Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Then why have you appeared to me?” said Romaria. “You could hide yourself from me, if you wished.”

  “You have the Sight,” said Morebeth.

  “But that wouldn’t force you to appear to me,” said Romaria. “It was Mazael’s power that summoned you, wasn’t it? You have to appear for him, but not for me. You could just have easily withdrawn to Cythraul Urdvul.”

  “No,” said Morebeth. “The Sight has shown you glimpses of the future, has it not?”

  “Bits and pieces,” said Romaria. “Nothing concrete.” There had been glimpses. An image of her mother, striding through the forest, staff in hand. A dozen mammoths lumbering across the plains, trumpeting war cries. A grinning shadow laughing at her.

  And droplets of blood falling upon a floor of black marble.

  “It is the same for me,” said Morebeth. “I am dead, and partially broken from the hold of time. You have seen nothing concrete because the future is not concrete, not yet. And I see multiple futures.”

  “What do you see in them?” said Romaria. “In these futures?”

  “In every future,” said Morebeth, “I see the death of Mazael Cravenlock.”

  ###

  Molly walked through the ruined black temple, through the place the Elderborn had named Cythraul Urdvul.

  At last she came again to the great cylindrical chamber, the shards of the broken dome clawing at the storm-choked sky like ragged black fingers. A vast of pillar of crimson light and flame, nearly a hundred yards across, rose from the dais at the center of the chamber and stabbed into the darkness overhead. The stone floor heaved and trembled from the power writhing in the column of fire, power enough to shatter the world a dozen times over.

  Power enough to transform its wielder into a god.

  A lean man in a black robe stood near the dais, gazing at the flame, and turned as Molly approached. He had a hawkish face, with gray-shot brown hair and steely eyes. His bearded lips twisted in amusement as he saw her.

  A crimson haze brightened in his eyes.

  “Why, granddaughter,” said the creature men called the Old Demon. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Why do you bring me here?” said Molly.

  “Me?” said the Old Demon, feigning surprise. “I did nothing of the sort.” He gestured at the pillar of flame. “I suspect the souls of your slain kin drew you here, like an iron filing to a lodestone.” He grinned, his mouth filled with ragged yellow fangs. “But just as well…since I can then devour you.”

  He reached for her, and Molly snarled and drew her weapons.

  She awoke in bed, dripping with sweat, and reached for Riothamus only to find him thrashing in a nightmare of his own.

  ###

  The Sight burned through Riothamus’s mind.

  Visions swirled before him, glimpses of the future. He saw images of blood and death, of armies of corpses, of a black sword ablaze with ghostly green fire.

  And he saw a horror rising from the smoking rubble of Knightcastle, a thing of terror and unlimited power, a nightmare that would enslave the souls of all men forevermore.

  Every path, every glimpse of the future, seemed to lead to this.

  Riothamus awoke, sweating, and turned to see Molly with the same fear on her face.

  They did not fall asleep again that night.

  ###

  The next morning knights and armsmen and thains began arriving outside the walls of Castle Cravenlock, gathering for war.

  Chapter 4 - To Cleanse The World

  Lord Malden Roland walked to the edge of the High Court.

  He saw the sprawling mass of Knightcastle spread below him, resting within its three concentric curtain walls, the blue Roland banner with its silver greathelm flying from every tower. Beyond the outer curtain wall he saw the silver ribbon of the Riversteel wending through the valley, and Castle Town sitting within its walls by the river’s bank. Fortified camps waited between town’s walls and the castles, holding the assembled armies of Knightcastle and the Justiciar Order.

  And outside the camps waited the runedead.

  Tens of thousands of runedead, standing in orderly rows. The crimson sigils flared and pulsed upon their foreheads, making it look as if ranks of hellish candles waited for battle. More runedead stood upon the ramparts and the towers, keeping guard over Lord Malden’s more reluctant vassals.

  Once, Malden knew, the sight would have filled him with horror. He had been Lord of Knightcastle for decades, had devoted his every thought and action to the honor and prestige of his lands and House.

  But as Lucan had explained, the sight was proof of his victory. Caraster had enslaved the runedead, but the undead had in fact risen to serve the Lord of Knightcastle.

  And with the runedead host, Lord Malden could take his rightful place as defender of the entire realm.

  His mouth tightened into a scowl. When the Great Rising had come, Knightcastle had defended the realm, and Knightcastle had fought against Caraster and his mad plan to impose a new order across the world. None of the other lords had come to Malden’s aid. Only the Justiciar Order under Caldarus had stood with the lords of Knightreach.

  But now Malden had the runedead. The armies of Knightreach and the Justiciar Order would march from village to village, from town to town, from castle to castle until they had purged the world of evil forever.

  Malden’s eyes turned to the east.

  But only after they defeated Mazael Cravenlock.

  He shook his head, bemused. He still found it hard to believe that Mazael was a son of the Old Demon. Mazael had served Malden loyally for years as a household knight, had saved the lives of Malden and his sons on multiple occasions. Yet it did explain Mazael’s skill as a warrior, his ability as a commander to inspire men and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

  Malden felt his lips peel back from his teeth.

  And it explained the runedead.

  The runedead had arisen in response to the wickedness of the Demonsouled, to the corruption of mortal men. And if a Demonsouled was the liege lord of the Grim Marches…well, little wonder mortal men suffered such afflictions. With the aid of the runedead and the Justiciar Order, Malden would throw down Mazael and free the Grim Marches.

  His hand strayed to the black dagger at his belt, his fingers curling around its hilt.

  He would rid the world of evil men...and feast upon their lives.

  Malden’s eyes lingered upon the camps outside the walls, his anger growing. Ever since Lucan had cured his illness, his temper had grown worse, his outbreaks of anger had becoming more violent. At first he wondered if Lucan had done something to him, if the rage was a side-effect of the strange healing he absorbed through the black dagger.

  He looked at the camps again, his rage redoubling.

  But why should he not be angry? So many of his vassals had betrayed him. The craven fools could not accept his vision, and could not believe that the runedead had risen to serve the Lord of Knightcastle. Instead of fulfilling their oaths to their liege lord, they had fled east to throw their lot with the Demonsouled Mazael Cravenlock.

  Even Malden’s own sons had betrayed him.

  His own wife.

  For a moment he remembered Rhea’s corpse lying in that vault below Knightcastle, and a shadow of grief dimmed his anger. His own wife had betrayed him, along with his eldest surviving son and heir. Malden gripped the stone railing, his hands tightening. All of his sons were dead, save for Gerald, and…

  The grief drowned in his fury.

  And Gerald had betrayed him, fleeing to Mazael. Tobias would have, too, if the runedead had not cut him down. And Rhea had let the traitors out of their cells.

  Both Rhea and Tobias deserved to die for betraying the Lord of Knightcastle…and Gerald would yet pay. Malden’s treacherous vassals would pay, as would the Justiciar officers who had chosen to side with a Demonsouled instead of their Grand Master.

  The rage surged through Malden, and he pushed away from the railing, st
alking across the High Court and towards the doors to the Hall of Triumph. He strode into the Hall, his boots clicking on the gleaming floor, the banners of long-defeated enemies hanging high overhead. The massive windows behind the dais and the high seat offered a splendid view of the valley and the Riversteel.

  A dozen runedead stood motionless before the dais, awaiting his commands.

  “Bring me one of the prisoners,” he said. “Now. Immediately. Go!”

  Four of the runedead moved off. Malden paced back and forth before the windows, watching his reflection in the glass. He was well into his sixties, but the translucent image in the window was that of a man of twenty, tall and muscled, with bright blue eyes and shining golden hair.

  The lives he took through the black dagger, the lives of the wicked and the corrupt, had made him young again. At first that had disturbed him. But Lucan had explained that the vitality was a gift of the gods, a reward for cleansing the world of evil.

  Malden had been sick for so long. There was no reason he shouldn’t enjoy his newfound vigor.

  A short time later the runedead returned dragging a prisoner, a peasant man of about thirty. Caldarus’s Justiciars had scoured the man’s village, and declared that he was a secret worshipper of the serpent god and a supporter of Caraster. Lucan had slain Caraster, but the taint of the rebel’s evil remained.

  “My lord Malden,” said the peasant, sobbing, “I’ve done nothing wrong, and they’ve taken my wife and sons. Please, my lord, please…”

  Malden drew his black dagger, the sigil carved into the blade flashing with green fire. The metal felt icy cold beneath his fingers, as if the weapon had been carved from ice. Malden plunged the blade into the peasant’s chest. The man’s scream ended in a choked gurgle, and the dagger flared with green flame.

  And power flooded into Malden, molten warmth that filled his limbs and chest. He closed his eyes and shivered, his anger melting beneath the torrent of power.

  Ecstasy.

  The peasant slumped as the dagger drank away his life. Malden ripped the blade free and stepped back, breathing hard. He looked at the dead man and felt a twinge of guilt, but dismissed it. The man had been evil, and deserved to die.

  And why shouldn’t Malden benefit from his death?

  He would throw down the Demonsouled tyrant Mazael, purge evil from the world…and then rule over the realm forever. He would bring the realm to order, end the squabbling of the petty lords, and bring harmony and plenty.

  How odd indeed that the son of his greatest enemy would help Malden bring it all about.

  “Odd,” murmured Malden.

  Why would Lucan help him?

  No matter. Lucan had been wise enough to break with both his father and Mazael Cravenlock. Now he would help cleanse the world.

  “Dispose of that corpse,” said Malden. “My guests will arrive soon.”

  Malden crossed to the window and looked upon his lands, waiting for Lucan and Grand Master Caldarus.

  ###

  Caldarus gazed at his reflection with annoyance.

  Age, he thought, lent a man a certain air of authority. Of gravity, of wisdom acquired through long years of experience. The peasant rabble and noble fools expected the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order to look venerable, like a man who possessed the wisdom to protect them from the darkness.

  Caldarus no longer looked the part.

  He was well into his sixties, but the reflection in the glass was of a man of twenty, with eyes like chips of gray ice and thick black hair. He felt the weight of new muscle beneath his armor and surcoat, and he looked like the sort of hero the more grandiloquent sort of sculptors carved from marble. Such a man hardly looked fit to lead the Justiciar Order through its greatest crisis in centuries.

  Caldarus turned from the mirror and walked to the window, still marveling at the lack of pain in his joints, the utter absence of the ache in his back.

  He no longer looked the part of the Grand Master…but there were benefits.

  And his appearance hardly mattered. He was still the Grand Master.

  His fingers strayed to the black dagger sheathed at his belt.

  “Grand Master?”

  Sir Commander Hadraine stood in the study door. A few months ago Hadraine had been a doughy man in his middle fifties. Now, like Caldarus, he looked like a man in his twenties, muscled and fit.

  And like Caldarus, he carried one of Lucan Mandragon’s black daggers at his belt.

  “Yes, Hadraine?” said Caldarus.

  “It is time, Grand Master,” said Hadraine with a bow. “Lord Malden awaits us.”

  “Good,” said Caldarus, striding towards the door. “Assemble my escort.”

  A few moments later he left the Justiciars’ preceptory and rode through the streets of Castle Town, surrounded by Justiciar knights and officers. The refugees packing the streets of Castle Town shied away from him. Caldarus look over them with disdain. How many of them, he wondered, had offered secret support and aid to Caraster? How many secretly prayed to the serpent god or the gods of the Elderborn?

  Let them cower! The reckoning would come soon enough. The wicked would perish, and the Justiciar Order would bring peace and harmony to the realm…and tame the proud ambitions of over-mighty lords.

  He looked up towards the towers of Knightcastle and smiled.

  The Justiciars left Castle Town, rode through the ranks of the waiting runedead, and made their way through Knightcastle to the High Court and the Hall of Triumph. Caldarus strode alone into the Hall, his boots clicking against the gleaming floor. Malden awaited him atop the dais, flanked by a guard of runedead.

  “My lord Malden,” said Caldarus. Malden, as ever, dressed richly, clad in a blue coat with silver buttons, gleaming boots, a black beret with a shining gold badge, a silver-trimmed blue cloak thrown over his shoulder.

  “Grand Master,” said Malden.

  The two men regarded each other in silence. They had been allies for decades, though never friendly. Most of the nobles of the realm regarded the Justiciar Order with fear and hostility, and Caldarus had found the influential Lord Malden a useful ally. And for all his influence, Lord Malden had many enemies, and the Justiciars’ military might had been welcome.

  Perhaps they still needed each other. With Lucan’s runedead, Caldarus could purge the realm of serpent-worshippers, Demonsouled, and anyone who broke from the path of righteousness. The Justiciar Knights would be properly feared and respected among the nobility, and Lord Malden could stand first among them, could even crown himself king.

  So long as he paid proper respect to the Justiciar Order and its Grand Master.

  “You are looking well,” said Malden.

  “As are you, my lord of Knightcastle,” said Caldarus. “It seems cleansing the world of the wicked has its rewards.”

  “Indeed,” said Malden. “Though great work lies ahead of us.”

  “Yes,” said Caldarus. “The death of Mazael Cravenlock, for one.”

  “As you say,” said Malden. “It galls me that he was once a sworn knight of my household. A Demonsouled, under my own roof.”

  “You should have exercised greater vigilance,” said Caldarus.

  Malden scoffed. “Do not to think to chide me if I were an ignorant peasant, Caldarus.” The Grand Master felt a shiver of rage, but ignored it. “Your own knights and officers were often at my court during his time here, and they failed to see anything amiss.”

  Caldarus shrugged. “No matter. We shall crush the son of the Old Demon easily enough.”

  “Do not be overconfident,” said Malden. “Mazael Cravenlock is a formidable foe. He utterly crushed the Dominiar Order at Tumblestone.”

  Now it was Caldarus’s turn to scoff. “The Dominiar Order was corrupt and weak. My own order divided from them centuries ago due to their corruption and impurity.”

  “And in all those centuries,” said Malden, “your Order never managed to defeat the Dominiars. Yet Mazael smashed them in a single battle. A
nd he defeated the Malrag horde and brought the Tervingi barbarians to bay. He is a dangerous commander and a skilled warrior.”

  “And he shall perish before the wrath of the Justiciar Order,” said Caldarus.

  Malden opened his mouth to answer, but a cold, dry voice cut him off.

  “You should listen to Lord Malden, Grand Master. Lord Mazael is indeed a puissant adversary.”

  Caldarus turned his head with a scowl, and saw a dark shadow standing in the entrance to the Lord of Knightcastle’s private rooms.

  Lucan Mandragon had arrived.

  ###

  Malden watched the last son of his oldest foe walk into the Hall of Triumph.

  How odd that the son of Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer should be the savior of Knightcastle.

  Lucan wore black clothing and a black cloak, the hood thrown back to reveal his pale, gaunt face and black eyes. He looked like a man in his late twenties. Save for his noticeable pallor, of course. And the way his hard black eyes never blinked.

  And the way he only drew breath to speak, and the uncanny way he went utterly motionless.

  A black diadem encircled his brows, fashioned in the shape of a writhing dragon. In its claws the dragon held a green emerald, the gem flickering with light. Gerald had called that diadem the Banurdem, claiming that it was some ghastly relic of Old Dracaryl. The ancient Roland kings of Knightcastle had once warred against the dark magic of Dracaryl, though in the end the high lords had fallen to their own necromantic power.

  It was only fitting that a relic of Dracaryl should now serve the Lord of Knightcastle.

  “You have returned,” said Malden.

  “I have,” said Lucan. “We were correct. Caraster was not as ignorant of proper strategy as we thought. He left several armies of runedead to guard key points in Mastaria. Armies that have come at my call.”