Soul of Swords (Book 7) (38 page)

“Damn it!” said Hugh. “Gods know how many men we lose to each of those explosions!”

“Aye,” said Ryntald, his face stern behind the close-cropped red beard. “An Aegonar warrior does not fear death, but better to die in battle than at the hands of this…this sorcery.”

“Can your seidjars block those attacks?” said Hugh.

“No more than your petty heathen wizards can,” said Korvager, his face strained and dripping with sweat. “The magic is too strong. We cannot overcome it.”

“Then let Skalatan do something about it,” said Hugh, glaring at the archpriest. “Conjure a dragon or some damn thing before Lucan destroys both of our armies.”

Skalatan made no response. The wind generated up by the competing magical spells had thrown back his gray cowl, and his yellow eyes remained fixed on Knightcastle, his tongue darting back and forth. 

“You will not speak so disrespectfully to the Herald of Sepharivaim!” said Korvager, stepping towards Hugh.

“High Priest, not now,” said Ryntald. “Great Herald, forgive me, but the Prince speaks wisdom. Your powers could tip the balance in…”

A shiver went through the air, and Knightcastle itself trembled. 

Then a slender pillar of silver light shot from the highest towers of the castle and stabbed into the sky.

“What in the name of Sepharivaim is that?” said Ryntald.

“At last,” said Skalatan. “The Door opens.”

Hugh’s fingers tightened around his sword hilt. Skalatan’s attention was focused entirely on the spire of silver light. If he defeated Lucan and reached the Door, he would become the new god of the San-keth…and the world would know unending tyranny.

His sword arm tensed, but before he could strike, Skalatan changed, both the San-keth and his carrier becoming a wraith fashioned of green light and mist. The wraith hurtled towards the walls of Knightcastle with incredible speed, vanishing into the press of the battle.

###

Mazael pulled himself back into Gauntlet’s saddle, his eyes sweeping the battlefield. Lucan would not be hard to find, not with Riothamus’s and Romaria’s ability to use the Sight. Though if they confronted Lucan again, would the Old Demon reveal himself at last? Mazael’s father preferred to stay in the shadows, using puppets and dupes to work his will, but with the Door of Souls almost open, would he…

The air around him shivered. Mazael turned Gauntlet just as a slender pillar of silver light erupted from Knightcastle, rising into the air like a tower of impossible height. 

“What the devil is that?” said Mazael.

“The Door of Souls,” said Riothamus, voice grim. “It’s opened.” 

A sense of finality settled over Mazael, a certainty that he was about to ride to his death.

So be it. He would not let the Old Demon become a god.

“Then we are out of time,” said Mazael, and galloped for the gates of Knightcastle, Riothamus, Molly, and Romaria following after him.

Chapter 28 - Fooled

Lucan raced through the Trysting Ways, his immaterial form passing through the ancient stone walls with ease. Old wards of power glowed here and there in the walls, and Lucan maneuvered around them. 

Urgency drove him on. He did not have much time. Both Skalatan and the Guardian would have sensed the Door opening, and they would be in pursuit. 

At last he stopped before a blank wall of white stone and shifted back into material form. Lucan cast a sequence of spells with as much speed as he could manage, undoing the subtle wards upon the wall. A doorway appeared, and Lucan strode through it. He did not bother to rearm the wards behind him. They would not slow his pursuers. 

He entered the great stone hall holding the Door of Souls. The walls, floor, and arched ceiling had been constructed of gleaming white stone, but now they shone with a reflected silver glow.

The Door of Souls had opened.

The symbols carved into the pointed arch blazed with silver light, a radiant column rising from the Door to stab through the stone ceiling and into the sky above the castle. Within the Door’s pointed arch a silvery mist shimmered, and as Lucan looked into it he felt an overwhelming sense of distance, as if he were staring into a deep pit.

And beyond the silvery mist, he saw black stone and crimson fire.

Cythraul Urdvul.

Lucan strode towards the door, the Glamdaigyr in his right first. The way was open, and now he need only enter Cythraul Urdvul and destroy the Demonsouled for all time.

Then he stopped in surprise, his free hand coming up to cast a spell.

A man stood near the Door, gazing into its depths, clad in a black robe. He turned as Lucan lifted his hand, revealing a lean, hawkish face with a close-cropped beard and brown hair shot through with gray. Lucan had never seen the man before in his life.

Yet he was certain, utterly certain, that they had met before.

“Lucan,” said the man in the black robe, smiling. Something like a crimson haze glimmered in the depths of his gray eyes. 

“Who are you?” said Lucan. A Demonsouled like Caraster, who had been lurking in the shadows? A renegade wizard like Malavost, who hoped to seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself? 

“You don’t remember?” said the man in the black robe. He titled his head to the side, as if thinking. “Well. It’s not as if I should be surprised at that.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” said Lucan, pointing the Glamdaigyr at the man. “Who are you?” 

“Oh, just an old acquaintance,” said the black-robed man, “come to congratulate at you at the end of your quest. And you did well, Lucan. You did so well. I had my doubts…but in the end, you surprised even me.” He grinned, and for a moment his teeth looked like yellowed, twisted fangs. “You did so well…and you’re not even family.” 

“I do not have time for this nonsense,” said Lucan, stepping closer, keeping the Glamdaigyr pointed at the other man. “So I will say this plainly. Identify yourself, or get out of my way. The fate of the world hangs in balance, and I don’t have time for games.”

“You’re half-right,” said the man in the black robe. “The fate of the world is going to be decided in the next few moments. And as for games…why, you shall have as much time for games as I say you will. Part of our pact.”

He laughed…and the sound of his laughter sent an icy shiver down Lucan’s spine.

Lucan recognized that laughter. It had echoed inside his head when he suffered moments of doubt. Suddenly the man before him looked familiar, so terribly, horribly familiar, and Lucan felt dread like nothing he had experienced since Swordgrim.  

Yet he had never seen the black-robed man before.

“Who are you?” said Lucan, his voice little more than a whisper. 

“Why should I tell you, if you already know?” said the man. “But you’re asking the wrong question.”

“Then why are you here?” said Lucan. “To stop me from destroying the power of the Demonsouled?”

“What? Not at all,” said the robed man. The silver glow played over the hard lines of his face, and for an instant the light made his robe look like wings of shadow wrapped around his body. “I’ve been your biggest supporter, Lucan. When you first stole Mazael’s blood to forge that bloodstaff…”

“How can you possibly know about that?” said Lucan.

The man in the black robe continued speaking. “When you stole the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, when you took the Wraithaldr from Randur Maendrag.” He laughed. “That pompous child never understood what he had really done. Given that he was your ancestor…well, appropriate, isn’t it? When you worked the Great Rising, when you forged the black daggers and sent your pawns forth to kill. I watched it all, Lucan…and I approved. Your father taught you that the right end justifies any means, that the only way to do good deeds is through great power, no matter the source of that power. And you learned those lessons, Lucan, you learned them well…and you did magnificent work for me.” 

Some part of Lucan’s mind screamed for him to attack, and another to run. Yet he stared at the man, mesmerized, and could not look away, could not stop listening. He felt something deep and awful stirring beneath his thoughts.

As if some horrible truth was about to surface.

“What do you want of me?” whispered Lucan.

“Ah! Now there’s the right question,” said the robed figure. “I merely want to give you a gift.”

“What?” said Lucan.

“This,” said the robed figure, lifting his right hand, the fingers closed. “Call it a reward for service well-done, if you like.”

He opened his hand. A tiny sphere of blue light hovered over his palm. It, too, looked familiar.

“What is it?” said Lucan.

“Conscience,” said the robed man. “And memory.”

He snapped the fingers of his left hand…and the sphere of blue light darted forward and sank into Lucan’s chest. 

Lucan staggered, raising his hand to cast a ward…but nothing happened. As far as he could tell, the little sphere of blue light had done nothing to him.

“Lucan Mandragon,” murmured the robed man, and for a moment his gleeful expression reminded Lucan of Toraine before his older brother had played one of cruel jokes. “Who am I?”

“The Old Demon,” said Lucan, “and you…”

A shudder went through his entire body, his fingers digging into the Glamdaigyr’s hilt.

The Old Demon’s grin widened. 

“And you…”

“Yes?” said the Old Demon. “Do go on.”

“And you…” said Lucan, a vise squeezing his mind, “and you…you…”

Suddenly he remembered.

All of it. 

He remembered his imprisonment in the spirit world, remembered the Demonsouled corruption hunting him through the blasted landscape and the ruins of the black city. The Demonsouled corruption had almost destroyed him, but the Old Demon had offered to save him in exchange for his conscience.

And Lucan had accepted the bargain. 

Then the Old Demon had come to him at Castle Cravenlock and taken his conscience, along with his memories of the pact. And then Lucan had done…he had done…

“No,” he whispered, “no, no, no.”

“I’m afraid so,” said the Old Demon, his tone jovial. 

Lucan screamed. 

His memories shifted, a horrible light new falling over them, free of any deception. He had set out to destroy the Demonsouled. And to do that, he had betrayed Mazael Cravenlock, who had saved his life. He had unearthed ancient necromancy from Old Dracaryl and unleashed an army of runedead upon the world, murdering his brother in the process. He had risen from death as an undead horror. He had twisted and corrupted Lord Malden and Grand Master Caldarus, and sent them forth to kill in his name. He had killed uncounted thousands.

He had cost Tymaen her life.

And all of it, every last drop of blood, had been for absolutely nothing. 

He had gotten Tymaen killed for nothing. 

No, not for nothing. He could see his true purpose now, free of the lies he had told himself. His purpose had been to slay the Demonsouled, allowing their power to gather in Cythraul Urdvul, and to open the way for the Old Demon.

All so the Old Demon could become a god.

And everything Lucan had done, all the horrors he had wreaked, all the blood he had spilled, all the lives he had taken…all of that would be as nothing compared to what the Old Demon would do. 

And it was his fault.

He head someone screaming, realized it was him. 

After a moment he found himself leaning on the Glamdaigyr like a cane, his body shaking like a banner in the wind. 

He looked up and saw the Old Demon staring at him.

“I have always heard,” said the Old Demon, “that knowledge is better than ignorance, but I suppose that’s just another lie, isn’t it? I think you much rather would have remained in ignorance. I could have destroyed you without telling you the truth,” for an instant his eyes shimmered with hellish light, his teeth shifting to fangs, “but this way was much more amusing.”

“You did this to me,” spat Lucan. “You made me do this.”

“Did I?” said the Old Demon. “I made you do nothing. I just put you on the path and gave you a little shove. All of it…the Great Rising, the Door of Souls…all of it was your work. I just happen to be the beneficiary. And now it’s over, and I’ve won.”

Lucan closed his eyes, still shuddering. How could he have been so blind? He had become something worse than the high lords of Old Dracaryl, even worse than his old teacher Marstan. His pride and folly had handed victory to the Old Demon, had condemned the world to uncounted eons of torment and slavery…

His eyes opened.

“No,” he said, straightening up.

“No?” said the Old Demon, his voice calm, but the red glow in his eyes brightened.

“No,” said Lucan. “It’s not over yet. You still need the Glamdaigyr…and I have it.”

The Old Demon said nothing. 

“You need it,” said Lucan, voice quiet, “to take the power. That’s why you had Randur Maendrag create it. That’s what this was all about. So someday you could dupe some fool into opening the Door of Souls for you…and you could use the Glamdaigyr to steal the gathered power.”

“You do understand,” said the Old Demon. “For all these centuries, Lucan. For all these millennia. I have worked to this moment, the hour of my ascension…and it is at hand at last.”

“It’s not,” said Lucan. 

“Oh?” said the Old Demon, tone soft. “Why not?”

“Because of this,” said Lucan, pointing the Glamdaigyr at the Old Demon. “I have the Glamdaigyr, and you are not…”

The Old Demon sneered. “You think I cannot hurt you because I am half-spirit? You are mistaken.” He lifted his hands and crimson fire flared around his fingers. “You sold yourself to me, Lucan. I can do whatever I want to you. And you will give me the sword.”

“No,” said Lucan. “You made me into your instrument…but you did your work too well. I have the Glamdaigyr. I have the Banurdem…and as a revenant, I think I am your match in arcane power.”

“Prove it,” snarled the Old Demon. “Match your power against mine, if you think you can!” The bloody flames around his hands blazed brighter, and the shadows thrown by the Door’s silvery light twisted and flowed towards the Old Demon. Lucan sensed the power the ancient creature gathered, magic potent enough to blast Knightcastle to smoking ashes. Despite Lucan’s boasting words, he couldn’t possibly work magic to stop the Old Demon’s attack.

He couldn’t even work enough magic to slow it down.

So he didn’t try.

Lucan threw himself forward and took his last gamble. His undead strength drove his limbs, and he gripped the two-handed sword as he had been taught as a boy long ago, before his magical talent had manifested. He just had time to see the shocked surprise on the Old Demon’s face, and then he plunged the Glamdaigyr’s blade into his chest.

The sword erupted from the Old Demon’s back. 

Lucan gripped the hilt with both hands. The fire faded from the Old Demon’s hands, his face slack with shock and pain. Lucan braced himself for the current of burning power to flow through the sword. He knew firsthand the corrupting taint of Demonsouled power, and the power he stole from the Old Demon would be vastly stronger than that he had taken from Mazael. Lucan would steal the power and destroy himself, taking the Old Demon’s strength into oblivion with him. 

He deserved death for everything he had done…but perhaps he could rid the world of the Old Demon as well.

He prepared himself to accept the power.

Nothing happened.

Lucan looked at the sword in puzzlement, and then at the Old Demon.

The Old Demon winked at him.

And in that single terrible instant, Lucan realized he had been fooled one last time. 

“Hold still,” said the Old Demon.

The Banurdem burned hot on Lucan’s forehead. The Banurdem, created by Randur Maendrag long ago.

Created using knowledge the Old Demon had given him.

Power pulsed through Lucan, and he found himself unable to move, unable to speak. He remembered standing paralyzed in the Garden of the Temple in Deepforest Keep, Malavost using the Demonsouled corruption to control him.

And now it was happening again.

Lucan would have screamed, if his lips could have moved.

“Ah,” said the Old Demon, stepping backwards, the blade pulling out of his chest with a slithering noise. “That stings, doesn’t it? You should have known better, Lucan. I taught Randur to make the Glamdaigyr. I gave him the knowledge to forge the sword.” He rubbed the blade with a finger, and the sword made a horrible metallic chiming noise.

It reminded Lucan of a dog cringing at the feet of its master. 

“Do you really think,” said the Old Demon, “that I would have let Randur make a weapon he could use against me?”

Lucan could say nothing. He fought against the magic holding him, struggled with every piece of his mind and spirit. But the Banurdem’s power held him fast. 

“We’re finished here,” said the Old Demon. “And my victory would not have been possible without your help. Think on that, Lucan Mandragon, as you die for the final time.”

He tapped the Banurdem with two fingers.