes narrowed. 

Alberon scrambled to his feet. "Lord Prince. This...this imprisonment is unwarranted. We are..."

"He," said Adelaide with loathing, "is not the Prince." 

"Daughter!" said Alberon.

Adelaide glared at Malaric. She did not look away, did not flinch. 

"This man," she said again, "is not the Prince of Barellion." 

Alberon's eyes grew wide with fear, but Malaric only laughed. 

"You have remarkable spirit, my lady," said Malaric. "Given what I can do to those who oppose me."

"Dark magic and brute force," said Adelaide, "do not give a man the right to rule." 

"You are wrong, my lady," said Malaric. "Strength gives a man the right to do as he wishes." 

"The philosophy of a bully and a thug," said Adelaide. 

Her words ought to anger him, but Malaric found her amusing. In an odd way, it was almost refreshing. She could not possibly fight him, and if he chose, he would do whatever he wanted to her without the slightest consequence. Yet she defied him nonetheless. 

He began to see how she had captured Hugh's heart. 

"You are deluded," said Malaric, warming his hands before the hearth. Alberon backed away from him. How such a spineless toad had fathered such a brave woman, he would never know. "The San-keth slew Prince Everard and his trueborn sons. Sadly, I arrived too late to save them, and the Aegonar will soon launch an assault upon the walls of the city itself. Greycoast needs a strong man to defend it, and I am that man."

"I doubt that," said Adelaide. "Since you murdered Prince Everard and his sons with your sorcery."

"Daughter!" said Alberon. "That is unwarranted..."

Both Malaric and Adelaide ignored the old man.

"You are a usurper," said Adelaide. "Hugh is still alive, and he is the lawful Prince, not you." 

Malaric smiled. "I should hope for your sake, my lady, that you are incorrect." 

"Why should I possibly hope that Hugh is dead?" said Adelaide. 

"Because," said Malaric, "if I am indeed the villain you think I am, if Hugh turns up alive to claim Barellion for himself...bad things will happen to you." He stepped closer to her. "Very bad things. And if Hugh wishes to keep those things from happening to you, he will surrender himself to my custody."

"You are not the villain I thought you were," said Adelaide. "You are far worse. And your crimes will bring down destruction upon your head."

Malaric laughed. "I doubt that."

He took another step towards her, and Adelaide's haughty mask wavered with fear, but Malaric walked into the shadows.

He reappeared on the narrow stone bridge leading to the Study Tower and the Prince's private study. 

Malaric's private study, now.

He climbed the narrow stairs to the study and locked the door behind them. The servants had cleared away Everard's books and curios, leaving the room stark and bare. A single stone plinth stood in the center of the room, large enough to hold a small statue.

Or a skull.

Malaric drew the caethweisyr and held the dagger before him, the rubies in the hilt flashing.

"Lady of Blades!" he shouted. "I summon you. By my power, by my will, by the binding of this dagger, I summon you! Come forth!"

A wind blew through the small chamber.

###

Riothamus almost fell out of his saddle. 

They rode through another valley in the Stormvales, a narrow creek rushing alongside the road. No other bandits had troubled them. Not after what had happened to the first band. 

The Sight descended upon Riothamus in power.

"Riothamus?" said Molly, turning in her saddle. Mazael frowned at him, annoyed at the delay, but his expression quickly turned grave. "Riothamus!"

A vision flashed before Riothamus's eyes. The images were surreal and distorted, almost symbolic, as often happened with the Sight. 

Yet he saw them well enough.

He beheld Malaric, standing in a tower of stone, a dagger fashioned from chains in his right fist. Malaric raised his hands, crimson flame flaring around his fingers, and the chains of his dagger lashed out like tentacles.

And then...something appeared before Malaric. The Sight would not show it to Riothamus. The image blurred and shifted and flowed from one shape to another. He realized that Malaric had summoned an entity of tremendous power.

And then the image cleared, just for a moment. 

Riothamus saw a burning skull wreathed in crimson flames, shielded by wings fashioned from sword blades.

Then the vision faded away.

"Riothamus!" 

Riothamus shook his head and came back to himself. Molly had her hands on his shoulders, her face tight with concern. Mazael's sword rested in his hand, and his gray eyes roved back and forth, seeking for foes.