Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (29 page)

A heartbeat later he heard a scream, and the second Skull pitched into the dirt. 

Barth whirled in a circle, sword and dagger held out before him. 

Hugh got to his knees and drew a dagger from the belt of the dead assassin.

“Face me!” roared Barth. “I know your little disappearing trick! Come out and face me…”

He kept spinning, which gave Hugh an excellent opportunity to throw the dagger. The blade sank into Barth’s thigh, and the assassin stumbled with a bellow of pain. The woman appeared behind him in a swirl of darkness, her sword and dagger plunging into his back. 

“Sloppy as ever, Barth,” said the woman, kicking him off her weapons.

###

Molly wiped the blood from her blades, watching Hugh.

He stared back at her with a good deal of wariness. Considering that he had just seen her kill three men, that was to be expected. 

“Whoever you are,” said Hugh at last, getting to his feet with a grunt, “you have superb timing.”

Molly shrugged. “It’s a gift, really.” 

“Thank you,” said Hugh. “You saved my life.”

“You have better manners than Malaric,” said Molly. 

His eyes narrowed. “You know that murderous dog?”

“Better than I would like,” said Molly. “I used to be a sister of the Skulls.”

He took an alarmed step back.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Molly. “If I was here to kill you I would have done it already. Besides, I’m here to kill Malaric.”

Hugh hesitated. “I am Sir Hugh Chalsain. Might I know your name?”

“Perhaps,” said Molly, “if my father wishes you to know it.”

“Your father?” said Hugh. “Who is he?”

Molly opened her mouth to answer…and the ground began to shake. She turned and saw the horsemen sweep through the camp and smash into the Aegonar. Caught between the footmen and the horsemen, the Aegonar crumbled. Molly saw Mazael in the thick of it, his dragon’s scale armor flashing in the sun, striking left and right with Lion.

“The golden knight?” said Hugh. “That golden knight is your father?” 

“It appears,” said Molly, “you’ll get to meet him sooner than you thought.”

###

Once again, the Aegonar refused to surrender. 

Only the old and the injured might have been left to defend the camp, but they fought to the last man. Mazael would have preferred to take prisoners, but the Aegonar gave him no such luxury. In the end they broke and ran, and he sent horsemen to run them down. 

He pulled off his helm and wiped sweat from his hair, looking over the carnage of the battlefield. 

“Montigard!” he called. “Send some men to check the wounded and get them to the Guardian. And…”

But Montigard was not listening. 

“Sir Hugh!” shouted Montigard, a wide grin on his face. 

Mazael saw Molly walking from the camp. Next to her strode a young man in ragged clothing, his face tight with exhaustion. Yet Mazael saw the family resemblance to Malaric at once.

They had finally found Sir Hugh Chalsain. 

“Montigard!” said Hugh, grinning back. “You made it out of Prince’s Rest.”

“Aye, Sir Hugh,” said Montigard. “But it was a near thing. And we were captured a few days after. If not for the Golden Knight, I have no doubt we would have been slain upon an altar to the serpent god.”

Hugh’s green eyes shifted to Mazael.

“I thank you, sir knight, for my freedom,” said Hugh. “Your arrival was most timely.”

Mazael nodded. “We’ve been seeking you, Sir Hugh. I hope we can make common cause with your father against the Aegonar.”

Hugh closed his eyes. “My father is dead. Malaric murdered him and seized Barellion for himself.”

Mazael frowned. He had not expected that, but perhaps he should have. He had thought Malaric would use the Aegonar to conquer Greycoast, but with his Demonsouled power, Malaric might have decided to wipe out the entire House of Chalsain and claim Barellion for himself.

“There were Skulls after him,” said Molly. “Another few minutes and they would killed him.”

Mazael nodded. “Go find the Guardian and ask him to join us.” He looked at Hugh. “We need to speak, sir knight.”

Hugh nodded.

###

A short time later Mazael, Molly, Riothamus, and Hugh withdrew to the woods at the edge of the camp, leaving the aftermath from the battle in the hands of Maurus and Montigard. Hugh’s men had greeted him gladly, even joyfully, and Mazael watched their reactions with interest. The young man had been a capable leader, even if he had been defeated. 

That was good, since Mazael intended to make him the Prince of Barellion. 

“Do not think me ungrateful for your help,” said Hugh. “Without your timely arrival, the Skulls would have slain me. But I would know your name, sir knight.”

Mazael nodded. “That is fair. I am Mazael Cravenlock.”

That took Hugh aback.

“Mazael Cravenlock?” he said at last. “The man who destroyed the Dominiar Order?”

“I didn’t do it by myself,” said Mazael. “I had twenty thousand men with me at the time.” He gestured at the others. “This is my daughter Molly, and her betrothed Riothamus, the Guardian of the Tervingi nation.” 

“I thank you for your aid,” said Hugh with a bow. “Though…the Grim Marches are a long way from here, my lord. What brings you to Greycoast?”

“To put it simply,” said Mazael, “I’m here to kill Malaric.”

“A worthy goal,” said Hugh. “Though might I ask why?”

“I’ve crossed swords with the San-keth in the past,” said Mazael. “Apparently, they convinced Malaric to kill me. He failed, but in the process he poisoned my wife, and she lies near death. The poison came from the venom of a San-keth archpriest, and the only way to cure it is to fashion an antidote from the blood of the same archpriest. Once I find Malaric, I can find the archpriest.”

He decided not to tell Hugh about the compass. If Malaric or his San-keth allies learned about it, they would do their utmost to destroy it.

“Skalatan,” said Hugh. “You must mean Skalatan.” 

“Who?” said Mazael.

“A San-keth cleric traveling with Agantyr, the High King of the Aegonar,” said Hugh. “The Aegonar call him the Herald of Sepharivaim. I think he traveled to the homeland of the Aegonar and converted them to the worship of the serpent god centuries ago. Now the Aegonar believe themselves to be the chosen people of Sepharivaim, but they revere Skalatan, too.”

Mazael nodded, and for a moment he forgot the pain in his head and chest. 

Skalatan. At last his target had a name. 

“If you met the High King of the Aegonar,” said Molly, “why are you still alive?”

Hugh scowled. “They wanted to recruit me. Skalatan and Agantyr offered me the throne of Barellion, if I pledged myself to the serpent god.”

Riothamus frowned. “Why would Skalatan offer to side with you against Malaric?”

“I think,” said Hugh, “that Malaric and Skalatan might have been allies, but they turned against each other.”

Molly snorted. “Or Malaric tried to betray Skalatan to his own advantage. The rat couldn’t stop himself, if he saw the chance to do it.”

“That seems likely, my lady,” said Hugh. “Whatever the reason, Skalatan and the Aegonar are at odds with Malaric, and Malaric has Barellion.”  

Riothamus scowled. “Then we face a difficult choice. Either the Aegonar conquer Barellion, and subject Greycoast to the rule of the San-keth. Or Malaric defeats the Aegonar, and rules Greycoast as a bloody-handed tyrant.”

“There is a third choice,” said Mazael. “Because we have something that neither Malaric nor the Aegonar have.” He pointed at Hugh. “The true Prince of Barellion.”

Hugh said nothing, but managed a nod. That was good. The young man had accepted that he was in fact the next Prince, like it or not.

“I have no doubt that Malaric murdered your father and brothers,” said Mazael, “and claimed the throne for himself. He probably blamed the murders on the San-keth or whatever patsy was convenient, and presented himself as the true heir to Barellion Your father’s vassals and knights are following him for now, because they need someone to lead them against the Aegonar. But if one of Prince Everard’s trueborn sons is still alive…”

“Then many of them,” said Hugh, “will abandon Malaric to follow me.” He took a deep breath. “Gods. A month ago I was chasing runedead around Stormsea. And now…and now this.”

“You are the true Prince of Barellion,” said Mazael. “Like it or not. And your lands and people need you.”

“I know,” said Hugh. “I wish this task had not fallen to me. It should not have fallen to me. But my father and brothers are dead. It must be me, or no one.”

Mazael nodded. “And you shall have my help.”

Hugh hesitated. “I…would be grateful for it. You are a commander of vast renown. Your aid will be greatly needed. Though if I am to be the Prince of Barellion, I must look to the needs of my lands and vassals. What will you ask in return?”

Hugh was already learning. “Skalatan. I want Skalatan.”

“That’s all?” said Hugh. “No lands or titles or incomes?”

“I am already liege lord of the Grim Marches,” said Mazael, “and that is vastly more responsibility than I ever wanted.” When he had been Hugh’s age, he had been a landless knight, wandering from lord to lord in search of the next fight and the next woman to warm his bed. “All I want is to save my wife’s life. And if I have to defeat the Aegonar, kill Malaric, and put you onto your father’s throne to do it…then by all the gods, that is what I shall do.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. 

“I believe,” said Hugh at last, “that you mean it. There’s…a woman I care about in Barellion, and I dread what Malaric has done to her. And I think I am very glad that I am not your enemy. My lord Mazael, I would welcome your aid.”

“Then you shall have it,” said Mazael, “my lord Prince.” 

Hugh winced. “Prince. That…well, it will take some time to grow accustomed to that. If I ever do.” 

“There’s no time like the present,” said Mazael. “Take command of these men, Prince Hugh. They are yours, not mine. I suggest that your first command is to march southwest, cross the River of Lords, and make for Barellion. We can gather fresh men and spread the word about Malaric’s treachery. And once we know what Malaric intends to do, we shall decide how to defeat him.”

“Surely he will remain in Barellion,” said Riothamus. “From what you have told me, the city is a strong place, and the Aegonar would have trouble taking it by storm.” 

Molly laughed. “You are a wise and humble man, and that is what you would do. But Malaric is a proud fool. He’ll seek to cover himself in glory by smashing the Aegonar himself.”

“I agree with Lady Molly,” said Hugh. “Malaric was always arrogant, and tolerated no slights.” He shrugged. “Perhaps prudence will override his pride. But I doubt it.”

“Let’s find out,” said Mazael. “With your permission, Prince, we should get underway.”

Hugh blinked in surprise, and then nodded. “Of course.”

###

They rode south, four thousand men plus several hundred more liberated from the camp. Montigard raised the banner of the Prince of Barellion, a black tower upon a field of green. The men cheered, and pledged themselves anew to follow the true Prince of Barellion. 

Mazael suspected Hugh would make a capable Prince, if he lived through the next few weeks. And if Mazael found a proper plan of attack. Should he urge Hugh to assail the Aegonar first? Or attack Malaric? Perhaps it was best to wait until Malaric attacked the Aegonar. The victor would be weakened, and Hugh’s army could then…

“You do this so well.”

Mazael looked up, surprised.

He heard Morebeth’s voice echoing inside his head. He saw no sign of her, but he heard her voice nonetheless. 

“An army, raised out of nothing,” she murmured. “Men loyal to you, and ready to follow your command. Even the Prince, the man who should rule these lands, will heed your judgment. How easy it is for you. You could conquer the world, if you wished.” 

Mazael opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it. He was riding with Hugh and the others, and he did not need them to think he had gone mad. 

“I know you do not want the world,” said Morebeth. “But you could have had it.”

He scowled. Was she trying to seduce him again, to corrupt him into the Destroyer?

“You know better,” said Morebeth’s voice. “But it is well that you are so strong, my brother. That you are able to gather an army so easily. Because if you are to challenge our father, you will need that strength.”

The voice faded away, and they rode on.

Chapter 27 – A Crushing Victory

Malaric rose from his cot and clapped his hands.

His squires hurried into the tent, gazing at him with fear. 

“My armor,” said Malaric. “Now.”

The squires hastened to obey, bringing forward his new armor. He had taken the finest pieces from the armory of the Prince’s Keep, and the squires armored him in gleaming steel, the cuirass worked with an elaborate image of the House of Chalsain’s sigil. A green cloak adorned with a black tower sigil went over his shoulders, and the squires buckled his sword belt around his waist.

“Inform my vassals,” said Malaric, “that I will meet them presently.” 

The squires fled from the tent. 

Malaric pulled the caethweisyr from beneath his pillow. He hooked the sheathed dagger to his right hip and strode from the tent, humming to himself. 

Today he would smash the Aegonar, and solidify his grip on Barellion.

He strode through the sprawling camp, nodding at the bows offered by his knights and armsmen. Prince Everard had called his vassals to arms, and most of them arrived as Malaric established his position as Prince. Malaric had already summoned the knights and armsmen personally sworn to the Prince of Barellion, some six thousand men strong. 

Between those men and his vassals, he had nearly twenty-seven thousand men to face the Aegonar host. It should have been closer to thirty-five thousand, but the northern lords had been overrun. But no matter. Malaric would smash the Aegonar, and reclaim the northern Greycoast as he drove the Aegonar pirates back into the sea.

His lords and vassals awaited him below the great Chalsain banner, their expressions grim.

“Why so glum, my lords and knights?” said Malaric, striding into their midst. “Today we shall smash the Aegonar.” 

“We were thinking of your father,” said one of the lords, a stocky man of forty, clad in a green surcoat adorned with the sigil of a broken spear. “And of how brutally and violently he was taken from us.” 

Malaric stifled a sigh. Lord Bryce was the lord of Spearshore along the southern edge of Greycoast. He made no displays of disloyalty, oh, no. But he never lost a chance to insinuate that Malaric was an idiot who had butchered his way to the throne of Barellion through dark magic. 

Malaric made himself smile. 

Let the fool bluster. After today, the Aegonar would be broken, and Malaric would have no more need of Bryce Spearshore. Perhaps Malaric would have the Skulls kill him. Or Malaric would force the proud lord to don a jester’s stripes and march through the streets of Barellion, singing as children pelted him with rotten vegetables. 

He savored that thought for a moment.

“The San-keth indeed murdered my noble father and my valiant brothers,” said Malaric.

“Half-brothers,” said Bryce.

Malaric ignored that. “And those murders were performed at the instigation of the Aegonar, I doubt not.” He gestured at the River of Lords. “Today we shall avenge them.”

“I must again voice my objections to this plan,” said Bryce. “To cross the bridge and face the Aegonar in an open field is folly.”

“And just why is that?” said Malaric. 

“The Castle Bridge is well-fortified,” said Bryce, pointing. He was not wrong. The stone bridge arched over the river, high enough to allow barges to travel beneath it. A great stone tower rose from the center of the bridge, looking much like a castle’s keep. “If we fortify the far end of the bridge, and place archers and siege engines upon the tower, we can hold the Aegonar indefinitely.”

Malaric waved a dismissive hand. “Or they will bring their seidjars’ magic to bear against us. The Aegonar are barbarians, and fight on foot. If we lure them into an open field, our heavy horse can sweep them aside.” He laughed. “And your plan would leave all of northern Greycoast in their grasp.”

“We need not liberate the conquered lands in one battle,” said Bryce. “Better to slowly starve out a foe than to risk everything in a single fight.”

“That is the counsel of a timid old woman,” said Malaric. “Greycoast is mine, and I will not suffer anyone else to claim it. If the thought of fighting so unmans you, Bryce, go home and cower under your bed. Meanwhile, I will defend Greycoast.”

Bryce’s face darkened, but he did not say anything. Malaric considered simply killing all of his nobles and replacing them with more reliable men. But to do so now, before the battle, would leave his army without experienced leaders. He could deal with his nobles after crushing the Aegonar.

“Prepare to move,” said Malaric. “I want the host on the other side of the river and in battle formation within three hours. We should arrive just in time to greet the Aegonar.” 

The lords obeyed in sullen silence. Malaric required their fear and their obedience, not their love. Well, they would never love him…but after today, they would not dare to cross him. He would win a victory greater than any Prince had won for centuries.

A victory greater than anything old Prince Everard had managed.

Malaric smiled at the thought, and bellowed for the squires to bring his horse.

###

A few hours later Malaric sat atop his horse beneath the Chalsain banner, watching the Aegonar host march south

There were…quite a lot of them.

At least thirty-five thousand, a vast horde of barbarians. Everywhere Malaric saw the red banner with its stylized black serpent. A great mass of heavy swordsmen marched in the Aegonar center. Spearmen waited in the wings, and Malaric saw divisions of archers waiting behind the heavier troops. 

But they had no cavalry, and Malaric had nearly ten thousand mounted knights and armsmen. He need only pin the Aegonar in place with his footmen, and then the horsemen would circle behind the foe and smash them.

And then the battle would be over.

“Shall we wait to receive their charge?” said Lord Bryce, his voice stiff.

Malaric looked at the noblemen. The other high lords of Greycoast waited near him, while most of the minor nobles and knights had joined their individual forces. Behind them to the south waited the River of Lords and the broad stone mass of the Castle Bridge. 

“Don’t be absurd,” said Malaric. “We have the superior force. We shall take the fight to them.”

“And if their wizards intervene?” said Bryce. “We have brought our court wizards, but there are not…”

Malaric scoffed. “I will destroy any seidjar foolish enough to attack.” With the Demonsouled power augmenting his native magical strength, no seidjar could stand against him. “Begin the attack. To victory, my lords!”

The trumpets rang out, and the footmen of Barellion advanced. A chorus of roars and the boom of drums rolled up from the Aegonar line, and the Aegonar center marched forward, the barbarians hooting and cheering. 

“They seem eager for blood,” said Bryce.

“Bid the footmen stand ready to receive them,” said Malaric. “Have the horsemen circle to the east and the west. Once the Aegonar are engaged, they will charge and smash the foe.”

The trumpets rang out, and the footmen came to a ragged stop. 

The wind picked up, blowing from the north. 

A moment later the screaming Aegonar crashed into the footmen.

The noise was impressive, like thunder mixed with clanging steel and cracking bone. The lines grew ragged, the fight degenerating into a general brawl. The Aegonar had the advantage. The footmen were mostly peasant militia and armsmen, while the Aegonar warriors had trained in arms their entire lives. 

No matter. Once the cavalry charged, they would shatter.

“Lord Prince,” said Bryce, voice urgent. “The Aegonar spearmen are moving to follow the horsemen.”

Malaric shrugged. “So?” The spearmen rotated to face the cavalry. Malaric wondered why they bothered. The spearmen could not catch the horsemen, and by the time they did, the Aegonar center would have fled in rout. “Sound the…”

“Those spearmen,” said Bryce. “They are screening archers.”

Malaric frowned. “Not many. A few hundred on each wing. We will lose a few horsemen, certainly. But not enough to…”

Even as he spoke, the archers began loosing arrows into both groups of horsemen. Malaric saw a few knights fall, a few horses panic and start running. But the losses were not significant. Not enough to save the Aegonar center.

“That’s quite enough,” said Malaric. “Order…”

The horsemen panicked and fled.

Both groups of them.

“What the hell?” shouted Malaric. “What are those fools doing?” 

He could not make sense of it. Malaric saw riders galloping in all directions – towards the raging melee, towards open country, towards the river, and even towards the waiting Aegonar spearmen. Why they devil would they do that? If they had lost their nerve, why flee toward the enemy…

A sudden sharp, musky scent filled his nostrils. 

“Oh, gods,” said Bryce. “That smell.”

“What?” snapped Malaric. “What is it?”

His horse shuddered beneath him, and Malaric tugged at the reins. 

“Tea brewed from greyrose and thornleaf,” said Bryce. “The Aegonar must have soaked their arrows in it.”

“They soaked the arrows in tea?” said Malaric, fighting to keep his horse under control. “What kind of…”

But the cold realization struck him, even as Bryce answered.

“Midwives and surgeons brew it to aid stiff joints,” said Bryce. “But a single whiff of it drives a horse absolutely mad. Lord Prince, this is a trap! We must withdraw across the bridge and…”

“No!” roared Malaric, struggling with his horse. “If any man runs, I’ll…”

He felt the surge of magical power, and looked up just in time to see a blazing bolt of violet flame fall from the sky and explode against the ground a dozen paces away. 

A wall of hot air slammed into Malaric and threw him from his horse. He hit the ground and rolled, his fine armor clattering. The impact hurt, but he drew on his stolen Demonsouled power, and surged to his feet. His fine green cloak was on fire, and he ripped it from his shoulders and threw it aside.

He saw his horse run past, screaming in pain, its mane ablaze. The Chalsain banner burned, and Malaric saw the horses of the high lords gallop in all directions, perhaps in fear of the flames or from the scent of the Aegonar arrows. He spotted his standardbearer lying on the ground, reduced to a charred husk, and spat a curse. The cavalry needed to reform, and he reached for the dead man’s trumpet…

Another surge of magical power, and Malaric saw another blast of purple flame hurtle out of the sky.

He threw himself into the shadows and reappeared a score of yards away as the blast hammered into the earth. Again he sensed a spike of arcane force, and Malaric cast a ward, sheathing himself in a shell of shimmering blue light. Let the seidjar fling their spells at him! His magic would throw their spell back into their faces. 

A third bolt of purple flame screamed out of the sky, and Malaric poured Demonsouled power into his ward. 

The blast hammered into his ward, the competing powers straining…and his ward shattered like glass beneath a hammer blow. The explosion threw Malaric backwards, and he bounced and rolled across the ground. 

He staggered to his feet, gasping, sweat pouring down his face. He felt the presence of Skalatan’s magic behind the spell, and the old serpent wielded terrible magical strength. But worse, he felt dozens of other seidjar joining their efforts to Skalatan's attacks. The Demonsouled power in Corvad’s skull allowed Malaric to overcome any individual seidjar…but he belatedly realized it did not give him the power to challenge them all at once. 

A ring of purple light surrounded Malaric. He spun, and as he did the ring swelled, growing into a colossal serpent fashioned of purple light. Malaric began casting a counterspell, but the serpent moved with terrific speed. It wrapped him in his coils, and the ghostly light felt as hard as iron. Burning pain flooded through Malaric, and he screamed as he drew on the skull’s Demonsouled power, healing his wounds even as the ghostly serpent inflicted them. He tried to break free, tried to work a spell, but could not concentrate through the pain of the strangling coils.

Then he remembered his powers, and flung himself into the shadows. He reappeared a dozen yards away, and the massive serpent dissolved into nothingness. 

Malaric looked around, trying to formulate a plan, only to find that the battle was over.

And he had lost. 

His horsemen had dispersed. He saw scattered bands here and there, but not enough to make a fight of it. The footmen had collapsed beneath the Aegonar assault, and now fled in a confused mass for Castle Bridge. The Aegonar thundered after them, eager for blood. The rest of the Aegonar host, the spearmen and the archers, made for the bridge.

The army of Greycoast had been shattered…and Malaric had no men left. If the Aegonar crossed the bridge, nothing could stop them from marching to the gates of Barellion itself. 

Malaric strode through the shadows, reappearing in the midst of the panicked footmen.

“Fight, damn you!” he roared, waving his sword overhead. “Stand and fight! I am your Prince, and I command you to fight!”

They kept running. 

Malaric bellowed in frustration and looked north at the great mass of the Aegonar host. In a few moments they would cross, and they would reach Barellion in a matter of days. 

Unless Malaric took action. 

He walked the shadows to the southern bank of the River of Lords. The footmen kept running, pouring over the bridge. A few of the horsemen had reached the southern bank, and gazed at Malaric with undisguised hatred. 

He would deal with them later.

Malaric drew the caethweisyr and gazed upon it, drawing on his magic.

"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!"

###

“It occurs to me,” said Molly, looking at Riothamus, “that we have let Sir Edgar take too many of the scouting duties. With our particular talents, we could be effective.”

That was a lie. She wanted to get Riothamus alone for a few moments. Gods, it had been too long since they had shared a bed, but campaigning through Greycoast did not lend itself to privacy.