Soul of Swords (Book 7) (41 page)

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Molly kept screaming.

She had killed Nicholas. She had killed Riothamus. They had both loved her, and that love had led to their deaths. It was her fault.

Her body swelled and bulged, the tumors in her flesh growing into living Malrags. 

She had become the monster she had always known herself to be.

“You should have listened to me, granddaughter,” said the Old Demon. “This has always been your fate. You cannot escape from me, not ever. But if you had accepted it…then perhaps the men you loved would still live.”

“Or you could just shut up.”

The voice was so unexpected that Molly blinked, falling silent.

A man in golden armor stood in the bedroom doorway, a sword of blue fire in his right fist, a woman in a black gown standing behind him. He looked familiar, somehow, and a storm of emotions rose up within Molly at the sight of him.

The Old Demon snarled.

“Who are you?” said Molly.

“He killed Nicholas, Molly!” said the Old Demon. “He murdered your betrothed! Strike him down, and take revenge!”

Molly stepped forward, intending to rip the man in golden armor to shreds. And yet…and yet that seemed wrong, somehow. The man in the golden armor hadn’t killed Nicholas. No, she had killed Nicholas. No, she had found him dead. Hadn’t she?

“You said I killed Nicholas,” said Molly, hesitating.

“He killed Nicholas,” said the man in golden armor, pointing his burning sword at the Old Demon. “He sent Corvad to do it, and then cast the blame upon me, all while planning to transform you into a Malrag Queen.”

“But it was still my fault,” said Molly. “They only died because of me. I am a monster. I have always been a monster, and…”

“Look,” said the man in the golden armor, pointing at the mirror.

Molly looked, and took a step back in surprise.

She saw a young woman in dark leather armor, with gray eyes and brown hair tied in a tail. A slender sword and a peculiar dagger rested on her belt. The dagger looked as if it had been made from the tooth of some great beast, and…

“The dragon,” breathed Molly.

Mazael had killed the dragon in Red Valley. Arylkrad stood on the heights overlooking that valley, and there Molly had learned the truth. The Old Demon had sent Corvad to kill Nicholas, all so Corvad could lure Molly to Arylkrad and transform her into a Malrag Queen.

Nicholas Tormaud’s death had been the Old Demon’s doing, not hers. 

“You did this, grandfather,” said Molly, glaring at the Old Demon. “You killed them, not me.”

Her grandfather’s eyes blazed with crimson fire. “Indeed? You will curse Mazael for having sired you, before…”

Molly lunged, her dagger lashing at the Old Demon’s face.

Her grandfather shattered in a spray of silvery light, and the world dissolved around her.

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Riothamus stood motionless, staring at the ruin of the Grim Marches and the corpses of the Tervingi nation. 

“You failed them,” said the Urdmoloch, standing behind him. “You were their Guardian. They looked to you to keep them safe from dark magic, from the Demonsouled and the San-keth, and you failed. Just as well Aegidia is dead. Otherwise she might have lived to have seen you fail so badly.” 

Riothamus said nothing. Perhaps it would have been better if the Tervingi nation had remained in the middle lands, in their old homeland along the Iron River. Perhaps they would have prevailed against the Malrags, in the end.

And they would not have marched to their doom, trusting in Riothamus to protect them.

“The Guardian of the Tervingi,” said the Urdmoloch, amusement in his voice, “and you…”

“Enough.”

Riothamus turned, surprised at the new voice.

A tall man in golden armor stood near the Urdmoloch, a sword of azure flame in his right fist. A woman in a black gown stood at his side, gazing at the Urdmoloch with hatred and fear. 

“This,” said the Urdmoloch, “is growing most tiresome.”

“Who are you?” said Riothamus. He had never seen the woman in black before, he was certain, but the man in golden armor looked familiar.  

“You’re the Guardian of the Tervingi,” said the armored man, “and you helped save your people. You escaped Stone Tower and stopped Ragnachar from destroying the Tervingi. And you spread Lion’s fire when the runedead rose, and you froze the river so the mammoths could cross and smash the runedead. If not for you, both the Tervingi nation and the folk of the Grim Marches would have been slain.” He gestured at the desolation surrounding the burned village. “This could have been real…but it was not, thanks to your wisdom and valor.” 

“I…I remember,” said Riothamus, faint images flickering through his mind.

“And my daughter loves you,” said Mazael, “and I didn’t think she was capable of loving anyone.”

Molly.

The memories of her, of his betrothed and first and only lover, exploded through his mind. He remembered the glint in her gray eyes when something caught her sense of humor. The way her face grew still when she was lost in thought, and the smile when he walked into her room. The first time they kissed outside of Castle Cravenlock, the feel of her mouth and body against his…

He remembered everything.

Riothamus turned, the staff of the Guardian in his hand, and flung a blast of golden flame at the Urdmoloch.

The black-robed shape shattered, and the world fell away.

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Mazael’s eyes opened, and Morebeth released his hand.

He stood again in the half-ruined hypostyle hall of Cythraul Urdvul, the great pillar of flame stabbing into the undulating black sky. Romaria, Riothamus, and Molly opened their eyes and got to their feet.

“Gods,” said Molly, rubbing her temples, “I have a headache.”

“What did he do to us?” said Romaria.

“A spell,” said Morebeth, voice quiet. “My father sensed your entrance through the Door of Souls and laid a trap to ensnare you.” 

“It is good you were able to aid us,” said Riothamus, with a small bow in her direction. “I fear we would have been unable to escape otherwise.” 

Molly looked Morebeth up and down. “So you’re the one who seduced Mazael and tried to use him as a weapon against the Old Demon?”

Morebeth’s smile showed teeth. “Yes.” She looked at Romaria. “I was a fool to do so,” her gaze shifted back to Molly, “but I think you understand what it is to lose someone you love to my father’s lies.”

Molly nodded, once. Then she looked at Riothamus. “Why was he able to lay the spell for us? I thought he couldn’t attack us unless we attacked him first.”

“That doesn’t matter, not here,” said Morebeth. “Not in Cythraul Urdvul. This is where he was born. He is stronger here, much stronger.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Molly.

“And that is why you are able manifest physically?” said Riothamus. 

“You are wise, Guardian,” said Morebeth. “I, too, am stronger here. I am dead…but I can act here as I could not in the material world. Both you, Mazael, and you, Molly, might find yourselves stronger as well.”

“I don’t feel any differently,” said Mazael.

Molly shrugged, concentrated, and then frowned. “I can’t walk into the shadows.”

“The Glamdaigyr,” said Romaria. “The Old Demon has it, and it blocks your ability to move through the shadows.”

“He’s near,” said Mazael, looking at the pillar of flame rising from the ruined dome. “And he knows we’re coming.”

“He seemed so certain he will win,” said Molly, a spasm going over her face.

“No,” said Morebeth. “He fears us. Or at least the talismans you bear, the blade and staff of the High Elderborn. They were created to destroy him…and even now, after three thousand years, they pursue him to the very end.”

“Then do you see our victory?” said Mazael. “In any of the potential futures you can see?”

Morebeth shook her head.

“Is there any sign of Skalatan?” said Mazael.

“The wise serpent?” said Morebeth. “No. I felt it when you entered Cythraul Urdvul, but not him. Perhaps he did not reach the Door of Souls.”

“Or he is strong enough to mask his presence,” said Riothamus.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael. “He won’t help us against the Old Demon, and even if he somehow prevails, he’ll only become a tyrant as dark as the Old Demon himself. This is up to us. Let’s go.”

He strode towards the far end of the hall, the others following.

Chapter 31 - The Last of the Demonsouled

Mazael stepped through the yawning arch and into the Chamber of Blood.

He had seen it so many times before in his nightmares. The great cylindrical chamber of black stone could have held Castle Cravenlock. It had once been topped with a vast dome, but the dome had been shattered long ago, its jagged fingers stark against the black and crimson sky. A stone dais, perhaps a hundred yards across, stood in the center of the chamber.

The pillar of blood-colored flame, the gathered power of three thousand years of Demonsouled, filled the dais and plunged into the sky.

The stone thrummed beneath Mazael’s boots, all of Cythraul Urdvul trembling with the great power in that pillar. Here was power enough to rip apart the world and reshape it. Power enough to create new worlds and destroy old ones, to shape the destiny of every living mortal for all time.

Power that called to the dark fire in Mazael’s blood. 

For a wild, terrible moment he wanted to sprint forward and throw himself into the pillar, to lose himself in that awesome might. Perhaps a moth circling a lantern flame felt the same thing. He saw the same yearning on Molly’s face. Another, darker thought occurred to him. He could take the Glamdaigyr from the Old Demon and use it to claim the power, to transform himself into the new god…

No. He could not be trusted with that power, no more than the Old Demon or Skalatan. 

A dark shape stood against the raging pillar, a shadow against the flames. Mazael saw a black sword in the figure’s right hand, the blade flickering with ghostly green flame. He kept walking, Lion raised, the others behind him. 

At last the dark figure turned to regard him, outlined against the power of the Demonsouled.

And for the first time since that awful day in Castle Cravenlock’s chapel, Mazael confronted his father in the flesh. 

“Well,” said the Old Demon. “Here we are at last.” The crimson glow deep in his gray eyes pulsed in time to the pillar behind him. “Did you like the little presents I left for you?”

Mazael said nothing, Lion ready in his hands. He saw Romaria tense, saw Riothamus lift the staff of the Guardian, saw Molly bare her teeth in a snarl. 

“A family reunion of sorts,” said the Old Demon, his voice amused. “My son and granddaughter and their loved ones.” He laughed. “How fitting that you should all die together.”

His burning gaze fell upon Morebeth, and his eyebrows rose.

“But what is this?” said the Old Demon. “I expected rebellion of Mazael and Molly, but from you, little Morebeth? You are dead, and your soul and power are mine.” His voice hissed over the last word, and for an instant his black robes seemed like furled wings of shadow, his teeth like black fangs. “Obey me.”

“No,” said Morebeth.

“You will,” said the Old Demon. “You hate me…but that does not give you the strength to defy me. Your flesh and blood were mine, and your spirit and power remain mine. Obey me and kill Mazael.”

For a moment Morebeth’s eyes shone with the same fire as the Old Demon’s, and she started to sway. But she stiffened, and the light faded from her eyes.

Though they still blazed with fury.

“No,” she whispered. “You ruined everything I love. You had Amalric kill Sir Brandon. You tried to turn Mazael into the Destroyer, and you would ruin the world. I will never obey you, father. Never.”

For an instant Mazael saw fury on the Old Demon’s face, a rage older and deeper and blacker than any mortal mind could comprehend, an unending lust to control and enslave and dominate. 

Then the amusement returned.

“She loves you, Mazael!” said the Old Demon. “She defied death and my power all for love of you.” He waved his free hand at the others. “Just as they do. Such a band of ragged fools you have inspired to follow you. The half-breed, the ragged barbarian wizard, the bastard brat, and the dead woman. How very noble.”

“Does this speech have a point?” said Mazael. “If so, come to it quickly.”

“You can have more, Mazael,” said the Old Demon. “Join with me, and you can become a god. Not merely the lord over barbarian rabble, not even the Destroyer, but a god who will rule at my right hand. I can give you…”

Mazael burst out laughing, and the Old Demon’s eyes narrowed.

“Really?” said Mazael. “You are trying to tempt me still? After everything that has happened? I know you for what you are, and you still try to tempt me?”

The Old Demon laughed. 

“Why, I suppose you’re right!” he said. “You know…I have lied for so often to so many people that it is almost refreshing to tell the truth. So let us speak plainly at the end, eh? I’m going to kill you, Mazael. Maybe I’ll kill Romaria in front of you first – we’ve already done that. Or perhaps I’ll kill your pet barbarian wizard and his assassin whore, and then kill you. And then, once you all are dead, I shall stride over your corpses and become the new god.” He grinned, and against he seemed like a bestial, monstrous thing crouching in human form. “And then I shall call you back…and your true torment will begin.”

“No,” said Mazael. “This is the end…but your end, father. All the lies and plots. All the centuries of slaughter and torment and destruction. You will pay for it all today.”

The Old Demon laughed again. 

“You will not become the new god,” said Romaria, taking her bastard sword in both hands.

“You’ll pay for what you did to me,” said Molly, “for what you did to Nicholas.”

“The purpose of the Guardian is to protect mortals from you,” said Riothamus, “and today that purpose will be fulfilled.”

“Then,” said the Old Demon, “let us begin.”

He lifted the Glamdaigyr, the darkness swirling around the blade deepening.

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Wrapped in his most powerful spell of obscuring, Skalatan stood against the wall of the Chamber of Blood and watched the confrontation. 

He felt no need to declaim his intentions in a challenge. Such follies were an indulgence of those ruled by emotion, and Skalatan had no such need. 

And given how his enemies hated each other, he had no need to fight most of them, either.

No, he would stand here and watch the fight. He would intervene here and there, to ensure the Old Demon and his son fought each other to exhaustion. And then, when one or the other triumphed, Skalatan would strike with his full power.

No obstacles would remain between him and the powers of a god.

He waited.

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The Old Demon raised the Glamdaigyr, and Mazael braced himself for the attack, as did Molly and Romaria. Golden light flared around the Guardian’s staff, a candle flame in the darkness of Cythraul Urdvul.

But the Old Demon only beckoned with his left hand.

Bursts of flame erupted from the pillar, striking the floor in a dozen places. Mazael thought the Old Demon had unleashed a spell of attack, but none of the flames struck flesh. Instead they hit the floor, smaller pillars of flame rising from the impacts.

Man-sized pillars.

“What is this?” said Mazael.

“Do you still not understand, my son?” said the Old Demon. “You are mine. The Demonsouled are mine. All of them! And is it not fitting that I should summon them here, at the end, to watch you die?”

The pillars of flame coalesced into men and women, and Mazael heard Morebeth gasp.

The first one he saw was Amalric Galbraith, clad in the armor of a Commander of the Dominiar Order, the red longsword of the Destroyer in his hand. His gray eyes glinted beneath his eagle-winged helm, and narrowed when they saw Mazael. A short distance away stood Corvad, wearing chain mail and plate, also holding a sword identical to Amalric's, his face lighting up with murderous glee when he saw Mazael. Behind him appeared Ragnachar, a crimson greatsword in his hands.

Hundreds, thousands of Demonsouled appeared, generations of them, filling the Chamber of Blood. Some wore fine armor and rich robes, while others wore rags and furs and carried clubs and flint-tipped spears. Some were clad in the robes of wizards, while some were nearly naked, their bodies covered by elaborate scars and tattoos. 

The battle madness played on their features, the Demonsouled rage that Mazael knew so well.

“Aren’t you glad to see your brothers and sisters, Mazael?” said the Old Demon. “So many of them! Generations I sired, and generations I slew, and now they are mine to command. I will devour their power and become a god. But first, I will command them to kill you…”

“Mazael,” said Morebeth, “you can command them. He is the Old Demon, but you are his son…and you are alive, and you bear Lion. You can command them.”

“How?” said Mazael, but then he felt the other Demonsouled. 

He sensed the dark fire within them, the same fire that flowed through his veins and burned in his heart. The Demonsouled rage and fury, passed on by their father…but now enslaved and dominated by his will.

Just as he would dominate the world.

But Mazael intended to contest his father’s will.

“Hear me!” shouted Mazael, lifting Lion over his head.

The Old Demon laughed. “Don’t be…”

“Fight with me!” Mazael shouted, focusing his will upon the presence of the Demonsouled in his thoughts. “Fight with me, and be free of our father’s tyranny at last.” Agony flooded through his head as his will competed with his father’s. Was this how it felt for Riothamus when he cast spells against an enemy wizard’s wards? “Fight, and repay our father for all that he has done to you!”

He felt his will struggle against the Old Demon’s, and most of the Demonsouled held fast, their father’s will binding them like iron chains.

But in some, Mazael’s will prevailed.

A brief hint of shock passed over the Old Demon’s face.

“Kill them!” the Old Demon roared. “Kill them all!”

And chaos erupted in the Chamber of Blood. 

Hundreds of Demonsouled rushed at Mazael, weapons wreathed in crimson flame. But other Demonsouled met them, shouting and screaming with centuries of fury, and in an instant Mazael found himself in the middle of a battle. A Demonsouled clad in ragged furs and armed with a club lunged at him, howling, and Mazael sidestepped the blow, sweeping Lion around in a backhand. The blade ripped through the fur-clad man’s abdomen, and the man dissolved into crimson flame, the fire leaping back to rejoin the great pillar. 

“Mazael Cravenlock!”

Amalric surged through the press, drawing closer, his cold face twisted with livid fury. 

“You slew me!” he roared. “And you will die and join us here!”

Mazael turned to face the attack, Lion thrumming in his hand.

“No!” Morebeth stepped between them, her eyes steely. “I will deal with him. I will make him answer for Sir Brandon’s death at last. Stop our father, Mazael.”

“Sister,” spat Amalric, lifting the sword of the Destroyer. “You betrayed me. You turned Mazael into your puppet and had him slay me. Now we are together…and you shall die for me over and over.”

“I think not,” said Morebeth, and her form blurred. Her gown transmuted into armor of crimson scales and chain mail. In either hand she bore a slender sword like Molly’s, each blade shimmering with crimson fire. A helm covered her head, flanked with eagle’s wings fashioned in steel, much like Amalric’s.

Amalric laughed. “You think to fight me?”

“In the living world, you were the stronger. Here, dear brother,” said Morebeth, “I am just as strong as you are.” 

She charged at Amalric, their swords flashing and clanging. 

And then the path was open to the Old Demon.

Mazael charged at him, Molly at his right.

The Old Demon lifted his left hand, darkness and crimson flame dancing around his fingers. Romaria loosed an arrow at him, exchanging her sword for her bow, and the shaft plunged into the Old Demon’s chest. But he barely seemed to notice the impact, and he pointed at Mazael, the fire and darkness forming a symbol of power before his fingers…

Then golden fire hammered into the Old Demon, and the ancient creature rocked back a half-step. The fire around his fingers went out.

Mazael sprang at him, Lion drawn back to stab.

For a moment, just a moment, Mazael saw a hint of fear on his father’s face.

Then that ancient, ravenous fury returned, and the Glamdaigyr blurred to meet Lion’s strike. 

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Amalric Galbraith’s head thundered with the will of his father. 

He had served the Old Demon in life willingly, even eagerly, seeking to claim the sword and mantle of the Destroyer for himself. He had vowed to prove himself worthy. He would cast down the thrones of men, trample the nations beneath his feet, and lead an army across the world.

Then Morebeth had betrayed him…and transformed Mazael Cravenlock into a weapon to wield against him. 

But now Amalric would have his revenge. The Old Demon would claim his rightful place as the god of the world...and there would be so much killing to follow.

Starting with Mazael Cravenlock.

Once Amalric cleared his wretched sister from his path. 

But Morebeth wielded her blades with a skill and speed she never possessed in life, the burning swords weaving a crimson cage in front of her. Again and again Amalric hammered at her, but every time Morebeth weaved and ducked around his blows. 

“Always the same, brother,” spat Morebeth. “Still thinking in a straight line. Never using a knife when you happen to have a hammer.” 

“I enjoyed killing your precious Sir Brandon,” said Amalric, lifting his own sword. “I laughed when the rebels filled him with arrows, and I laughed again when he thrashed in his own blood like a pig with a slit throat. He cried your name when he died, did I tell you that? We are the blood of the Old Demon, and you degraded yourself by lying with him.”

Morebeth remained unruffled. “And yet I was not our father’s dupe, brother. Did he promise you that you could slay Mazael? How did that…”

Amalric roared, the Demonsouled madness erupting through him, and came at her with all his strength and fury, and around them the battle between a hundred generations of Demonsouled raged.

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