Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Lucan sped towards them, walking through the runedead.

  ###

  Gauntlet reared in terror as the scorpions charged. The warhorse had faced both Malrag warbands and roving runedead without flinching, but the giant spirit creatures were beyond the beast’s experience. Mazael dropped from the saddle as Gauntlet’s hooves slashed at the air, raised his shield, and charged to meet the attack of the scorpions.

  The nearest creature came at him, the woman’s face distorted with murderous glee, pincers snapping and tail cracking like a whip. Mazael caught the blow of the pincer on his shield, the blow numbing his left arm. The tail stabbed towards him, and he took a chance and caught the blow on his chest. The golden dragon scales of his armor held against the stinger, though the strike felt as if he had taken a hammer to the chest. But he kept his balance and lunged forward, Lion a fan of blue flame in his fist. He aimed for the creature’s head, but the scorpion jerked back, and Lion sliced through its right pincer.

  The serrated pincer fell against the ground with a hollow clatter, and the scorpion screamed, eyes bulging with pain. Darkness swirled, and Molly appeared out of nothingness, her sword and dagger flashing. The scorpion’s head fell away, expression frozen in pain and fury. The hulking body went into a wild dance, the spindly legs drumming against the earth.

  Then the head and both dissolved into gray mist and vanished.

  They were nothing but a distraction. Mazael knew it, and turned to seek Lucan.

  “Father!” shouted Molly.

  The other three scorpion-beasts rushed at them.

  ###

  Lucan ran through the battle, the combatants both living and dead blurring around him. In his immaterial state, unhindered by mass and inertia, he moved as fast as a running horse. He passed through the runedead and came to the front of the battle line, where one of Malden’s household knights struggled against the Aegonar, a few runedead remaining at his side. Even as Lucan approached, the last runedead fell to the Aegonar axes and swords, and the warriors encircled the knight. The knight spun in a circle, teeth bared in a snarl, sword and black dagger held out before him.

  Lucan shifted back into the material world, and for a moment the melee froze in surprise.

  “Lord Mandragon!” shouted the knight. “Aid me!”

  “I regret this necessity,” said Lucan, focusing his will upon the dagger in the knight’s hand.

  The knight frowned. “I don’t understand…”

  The dagger exploded, tearing the knight’s left forearm to bloody shreds. The knight fell to his knees with a horrified scream, his eyes fixed on the blood pouring from his ruined arm.

  His pain did not last long.

  A pulse of green fire erupted in all directions, passing through the Aegonar and the nearby militiamen. At the touch of the flames the men fell dead, lying scattered upon the ground like a child’s discarded toys. The dagger’s eruption had killed three or four hundred men at a stroke, and Lucan felt their stolen life force pour through the Glamdaigyr and down the link to the Door of Souls.

  Almost there. A few more deaths, and the Door would open.

  Lucan shifted his body back into immaterial form, seeking the next bearer of a black dagger.

  ###

  Riothamus struck the staff of the Guardian against the earth, summoning fresh power.

  Two of the remaining scorpion-beasts circled around Molly and Mazael. Mazael held his ground, catching the creature’s strikes on his shield. Molly flickered around the scorpions, moving in and out of the shadows to slash at their legs. Romaria loosed shaft after shaft at the two scorpions, distracting the creatures as Mazael and Molly landed telling blows.

  The third scorpion charged at Riothamus like a wall of fresh iron.

  For a moment he considered unravelling the summoning spell and banishing the creature back to the spirit world. But Lucan’s magic was too strong, and it would take Riothamus too long to banish the creature. It would tear him to bloody ribbons long before he broke the spell.

  So instead he lifted the staff, the magic of the earth and sky pulsing through him, and called lightning of his own.

  A blue-white bolt thundered out of the clear sky and struck the charging scorpion with enough force to flip the beast onto its back. Yet the creature regained its balance after a moment and continued its charge, pincers snapping and clacking.

  A ring of green fire swept through the battle, and from the corner of his eye Riothamus saw hundreds of men fall dead. He had to hurry. Lucan was almost ready to open the Door of Souls…and he would kill as many people as necessary to open the way to Cythraul Urdvul.

  The scorpion drew closer, its tail rearing back to strike.

  Riothamus swept the staff before him, calling the magic of the earth, and the firm ground beneath the scorpion’s legs turned to mud. The creature lost its balance and slipped, its armored belly splashing against wet earth. Yet the mud would not slow it for long, and it started to pull its bulk from the mud.

  Riothamus cast another spell, a sheet of white mist rolling across the ground. The touch of the white mist froze the water within the mud…and the scorpion went motionless, its legs trapped in the rock-hard ground. The woman’s head shrieked in fury, the creature’s tail snapping back and forth as it tried to tear itself free.

  The staff of the Guardian blazed with golden light, and Riothamus sent fire hammering into the scorpion. The beast shrieked once more, and then dissolved into gray mist as the summoning spell shattered and sent it back into the spirit world.

  ###

  Molly stepped into the shadows, the darkness swallowing her whole.

  She reappeared on the scorpion’s back, the carapace as hard and as unyielding as iron beneath her boots. The scorpion started to draw back its poisoned tail, sensing her presence, but Molly was already in motion. Her sword plunged through the back of the scorpion’s head, the blade erupting from its mouth like a long steel tongue. The scorpion went into a crazed dance, its tail whipping back and forth, its legs drumming, and Molly slipped back into the shadows, reappearing at Romaria’s side.

  Romaria lowered her bow with a grunt. “Just like Malavost’s pets.”

  Molly opened her mouth to ask what that meant, and then the final scorpion charged towards Mazael. He caught the blow of its pincers on his shield and launched a slash at the reaching forearm. The scorpion danced to the side, avoiding the blow, and swung its tail at Mazael. The stinger bounced off the golden scales armoring his chest, but Molly saw the blow stagger him. The scorpion closed, reaching with its pincers, and Romaria sent an arrow humming at the creature. The shaft buried itself in the scorpion’s thick hide, and the creature reared back with a hiss.

  “Go!” said Romaria.

  Molly slipped into the shadows and reappeared next to the scorpion’s legs, driving her sword and dagger at its belly. The scorpion tried to lash at her with its barbed legs. She rolled away and sprang back to her feet, and the scorpion pursued her, its female face spitting with rage and fury.

  A blast of lightning fell from the sky and drilled into the scorpion’s flank. The bolt slammed the creature to the left, and Mazael charged. Before the scorpion could regain its balance, Mazael raised Lion and brought it hammering down.

  The scorpion’s head rolled away, jetting black blood from the ragged stump of its neck. The huge body twitched once, and then dissolved into gray mist.

  Molly let out a ragged breath. “What were those things?”

  “Spirit creatures,” said Mazael. “Powerful wizards can sometimes call them up.” He turned to Romaria and Riothamus. “We have to find Lucan. If we don’t stop him, he’ll call up worse.”

  He hurried towards the horses, and Molly followed him.

  ###

  Lucan released the spell, letting his flesh harden into material form once more.

  Another one of Lord Malden’s household knights battled before him, bleeding from a dozen minor wounds, teeth bared in a frantic snarl. His eyes lit up with hope
as he saw Lucan.

  “Lord Mandragon!” he said. “The foe…”

  Lucan focused his will upon the black dagger in the knight’s hand.

  The resultant explosion drove the knight to his knees and rocked the nearby Aegonar warriors and armsmen. An instant later the ring of green flame erupted in all directions, tearing through the men and cutting them down like wheat beneath the harvester’s scythe. Four or five hundred men had died, Lucan guessed, and he felt the life force flow through the web of spells he had woven around the Glamdaigyr. Another few hundred, and then…

  He felt a stirring in the magical currents around him, felt a sudden gust of wind blow over the battlefield. A tremendous amount of magical energy was moving, and Lucan turned, fearing that Skalatan or Riothamus had worked a mighty spell…

  A slender column of silver light erupted from Knightcastle, stabbing into the sky, and Lucan’s hand tightened around the hilt of the Glamdaigyr.

  He had done it at last.

  The Door of Souls had activated, and the path to Cythraul Urdvul was open.

  Which meant he had to get there first, before Skalatan or Mazael or any other fool that might try to claim the power of the Demonsouled rather than destroy it.

  Lucan shifted his body back into immaterial form and sprinted for the walls of Knightcastle with all his undead stamina, the battlefield blurring around him.

  ###

  Another pillar of emerald fire erupted from the battlefield.

  “Damn it!” said Hugh. “Gods know how many men we lose to each of those explosions!”

  “Aye,” said Ryntald, his face stern behind the close-cropped red beard. “An Aegonar warrior does not fear death, but better to die in battle than at the hands of this…this sorcery.”

  “Can your seidjars block those attacks?” said Hugh.

  “No more than your petty heathen wizards can,” said Korvager, his face strained and dripping with sweat. “The magic is too strong. We cannot overcome it.”

  “Then let Skalatan do something about it,” said Hugh, glaring at the archpriest. “Conjure a dragon or some damn thing before Lucan destroys both of our armies.”

  Skalatan made no response. The wind generated up by the competing magical spells had thrown back his gray cowl, and his yellow eyes remained fixed on Knightcastle, his tongue darting back and forth.

  “You will not speak so disrespectfully to the Herald of Sepharivaim!” said Korvager, stepping towards Hugh.

  “High Priest, not now,” said Ryntald. “Great Herald, forgive me, but the Prince speaks wisdom. Your powers could tip the balance in…”

  A shiver went through the air, and Knightcastle itself trembled.

  Then a slender pillar of silver light shot from the highest towers of the castle and stabbed into the sky.

  “What in the name of Sepharivaim is that?” said Ryntald.

  “At last,” said Skalatan. “The Door opens.”

  Hugh’s fingers tightened around his sword hilt. Skalatan’s attention was focused entirely on the spire of silver light. If he defeated Lucan and reached the Door, he would become the new god of the San-keth…and the world would know unending tyranny.

  His sword arm tensed, but before he could strike, Skalatan changed, both the San-keth and his carrier becoming a wraith fashioned of green light and mist. The wraith hurtled towards the walls of Knightcastle with incredible speed, vanishing into the press of the battle.

  ###

  Mazael pulled himself back into Gauntlet’s saddle, his eyes sweeping the battlefield. Lucan would not be hard to find, not with Riothamus’s and Romaria’s ability to use the Sight. Though if they confronted Lucan again, would the Old Demon reveal himself at last? Mazael’s father preferred to stay in the shadows, using puppets and dupes to work his will, but with the Door of Souls almost open, would he…

  The air around him shivered. Mazael turned Gauntlet just as a slender pillar of silver light erupted from Knightcastle, rising into the air like a tower of impossible height.

  “What the devil is that?” said Mazael.

  “The Door of Souls,” said Riothamus, voice grim. “It’s opened.”

  A sense of finality settled over Mazael, a certainty that he was about to ride to his death.

  So be it. He would not let the Old Demon become a god.

  “Then we are out of time,” said Mazael, and galloped for the gates of Knightcastle, Riothamus, Molly, and Romaria following after him.

  Chapter 28 - Fooled

  Lucan raced through the Trysting Ways, his immaterial form passing through the ancient stone walls with ease. Old wards of power glowed here and there in the walls, and Lucan maneuvered around them.

  Urgency drove him on. He did not have much time. Both Skalatan and the Guardian would have sensed the Door opening, and they would be in pursuit.

  At last he stopped before a blank wall of white stone and shifted back into material form. Lucan cast a sequence of spells with as much speed as he could manage, undoing the subtle wards upon the wall. A doorway appeared, and Lucan strode through it. He did not bother to rearm the wards behind him. They would not slow his pursuers.

  He entered the great stone hall holding the Door of Souls. The walls, floor, and arched ceiling had been constructed of gleaming white stone, but now they shone with a reflected silver glow.

  The Door of Souls had opened.

  The symbols carved into the pointed arch blazed with silver light, a radiant column rising from the Door to stab through the stone ceiling and into the sky above the castle. Within the Door’s pointed arch a silvery mist shimmered, and as Lucan looked into it he felt an overwhelming sense of distance, as if he were staring into a deep pit.

  And beyond the silvery mist, he saw black stone and crimson fire.

  Cythraul Urdvul.

  Lucan strode towards the door, the Glamdaigyr in his right first. The way was open, and now he need only enter Cythraul Urdvul and destroy the Demonsouled for all time.

  Then he stopped in surprise, his free hand coming up to cast a spell.

  A man stood near the Door, gazing into its depths, clad in a black robe. He turned as Lucan lifted his hand, revealing a lean, hawkish face with a close-cropped beard and brown hair shot through with gray. Lucan had never seen the man before in his life.

  Yet he was certain, utterly certain, that they had met before.

  “Lucan,” said the man in the black robe, smiling. Something like a crimson haze glimmered in the depths of his gray eyes.

  “Who are you?” said Lucan. A Demonsouled like Caraster, who had been lurking in the shadows? A renegade wizard like Malavost, who hoped to seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself?

  “You don’t remember?” said the man in the black robe. He titled his head to the side, as if thinking. “Well. It’s not as if I should be surprised at that.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” said Lucan, pointing the Glamdaigyr at the man. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, just an old acquaintance,” said the black-robed man, “come to congratulate at you at the end of your quest. And you did well, Lucan. You did so well. I had my doubts…but in the end, you surprised even me.” He grinned, and for a moment his teeth looked like yellowed, twisted fangs. “You did so well…and you’re not even family.”

  “I do not have time for this nonsense,” said Lucan, stepping closer, keeping the Glamdaigyr pointed at the other man. “So I will say this plainly. Identify yourself, or get out of my way. The fate of the world hangs in balance, and I don’t have time for games.”

  “You’re half-right,” said the man in the black robe. “The fate of the world is going to be decided in the next few moments. And as for games…why, you shall have as much time for games as I say you will. Part of our pact.”

  He laughed…and the sound of his laughter sent an icy shiver down Lucan’s spine.

  Lucan recognized that laughter. It had echoed inside his head when he suffered moments of doubt. Suddenly the man before him looked fam
iliar, so terribly, horribly familiar, and Lucan felt dread like nothing he had experienced since Swordgrim.

  Yet he had never seen the black-robed man before.

  “Who are you?” said Lucan, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Why should I tell you, if you already know?” said the man. “But you’re asking the wrong question.”

  “Then why are you here?” said Lucan. “To stop me from destroying the power of the Demonsouled?”

  “What? Not at all,” said the robed man. The silver glow played over the hard lines of his face, and for an instant the light made his robe look like wings of shadow wrapped around his body. “I’ve been your biggest supporter, Lucan. When you first stole Mazael’s blood to forge that bloodstaff…”

  “How can you possibly know about that?” said Lucan.

  The man in the black robe continued speaking. “When you stole the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, when you took the Wraithaldr from Randur Maendrag.” He laughed. “That pompous child never understood what he had really done. Given that he was your ancestor…well, appropriate, isn’t it? When you worked the Great Rising, when you forged the black daggers and sent your pawns forth to kill. I watched it all, Lucan…and I approved. Your father taught you that the right end justifies any means, that the only way to do good deeds is through great power, no matter the source of that power. And you learned those lessons, Lucan, you learned them well…and you did magnificent work for me.”

  Some part of Lucan’s mind screamed for him to attack, and another to run. Yet he stared at the man, mesmerized, and could not look away, could not stop listening. He felt something deep and awful stirring beneath his thoughts.

  As if some horrible truth was about to surface.

  “What do you want of me?” whispered Lucan.

  “Ah! Now there’s the right question,” said the robed figure. “I merely want to give you a gift.”