“The messengers I sent into Barellion,” said Skalatan. “Have they returned?”
“They have, archpriest,” said Nizius. “They report that the assassins prove most…amenable to your requests.”
“I thought as much,” said Skalatan. “The assassins have performed much work for the San-keth in the past.”
“May I speak bluntly, honored archpriest?” said Nizius.
“I would prefer it,” said Skalatan. Too many of the San-keth regarded the calibah as idiotic half-breeds or as expendable fodder. Skalatan had no compunction about spending their lives to achieve his goals, but neither did he regard them with contempt.
Such wasteful emotion prevented clear thinking. The humans had a proverb that a good craftsman respected his tools, and Skalatan had come to see the wisdom in that.
“The assassins’ brotherhood believes in no god but their own power and wealth,” said Nizius. “So long as you continue to pay them, they will remain loyal to your design. But if they find a higher bidder, they will betray you at once.”
“I thought as much,” said Skalatan. “And the other task? Did you find the tomb?”
“It is where you said it would be, honored archpriest,” said Nizius.
Skalatan’s coils tightened around the skeleton’s spine, his scales rasping against each other.
At last, he had found the final piece.
“Near a place called Castle Rutagne on the border with the Stormvales,” said Nizius, “ruled by a lord named Karlam Ganelon, a vassal of the Prince of Barellion.”
“Good,” said Skalatan.
“The ruin is…easily accessible,” said Nizius. “Frankly, I am surprised that the humans did not plunder the tomb long ago.”
“Superstitious fear of the Dark Elderborn would have kept them at bay,” said Skalatan. “There have been no Dark Elderborn west of the Great Mountains for thousands of years, but the tales persist. The tomb itself is likely warded. I suspect after the first few fools who dared to enter failed to return, the ruin acquired an evil reputation, and only the mad or the foolish brave it now.”
Nizius nodded. “None of your messengers entered the ruin. They felt the presence of powerful magic within.”
“They acted wisely,” said Skalatan.
“One other thing, honored archpriest,” said Nizius. His lip twisted with distaste. “The messengers discovered a hidden shrine to Sepharivaim beneath Castle Rutagne. It seems this Lord Karlam is one of the craven proselytes of this barbarous land, timidly hiding in the shadows and offering his prayers in secret, lest the worshippers of the false gods find him.”
“Yes, I know,” said Skalatan. Nizius was young, and his devotion to Sepharivaim burned like a torch in his chest. A pity the object of his zeal was long dead, but Skalatan would put Nizius’s energy to good use. “Do not disparage him. Every tool has its use…even a grasping fool like Lord Karlam Ganelon. Who has already contacted the leader of the assassins’ brotherhood, I expect.”
Nizius blinked…and then comprehension spread over his face. “Ah.”
“Very good,” said Skalatan. “One path to victory can fail. Better to have many paths. Has the High King returned?”
“Yes, archpriest,” said Nizius. “He is meeting with the High Priest Korvager and the chief earls in the center of the camp. I believe he plans to make a move against Barellion soon…with your approval, of course.”
“Of course,” said Skalatan. “Come. Let us see what the High King intends.”
He sent a mental command to his carrier, and the undead skeleton strode from the tent, Nizius following at his heels. He had never understood his people’s obsession with acquiring limbs. According to the doctrine of the San-keth priests, the gods of the Elderborn and the humans had stripped the serpent people of their limbs, condemning them to crawl in the dust for all time.
He stepped from the tent, and a hundred Aegonar warriors fell to their knees, gazing at him with reverence.
Why bother with limbs?
It was so easy to turn the humans into willing, even eager, servants, something his brethren had never grasped. Once Skalatan claimed the power of the Demonsouled, in his new world the San-keth would rule, of course, but the humans and the Elderborn would serve joyfully, grateful for their place in the new order, free from war and famine as their masters saw to their needs. In his new order all humans and Elderborn would live in harmony, content to serve their San-keth rulers.
He dismissed the thought as his undead servant carried him through the camp. His plans had already been laid. Now he must see them to fruition.
A short time later he came to the center of the camp. Dozens of Aegonar earls stood outside the High King’s tent, speaking in low voices. They bowed and made way as Skalatan walked past them. A score of seidjar stood outside the tent, surrounding their High Priest. Korvager wore only a pair of ragged trousers, his chest exposed, and dozens of swirling serpent tattoos covered his skin. The bronze rings piercing his arms had developed a patina, and his bloodshot eyes shone with zeal.
And power. Even for a human, Korvager was a capable wizard.
“Great Herald,” said Korvager, bowing. “How might we serve the will of Sepharivaim?”
“I understand the High King plans to cross the river?” said Skalatan.
“He does,” said Korvager, “though I doubt the crude stratagem of a simple warrior will gain the Herald’s approval.”
“That,” said a quiet voice, “is for the Herald to decide, High Priest.”
Ryntald, the High King of the Aegonar, stepped from his tent and bowed before Skalatan. He was tall and lean, and unlike most Aegonar men, he preferred to keep his red hair and beard close-cropped. He wore the gold-edged scale armor of the other earls, but upon his brow sat the golden serpent diadem of the High King of the Aegonar and the Anointed of Sepharivaim.
Skalatan had put Ryntald on the throne of the Aegonar nation after Agantyr had fallen. Agantyr had been a vicious warrior and a formidable commander, but a man of simple tastes and intellect. Ryntald was of a more philosophical bent, and smarter than his predecessor. Which meant he would be a more effective leader in the short term, but in the long term, it might prove difficult to control him. And Ryntald, perhaps, was one of the few among the Aegonar capable of guessing Skalatan’s true intentions.
No matter. If his plans succeeded, Skalatan would have no need to control Ryntald. And if Ryntald discerned Skalatan’s true intentions, perhaps he would be wise enough to support them.
Willing servants made for better tools than duped slaves.
“Great Herald,” said Ryntald, straightening from his bow.
“High King,” said Skalatan.
“Has Earl Skaljar’s embassy returned yet?” said Ryntald.
“No,” said Skalatan, recalling his conversation with Lucan. “I fear they shall be unsuccessful. Though the effort cost us little enough.”
“Earl Skaljar’s efforts would have been needed here,” said Ryntald. “Still, you know best, Herald.” Skalatan felt a flicker of amusement. Agantyr would never have questioned him. “But since I doubt this Malden son of Roland will surrender Knightcastle to us without a fight, I suggest we make plans for an attack.”
“You speak wisely,” said Skalatan. “How shall you proceed?”
“Korvager,” said Ryntald. “Fetch Hjalsk.”
Ryntald and Korvager utterly detested each other, but Ryntald was the High King, and the two men would not quarrel in front of the Herald of Sepharivaim.
“High Priest,” said Ryntald. “The Herald is waiting.”
Korvager glared for a moment longer, and then stalked away. He returned a short time later with a stocky, gray-haired man in scale armor, his eyes wide as he saw Skalatan. He knelt at once, bowing his head.
“This is Hjalsk,” said Ryntald, “a freeholder and a carpenter from the hill country of the Aegonath Isles, and a warrior in Earl Skaljar’s retinue. I believe he can get us across the river.”
“Y
ou may rise,” said Skalatan, and Hjalsk climbed to his feet, his eyes still wide. “Tell me of your plan.”
“Pontoons, great Herald,” said Hjalsk.
“You mean rafts?” said Skalatan.
“Forgive me, great Herald, but not quite,” said Hjalsk, his manner relaxing as his mind turned to his field of expertise. “Rafts float, aye, but I’ve in mind something sturdier, something able to bear a great weight and remain afloat. We build dozens of boats, ensure they are airtight, and atop them mount planks to create a walkway. If we lash them together with stout ropes, we can create a bridge across the River of Lords that will permit the entire host to cross within a day.”
“You are sure of this?” said Skalatan.
“Yes, great Herald,” said Hjalsk. “We did much the same in the hill country of the Aegonath Isles. When the snow melts and the rivers flood in the spring, any wooden bridge would be swept away. So we build the pontoon bridges as we need them, and take them down once the rivers freeze in the winter.”
“Can you build sufficient pontoons to create the bridge?” said Ryntald.
“I believe so, High King,” said Hjalsk. “There are many skilled carpenters among the thralls…and fear of our warriors makes them work diligently. And we have much cut lumber left over from the attempt to cross at Castle Bridge.” Korvager scowled. The plan to cross over the ruins of the Castle Bridge had been his idea, and Hugh Chalsain had thwarted it. “We could assemble the necessary pontoons within ten, perhaps twelve, days. More, if we had unskilled labor to do some of the carrying.”
“You shall have all the men you require,” said Ryntald.
“I do not doubt the carpenter’s skill,” said Korvager, glaring at Ryntald, “but that level of activity will be noticed from the southern bank of the river. Our foes will see our preparations, and make ready to hold the bank against us.”
“The preparations can be done out of sight,” said Ryntald. “Prince Hugh has so far kept all his forces across the river.”
“But his men patrol the southern bank,” said Korvager, “and will notice the minute we assemble this floating bridge. Even if the plan proceeds flawlessly, it will take at least a day to assemble the bridge, and another day for the bulk of the army to cross. If Prince Hugh strikes us while we are vulnerable, we could lose thousands of warriors.”
“Which is why,” said Ryntald, voice quiet, “we shall ask the Herald of Sepharivaim for aid.” He turned to Skalatan and bowed again. “If you can fashion a mistgate…”
“Did you not listen to the wisdom of the Herald?” snarled Korvager, stalking closer to Ryntald. “We cannot use a mistgate to move our forces again! There is too much disruption in the spirit world! Using a mistgate at best will fail, and at worst will lead to utter disaster.”
He was not wrong. Save for the Door of Souls, it was impossible for a mortal to physically enter the spirit realm. A mistgate took advantage of that fact by forcibly joining a portion of the material world and the spiritual realm. A mortal who stepped through a mistgate entered the spirit world…and was instantly expelled to a location of the caster’s choosing, the distance limited only by the caster’s power.
But Lucan Mandragon was opening the Door of Souls, and the Door generated a tremendous amount of magical turbulence. Several weeks ago Skalatan had used a mistgate to bring a few thousand Aegonar warriors to Barellion. But Lucan had fed more power into the Door of Souls since then, and now Skalatan doubted he could open a mistgate large enough and powerful enough to transport even one man to Barellion.
“I know this,” said Ryntald. “I, too, heed the wisdom of the Herald. You seidjar are not the only ones who have ears.” Korvager scowled at that, but the High King kept speaking. “Herald, I ask only for a small mistgate. One large enough to transport a few hundred men and the finished pontoons across the River of Lords. If they work quickly, they can assemble half of the bridge on the southern bank of the river, and the rest of the men can work from the north. If we act with haste, we can have half of the army across the river before the lords of Greycoast even realize their peril.”
“It is too great of a risk!” said Korvager.
“We could do it, High Priest,” said Hjalsk. “If we assemble the pontoons, and then move them through a mistgate to the far bank, my lads and I could assemble them quickly enough. So long as the heathens do not interfere, it…” Korvager glared, and the carpenter fell silent beneath the High Priest’s venomous stare.
“Yes, this is a risk,” said Ryntald. “But this is war, and every choice in battle offers no certainties, only different risks. A warrior would know this.” He turned away from the sneering Korvager and bowed in Skalatan’s direction. “Great Herald, I believe this is our best chance for success. We may indeed fail. But if we are to take Knightcastle as you commanded, then we must cross the River.”
Skalatan considered the High King’s words. A mistgate capable of crossing the River of Lords would likely have to transport the men a mile, perhaps a mile and a half. To maintain a stable mistgate over that distance through the Door's turbulence would be difficult, but within Skalatan’s capabilities. And Ryntald was correct. Skalatan had to reach Knightcastle as soon as possible. Lucan was aware of the threat to the north, and the revenant would take steps to prepare himself.
“I give my blessing,” said Skalatan, “to your plan, High King.”
Korvager’s face went still, and Ryntald bowed.
“Proceed at once,” said Ryntald to Hjalsk. “The sooner we are across the river, the better.”
“It shall be as you command, High King,” said Hjalsk with a nervous glance at Korvager. The High Priest scowled, but made no objection. For all his power and authority, Korvager would not cross Skalatan’s will. Korvager had considerable magical might for a human, but Skalatan far exceeded his strength.
And Korvager truly believed in the glory of Sepharivaim.
“As we wait for the bridge,” said Ryntald, raising his voice to address the earls, “we shall tighten our hold on what we have already conquered. Hugh Chalsain is our foe for now, but this realm has many lords, and they may seek to test their steel against ours. Therefore our men shall raise earthen ringforts along the northern bank of the River of Lords, to be manned by trustworthy warriors.”
Skalatan listened, his mind turning over his plans. Ryntald had the strategy well in hand, and there was no need for interference. Agantyr would have charged across the river at once and made straight for Barellion, determined to crush the remaining lords of Greycoast, but Ryntald was more cautious. He almost had the cold, logical mind of a San-keth.
A ghostly tingle brushed against his magical senses, and Skalatan turned his head back and forth, his tongue tasting the air.
“Great Herald?” said Nizius, reaching for his weapons. The other Aegonar backed away from him. The Aegonar loathed the changelings as half-breeds, yet feared them as servants of the San-keth. “Is something amiss?”
“Yes,” said Skalatan, and he hissed a spell. His magical senses sharpened, and he detected a sudden pulse of necromantic force. “Prepare yourselves! The shadows come!”
Every man standing before the High King’s tent drew his sword, and Korvager and his seidjar cast spells. A cold wind blew through the Aegonar camp, carrying the sounds of alarm. Skalatan lifted his carrier’s hands and worked a spell of his own, green fire flaring around the skeletal fingers.
A moment later the first shadow rose out of the ground, moaning.
The undead thing looked like a man fashioned out of gray mist and pulsing shadow. A symbol of pale green flame flickered in its chest, and Skalatan felt the necromantic force gathered within it. One touch from the creature could drain the life from any living thing, reducing a healthy young man to a withered husk in less than a heartbeat.
Korvager snarled and made a chopping motion, and a writhing serpent fashioned of purple flame burst from his fingers. The serpent stabbed through the heart of the shadow, and the creature dissolved in a puff
of smoke.
The shadows were potent…but not that potent.
Dozens of them rose from the ground, filling the air with a baleful chorus of moans. Korvager and the other seidjar lifted their hands, sending blast after blast of dark magic into the undead shades. The touch of their magic reduced the shadows to wispy shreds, but still more of the creatures rose from the ground. Skalatan saw a dozen Aegonar warriors fall dead, transformed into withered corpses in a mere instant.
He hissed in annoyance. He needed these men alive to take Knightcastle.
Skalatan summoned more power, the air around his carrier rippling and snarling with green sparks. A few of the seidjar sent uneasy glances his way, but Skalatan ignored them and drew more power into his spell.
He disliked taking a direct hand himself. As much as he disagreed with the other San-keth clerics, he understood their preference for using servants rather than risking themselves in direction confrontation. Indeed, Skhath, Straganis, and Szegan had all sought to defeat Mazael Cravenlock themselves…and had paid the price for their pride. Skalatan suffered from no such delusions.
But he commanded magic greater than the power of every seidjar in the host combined…and despite the skills of his servants, sometimes the master had to take action himself.
His spell reached its climax, and Skalatan thrust out his carrier’s hands, the skeletal fingers ablaze with green fire. A ring of emerald flame burst from him and exploded in all directions, destroying every shadow it touched. The fire passed through the living men without harm, but lingered around their swords and axes, sheathing the blades in ghostly fire. The necromantic fire was harmless to living men, but potent against the undead. A mighty cheer went up from the Aegonar warriors, and they attacked the shadows with glee. Steel sheathed in emerald fire sliced the shadows to wispy ribbons.
A few moments later the cold wind ended, and the attack was over.
Cries of victory came from the Aegonar camp, and Skalatan heard the warriors shouting his name. Korvager led his seidjar in a rumbling chant of praise to the serpent god. Only Ryntald remained quiet, his eyes troubled.
Soul of Swords (Book 7) Page 11