Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (42 page)

Epilogue

The Old Demon stood in the darkness outside Knightcastle, gazing at the walls. 

At the runedead standing guard atop the ramparts. 

He turned his head and looked at the vast undead host waiting motionless between the castle and the town. At the camp of the Justiciar knights, ready to follow their Grand Master into battle. Most of them had black daggers now, killing in the name of righteousness…but really in the name of their own eternal youth.

And, more precisely, in the name of opening the Door of Souls below Knightcastle. 

Though they knew it not.

The Old Demon grinned. Sometimes he thought it a pity that he was the only one who knew what was really happening. There was no one who knew how carefully he had arranged events over the millennia. How he had spent long centuries siring children, and then slaying them, sending their power to Cythraul Urdvul. The endless years he had spent plotting, manipulating kings and nations until now, at last…he was almost ready.

Well. Skalatan knew. 

But sooner or later the archpriest would make a mistake and the Old Demon would destroy him. Skalatan was ancient even by the standards of the long-lived San-keth, but the Old Demon was far older.

“The young,” said the Old Demon to himself, “are ever fools. So very easy to manipulate.”

He stepped into the shadows.

When the darkness cleared he stood in a great vault of white stone that looked almost like the nave of a church. The Door of Souls rose in its center, and silver light glimmered within the pointed arch. Soon it would have enough power to open. 

Lucan Mandragon worked before the Door, green light flaring around his fingers as he cast spells. 

“You have done,” said the Old Demon, “much better than I expected.”

Lucan did not see or hear him. That was because the Old Demon wished it. Lucan had once accepted help from the Old Demon, and because of that, the Old Demon wielded a degree of control over Lucan that he could not manage over other mortals. 

Not yet, anyway.

Lucan would not see the Old Demon again until it was far too late. 

He walked around the Door of Souls, watching Lucan work.

“The daggers you gave the Justiciars,” said the Old Demon. “That was inspired. Not even I would have thought of that.” Even now he felt the stolen life energy flowing into the Door. “And I never thought my most effective tool would be a man who wasn’t even Demonsouled. Life has so many little surprises, does it not?”

But that was unimportant. He had told Lucan once that it didn’t matter who won the game. The trick was to rig the game so that no matter who won, you came out on top. 

And the Old Demon was about to both come out on top and win the game. 

The world, and everything in it, would belong to him.

Forever.

He smiled at the thought.

Unless one thing went wrong.

His smile faded.

“Letting Sir Gerald and his wife get away, though,” murmured the Old Demon. “That was sloppy.” Rachel and her husband would run right to Mazael Cravenlock. The Old Demon did not fear Mazael. He had dealt with recalcitrant sons before, and could do so again.

But none of his other sons had carried that sword.

That damned sword. 

Even now, after all those centuries, the Old Demon still remembered the fear he had felt when the High Elderborn had first forged that thing, that weapon intended to find his heart. 

A weapon that Mazael now carried. 

And if Mazael came after him with that sword…

There were ways to prevent that.

“And only a fool,” said the Old Demon, “fights his enemy directly.”

He grabbed Lucan’s hair, pulled the revenant close, and whispered a few sentences. He released Lucan, and the wizard continued his work as if nothing had happened. But in a few moments, the idea he had placed would come to the forefront of Lucan's mind, and then Lucan would act exactly as the Old Demon wished. 

And then Mazael Cravenlock would die, and the Old Demon would enter Cythraul Urdvul and claim the power for himself.

He strode back into the shadows, leaving Lucan to his tasks.

###

Lucan cast another spell, probing the power gathered within the Door of Souls. 

Soon the Door would have enough power to open. And then Lucan could enter Cythraul Urdvul and rid the world of the curse of the Demonsouled. He had killed so many people, and Tymaen had lost her life. But it would all be justified when a new world, a world free of the Demonsouled, took shape. 

Lucan finished his spell, his mind wandering for a moment.

For an instant, he recalled a ruined black city and a dragon circling overhead, a gaunt man in a black robe laughing at him…

And then an alarming idea came to him.

Gerald Roland and Rachel had escaped, along with their followers. At first Lucan had dismissed it as unimportant. He was almost ready, and Gerald could not find allies strong enough to stop Lucan in time. 

Unless he went to Mazael Cravenlock. 

And if Mazael learned that Lucan had survived the Great Rising, after a fashion, he would not hesitate to act. The combined  armies of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi nation would march on Knightcastle. The blue fire of Mazael’s sword, spread to his men, would destroy the runedead. And the power of the Tervingi Guardian could challenge Lucan’s. 

Mazael might stop Lucan from destroying the Demonsouled.

Unless Lucan stopped him first.

A moment later the answer came to Lucan, and he left the hidden vault below the castle.

He entered Malden Roland’s rooms. Lord Malden sat on his couch, eyes glassy, his black dagger in hand. A dead servant lay on the floor. Grand Master Caldarus sat nearby, staring into nothing. The more stolen life energy they consumed, the more indolent and sluggish they became.

And all the more suggestible.

“Lord Malden, Grand Master,” said Lucan. “I have dire news. My spells have revealed that Mazael Cravenlock is Demonsouled. He has declared himself the Destroyer, and only you stand between him and the destruction of the world.”

###

Skalatan stood before the assembled Aegonar warriors, his carrier's skeletal hands raising the golden serpent diadem.

“By the will of Sepharivaim and the acclaim of the Aegonar nation,” said Skalatan, “I crown you High King of the Aegonar, and name you the Anointed of Sepharivaim.”

He placed the diadem upon the head of Ryntald, and the former earl’s eyes glinted.

A thunderous roar went up from tens of thousands of Aegonar throats.

Agantyr had been easily biddable, but Ryntald was smarter. Not wise enough to understand Skalatan’s true purpose, of course, but that did not matter. He would make an effective ruler for the Aegonar, a tool worthy of Skalatan's purpose. 

And with his tools, Skalatan would defeat the Old Demon, claim the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and remake the world in his image. 

###

Molly Cravenlock wandered through a ruined black temple, a place of terror and splendor, the sky overhead crawling with black clouds and crimson lightning.

She stopped in what had once been in a vast domed chamber, a huge pillar of trembling crimson flame erupting from the floor and stabbing into the sky. A man in a black robe stood near the flames.

He turned as she approached, and a scream rose up in Molly’s throat. She knew that lean face, that graying brown hair, those cold gray eyes glazed in crimson fire. 

Her grandfather.

“Granddaughter,” said the Old Demon, amused. “You, too?”

Molly’s eyes shot open and she sat up in bed, sweat dripping down her shoulders and back. Riothamus lay besides her, sleeping.

“What the hell?” she whispered at last.

###

“As soon as the first crop is planted, I wish to march,” said Mazael. “I look forward to showing the Aegonar what a Tervingi war mammoth can do.” 

He stood in Castle Cravenlock’s great hall, speaking to his chief lords and headmen. The Tervingi had proven eager enough for war, ready to avenge the insult the San-keth had dealt to their hrould and his wife. Most of the lords were reluctant, but the prospect of glory and spoils would win them over. 

“My lord!”

Rufus Highgate, Lord Robert’s eldest son and Mazael’s squire, ran into the hall. Unlike his father, the boy had remained whip-thin, though he had grown quite a bit. Another year and he would be knighted. 

“My lord,” said Rufus, skidding to a stop. “My lord, you must come at once! In the courtyard!”

Mazael frowned and followed Rufus to the courtyard, the lords and headmen accompanying him.

He came to a stunned halt atop the stairs to the keep.

Gerald Roland looked up at him, Rachel at her side. Behind them Mazael saw several of the most powerful lords of Knightreach. 

“Gerald? Rachel?” said Mazael, astonished. “What has happened?”

“Mazael,” said Gerald. “We need your help.”

THE END

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Soul of Swords
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SOUL OF SWORDS Bonus Chapter

“That is impossible,” said Mazael Cravenlock, his sword hand curling into a fist. “Lucan Mandragon is dead.”

He stood in Castle Cravenlock’s courtyard, his wife Romaria at his side. Before him stood an assembly of lords, knights, and noblewomen, their clothes dusty from travel. Mazael recognized them all from his years at Lord Malden’s court. Lord Agravain Rainier, stern and fell. Lord Tancred Stillwater, fat and meticulous, and his son Sir Wesson, solid and solemn. Lord Adalar Greatheart, lean and deadly, and once Mazael’s squire. All the lords and knights looked weary, and a few seemed grief-stricken.

But Mazael saw terror in every last one of them.

“I wish he was,” said Gerald Roland. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his jaw shaded with blond stubble. “But I saw him with my own eyes.”

Mazael shook his head. “I killed him.” His hand brushed his sword’s hilt, the golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head. “I put Lion through Lucan’s heart. He was atop Swordgrim when the Great Rising failed and destroyed the castle. Even if he had survived a sword through his chest, he couldn’t have survived that.”

“Mazael,” said the woman standing at Gerald’s side. “I don’t think he survived.” She had brown hair and green eyes, and carried a year-old child in her left arm. With her other hand she gripped a boy of about three or four years who stared at Mazael with enormous blue eyes. 

“Rachel,” said Mazael, looking at his sister. “What do you mean?”

“He was…cold,” said Rachel. “I touched his arm, before I knew who he really was, and it felt like a bar of frozen iron. Mazael, I think he’s undead. I think you killed him and he came back again.” 

“Undead?” said Mazael. He turned to his squire, a boy of thirteen named Rufus Highgate. “Rufus. Get the Guardian and Lady Molly, now.”

Rufus bowed and ran into the keep. 

“The Guardian?” said Gerald. 

“The wizard of the Tervingi nation,” said Mazael. “We will need his counsel.”

Gerald nodded, but his eyes remained wary. Dozens of Tervingi swordthains and spearthains were scattered throughout the courtyard. The nobles from Knightreach gave them fearful glances. Though if they had faced armies of runedead, Mazael supposed the Tervingi were hardly a fearful sight by comparison.

He scratched his beard, glancing at Romaria, and saw the alarm in her blue eyes. Lucan Mandragon had worked the Great Rising and unleashed the runedead. Mazael’s sole consolation from the destruction of Swordgrim was that Lucan was dead and could not hurt anyone else. 

But if Lucan had returned from the dead, if he had been working in Knightcastle all this time…

“These barbarians,” said Gerald. 

Mazael blinked, shaken out his dark thoughts. “What about them?”

“Do you trust them?” said Gerald. 

Mazael laughed. “Of course not. But they will follow me. They have chosen me as their hrould, their war leader.” He shook his head. “And against the runedead, all men must stand united.”

“If Lord Mazael says we can fight alongside the barbarians,” said Adalar, “then we can do so.”

“And their wizard?” said Rachel. She did not like wizards, and had warned him again and again not to trust Lucan Mandragon. 

Mazael should have heeded her.

“A good man,” said Mazael. “And without his aid, we would all be dead. When Lucan worked the Great Rising, he cast the spell that spread Lion’s fire to the other swords.”

Gerald’s eyes widened. “Gods, but that was timely. The first few moments after the runedead appeared were chaos. If not for that fire, they would have slain every man and woman in Knightcastle and Castle Town both.” 

“That was his work,” said Mazael. “We have been through some very dangerous times.”

“It seems,” said Gerald, “that you have a tale or two of your own to tell.”

“Aye,” said Mazael, glancing at Romaria, and at the single oak tree that stood in the courtyard. He remembered her lying in the roots of that tree, a heartbeat away from death, her life sustained only by the Guardian’s magic. “Aye, we do.” 

Rufus hurried from the keep’s doors, followed by a man and a woman. The woman was in her early twenties, lean and fit, clad in close fitting dark wool and leather. A slender sword rested on her left hip and a dagger upon her right, the blade fashioned from the tooth of the dragon Mazael had slain in the Great Mountains. She had long brown hair and eyes the color of hammered steel, and they widened when she saw the nobles from Knightreach. 

Behind her walked a Tervingi man of average height with deep blue eyes and thick black hair. Like most Tervingi men, he wore a mail shirt over his clothing. Unlike most Tervingi men, he bore neither sword nor spear. He carried only a staff of bronze-colored wood, its length carved with elaborate sigils. 

But even without weapons of steel, Riothamus son of Rigotharic, Guardian of the Tervingi nation, was one of the most dangerous men in the Grim Marches. 

“Father,” said the woman, “it appears we have guests.”

“Molly,” said Mazael. “You remember Sir Gerald Roland and Lady Rachel Roland.” He made the rest of the introductions, and Molly offered a polite bow. Despite the dark news, he felt a twinge of amusement. Apparently even Molly could learn manners. “This is Riothamus son of Rigotharic, Guardian of the Tervingi nation.”

“My lords,” said Riothamus. “You are in distress.”

“Yes,” said Gerald. “I would say so.”

“Tell us what happened,” said Mazael. “Everything. Even before we sit down. If Lucan is still alive, we have to act at once.”

Molly gave him a sharp look, but Gerald began his tale. He described the war against Caraster and his runedead, how the mysterious Ataranur had come to their aid. How Ataranur and healed and rejuvenated both Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle and Grand Master Caldarus of the Justiciar Order. 

And how Ataranur, Lucan Mandragon in disguise, had corrupted them.

“And now Lucan has all of Caraster’s runedead at his command,” said Gerald.

“How many?” said Mazael.

“At least one hundred and fifty thousand,” said Gerald. “If not more.” 

“And your father allows this?” said Mazael. Lord Malden had been short-tempered, arrogant, and proud, but he had always followed his own sense of honor. Mazael had never imaged that Gerald’s father would ever accept the aid of the runedead and Richard Mandragon’s renegade son. 

But perhaps the promise of immortality had been enough to corrupt him. 

“Lucan has twisted my father,” said Gerald. “He claims that the runedead submit because my father is the rightful Lord of Knightcastle, because of the righteousness of the Justiciars. But that is nonsense. Caraster controlled the runedead with a spell, and Lucan has seized that spell for himself.”

“He could do it,” said Riothamus, “with the Glamdaigyr.”

“But the Glamdaigyr was destroyed,” said Mazael, “with Lucan at…”

He fell silent. The Glamdaigyr had been forged by the cruel high lords of Old Dracaryl, mighty necromancers and wizards. The greatsword allowed its wielder to steal the life force and strength of its victims, and Lucan had used the ancient weapon to work the Great Rising. Mazael had thought the sword destroyed at Swordgrim.

But Lucan had survived. Why not the Glamdaigyr? And the Banurdem as well? The diadem, also forged by the high lords of Dracaryl, permitted its bearer to control vast numbers of undead. With it, Lucan could build a host of runedead.

And finish his mad quest to purge the world of every drop of Demonsouled blood. 

“He had the Banurdem,” said Gerald. “I saw it upon his brow when I unmasked him.”

“But if Swordgrim was destroyed and Lucan slain,” said Adalar, “how could he have returned? After I saw him, I thought the story of his death merely a rumor. But if you slew him, my lord Mazael…”

“He is undead,” said Rachel. “Like the zuvembies or the runedead.”

“No,” said Riothamus. “He’s something much worse. I fear he has become a revenant.”

“The greatest undead of Old Dracaryl,” said Romaria. She remained calm, but Mazael saw the tension in her stance, the posture she assumed when a fight was upon them. “Immortal and invincible.”

“Aye, my lady,” said Riothamus. “When the mightiest necromancers among the high lords died, they rose again as revenants, their bodies cold and unfeeling, never again to know the pleasures of food or drink or touch. But in exchange for living death, they received tremendous power. Their undead bodies do not age, and are impervious to all but the most powerful magic. And a dead wizard can wield magic that would burn a living wizard to ashes.”

“Gods,” whispered Gerald. “Tobias stabbed him through the heart, and he shrugged off the blow as if it were a scratch.”

“Where is your brother?” said Mazael. “Did…”

“No.” Gerald’s voice was flat. “Lucan’s runedead slew both him and my mother when we flew Knightcastle.” 

Rachel pressed closer to him.

“I’m sorry,” said Mazael. 

Gerald gave a sharp nod, blinking.

“If Lucan delved into the secrets of Old Dracaryl,” said Riothamus, “then he must have learned the spell to become a revenant, and placed it upon himself in the event of his death. And when he was slain, he rose again.”

A murmur of fear went through the lords.

“My lords,” said Riothamus, “it is the office of the Guardian to counsel the Tervingi nation, and since you are kin and friends to our hrould, I shall counsel you as well. You have all faced danger – the Malrags, the runedead, wars against your neighbors. The thing Lucan Mandragon has become is much more dangerous. I fear that every lord of every nation and tribe upon the earth shall need to unite against him…and even then, it may not be enough.”

“He seeks to rebuild Dracaryl for himself, I deem,” said Lord Tancred, “to raise an empire of blood and dark magic for a thousand years.”

“No,” said Mazael. “No, he doesn’t want mere temporal power. If he did, he could have murdered his father and brother and made himself liege lord of the Grim Marches.” He remembered Toraine Mandragon screaming as the Glamdaigyr devoured his life, the ghostly green fire of the Great Rising burning in the sky over Swordgrim. “He has a grander purpose. He wants to rid the world of the Demonsouled.”

Molly gave him a sharp look. 

“Conquering Knightcastle and corrupting my father is a curious way to go about it,” said Gerald. 

“It’s why he worked the Great Rising,” said Mazael. “He raised the runedead and commanded them to slay the Demonsouled. It didn’t matter if a man had one Demonsouled ancestor a hundred generations back. If a man had a single drop of Demonsouled blood, Lucan set the runedead to slay him.”

And uncounted thousands had died in the Great Rising. 

“It’s what he is doing at Knightcastle now, I’m sure,” said Mazael. “Another plot to destroy the Demonsouled.”

“And gods help us,” said Agravain, “if it ends as disastrously as the first.”

“And that must be,” said Riothamus, “why Skalatan is going to Knightcastle.”

“Who?” said Gerald.

“A San-keth archpriest,” said Mazael. “Have you heard of the Aegonar invasion in Greycoast?”

“Bits and pieces, nothing more.”

“The Aegonar worship Sepharivaim,” said Mazael. Rachel flinched at that. “They’ve conquered northern Greycoast, and would have taken Barellion itself, but the new Prince repulsed them.”

“With a little help from us, I must point out,” said Molly. “Malaric didn’t kill himself.”

Mazael nodded. “The Aegonar have a High King, but their true master is Skalatan. He intends the Aegonar to take Knightcastle for themselves.”

“It seems we are not the only ones with dark tales,” said Gerald.

“No,” said Mazael. He told Gerald what had happened since the Great Rising, about Malaric’s assassination attempt and Romaria’s poisoning. “Skalatan is dangerous, more dangerous than any San-keth I have encountered.”

“I heard of him during my…youthful folly,” said Rachel. She took a deep breath. “Skhath mentioned him a few times. He said Skalatan was a heretic, was half-mad. But no one dared challenge him, not even the other archpriests.”

“Skalatan believes that the serpent god died millennia ago,” said Mazael, “and that the San-keth worship a memory. So he intends to seize the gathered power of the slain Demonsouled and use it to transform himself into the new serpent god.”

“Then Lucan is doing something in Knightcastle to destroy the Demonsouled,” said Gerald, “and Skalatan wishes to seize Knightcastle, interrupt whatever Lucan is doing, and take the spell for himself.”

“Aye,” said Mazael. “I think you have the right of it.”

Save, perhaps, for one detail, the most dangerous of all.

The Old Demon.

A woman’s voice, soft and cold, filled Mazael’s ears. “Then you understand.”

Mazael kept his face calm, but his eyes shifted to the left, and he saw the spirit watching him.

Morebeth Galbraith stood among the nobles, clad in her usual black gown. She had been Mazael’s half-sister, and had seduced him and tried to use him as a weapon against the Old Demon. But with Lucan’s help, Mazael had realized the truth and defeated her. Yet her spirit had been drawn to Cythraul Urdvul, the birthplace of the Demonsouled. 

And now she could appear to him. 

“You know what our father wants,” said Morebeth. Her gray eyes glinted, her blood-colored hair stirring. “All these years, brother. For three thousand years he has been fathering us and slaying us, harvesting us to claim our power for his own. Now he is ready. All he needs to do is enter Cythraul Urdvul and claim the stolen power, and he will become the new god.” She shuddered, a hint of fear going through her pale face. “If he does, we shall be his slaves forever. All living things will be his slaves. You must stop him, Mazael. You must.”

“Mazael?” said Gerald.

Mazael shook his head, and Morebeth vanished. To his surprise, he saw Romaria staring at the spot where she had stood. Could Romaria see the spirit? Skalatan had been able to see Morebeth, but Skalatan wielded tremendous magical power. 

“You are right,” said Mazael, pushing aside his doubts. “We must take action, and quickly, before Lucan finishes whatever scheme he has in mind.”