Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (6 page)

"Then we proceed to our separate goals," said Skalatan, "free of Lord Mazael's interference."

"And your goal?" said Lucan. "Just what is that?" 

"That is my concern," said Skalatan.

"And perhaps it is mine," said Lucan. "You know my goal. I should know yours." 

"I urge you," said Malaric, voice low, "to accept his offer."

Lucan's dark eyes turned to Malaric. "Why? Mazael will not stop me."

"You said that," said Malaric, "the last time. And look what happened." 

Lucan's eyes narrowed. 

"Malaric Chalsain speaks wisdom," said Skalatan. "Let us join forces, my lord Lucan, to defeat our common foes. Then we can go our separate ways. If we come into conflict later, well...we shall resolve the matter then. But for now, there is no cause for enmity."

Lucan fell silent again. Surely he would see the value of an alliance. Skalatan had considerable magical power, and all the resources of the San-keth at his command. He would make a potent ally. And perhaps in exchange for the death of Mazael Cravenlock, Skalatan would aid Malaric in Barellion.

"No," said Lucan.

Malaric blinked in astonishment. 

"No?" said Skalatan. 

"Are you deaf?" said Lucan. "I will rid the world of the Demonsouled, but not to hand it over to you. The Demonsouled have blighted mankind for millennia, but your kind are almost as bad. You have lurked in the shadows for centuries, making kings and lords dance to your puppet strings. I will not ally with you, and if you get in my way, I will destroy you."

Malaric scowled. Had Lucan lost his wits? 

"Ah," said Skalatan. The green runes upon his scales flared brighter. "Then we shall come to blows? I am not certain if I can overcome you...but nor am I certain that you will overcome me." 

"I would kill you, here and now," said Lucan, "but I have greater goals. So I suggest we part ways. Yet if you try to interfere with me, I will destroy you." 

"Very well," said Skalatan. "You may proceed. But I warn you that if we see each other again, I will destroy you." 

"So be it," said Lucan, turning. "Come, Malaric."

Malaric hesitated, then stepped forward. 

"Lord Lucan may be unwilling to ally with the San-keth," said Malaric, "but not all of us are burdened with such...scruples."

Lucan stopped, frowning at Malaric. 

"Oh?" said Skalatan, tongue flicking the air in Malaric's direction. 

"And I am a better choice to kill Lord Mazael," said Malaric. 

"Why is that?" said Skalatan. "You do not have Lucan's power."

"No," said Malaric, "but I have considerably more experience killing people. I was a member of the Skulls, Barellion's brotherhood of assassins."

"Yes, I know," said Skalatan. "Very well. Should you succeed, I shall reward you with an appropriate amount of gold."

Malaric grinned. "I was hoping for payment in kind." 

"Indeed?" said Skalatan. "What do you want?"

"Barellion," said Malaric, "and all of the princedom of Greycoast."

Skalatan made a long hissing noise, the San-keth equivalent of laughter. 

"Ambitious!" said Skalatan. "Very well, Malaric Chalsain of Barellion. We shall discuss the possibility of an accord. Assuming, of course, Lord Lucan makes no objection." 

"I trust you do not?" said Malaric. "The time has come for an amicable parting of the ways. I helped you reach your goals, and you helped me reach mine."

Lucan said nothing, and Malaric felt sweat trickle down his back. Skalatan was ancient, with centuries of experience wielding necromancy. But Lucan possessed the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, along with numerous other powers. 

"Very well," said Lucan. "Do as you will, Malaric. But if you ever cross me, you will regret it."

Malaric opened his mouth to answer, and Lucan strode away without another word. 

"Come," said Skalatan. "We have business to discuss, do we not?"

###

They stopped within the woods, out of sight of the road. 

"My plan is simple enough," said Malaric. “Mazael is too dangerous to engage alone, and he has the aid of powerful allies. Therefore, with the aid of your calibah, I will launch an attack upon him.” Perhaps ambushing Mazael at Cravenlock Town would be the best course of action. “Then, while he is distracted, I will stab him in the back with your poisoned dagger.”

Escaping would be simple enough. With his ability to walk through the shadows, Malaric could escape the vengeance of Mazael’s allies and family with ease. And perhaps Malaric would at last have a chance to settle accounts with Molly.

“Very well,” said Skalatan. “How many calibah shall you require?”

“As many as you can spare,” said Malaric. He shrugged. “They’re expendable, so I assume you won’t mind.”

“They are not,” said Skalatan. “They are devoted to the glory of Sepharivaim, and however willing they are to lay down their lives, only a fool wastes them heedlessly.”

“Of course,” said Malaric. Little wonder Skalatan did not get along with the other archpriests. “I will need to leave at once. It’s a long journey back to the Grim Marches, and I may have to fight past the runedead.”

“No need,” said Skalatan, a skeletal hand reaching into his robe. He drew out an ornate bracer, the silvery metal inscribed with elaborate symbols. 

“What is that?” said Malaric.

“A useful relic we have employed in the past,” said Skalatan. “It will allow you to open mistgates.” 

“Really?” said Malaric, lifting the bracer. “As many as I wish?”

Skalatan’s hissing laughter brushed against his ears. “Not quite. It will allow you to open three mistgates, no more, and no less. I suggest you make good use of them.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Malaric. “I shall.”

###

By nightfall, he was ready. 

Two hundred calibah waited behind him, their fangs hidden, their eerie eyes concealed behind their transparent inner eyelids. Malaric affixed the silver bracer to his left wrist. At once he felt its power, the magic awaiting his command. 

“Return once Mazael Cravenlock is dead,” said Skalatan, his head swaying, “and you shall have the gratitude of the San-keth. We will destroy your enemies, and you will receive the throne of Barellion from us.”

“Of course,” said Malaric. 

But he had no intention of following Skalatan’s plan.

The throne of Barellion was his by right, and he would not receive it as a gift from the serpent priests. He would take it, by his own power, beholden to no one.

And he had another use for Skalatan himself.

He felt the weight of the dagger at his belt, the blade he had taken from Marstan’s lair. If the weapon worked the way he thought it did…

Malaric felt his smile widen. 

“Farewell, honored archpriest,” said Malaric. “When I return, Mazael Cravenlock shall be slain.”

“Yes,” said Skalatan. “And when you return, you will see the great things that await.”

Malaric lifted his left arm, drawing upon the bracer’s power.

A column of mist rose before him, twenty feet high, and widened into a rippling gray sheet. Beyond the mist Malaric saw the wavering image of rolling plains.

The Grim Marches. 

“Come,” said Malaric, and he strode through the mistgate, the calibah following him.

Chapter 6 – Reavers

Sir Hugh Chalsain was the youngest trueborn son of Everard Chalsain, Prince of Barellion. When the Great Rising came, when the dead rose with symbols of fire upon their brows, Prince Everard’s sons had been pressed into service. Each one had taken command of knights and armsmen and marched to the various regions of Greycoast, hunting down the marauding bands of runedead. Hugh had found himself sent to Castle Stormsea along the northwestern coast. The castle was half a ruin, and Lord Alberon Stormsea's lack of influence was matched only by his monumental self-regard and the length of his pompous speeches. 

Fortunately, the journey had compensations. 

Hugh flopped onto the bed, breathing hard, sweat beading on his skin. The woman besides him stretched with a sigh, a satisfied smile on his face. 

“My lord knight,” said Adelaide, “is energetic in the mornings.”

He grinned at her. Adelaide was Lord Alberon’s bastard daughter, and had fortunately inherited neither her father’s looks nor his disposition. Her brown hair tumbled in curly locks down her neck and shoulders, and her wide brown eyes sparkled as she looked at him. 

“You are an excellent reason,” said Hugh, “to be energetic in the mornings, my dear.” He caught her hand in his, lifted her fingers to his mouth, and kissed them. “A year ago if you had told me that I would be awake before dawn and enjoying it, I would have thought you quite mad. Or drunk. Or both, I suppose.”

Adelaide raised an eyebrow. “Do madmen drink wine?”

“Well, why not? A man has a right to relax with wine. Even if he believes the moon is made of cheese.” 

“And speaking of cheese,” said Adelaide, climbing to her feet. The dim light coming from the shutters outlined her back and legs, and Hugh watched with admiration. “It’s past time I got up. Someone needs to make sure that the refugees get at least some bread.”

“You could always get your father’s seneschal to do it,” said Hugh. Part of him, quite a large part, wanted to coax her into bed. Another part of him knew he could do it, but that it would be better if he did not. Adelaide took her self-appointed responsibilities seriously. “You’re the lord’s daughter, not a kitchen wench.”

She gave him an arch smile as she pulled on her shift. “You’ve tumbled enough kitchen wenches, my lord knight, so I would assume you know the difference. But if I do not see that they get help, who will? My lord father would rather sit at his table and complain before he lifts a finger to help anyone else.” 

She had a point. 

“Very well,” said Hugh. “But don’t try to do everything yourself. You have servants, you know. Have them earn their keep for once.”

Adelaide finished pulling on her clothing. “Oh, they will. Come to the great hall in the evenings, and I’ll make sure you get a hot meal.” A shadow passed over her face. “Unless you are called out to face those…abominations again.” 

“We’ve not seen any new runedead bands for three days,” said Hugh. “Maurus thinks we’ve destroyed most the aggressive ones. The rest will go into hiding in ruins and forests, and only attack travelers when they get too close.” Unless another one of the damned things awakened and went on a rampage. “The worst might be over.”

“I doubt that it is,” said Adelaide. “But I pray that you are right.” 

She bent over the bed and kissed him upon the lips.

“I love you,” she said.

Hugh smiled. “I love you, too.”

How peculiar to hear those words come from his lips.

He was twenty-two years old, and had taken a string of lovers to his bed since he was sixteen. He was the son of the Prince of Barellion, a knight skilled with arms, and finding women had never been a challenge. When he had come to Stormsea, he had taken one look at Lord Alberon’s bastard daughter and decided to seduce her. 

He had never dreamed that she would seduce him in turn. 

She kissed him once more and left.

Hugh lay in bed for a while longer, staring at the stonework of the ceiling. Then the room’s chill touched his sweaty skin, and he rose and got dressed.

It was time to get to work. 

###

Castle Stormsea was half a ruin. 

When the Princes of Barellion had rebelled against the old Roland kings of Knightcastle centuries ago, Castle Stormsea had been built to ward against the raiding nations of the sea, the Aegonar and the Svardi and the others. Once the lords of Stormsea had been powerful, but as the threats from the sea subsided, the lords of Stormsea had lost their prominence. 

Hugh walked across the courtyard, his chain mail heavy against his shoulders, his sword resting at his belt, and made the way to the keep that housed the four hundred knights and armsmen that had accompanied him from Barellion. To his relief, he did not cross the path of Lord Alberon. He did not want to listen to another of the old man’s interminable speeches.

Hugh’s men drilled in the courtyard below the keep, bearing their shields and practice swords. The sergeants, grizzled armsmen long in his father’s service, barked commands. Hugh stood before them for a moment, long enough to let the men know he saw their efforts. No use expecting men to fight if you did not prepare them for it, Prince Everard always said. 

Then he climbed the stairs to the keep and strode into its great hall. 

The keep had once been the central tower of the castle, but had fallen into disrepair over the years. Now the drafty hall was empty, save for a long trestle table. Two men sat there, eating breakfast. One was burly, and wore the surcoat of a knight in service to the Prince of Barellion. The second was gaunt and wore a long black wizard’s coat, and scowled at his food as if it had insulted him. 

“Ah, Sir Hugh,” said the knight, grinning beneath his unruly mop of brown hair. Before entering the Prince of Barellion’s service, Sir Philip Montigard had been a landless knight. During his travels, he claimed to have seduced the Prince of Travia’s daughter, helped the dread wizard Lucan Mandragon escape from Justiciar knights, battled Malrags with the Knights Arminiar, and crossed the Great Mountains to dally with a dozen barbarian princesses. Hugh suspected most of that was not true. “You must be famished.”

“Why do you say that?” said Hugh, seating himself and taking some cheese.

“Given that you never returned to your chambers last night,” said Montigard, “I suspect you must have worked up quite an appetite.” 

“Ah,” said Hugh. “So you are spying on me now? Do you work for the Skulls, perhaps? Shall I assume that you are planning to kill me?”

“Of course not,” said Montigard. “But a man has to find some entertainment in this desolate place, and gossip is the best I’ve found. Though you seem to have found your own amusement. Lord Alberon’s bastard is a lovely young thing, and nothing like the old curmudgeon, thank the gods…”

“Do not,” said Hugh, “speak ill of her.” 

Montigard raised his hands for peace, but his smile never wavered. “I am certainly am not speaking ill of her, sir knight. Alas, I merely regret that you got to her first. I…”

“This is inappropriate,” said the wizard, scowling. With his gray hair and gaunt build, Maurus resembled an aging scarecrow. He was a master wizard of considerable skill and power, and had absolutely no sense of humor “You are knights of the Prince’s court, not gossiping women. Discussing Sir Hugh’s latest dalliance is beneath you.” 

“She is not a dalliance,” said Hugh.

Montigard and Maurus shared a look.

“Your previous activities,” said Maurus, “indicate otherwise.”

“Gods,” said Montigard. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love? Next you’ll want to marry her!”

Hugh said nothing. 

“Truly?” said Montigard. “A minor noble’s bastard is a poor choice. She comes with no lands and estates, and even the Prince’s youngest son could get a noble lady with some incomes. Or, if you must stoop so low, the daughter of a rich merchant with a vast dowry.” 

“I doubt,” said Hugh, “that Father cares one way or another what I do. And Lord Alberon would be happy to marry his daughter to a son of the Prince.” 

“As your father, it is Prince Everard’s right to contract your marriage,” said Maurus. “I doubt he would approve.”

“Marry for money, my friend,” said Montigard, taking another bite of cheese. “As for love…well, you can keep the girl as a mistress. And if you fall in love again, why…you can always take another mistress. Or two or three or four.” He laughed. “Like your noble father.” 

Hugh stared at the table. He doubted Adelaide would accept becoming his mistress, and he wanted her to become his wife. Though if he kept visiting her room every night, it might not matter. They had taken precautions, but if he got her with child, he would have a bastard of his own. 

Just like his father.

“Father kept mistresses,” said Hugh, “and one of them bore him a bastard. Look how that turned out.”

Montigard snorted. “Sir Hugh, if you father a bastard, I doubt the child will grow up to learn necromancy and join the Skulls. That hardly ever happens.”

“To my knowledge,” said Maurus, “it has happened only once. Do you know of another occasion, Sir Philip?”

Montigard sighed and rolled his eyes. “That was a joke.”

“It is hardly a joking matter…”

Hugh ignored them as they settled into their familiar bickering. What was he going to do about Adelaide? Sooner or later the runedead threat would diminish, and he would return to Barellion. Could he convince his father to let him wed Adelaide? But even if he did, how would he support her? Prince Everard would not live forever, and his eldest son Rodric did not like Hugh very much. Perhaps Montigard was right, and Hugh needed to find a wife with lands and titles.

But he imagined the look on Adelaide’s face when he told her, and he did not like the thought one bit.

The doors to the keep boomed open, and one of the sergeants ran into the hall.

“Sir Hugh!” the sergeant shouted.

Hugh rose. “What is it?”

“One of the watchtower beacons has been lit,” said the sergeant. “The village of Kynoth is under attack.”

Hugh frowned. Kynoth was a fishing village further along the shore, four or five miles north of the castle. “The runedead?”

“Who else, sir knight?”

Hugh nodded. “Give the word. We ride at once.”

Both Montigard and Maurus shoved to their feet.

###

An hour later Hugh’s force rode from Stormsea’s barbican. He had one hundred knights and one hundred mounted armsmen in his party, along with a hundred mounted militiamen from Lord Alberon’s villages. Every man bore a flask of wizard’s oil, ready to face the runedead. Maurus himself rode at Hugh’s side, ready to bring his powers to bear. Montigard rode beside Maurus, the Chalsain banner, a black tower on a field of green, flying from his lance. 

Hugh rode past the refugees outside the castle’s crumbling walls. The chaos of the runedead had displaced countless villagers, and many of them had fled to the safety of their lords’ castles. He saw Adelaide striding through their midst, her blue gown and cloak blowing about her in the wind as she oversaw the distribution of bread.

Her eyes met his, and he saw the sudden fear for him that filled them. Hugh wanted to go to her, to comfort her.

But he could not, so he lifted his lance in salute and rode on.

###

An hour later Hugh saw smoke rising from the horizon.

“That fire is coming from Kynoth,” he said, surprised. “And it’s more smoke than their beacon should produce.”

Montigard shrugged. “Peculiar. The runedead have never burned villages before.”

“Perhaps a lantern was knocked over in the fighting,” said Maurus.

“Perhaps,” said Hugh, and he urged his men forward. Fear churned in his stomach. He had seen what happened when runedead fell upon helpless villagers, and he did not want to see it again. 

By the time his men arrived at Kynoth, the runedead would have had more than enough time to kill everyone there.

A few moments later Kynoth itself came into sight, and Hugh reined up.

He gazed at the village in shock.

“What the devil?” he said at last.

There were no runedead anywhere.

Kynoth sat on the edge of a bluff overlooking the shore and the endless gray waves of the western sea. Half the houses and barns in the village were on fire. The villagers’ fishing boats waited at the docks in a small inlet beneath the bluff, and two much larger ships had been beached besides the boats. The ships had bright crimson sails adorned with the mark of a black serpent, and dual rows of oars jutting from either side. With their prows carved into snarling dragons, the longships looked like tigers crouching among sheep. 

“Sir Hugh,” said Maurus, “those are Aegonar warships.” 

“The Aegonar?” said Montigard. “What the devil are they doing here?”

“Taking advantage of the Great Rising, I suspect,” said Hugh. “No doubt they think us distracted by the runedead, and hope to seize some slaves and loot while our backs are turned. Well, they will soon learn their folly! Montigard! Into the village!” 

Montigard raised his trumpet and blew a series of blasts, and the horsemen trotted forward, Hugh at their head.

And as they did, the Aegonar emerged from the village, howling battle cries. 

They were tall men, clad in armor of steel scales, shields on their left arms and broadswords or crescent-bladed axes in their right fists. Spiked helms rested on their heads, and bushy red beards concealed their faces. The Aegonar sprinted, bellowing curses. They were a terrifying sight, but a thrill of elation filled Hugh. The Aegonar attacked in a ragged line, without formation, without discipline. 

And one charge of horsemen could sweep them aside.

"Charge!" roared Hugh, raising his lance over his head.

Montigard blew another blast, and the horsemen surged forward, the knights and armsmen lowering their lances. Hugh's lance felt like an extension of his arm as he lowered the point.

An instant later the riders crashed into the Aegonar. Hugh drove his lance along the neck of an Aegonar, and the man's head vanished in a crimson spray. The warrior toppled, and Hugh shifted his lance. His weapon struck the chest of another Aegonar with enough force to drive the man to the ground, and the impact wrenched the lance from his hand. Hugh drew his sword with a steely hiss and sought another foe.