Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (8 page)

The illness had turned his arms into withered sticks and his hands into trembling claws. Yet now he saw lean muscle upon his arms once more. Amazed, he pushed aside the blankets and climbed to his feet. 

He did not fall, and his legs held his weight. 

Gods, he was standing. How long had it been since he had stood on his own legs? 

Malden found himself blinking tears from his eyes.

He felt so strong. 

A mad notion seized him, and he strode across the room. A mirror stood in the corner, covered by a sheet. He had ordered the servants to cover it. He did not want to watch as his flesh wasted away, to watch as he withered into a living skeleton.

But now he seized the sheet and yanked it away. 

"Gods," whispered Malden. 

His astonished reflection gazed back at him. Last night he had been a man on death's doorstep. Now he saw a vigorous man of fifty in the mirror, his hair more blond than gray. In fact, he looked stronger than he had at fifty. 

"How?" said Malden, staring at his reflection. It was impossible. He felt wonderful, full of vigor and energy. But it was utterly impossible. Was it a miracle? 

He saw a dark shadow in the mirror’s corner. 

Malden whirled. 

The masked shadow stood by the doorway, watching him. The figure remained motionless, as motionless as a statue in a black cloak and a steel mask. 

Or a spider, waiting in its web. 

"So you weren't a dream," said Malden. 

"No," said the cloaked figure, "I am not a dream."

"Who are you?" said Malden.

"I already told you," said the cloaked figure. "I am Ataranur." 

"A High Elderborn wizard?" said Malden. "Can you not take off your mask and show me?"

A note of pain entered the hollow voice. "I fear I cannot. The fight with the ancient Demonsouled left me grievously scarred, and the long centuries of sleep weakened me further. The touch of sunlight would wound me."

"Indeed," said Malden, dubious. Everything about Ataranur seemed like a clever trick. Yet somehow the wizard had come unnoticed into the heart of Knightcastle, into Malden's very bedchamber. 

And somehow Malden had been healed. 

"Your lands need you, my lord," said Ataranur. "That is my purpose, the reason I slept for centuries when all my kin have passed into the dust of death. The runedead threaten to destroy your people. They need you to lead them, to defend them."

"You're right," said Malden. He had lain abed for far too long, letting the burden pass to Tobias and Gerald. 

"And you shall have the aid of my humble spells, my lord," said Ataranur, "if you will permit it."

"Of course," said Malden.

He crossed the room to summon his squires, stepping over an odd streak of gray dust by his bed. He would have to tell the servants to clean it up. 

###

Lucan watched as Malden bellowed for the servants to attend him.

The old lord did not trust him, not quite yet...but the gratitude was there, and trust would come in time.

And then dependency.

The first step to Cythraul Urdvul, and the final destruction of the Demonsouled, had been taken. 

Chapter 8 - The Grand Master

Every morning Rachel took her younger son Belifane in her arms and walked to Knightcastle's outer wall, her older son Aldane walking with her. Her maid, a cheerful old matron named Elsie, trailed after, ready to assist. Elsie did not ask to carry Belifane. She knew better. Rachel had lost Aldane once, and would not lose her children again. 

She stopped and rested one hand against the stone battlement, Belifane squirming in her other arm. From the wall she saw the Riversteel and the walls of Castle Town, and the low mountains of Knightreach to the south. More importantly, she saw the road stretching to the mountains. When Gerald returned from Mastaria, he would ride along that road.

Or if he had been slain, the messenger bearing news of his death would take that road…

Rachel pushed the thought aside. 

How often had she done this? How many times had she stood upon a castle wall and waited to see if the men she loved returned from war? There had been Mitor’s foolish war against Lord Richard. The war against the Dominiars. Mazael and Gerald leaving in pursuit of Corvad and his Malrags. 

And now the horror of the Great Rising and the rebel Caraster. 

Would it ever end?

She shivered and let go of the wall, taking Aldane’s hand in hers, her other arm holding Belifane tight. 

“Are you cold, Mother?” said Aldane. He had been too young to remember his abduction at Sykhana’s hands, but the experience had left his mark upon him. He was always so serious. Of course, so was his father.

“No, dear,” said Rachel. “Just…thinking.”

“Father will return,” said Aldane. “When he is victorious.”

He sounded so confident. But he was only three years old. 

“You are a good boy, my little lord,” said Elsie. “When your father returns, I will tell him so.” 

But it was not only Gerald who occupied Rachel’s thoughts.

She looked east. 

There had been no word from the Grim Marches for months. In Mazael’s last letter, he said that Lucan Mandragon had wrought the Great Rising, though the wizard had been killed in the attempt. Few believed the story, and even Rachel doubted that Lucan could have worked such a disaster alone. Some said that Lucan Mandragon had taken up the mantle of Old Dracaryl, and unleashed an army of the runedead to conquer the world. Others said that Lucan had murdered his family and then been destroyed by his own dark magic. Still others said that the Tervingi had run amok, or that Mazael had butchered the House of Mandragon and claimed the liege lordship of the Grim Marches for himself.

Rachel doubted that last one. 

She stared over the wall for a few more moments. No riders came, from either the east or the south.

But no riders bearing ill news, at least. 

“Come, Elsie,” said Rachel, turning from the battlements.

“My lady?” said Elsie.

“We’ll take the children to their rooms,” said, “and you’ll look after them for the day.”

There was work to be done.

###

Knightcastle’s men had gone to war, so it fell to the women to keep the castle and town from falling into ruin.

And both tottered on the edge. 

Rachel followed Lady Rhea Roland as she strode through Knightcastle’s lower courtyard, her skirts billowing around her. A pair of armsmen kept watch over them, and Lady Rhea issued a steady stream of commands to a trio of seneschals. 

“We’ll need more ditches dug outside the camps,” said Rhea, “at least until the peasants are brave enough to return home.”

“It should be safe enough, my lady,” said one of the armsmen. “Most of the runedead in Knightreach have been defeated, at least in the villages near the castle. Lord Tobias has been busy.”

“Indeed he has,” said Rhea, “but it will take some time for the peasants to believe that. We must be mindful of sanitation. The last thing we need is for pestilence to break out in the tents. New trenches must be dug.”

“We haven’t the men to spare,” said one of the seneschals. 

“What of the town’s guild of masons?” said Rachel.

They looked at her. Once that would have daunted her. But in the past five years, Rachel had broken away from the vile worship of the San-keth. She had chased her son’s kidnapper through war and fire and ruin. And she had stabbed a wizard of dread power as he tried to use her son’s blood to work a mighty spell.

Rachel had seen far worse things than an annoyed seneschal. 

“The masons’ guild,” said the seneschal, “are stonecutters.”

“But they need to dig holes to build their buildings,” said Rachel. “I expect they’re rather good at it. And they ought to be grateful for the work. No one is raising new buildings in Castle Town.”

“An excellent idea, daughter,” said Rhea. She looked at the seneschal. “See to it.”

Rachel hid her smile. Compliments from Lord Malden Roland’s wife were rarer than pearls. 

The discussion ended, and the seneschals dispersed to carry out Rhea’s bidding. 

“I should go to the barbican,” said Rachel. “I can oversee the morning bread distribution.” The town’s priests were competent, but she suspected her presence helped their tasks. The people of Knightreach needed to know that their lord and his sons looked to their needs. Or perhaps Caraster and his mad ideas of a new order would not seem so outlandish.

Though after the devastation of the Great Rising, Rachel suspected only madmen would join a man who commanded so many runedead. 

“I shall walk with you,” said Rhea.

They started for the barbican, the armsmen following at a discreet distance. 

“Thank you,” said Rhea.

Rachel blinked. “For what?” 

“For your aid,” said Rhea. “In times of war, certain duties fall upon a noblewoman. But Tobias’s wife is a drunken wastrel, and I cannot rely upon her. Garain was widowed, and did not have the chance to remarry before the San-keth murdered him. Both my other sons died in battle before they had a chance to wed.” 

The words chilled Rachel. Rhea had borne five sons, and she had seen three of them die. Would Rachel’s own sons one day fall to the sword?

No, she could not think about that. 

“I have no one to rely on but you,” said Rhea. “Thank you for that.”

“I only want to do my duty,” said Rachel. 

A wicked glint came into the old woman’s eyes. “Then lure Gerald into your bed when he returns. You’re young enough for at least three or four more children.” She laughed at Rachel’s blush. “The House of Roland has too few members, now.” Her laughter faded. “And we shall soon have one less.”

“My lady?” said Rachel.

“I know you will be able to lure Gerald into your bed,” said Rhea, voice quiet, “because he will return soon. I sent word to him and Tobias. The wizards and the physicians have despaired. My husband will be dead within a week. Perhaps less. Tobias will soon be the lord of Knightcastle.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Rachel.

Rhea let out a ragged breath. “He’s lived a long life, the philandering old scoundrel. But I will miss him.” She gazed up at Knightcastle’s jumble of towers and keeps. “I have seen Knightcastle through war before, daughter. But this…our lord dying, and these armies of dead men, and a rebel who wants to kill every man who is not poor…Rachel, we have never faced anything like this. I fear how it will end.” He voice dropped. “Grand Master Caldarus says the runedead are the vengeance of the gods, a punishment for our sins, and sometimes I wonder if he is correct.” 

“Oh, rubbish,” said Rachel. “Lucan Mandragon cast the Great Rising, and my brother slew him. If the Grand Master thinks otherwise, then he is a pompous windbag.” 

Her eyes widened as she realized her lapse, but Lady Rhea laughed. 

“I cannot dispute your logic, daughter,” said Rhea. She lowered her voice. “But mind your words. The Grand Master’s pomposity is exceeded only by his ruthlessness. Malden allied himself entirely too closely with the Justiciars. Caldarus would turn all of Knightreach into a fiefdom for the Justiciar Order. Once my husband dies, he will try to challenge Tobias, mark my words.” 

They reached the barbican, and already hundreds of ragged, hungry people awaited bread, most of them women holding children. Rachel looked at them and wanted to weep. So many people had died in the Great Rising, and so many more had been displaced. But perhaps it would be over soon. Perhaps Gerald and Tobias would defeat Caraster, and…

“Make way!” 

Hooves clattered as a band of horsemen robe into the barbican, the peasants pulling away. The lead rider bore a lance with the Roland standard. Rachel’s heart rose into her throat. Had they come bearing news? Had there been a battle? Had…

Then she saw Gerald, handling his horse with easy skill, and her fear melted away. His armor was scratched and ragged, his blue surcoat stained with dirt and blood, yet he looked uninjured, thank the gods.

Thank the gods.

Tobias Roland swung down from his horse, and Gerald joined him.

He smiled as his eyes strayed to Rachel, and she smiled back.

“Mother,” said Tobias. “We came as soon as we received word. How is he?”

“Not well,” said Rhea. “Tobias, Gerald, it is…it is good you have come. I think he will want to see you one last time before, before…” She swallowed and gathered up her dignity. “How goes the war?”

“Gerald gave the runedead a whipping at the ford of the Abelinus,” said Tobias with a faint smile. “That ought to slow them down.” His grin faded. “But the war’s not over. Not until we find Caraster and stick his head on a pike.” 

“Grand Master Caldarus has also returned from the field,” said Gerald. “He is two hours behind us.”

Rhea scowled. “Damnation. Can that grasping rogue not give us a few moments of peace?”

“Now, now, mother,” said Tobias. “That grasping rogue is the Grand Master of the Justiciars.” 

“And he will make himself master in Knightcastle, if you let him,” said Rhea. 

Tobias nodded. “Well, if he thinks to find me half-crazed with grief from Father’s death, he shall be disappointed. Father would rise from his grave in wrath if I gave away a single inch of land.”

“Caldarus will argue that you need his knights to defend Knightcastle,” said Rhea.

“True enough,” said Tobias without rancor, “but he needs Father’s vassals and knights as well. Neither Knightcastle nor the Justiciar Order are strong enough to face Caraster on our own, and Caraster wants to kill us all. Come. We have a few hours before the old buzzard arrives. Let us exchange news,” he took a deep breath, “and then say farewell to Father.”

“I will join you presently,” said Gerald, taking Rachel’s hand.

###

Her husband returned to their rooms with her, and Rachel slipped out of her gown and shift. 

She had tried to take care of herself after Belifane had been born, making sure not to overindulge in food or to sit about in idleness. She knew many noblewomen who had let themselves grow fat after their first child, only to react with dismay when their husbands took younger women as mistresses. 

Rachel doubted that Gerald would be unfaithful…but, gods, she loved him too much to give him the temptation. 

She thought looked much the same as she had before Aldane had been born…though her breasts sagged more, and her belly was no longer as flat as it had been.

Fortunately, Gerald’s ardor had not diminished in the slightest. 

###

Gerald entered the Hall of Triumph with Rachel on his arm to find the argument already well underway. 

The Hall of Triumph sat at the base of the Old Keep, in the High Court of Knightcastle’s highest curtain wall. Slender marble pillars supported an arched ceiling, and gleaming crystal windows offered a magnificent view of the Riversteel valley. Dozens of faded banners hung from the ceiling, and hundreds of ancient swords and shields adorned the walls. The lords of Knightcastle had hung the banners and arms of defeated foes here for centuries. 

The great hall was empty, save for Tobias, Lady Rhea, and Grand Master Caldarus. His mother stood between the two men, as if to keep the two men from coming to blows. 

“Outrageous,” said Tobias. “Absolutely outrageous. Caraster threatens to overwhelm both our lands, and you dicker about manors? Truly, the Justiciars are selfless champions indeed.” 

“Your sarcasm,” said Caldarus, “does not become your rank, Lord Tobias.” He was in his early sixties, lean and trim, with close-cropped white hair and eyes like chips of gray ice. His ornate plate armor looked heavy, yet the Grand Master moved with the ease of a man clad in light clothing.

Gerald felt a stab of annoyed anger. Lord Malden Roland was hardly a saint. Yet he was generous to his friends, and had defended his lands and people for decades. That his father should lie dying and a man like Caldarus should remain hale seemed a gross injustice. 

But when had the world ever been just? 

Caldarus’s cold eyes swept over Gerald and Rachel as they approached. “Surely you cannot deny the justice in my request, Sir Gerald? Justiciar Knights have bled and died to defend Knightcastle. Our calling is to defend the entire realm from dark magic, not just the lands of one lord. But we must have the means to support this mission. The castle of Breaksword lies just south of Swordor. Surely you can convince your brother to see reason and gift it to the Justiciars?”

“The knight who holds Breaksword in my father’s name,” said Gerald, “might be inclined to disagree.” 

Caldarus sniffed. “I suppose I should expect no less from a man who married a former San-keth proselyte.”

Gerald felt Rachel stiffen against his arm, and his sword hand closed into a fist.

“Insults, Grand Master?” said Gerald, voice soft. 

“I withdraw my remark,” said Caldarus. Perhaps he had recognized he had gone too far. “Nevertheless, the point remains. Breaksword would serve our noble cause well.” 

"Your order's mission is indeed noble," said Gerald. When he had been a boy, serving as Mazael's squire, he had dreamed of becoming a Justiciar knight. Of wearing gleaming armor and a blue cloak with a silver star, and going into righteous battle against the San-keth and dark wizards. That dream had shattered five minutes after meeting the Grand Master for the first time. "And your time is valuable. I have no wish for you to waste it."