Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Oddly, he felt more relief over that than the fact of his own survival.

  Gerald reined up in the courtyard and dropped from the saddle, Castle Cravenlock’s pages hurrying forward to take his horse. He headed for the stairs to the ramparts, and Rachel met him halfway.

  They hugged, heedless of his armor.

  “I am sorry,” said Gerald, “that I kept you waiting.”

  Rachel laughed, and blinked tears from her eyes. “Most inconsiderate, sir, most inconsiderate.”

  “I shall try to do better the next time,” said Gerald.

  “Those runedead,” said Rachel. “Where they truly pursuing us?”

  “I fear so,” said Gerald. “They followed me, and Mazael used it to lure them into a trap. We crushed them with light losses.” He sighed. “But there was a…new sort of runedead. A burning wizard. I think it used to be one of Caraster’s disciples. Lucan must have raised it and sent it after us.”

  “Gods,” said Rachel. “Will this ever end?”

  “Not until we find Lucan and kill him,” said Gerald. “He worked the Great Rising. He enslaved Caraster’s runedead, corrupted my father, and murdered my mother and my brother.” He felt his voice rising, and forced it back down to control. “Lucan Mandragon is the author of all our woes. And this will not end until we find him…and bring him to account for his crimes. Only then can we rebuild.”

  “Husband,” said Rachel, and he held her hands for a moment.

  “I should go,” said Gerald. “Mazael will have a council of war. I am to be the Lord of Knightcastle now…and I will do what I must to save my lands and people.” He gripped her hands tighter. “And to make a safe home for our children.”

  Rachel tried to smile. “It could be worse. The last time we came to Castle Cravenlock, we were chasing Sykhana and she had Aldane.”

  “Yes,” said Gerald. “Let us hope this battle goes as well.”

  “Go,” said Rachel. “I’ll see to our rooms.”

  Gerald kissed her and walked towards the keep.

  ###

  Night fell as the council of war ended, and the lords, knights, headmen, and thains settled down to eat. Master Cramton and his cooks had been laboring all day, and brought forth a feast to feed the guests. The servants carried plates of pork and bread and chicken and cheese. Long tables and benches packed the great hall, and the steady rumble of conversation filled the air, along with the constant sound of clay cups clinking against the table. The Tervingi thains could put away a tremendous amount of ale, but many of Mazael’s knights could hold their own against them.

  “I wonder,” said Molly, “how many of them will sleep off hangovers under the tables tomorrow.”

  “Let them,” said Mazael. “We’ll have little enough cause for levity, soon enough.”

  He sat at the high table on the dais with Romaria, Molly, Riothamus, his most powerful vassals, the chief headmen of the Tervingi, and the lords and knights from Knightreach.

  “It is just as well,” said Lord Robert Highgate, taking a drink of wine, “that you already called your vassals to march against the Aegonar. We can gather all the faster.” He was stout to the point of corpulence, and when clad in chain mail looked like an armored pear. Yet he had served as a capable commander against the Malrags, the Tervingi, and the runedead, and Mazael had come to rely upon him.

  “I thought it would be harder to persuade you to march,” said Arnulf son of Kaerwulf, a grim, yellow-bearded Tervingi headman who never went anywhere without the massive axe strapped to his back. “You seemed keen to defend the Grim Marches.”

  Robert shrugged. “Aye, but I know Lucan Mandragon. I saw what he did at the Great Rising. He was a madman, and that was before he became an undead monstrosity wielding relics of power looted from Old Dracaryl.” He snorted. “The man has too much of his father in him. If he thinks he’s right, he’ll burn the world to ashes to win victory. The only thing that will stop him is a crushing defeat. And death. Again.”

  Molly lifted her glass. “Well, Father, I suppose you slew him once, and you’ll just have to slay him again.”

  “It would have been better had I killed him before he even left Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

  Romaria frowned at him. “Perhaps, but you did not know what he intended. Your mercy speaks well of you, husband.”

  “Speaking as a recipient of your mercy,” said Arnulf, “I am glad you possess it. I know that some of Lord Richard’s vassals wanted to wipe out the Tervingi after our defeat at Stone Tower, but you persuaded him to show mercy.”

  “Aye,” said Earnachar, “and the sons of Tervingar have loyally served their new hrould.” He scowled at Lord Astor Hawking, an ascetic-looking man with a haughty expression. “Especially given that some advised Lord Richard to slay us all.”

  Mazael expected Astor to take offense, but the lord only shrugged. “Clearly I was mistaken. The Tervingi have been a valuable addition to the Grim Marches, even if some of your customs are…outlandish. If we had slain you all, we would now have to face Lucan Mandragon’s dark magic alone.”

  “Not to mention,” said Molly, “that many more runedead when he cast the Great Rising.”

  “Indeed,” said Mazael, and saw Morebeth staring at him.

  She stood against the wall behind the dais, near the door leading to the lord’s private quarters and the chapel. Mazael stared at her for a moment, and then rose.

  “Are you leaving us so soon, my lord?” said Astor.

  “Not at all,” said Mazael. “I’ve drunk too much wine, and it’s rude to piss at the table.” They laughed. “A moment, my lords and headmen.”

  He rose and walked to the lord’s entrance behind the dais. The corridor beyond was dark and quiet, with stone stairs rising to Mitor Cravenlock’s old rooms and the balcony overlooking the chapel. Given that Mitor’s old rooms held a sealed entrance to the San-keth temple below Castle Cravenlock, Mazael had never slept there.

  Morebeth awaited him at the foot of the stairs, her dark gown blending with the shadows.

  “The time is coming,” said Morebeth. “You will need to be ready…”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Stop talking.”

  She blinked, her gray eyes regarding him with surprise.

  “You helped me against Skalatan and Malaric,” said Mazael, “and for that I am grateful. But Lucan Mandragon is coming with the Glamdaigyr and a hundred thousand runedead and the gods know what else. And our father has a hand in his plans, I doubt it not. But if I am to stop them, I need your help.”

  “You have it,” said Morebeth. “Why do you doubt me now?”

  “Because,” said Mazael, “I know you. You are a manipulator. It is simply who you are.”

  Morebeth shrugged. “I cannot disagree with that.”

  “When you lived,” said Mazael, “you tried to corrupt me into becoming the Destroyer so you could wield me as a weapon against our father. Now you are doing the same thing. You may not want me to become the Destroyer, true, but you are still trying to wield me as a weapon.”

  “Do we not want the same thing?” said Morebeth. “The defeat of our father?”

  “We do,” said Mazael, “but now the stakes are far too high. Molly and I are the last living Demonsouled, Morebeth, save for our father. We are the only ones who can stop him. You will give me the information I ask for, and everything else I might need. But no games. No manipulations.”

  For a moment Morebeth said nothing, and then her mouth curled into a half-smile.

  “Do you know why I picked you instead of Amalric?” she said.

  “Because Amalric murdered Sir Brandon and you hated him for it,” said Mazael.

  “True,” said Morebeth, “but I hate our father more, and I would have made Amalric my weapon against him. But no. I chose you instead of Amalric, my brother, because you were the stronger. You alone had the strength to defy our father. You alone have any chance of defeating him.”

  “Then you will aid me as I ask?” said Maz
ael.

  “Yes,” said Morebeth. “Though I fear I do not know everything you wish. Our father did not confide in me while I lived, and he certainly has not done so since my spirit came to Cythraul Urdvul. And…I do not see time as you do, Mazael, not any longer. I am dead.”

  Mazael nodded. “Then we shall start with some questions.”

  “Ask.”

  “The Old Demon is behind Lucan, isn’t he?” said Mazael.

  “I believe so,” said Morebeth. “Our father is skilled at manipulating mortals, and the Dragon’s Shadow may be more vulnerable than most. He used some of your blood, did he not, to augment his magic?”

  “He did,” said Mazael. “A bloodstaff. The thing almost destroyed him.”

  “He was foolish,” said Morebeth, “for it would have made him vulnerable to our father’s manipulations. It is entirely possible Lucan does not even realize how deeply our father has manipulated him. Just as he made your daughter into a weapon against you.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael, remembering his brutal duel with Molly in the black depths of Arylkrad. She had hated him, had desired his death, and killing her would have been the only sensible thing to do.

  Yet he had spared her life…and had come to love her, despite her barbed tongue and mocking attitude. And without her, Lucan might well have prevailed at Swordgrim, or Malaric might have killed Mazael outside the walls of Cravenlock Town.

  Perhaps he was wrong to regret his mercy to Lucan …thought it was hard to see how.

  Then a darker thought occurred to him.

  “What is it?” said Morebeth.

  “Our father,” said Mazael. “You told me he intends to claim the gathered power of the slain Demonsouled and make himself into a god, but he had not yet found a safe way to take the power. We were wrong. He has possessed a way to take the power all along.”

  “How?” said Morebeth.

  “The Glamdaigyr,” said Mazael, and he saw a hint of fear go over her face. “Don’t you see? He sent Corvad into the Great Mountains to claim the damned thing. He knew where the sword was all along, and he just sent Corvad to fetch it for him.” He shook his head with a furious curse. “Then he must manipulated Lucan into casting the Great Rising. He made sure the Banurdem and the Glamdaigyr were close at hand, and he must have arranged for Lucan to find the knowledge of the Great Rising and that black crystal staff.”

  For a moment Mazael remembered Tymaen Highgate flinging herself at the staff, remembered the life draining from her eyes as the shard of black crystal transfixed her heart.

  “I fear you are right, brother,” said Morebeth. “Our father once boasted to Amalric and I of how he manipulated the high lords of Old Dracaryl to their doom. Perhaps he did so by teaching them how to forge the Glamdaigyr.”

  “The Glamdaigyr drains the power from anything it strikes and transfers the power to its bearer,” said Mazael. “With it he could claim the power in Cythraul Urdvul and make himself into a god.” He cursed again. “That has been his plan all along, Morebeth. For all these centuries, all these millennia. The Great Rising and the Glamdaigyr.”

  “And now,” said Morebeth, “his plan is almost finished.”

  “He needs one more thing,” said Mazael. “A way to physically enter Cythraul Urdvul.” He snapped his fingers. “And that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “What is it?” said Morebeth.

  “That’s what Lucan is doing,” said Mazael. “He must have some method of entering the spirit world in the flesh. Some spell or relic or something. That must be why he went to Knightcastle and took control of Lord Malden and Caraster’s runedead. Somehow he needs them so he can enter Cythraul Urdvul.”

  “All while acting as the instrument of our father,” said Morebeth.

  Mazael nodded. “That’s also why Skalatan is leading the Aegonar to Knightcastle. He must plan to kill Lucan, take the Glamdaigyr, and seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself.”

  “So he can become the new Sepharivaim,” said Morebeth. “He would be a different sort of tyrant than our father, but he would enslave the world to his vision nonetheless.”

  “Unless we stop him,” said Mazael.

  “Unless you stop him,” said Morebeth. “You have puissant allies, your daughter and her betrothed most of all. But the burden lies upon you, Mazael. You are the last son of the Old Demon, the only one with strength to challenge him…and you bear the one weapon that he fears above all.”

  “Lion,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Morebeth. “The blade forged by the High Elderborn of old to slay Demonsouled. Like the Guardian’s staff, it has passed from bearer to bearer over the centuries, its true purpose forgotten. Not just to fight creatures of dark magic, but to slay the Demonsouled themselves. Ever has our father hunted its bearers…but ever has the Guardian’s staff and Lion opposed him, and he fears them above all else.” Her gray eyes met his. “They are destined to face him.”

  “Destiny?” said Mazael. “You are a prophet now?”

  “No,” said Morebeth. “The future is uncertain, and I see many different endings. But in all possible endings, Lion and the Guardian’s staff face our father before the end.”

  “And in some of those possible futures,” said Mazael, “does our father prevail?”

  Morebeth closed her eyes, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “In most of them.”

  Mazael nodded. “Then it seems that I have work to do, do I not?”

  He strode back to the great hall, deep in thought. Lucan Mandragon was the key. He held the Glamdaigyr, and if Mazael could find and kill him, he could destroy the black sword before the Old Demon had a chance to use it.

  He turned to his seat in the great hall and noticed that Romaria was gone.

  ###

  Romaria stepped through the darkened corridor, her senses straining.

  There had been…something when Mazael left the great hall. Some dark flicker that hovered at the edge of her senses, a ripple in the corner of her eye. Curious, she walked from the hall and into the courtyard. After a few moments she closed her eyes and let this strange sense guide her. When wearing the form of the wolf, she could let her nose and ears guide her without benefit of her eyes, and she did the same with this peculiar new sense, letting it move her forward.

  At last she opened her eyes, and found herself standing in a deserted corner of the courtyard.

  The ghostly image of a woman in a black gown stood before her.

  Romaria reached for her sword.

  “You can see me,” said the woman, “can’t you?”

  “Who are you?” said Romaria, releasing her sword hilt.

  “Do you not know?” said the ghostly woman.

  Romaria stared at the woman, noting her blood-colored hair, the slim figure inside the black gown, the eyes the color of sword blades.

  Eyes, she noted, the same color and shape as Mazael’s and Molly’s.

  And the Old Demon’s.

  “You’re Morebeth Galbraith,” said Romaria.

  Morebeth nodded.

  “And you’re dead,” said Romaria. She rubbed a hand through her thick black hair. Was she losing her mind?

  “Mazael wondered the same thing,” said Morebeth. “Though you may take comfort, however small, in the fact that I am real.” She shrugged. “You have never seen me before. Therefore why would you hallucinate me?”

  She had a point.

  “Mazael told me about Cythraul Urdvul,” said Romaria at last. “How the power of the dead Demonsouled has been gathering there for centuries. If you’re here, it means you still have enough power to manifest and appear to him.”

  “And if you can see me,” said Morebeth, “it means something of your vision has become unchained from time. That you can see the world, at least partially, the way I can.”

  “The Sight,” she whispered. “You mean I have the Sight.”

  She was not surprised, not entirely. The Seer of Deepforest Keep wielded the Sight, and used it t
o guide the Elderborn. Riothamus had the Sight as well, and Romaria knew he had used it to help save her life. Many of the Elderborn druids developed the Sight as well. Had Romaria possessed the ability, lying latent until the injuries from Malaric’s attack had awakened it?

  Again Morebeth shrugged. “I understand the Elderborn call it that. It seems you have gained that power.”

  “Why are you here?” said Romaria. Mazael had told her only a little about Morebeth, and she had not pressed him for details. “Trying to convince Mazael to embrace his Demonsouled blood?”

  The other woman’s smile was sad. “You need not fear me as a rival. Mazael desired me, yes…but he desires you and loves you. He threw down Malaric, waged war on the Aegonar, and placed Hugh Chalsain on the throne of Barellion to save you. He would never do that for me.” The sadness did not leave her face. “And I am dead and you are not.”

  “I don’t doubt Mazael,” said Romaria, “but I do doubt you. Why have you come here?”

  “To defeat my father,” said Morebeth, “in whatever way I can. My story is much the same as Molly’s. My father and my brother slew a man I loved, and I decided to take revenge upon them. Molly awakened from her folly before it destroyed her. I did not.”

  “So revenge against the Old Demon, then,” said Romaria.

  “You should be able to understand that,” said Morebeth. “He struck you down, and left you in a sleep like death for two years.”

  “I do understand,” said Romaria, “but is that all you want? Mere revenge?”

  “No,” said Morebeth. “My father must be stopped. If he claims the power of the Demonsouled, if he becomes a new god…this world will be a nightmare unlike anything your mind can imagine. Every mortal, living or dead, will be enslaved to him, playthings to torment as he will. And he will torment us, for he delights in suffering.”

  “I know his evil,” said Romaria. “He did try to kill me in this very castle.”

  “He did,” said Morebeth, her eyes hooded. “But he raised me, my lady Romaria. He shaped me, molded me into his weapon. I rebelled against him, but his hand was upon me nonetheless. I did great evil in my lifetime, and I do not excuse it.” The sadness upon her face changed to weariness. “Yet how could I have done otherwise when he made me what I am?”