Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  The gaze of a San-keth priest.

  “Then tell me, Skaljar of the Aegonar,” said Malden. “Why have you come to Knightcastle?”

  “To demand your vassalage and conversion,” said Skaljar.

  Caldarus bristled with fury, but Malden raised his hand.

  “This ought to be amusing,” he said, his tone that of a man indulging a spoiled child. “Please, my lord earl. Do continue.”

  “Long ago the Heralds of Sepharivaim came to the Aegonar,” said Skaljar, “and spread the truth of Sepharivaim among us. We are the chosen people of Sepharivaim, and we shall bring the entire world to kneel before his altars.” He glowered at Malden. “Either you shall join us of your own will, as vassals and allies…or you shall join us at the point of the sword as slaves. The choice is yours.”

  Malden raised his eyebrows. “I assume you have demands?”

  “You will swear oaths of vassalage to Ryntald, High King of the Aegonar and the Anointed of Sepharivaim,” said Skaljar. “You will then aid the High King in his wars against his foes, though you will be allowed to rule over your lands as you wish, provided you supply the necessary levies and taxes for the High King. Additionally, you will command that temples to Sepharivaim be built in every town and village in your domain.”

  “Preposterous!” said Caldarus, stepping forward. “I am the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order, and I will not allow this!”

  “The Justiciars?” said Skaljar. “And who are they?”

  “We are an Order of holy knights, sworn to defend the realm from dark magic and the vile worshippers of the serpent god,” said Caldarus. The Aegonar scowled at the insult. “And I will not permit the abominable worship of the serpent to spread into Knightreach!”

  “Nor will I,” said Malden, “surrender my authority. The Lord of Knightcastle is the ruler of Knightreach, and no one else.”

  “Then you invite destruction,” said Skaljar.

  “Dare you to threaten the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order?”

  The hooded figure beckoned to Lucan.

  The hand reaching from the gray robe was a skeletal human hand, bound together by flickering sparks of green light.

  Lucan circled around the Aegonar as the robed figure walked towards the wall. Lucan followed, listening with half an ear as Caldarus launched in a long speech about the strength of the Justiciar Order. Gods, but that man loved the sound of his own voice.

  The robed figure stopped, and inside the cowl Lucan saw a large, wedge-shaped head covered in red and black scales, the black-slit yellow eyes watching him without blinking. A forked tongue flickered in and out of the serpent’s mouth, tasting the air.

  “Skalatan,” said Lucan.

  “Lucan Mandragon,” said the San-keth archpriest in a dusty, hissing voice, like dried leaves rattling over the floor of a crypt.

  “You’re not really here,” said Lucan. He waved his hand, and his fingers passed through the robed figure’s chest, the image rippling. “An illusionary projection, and nothing more.”

  “It seemed,” said Skalatan, “a prudent precaution.”

  “Indeed,” said Lucan. “What do you want?” He glanced at the dais, where Caldarus continued his angry speech. “I assume this mummer’s show has a purpose?”

  “Yes,” said Skalatan. “You have been busy since we last met. I expected Caraster to destroy the armies of Knightcastle and take the castle for himself. Instead I find that you have destroyed Caraster and claimed his runedead for your own.”

  “And you have been just as busy,” said Lucan. “Invading Greycoast and putting Malaric upon the throne of Barellion? Quite a feat, given how…ineffective the San-keth often are.”

  “Not as great of a feat as I wished,” said Skalatan. “Malaric failed to kill Mazael Cravenlock, and Mazael came to Greycoast, slew Malaric, and made Hugh Chalsain the new Prince of Barellion. My plan failed. I desired for the Aegonar to seize Greycoast and Malaric to become Prince while the runedead conquered Knightcastle. Then it would be a simple matter to destroy Caraster and claim Knightcastle.” His tongue stabbed at the air. “Instead the Aegonar hold only half of Greycoast, and you control Knightcastle.”

  “And why,” said Lucan, “do you desire Knightcastle?”

  “Do not prevaricate,” said Skalatan. “You know the truth as well as I do. The last remaining Door of Souls lies beneath Knightcastle.”

  “How do you know that?” said Lucan.

  “I assumed you obtained the knowledge from Randur Maendrag,” said Skalatan. “Who do you think told him about the Door?”

  “And what shall you do with the Door?” said Lucan.

  “I will enter Cythraul Urdvul,” said Skalatan, “claim the power of the Demonsouled for myself, and become the new Sepharivaim.”

  “Will you?” said Lucan. “Malavost tried to use the Door of Souls atop Mount Tynagis to claim the power of Sepharivaim, and look what happened to him.”

  “Malavost was misinformed,” said Skalatan. “Sepharivaim is dead.”

  “I see why the other San-keth consider you a heretic,” said Lucan.

  “They lack vision and are enslaved to their narrow dogmas,” said Skalatan. “Sepharivaim has been dead for millennia, and my people worship the memory of a slain god. A useless folly. Instead I will become the new god and set this world to order.”

  Lucan scoffed. “And you shall make yourself a tyrant as black as any of the Demonsouled.”

  “Hardly,” said Skalatan. “The minds of humans are…conflicted, warring between their reason and their emotions. The mind of a San-keth is cold. Orderly. Rational. This world is a place of chaos and madness. With the power of the Demonsouled, I shall remake this world as a place of rationality and order. To the benefit of the San-keth, yes. But also to the benefit of the humans and the Elderborn and the other sapient races that live upon this world.”

  “And why are you telling me this?” said Lucan. “You all but admitted that you are going to march the Aegonar south to claim Knightcastle. I assume you have a reason for explaining your entire plan to me?”

  “Correct,” said Skalatan. “I wish for you to aid me.”

  For a moment Lucan was not sure he had heard the San-keth correctly.

  “Aid you?” said Lucan. “Are you serious? You actually expect me to aid you?”

  “I do, if you can be made to see reason,” said Skalatan. “You have seen firsthand the carnage the Demonsouled have wrought, the chaos their power has unleashed.”

  “Which is why I shall destroy that power,” said Lucan.

  Caldarus’s voice rang over the Hall of Triumph in outrage. “Again and again the Justiciar Order has been the shield of mortal men from the dangers of dark magic! And you expect us to simply…”

  “It is unlikely that you will destroy the power,” said Skalatan. “Rather, help me take the power for myself. I shall be the god this world needs. A human can be corrupted by power. I need not cite the example of the Demonsouled. But the mind of a San-keth is cold and logical, and I shall remake this world according to logic. No more war, no more famine, no more disease. I shall do all this and more.”

  “You would be wise to submit, Grand Master, Lord Malden,” said Skaljar. “Already all of Greycoast is overrun, and soon we shall move south!”

  “You have seen the armies of runedead that surround my castle,” said Malden. “Your band of pirates would have little chance against them.”

  Skaljar laughed. “Your army of rotting men, lordling? The Heralds of Sepharivaim are the masters of sorcery, and they shall turn your host against you.”

  “You will not become a god,” said Lucan. “Nor will I, nor anyone else. I will destroy the power and free the world from its influence.

  “If you spurn my offer,” said Skalatan, “then you will make it all the easier for the Old Demon to claim the power. And I assure you that he would be a much, much crueler master than I.”

  “The Old Demon?” said Lucan. “Don’t be absurd. I will not aid t
he Old Demon.”

  Skalatan said nothing, and Lucan wondered if he had surprised the old serpent. Skaljar and Caldarus continued to shout at each other, while Malden glared at both.

  “For all your power,” said Skalatan, “I forget how young you are. How blind. Everything you have done has been at the Old Demon’s design, not your own.”

  “I am working to destroy the Demonsouled,” said Lucan. “I doubt the Old Demon would approve.”

  “Approve?” said Skalatan. “He desires all the Demonsouled to perish, that he might devour their strength for his own. He gave Randur Maendrag the knowledge to create both the Great Rising and the magical instruments needed to cast it, the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem and the Wraithaldr.”

  Lucan remembered descending into the black depths of Morvyrkrad, remembered fighting the revenant that had once been his ancestor Randur Maendrag. Randur had boasted of his prowess, of how he had stolen the knowledge to create the Glamdaigyr and the other instruments.

  “He stole the knowledge from the Old Demon,” said Lucan.

  “Because the Old Demon permitted him to steal it,” said Skalatan. “Just as he permitted you to find the instruments of power and work the Great Rising. And just as you now labor to open the way to Cythraul Urdvul. But you will not use it. He will, and he will travel through the Door of Souls to become a god.”

  “Ridiculous!” said Lucan.

  “No,” said Skalatan. “I have fought him for centuries before you were born…and he has spun his plots for centuries before that. The San-keth are master manipulators, but the Old Demon could teach us lessons in subtlety. He never confronts his foes directly. Indeed, he is half-spirit, and bound by the rules of the spirit world, and so cannot attack unless he is first attacked.”

  Something about those words stirred an unpleasant echo inside Lucan’s head. He had heard them before, he was sure of it.

  But where?

  “He turns others into his tools and weapons,” said Skalatan, “and he has grown most skilled at it. And you, Lucan Mandragon, you are his greatest weapon. With you, he destroyed almost all of the remaining Demonsouled and gathered their power in Cythraul Urdvul to await his coming. And you work to open the Door for him so that he might at last claim their power for himself.”

  “This is impossible!” said Lucan, rage growing behind the ice of his mind. “I…”

  “Ah,” said Skalatan, his head leaning closer. “You do not remember. You do not even suspect. You made a pact with him, giving him power over you…and he has completely removed the memory of the pact from your mind. Perhaps he made other alterations to your intellect as well, to make you more amenable to his wishes.”

  “You are lying,” hissed Lucan, the fury threatening to break out of control.

  A memory wavered at the edges of his vision, a strange black city of crumbling fortresses, a crimson dragon that breathed blood-colored fire, and a man’s mocking laughter…

  “I often lie,” said Skalatan, “but with you, I have been truthful. I urge you to ally with me and aid me in gaining the power. Only with my help can you break free. For if you persist in your course, the Old Demon will either gain the power and become a god…or I will destroy you when I come to Knightcastle.”

  “No,” whispered Lucan.

  Again the image of the black city wavered before his eyes.

  It could not be! Lucan had been certain, utterly certain, of the rightness of his course. He would free the world of the Demonsouled curse forever! Many innocent people had died, but their sacrifice would be validated when Lucan was victorious and destroyed the power of the Demonsouled.

  But if he had been wrong…

  If he had been wrong, if he had been manipulated, that meant all those people had died for nothing.

  It meant that Tymaen had died for nothing.

  Again he saw the life draining from her blue eyes as the crystal shard transfixed her heart.

  Lucan’s fury erupted.

  He screamed and thrust out his hand, a sigil of crimson fire blazing to life on his palm. The blast struck Skalatan, shattering the illusionary image and digging a molten furrow into the gleaming floor. Lucan stared at the damaged stone, the fury thundering in his ears, his fingers trembling.

  He was so angry that he almost felt alive again.

  He looked up, saw the Aegonar and Lord Malden and Caldarus staring at him in shock.

  “Get out,” hissed Lucan, gesturing at the Aegonar. “I said to get out! Did you not hear the Lord of Knightcastle and the Grand Master? They will not submit to your wretched serpent.”

  Skaljar drew himself up. “Do not insult great…”

  Lucan flung out his hand. Invisible force erupted from his fingers, fueled by his fury, and psychokinetic force hammered into the Aegonar embassy, driving them to their knees.

  “I said to leave!” said Lucan. “Now! If you are still within Knightcastle by the time the sun goes down, I will send you back to your precious Herald in pieces! Go!”

  At last fear touched the expressions of the grim Aegonar warriors, and they all but fled from the Hall of Triumph.

  Lucan stalked towards the dais, and he saw the same fear mirrored in Caldarus and Malden. He had never before lost his temper in front of them.

  A distant part of his mind supposed it must make for a terrifying sight.

  “You were right to turn them away, Grand Master,” said Lucan. “They were trying to corrupt us with their lies. To pour honeyed words into our ears, to make us doubt our noble purpose.”

  Skalatan’s motives were clear enough. He desired the power of the Demonsouled for himself, had hatched that ridiculous story in hopes of convincing Lucan to stop. Well, the serpent would be unsuccessful. Lucan would destroy the power of the Demonsouled, would keep anyone from claiming it.

  “It seems we now face two foes,” said Lord Malden, “not just one.”

  “You speak wisdom, my lord,” said Lucan, his voice quiet as his mind considered the problem.

  Mazael Cravenlock was a dangerous opponent…but Skalatan was just as formidable. Worse, the San-keth archpriest commanded considerable magical power, and likely had access to spells that neither Lucan nor Randur Maendrag had ever seen. Skalatan and the Aegonar would come for Knightcastle and the Door of Souls, once they defeated whatever resistance remained in Greycoast. Lucan had never met Hugh Chalsain, but both Lord Richard and Toraine had spoken dismissively of the boy, and Lucan doubted Everard Chalsain’s youngest son would put up much of a fight.

  It would not take long for Skalatan to prepare his attack.

  Perhaps less time than it would take Lucan to open the Door of Souls.

  He needed to delay his foes. He did not care what happened to Malden and Caldarus and Knightcastle, but if they slowed his enemies long enough for Lucan to do his work…

  “We do face two dangerous foes,” said Lucan, looking back and forth between Caldarus and Malden. “Fortunately, we have more than enough runedead to destroy them both.”

  Chapter 8 - The Herald of Sepharivaim

  Skalatan turned his head, his tongue tasting the air.

  His skeletal carrier sat within his tent at the heart of the Aegonar host, his coils wrapped around the skeleton’s spine and hip. His tongue tasted the meditative incense he used to aid certain spells, and the scent of sweat and horses and the dozens of other odors that accompanied an army on the march.

  For a moment Skalatan sat motionless, his mind turning over events, examining them as a blacksmith examined a half-finished blade.

  It seemed that Lucan Mandragon had chosen destruction.

  Skalatan had not expected to sway him. The Old Demon was most skilled at binding his servants. Still, the attempt had cost Skalatan nothing.

  Now he would simply have to destroy Lucan.

  But only after he resolved the problem of Barellion. Barellion blocked the way south to Knightcastle, and Skalatan could not lead the Aegonar into Knightreach until he had dealt with the city. Fully half of Gr
eycoast remained in the hands of the Prince of Barellion, and most of the surviving lords and knights of Greycoast had rallied to their new Prince. Hugh Chalsain had proven an unexpectedly capable leader.

  Not for the first time, he reflected that Malaric had been a poor choice of tool.

  But those were merely obstacles. No matter how cautious the plan, no matter how capable the servants, setbacks were inevitable. True, Malaric had been a fool…but Skalatan had gained something useful from him.

  He reached with his carrier’s skeletal hand and opened the chest next to his chair.

  Black velvet lined the box, and upon a pillow rested a yellowing human skull. Dozens of runes had been carved upon the skull’s jaw, cheekbones, and brow, flickering with bloody light. Skalatan had wielded arcane force for centuries, had delved deeper into the secrets of dark magic than all but a few of his race.

  Yet the potency of the magic within the skull still surprised him.

  The skull had once belonged to Corvad, Mazael Cravenlock’s bastard son. After Mazael slew Corvad, Malaric had found the skull, and had unlocked its power with necromantic spells. The skull gave its bearer all the powers of a Demonsouled without the crippling bouts of murderous insanity.

  Skalatan knew better than to wield such dangerous tools.

  And why bother with the power of a Demonsouled when he played for the power of a god?

  He had another use in mind for the skull. But he had to reach Knightcastle before the skull would be of any value. In the meantime, he had to neutralize the obstacle of Barellion.

  “Attend me,” said Skalatan, voice quiet.

  At once the flap to his tent opened, and a lean man with red hair stepped inside. He looked like any other young Aegonar man, save that he had yellow eyes with vertical black pupils. He was a calibah, a changeling, the son of a human mother and a San-keth father.

  “Honored archpriest,” said the calibah, going to one knee.

  “Rise, Nizius,” said Skalatan.

  Nizius stood, his dark leather armor creaking, his sheathed sword tapping against his leg.