Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  It was not a mistgate, not quite. In his undead state, Lucan was strong enough to conjure one. But the massive magical aura of the empowered Door of Souls extended into the spirit world, making the creation of mistgates all but impossible. This was a…shortcut through the spirit world, a pathway, the same sort of spell he had used to travel from Morvyrkrad to Swordgrim before the Great Rising. It would last a short time before it expelled him back into the material world, depending upon how far he traveled, but it would suffice to get him away from the battlefield.

  A pity it would not allow him to enter the spirit world for longer. Otherwise he could have dispensed with the Door of Souls entirely, and not bothered with the black daggers and the runedead. He could have skipped the Great Rising, and Tymaen would still live…

  His thoughts were drifting as the spells upon his flesh broke down. He had to go, now.

  Lucan staggered through the pathway, and it closed behind him.

  ###

  Skalatan felt the ripple of power as Lucan’s pathway closed.

  He hissed in annoyance. He had come so close to ridding himself of Lucan! But perhaps it was just as well. Lord Malden’s army had been broken, and Lucan’s ability to harvest life force had been badly crippled. If Skalatan destroyed him, the Old Demon would simply find another puppet to use.

  But now Skalatan had an opportunity. With Lord Malden’s army destroyed and the runedead scattered, the host of the Aegonar and the host of Greycoast could strike for Knightcastle at once. The remainder of the runedead had marched east with Caldarus to confront Mazael Cravenlock. Either Caldarus would destroy Mazael and then return to Knighcastle, or Mazael would destroy Caldarus and march on Knightcastle.

  Either way, Skalatan had the time he needed to seize Knightcastle and open the Door of Souls himself, untroubled by the Old Demon.

  He looked around the battlefield, saw Hugh Chalsain’s horsemen smashing through the remainder of the runedead. Hugh would make a valuable ally for the attack on Knightcastle. He would, of course, plan to betray Skalatan at the earliest opportunity,

  But once Skalatan became the new god of the San-keth, Hugh could not possibly betray him. Indeed, once Hugh accepted his place in the new order, he would serve his new god with utter devotion.

  Until then, best to minimize the chance of treachery. Skalatan was alone on the battlefield, and Hugh might decide to rid himself of a potential foe.

  Skalatan worked a simple spell, cloaking himself and his carrier in magic to obscure their presence, and waited for Ryntald and the Aegonar warriors.

  ###

  Hugh reined up, seeking more runedead to fight.

  But there were no foes left.

  He looked around, dazed. The fields beyond the Outer Wall were a desolation of ash and embers, of burned corpses and shattered war engines. The stench of blood and burned flesh filled his nostrils, and he heard the cries of wounded men.

  But the enemy was gone.

  And despite the devastation, the Outer Wall and the gates still stood. Barellion had not fallen.

  “We won,” said Hugh, stunned.

  He had never felt so utterly exhausted in his life.

  ###

  Lucan stumbled through the mist-choked path in the spirit world.

  He had made a very serious mistake.

  Runeshadows, hundreds of them, swarmed the boundaries of the path. The nature of the magic required to travel through the spirit world meant the path was warded, but the runeshadows pressed against it, their hisses of icy hatred echoing inside Lucan’s head. He hurried along as fast as he could manage, the Glamdaigyr dangling in one fist, the burns upon his legs and torso aching.

  It had been a long time since he had felt physical pain. The sensation had not improved.

  A column of mist appeared a dozen yards away, and through it Lucan saw the green hills and low gray mountains of northern Knightreach. Just a few more steps, just a few more steps…

  The warding upon the path failed, and the runeshadows poured over him.

  Lucan screamed as they touched him, fresh pain flaring through his limbs. The visions of the men and women and children who had perished upon the black daggers flooded through his mind. Worse, every touch drained a little more energy from him, a little more magic. Before, he had been strong enough that the runeshadows’ touch could not harm him. Now, in his weakened state, they might destroy him.

  Lucan flung out his hands, and green fire ripped from his fingers, shredding dozens of the runeshadows into mist. But still they came, and he broke into a lurching run, throwing green fire in all directions.

  He threw himself through the curtain of mist and staggered back into the material world. He found himself on a deserted hillside overlooking a forested valley and a small river flowing towards the Riversteel.

  The pathway to the spirit world closed behind him.

  Lucan took two steps forward. The Glamdaigyr fell from his nerveless fingers, and he felt the strength pour out of his agonized limbs.

  “So close,” he muttered.

  Then he fell onto his face, and blackness swallowed him.

  ###

  The next day Hugh rode from the Gate of Bishops, flanked by his chief lords and knights, the banner of the House of Chalsain flying from Montigard’s lance.

  The Aegonar host had come.

  Twenty-five thousand Aegonar warriors waited north of the city, standing in orderly ranks, their crimson banners with the stylized S flying in the breeze. The most powerful earls and seidjars waited at the head of the host, flanked by a guard of ulfhednar in their bronze helms. Hugh spotted Skalatan in their midst, standing at the side of High King Ryntald.

  He reined up before the Aegonar nobles.

  For a moment the lords of Greycoast and the earls of the Aegonar nation stared at each other.

  Hugh dropped from the saddle, took a deep breath, and walked towards Ryntald.

  “High King of the Aegonar,” he said, extending his right hand.

  Ryntald gripped it. “Prince of Barellion. Congratulations on your victory.”

  “Your Herald,” said Hugh, looking at Skalatan, “kept his word.”

  “Indeed I did,” said Skalatan in his hissing voice. “What use is one’s word, if one does not keep it? High King, Prince, I suggest you make plans together. We have won a respite, but our foe will not stop until he is destroyed.”

  Hugh stared at Ryntald for a moment.

  “This isn’t over,” Hugh said, voice quiet. “I will not forget what you have done to my lands and people.”

  Ryntald’s smile was cold and humorless. “The strong rule and the weak submit, Prince of Barellion. I suppose time will tell which one of us is the wolf and which one is the sheep. But we can kill each other once Lucan Mandragon is vanquished. In the meantime, we have a campaign to plan.”

  Ryntald was right, damn him.

  “Yes,” said Hugh. “We do.”

  Chapter 21 - Roads of Ice

  Again the Justiciar trumpets rang out.

  The runedead advanced at a slow, steady pace, a wall of dead flesh and crimson flame. The Justiciar knights on the wings began to move to the sides, following the runedead advance. No doubt Caldarus wanted them to engage the knights and horsethains waiting on either side of the shield wall. If the knights broke through Mazael’s horsemen, they could circle behind the shield wall and attack the footmen from behind.

  Mazael watched the enemy maneuver, Lion burning in his fist. His heart thundered in his ears, his blood ablaze with the Demonsouled rage he knew so well. He had struggled with it, had managed to keep the fury under control for years. But now he welcomed it. He needed every edge against Caldarus and his runedead horde. Caldarus had come to invade Mazael’s lands and kill Mazael’s people…and Mazael was going to stop him, or die trying.

  “Riothamus,” said Mazael, his voice icy calm. He tugged off his left gauntlet and extended his hand to the Guardian of the Tervingi. “Now.”

  It was time to put the dark
ness in his blood to good use.

  Riothamus nodded, drew a dagger, and scraped the tip across Mazael’s palm. Blood welled up, and Riothamus let the drops fall upon the staff of the Guardian. The staff flared with golden light, and Riothamus struck the staff against Lion’s blade, shouting the words to a spell.

  A wave of dizziness went through Mazael as the Guardian’s spell drew upon the power of his Demonsouled blood. The fire sheathing Lion’s blade flickered, danced…and then erupted in all directions. The weapons of the knights and horsethains nearest to Mazael burst into blue fire, and he saw a rising blue glow as the fire spread through the army, until thousands of men held weapons that burned with Lion’s fire.

  A thunderous cheer rose from the army, the armsmen raising their burning swords high, the spearthains and swordthains slamming their weapons against their shields in a steady drumbeat. Mazael shook his head, the dizziness fading, and tugged his gauntlet back onto his hand. The power of his blood, aided by Riothamus’s magic, had spread Lion’s fire throughout the army.

  The sword trembled in Mazael’s hand, like a wolfhound ready to spring upon its prey.

  “It seems almost eager,” said Mazael.

  “It is,” said Riothamus, voice low. “That sword was forged to fight the Old Demon…and these creatures are servants of the Old Demon, even if Caldarus is too blind to see it.”

  “Then let us give the sword its chance,” said Mazael. “Join Toric. You are ready for what needs to be done?”

  Riothamus gave a sharp nod, his expression hard.

  “I didn’t choose the man my daughter decided to marry,” said Mazael, “but even if I had, I could not have chosen anyone better.”

  Riothamus smiled. “You are too kind, my lord.”

  “Go,” said Mazael. “Save the kind words for after the battle.”

  Riothamus nodded again and hurried through the lines of Earnachar’s horsethains, making for where Toric and the other skythains waited with the wizards and the Elderborn druids.

  “Shall we charge into the foe, hrould?” said Earnachar, shifting in his saddle.

  “Not yet,” said Mazael.

  Earnachar hefted his mace. “My men are eager for killing!”

  “They’ll have their fill of it within the hour,” said Mazael.

  Or they would perish themselves.

  Earnachar grinned. “Good.”

  ###

  “What the devil is that?” demanded Caldarus. “That blue glow?”

  He sat on his horse with the reserve infantry behind the advancing mass of the runedead. It was beneath the dignity of the Grand Master of the Justiciar Order to participate in the fighting himself. The Order itself would act as the Grand Master’s weapons.

  Next to him, Sir Commander Hadraine was astonished. “I…their weapons, Grand Master, their weapons have caught fire!”

  Caldarus saw that Hadraine spoke the truth. A blue glow rose from Mazael Cravenlock’s army. Every spear, every sword, every mace in the host now crackled with a halo of azure flame.

  “The witchery of that cursed sword of his,” said Caldarus. “Lucan Mandragon warned us of this.”

  “Perhaps we should withdraw, Grand Master,” said Hadraine. “The runedead will be vulnerable.”

  Caldarus gave him an incredulous look. “Withdraw? Of course the runedead are vulnerable! That is their purpose. They are expendable tools in the service of our righteous mission. The runedead will pin the foe in place, both their horsemen and their footmen. And once they do, the knights will circle behind and smash their lines utterly.” The Justiciar knights were the finest heavy cavalry in the world, and they would crush Mazael’s rabble of peasant spearmen and barbarian savages. “Then the lands of the Grim Marches will belong to the Order, and we shall cleanse them of all wickedness.”

  He stroked the handle of his black dagger, smiling at the thought.

  “But the runedead…” said Hadraine.

  “Are tools to achieve our purpose, and nothing more,” said Caldarus. “But put your mind at ease, Sir Commander. We will lose some runedead…but not as many as you fear, thanks to Caraster and his disciples.”

  He turned his horse and rode a short distance to where the burning wizards awaited. Fifty of the vile creatures stood with the reserves, the infantry making sure to keep well away from them. Flames sheathed their charred bodies, crackling and hissing. The runedead that had once been Caraster stood at their head, still clad in his ragged black robes. Unlike the others, his flesh was mostly intact. Apparently Lucan had not burned him to death with the others.

  “Grand Master,” hissed Caraster, the crimson sigil on his pallid forehead pulsing. “You will burn when the new order arises. You and all the other lords and priests shall perish in fire, and no one shall ever be hungry in the new world I will build…”

  “Be silent,” said Caldarus. He could not deny the burning wizards were useful, but Caraster never shut up. “At my command, you and your disciples will join your powers and unleash your spells. The lesser runedead will pin the foe in place, and you will rain fire upon their heads.”

  “They will burn,” whispered Caraster.

  “Indeed,” said Caldarus, turning to Hadraine and the other officers. “You see? A simple matter of holding the enemy in place, and then using the burning wizards to hammer them until they break. Then the knights can hunt down the shattered remnants of Mazael’s host. Proceed to your commands. Today we shall win a great victory.”

  Caldarus rode back to the reserve, Hadraine at his side, while the other officers dispersed to their commands.

  The runedead moved towards the enemy like an inexorable tide.

  ###

  Romaria strung her composite bow, the mixture of wood and horn creaking in her fist. A quiver of steel-tipped arrows waited at her belt, and a blue glow rose from the arrowheads within the quiver. Around her, behind the curved shield wall, stood both the militia archers of the Grim Marches and the hunters of the Elderborn. The militia archers wore studded leather, short bows ready in their hands. The Elderborn hunters, tall and lean, wore fur and wool and leather, their great composite bows ready.

  The fear was plain on the militia archers’ faces, while the Elderborn kept themselves cold and aloof. Yet Romaria understood the Elderborn well enough to see the strain in the alien lines of their expression. Some of them were old enough to have fought the undead armies of Old Dracaryl five centuries past and knew the strength of the runedead.

  A drum boomed, followed by the blast of a war horn.

  “Release!” shouted the sergeants in charge of the archers.

  “Release!” said the captains of the Elderborn.

  Romaria fitted an arrow to her string, the tip ablaze with flame, drew back her bow, and released with the others. A storm of blue-burning arrows hurtled into the air, overshooting the heads of the men in the shield wall, and fell like a storm among the advancing runedead.

  Romaria saw some of them fall, pierced by the magic clinging to the arrows.

  But not very many, and the runedead continued their steady advance.

  Romaria set another arrow to her string.

  “Release!” the men shouted, and she loosed another arrow.

  ###

  Molly gripped her sword in her right hand and her dragon’s tooth dagger in her left.

  The blue-burning arrows from the Elderborn and the militiamen stabbed into the runedead, but only a few of the creatures fell. There were simply too many of the damned things. It reminded Molly of a storm she had witnessed as a child, a great wall of storm-churned water crashing into Barellion’s harbor to overturn ships like toys and flood the dockside warehouses.

  The runedead were a storm that threatened to wash away the Grim Marches.

  “Hold fast!” shouted Arnulf son of Kaerwulf as he walked through the lines of the shield wall, Sir Hagen Bridgebane at his side. “Hold fast!” The big Tervingi headman carried a massive axe and a round wooden shield, his face grim behind his ragged yello
w beard. “Cover the man to your left with your shield, and strike with your spear! Aim for the hearts of the runedead, or the sigils upon their heads! Fight valiantly!”

  Many of the Tervingi began to sing, bellowing one of the battle-hymns of legendary Tervingar. Molly remembered the Tervingi singing before the Battle of Stone Tower, and shuddered with the recollection.

  She felt the power of her Demonsouled blood pulsing through her veins, felt the battle rage rising within her. She might wish it otherwise, but she was Demonsouled, a grandchild of the Old Demon. He had tried to turn her into a weapon, and he had succeeded.

  But now she was a weapon against him.

  The runedead crashed into the edge of the shield wall.

  A shock went through the lines, and many of the men took a few steps backward. Molly saw why Mazael had insisted on forming a curved shield wall. The sheer mass of the runedead forced the lines backwards. If the runedead continued pushing, perhaps the end of the infantry lines could wheel around them and envelop the runedead horde.

  Or, more likely, Caldarus simply had enough runedead to roll right over the footmen.

  The Tervingi battle-hymn came to a ragged end, replaced with shouts and screams and howls as men fought and died. Spears stabbed and broadswords rose and fell, destroying runedead after runedead. The Tervingi thains and the armsmen of the Grim Marches gave a good account of themselves. Yet there were far too many runedead, and man after man fell as the runedead threw themselves against the shield wall. New men rushed to fill the gaps, yet the runedead pushed the lines backwards. The men were valiant, but they could not stand forever. Sooner or later they would break, and the runedead would have them.

  Molly hoped that her father knew what he was doing.

  In the meantime, she had work to do.

  She saw a group of runedead hammering at a line of spearthains, and stepped into the shadows. Darkness swallowed her, and she reappeared behind the runedead. Her sword and dagger danced in a blue blur, and two of the runedead fell to the ground. The runedead turned to face her, and Molly cut down another one. The spearthains yelled and thrust their weapons, destroying almost all of the runedead.