Soul of Swords (Book 7)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “We’ll find her,” said Riothamus. “And Lord Mazael…I fear he is dead. We…”

  Molly spotted Romaria stumbling around the edge of the column of flame, moving as fast as she could despite a limp.

  “There!” said Molly.

  She threw herself into the shadows and reappeared at Romaria’s side. The older woman’s face was haggard with pain, her blue eyes bloodshot. She had taken wounds, and she had also just seen her husband die in front of her.

  Molly knew what that felt like.

  “Leave me and go,” said Romaria. “I…”

  “Shut up,” said Molly, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her into the shadows.

  They reappeared next to Riothamus. Molly took his arm, and pulled both Riothamus and Romaria into the shadows. The effort strained her, but the fear was an excellent motivator. They reappeared at the edge of the ruined hypostyle hall, the broken columns trembling around them.

  “Where’s the Door?” said Molly.

  “Outside the temple,” said Riothamus, pointing at an archway.

  Molly took another step, urging Romaria along, and then the column of bloody flame exploded.

  Red fire slammed into her.

  ###

  Romaria fell through the void, an eternity of darkness speeding around her.

  She struck something hard and smooth and cold, and her eyes opened.

  She lay on a floor of gleaming white stone, a sputtering, crackling noise ringing in her ears. She sat up, the silver light from the Door of Souls falling over her.

  Or what was left of the Door.

  The stone frame was charred, and melted in places. The silver light in the Door’s sigils flickered and dimmed, and even as she stood, the lights winked out. Apparently the Door, much like the Glamdaigyr, had been unable to handle that much competing magical force.

  The silver haze in the Door vanished, the stone frame going dark.

  The Door of Souls had closed.

  She saw Riothamus and Molly standing nearby.

  “What happened?” said Romaria.

  “Mortals cannot physically enter the spirit world, not without an open pathway back to the material world,” said Riothamus. “When the Door closed, it forced us back to the mortal world.” He sighed. “And Lord Mazael’s blood brought us to Cythraul Urdvul. With his death, we lost the connection that allowed us to stay there.”

  Mazael.

  A wave of grief rolled through Romaria, and she closed her eyes. He had been triumphant one last time. He had vowed to defeat the Old Demon, even at the cost of his own life, and he had kept his word.

  “He came back with us,” said Molly, voice quiet.

  Romaria turned, and saw Lion’s broken hilt upon the floor, the blade melted away a foot above the crosspiece. Mazael himself lay nearby, his golden armor rent and torn, a charred crater marring his chest where the Old Demon had stabbed him with the Glamdaigyr.

  He had, indeed, kept his word.

  Chapter 33 - A Final Sacrifice

  Romaria went to one knee alongside Mazael and took his hand, gazing at his motionless face.

  He had seen her die, the day they had confronted the Old Demon in Castle Cravenlock’s chapel. And he had seen her almost die a second time, when Malaric had struck her down with Skalatan’s poison.

  Was this was how it had felt for Mazael?

  “Romaria,” said Molly.

  “You should go,” Romaria heard herself say. “You are the Lady of Castle Cravenlock and the liege lady of the Grim Marches. Your vassals and the Tervingi headmen need to see you. Otherwise they will rip each other apart. Or the Aegonar will start a second battle.”

  It was important, but Romaria could not bring herself to care.

  Not after this.

  “We should take his body from here,” said Riothamus.

  “No. Leave us,” said Romaria.

  Riothamus hesitated. “It must be seen, else the lords and headmen will never accept Molly. And…his valor saved us, Lady Romaria, his valor and his wisdom at the end.”

  “He sacrificed himself,” said Molly. “If he hadn’t stabbed himself with Lion…my grandfather would have won. To think I wanted to kill him, when we first met…” She started to smile, but then her face twisted with a sob. “Gods…I never thought I would shed tears over him. Now look at me.”

  “And the people should see their deliverer,” said Riothamus.

  Romaria found that she was too tired to care. “Do as you think best. The future of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi nation are in your hands, both of you. I…”

  “No.”

  The cold voice shocked Romaria out of her daze.

  She opened her eyes and saw Morebeth Galbraith’s spirit standing over them, still clad in her red scale armor. There was a wild, almost exultant look in her gray eyes, a look of triumph.

  Of freedom.

  “Morebeth,” said Romaria.

  “He won,” said Morebeth, “and I am free. My father is slain at last. No more will he raise generations of Demonsouled only to reap them like grain. No more will he make the kingdoms dance for his amusement while he bathes in the blood of the innocent. I can lay down my power and rest at last.” She smiled, the first true smile Romaria had ever seen on the dead woman’s face. “I can rest.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” said Romaria. “To take Mazael’s spirit back with you?”

  “No,” said Morebeth, her eyes hard and fierce. “I will lay down my power now, and I will rest. My time in the mortal world is done. But before I depart, there is one last thing I can do. One last use for my Demonsouled strength.”

  “What do you mean?” said Romaria.

  “I love him,” said Morebeth, “as do you. That alone gave me the strength to defy my father in death. But I am dead and you are not. I am a monster with the blood of the innocent upon my hands, and you are not. I do this for him, and for you…and remember me for it.”

  Before Romaria could react, Morebeth stepped forward, her hands closing about Romaria’s shoulders.

  And then she stepped into Romaria, entering her body.

  Romaria screamed, and Molly lifted her weapons and Riothamus raised his staff. Morebeth’s spirit flowed through Romaria, filled with the fiery power of the Demonsouled.

  Power that flowed through Romaria…and into Mazael.

  “Remember me,” whispered Morebeth, and then her spirit was gone.

  An instant later the power was gone too, drained away.

  Into Mazael.

  Romaria opened her eyes, blinking.

  “What happened?” said Riothamus.

  Blood filled the crater in Mazael’s chest, and Romaria saw the broken ribs regrow, saw muscle and skin crawl over the bones.

  ###

  Mazael Cravenlock’s eyes swam back into focus.

  Bit by bit he realized that he lay upon the floor, a high arched ceiling over his eyes. He heard voices speaking, his damaged armor creaking as he drew breath.

  He felt something wet fall upon his face.

  Tears.

  He grunted and lifted his head, and saw Romaria kneeling over him, tears in her blue eyes.

  “Romaria?” he said, his voice raspy.

  She nodded.

  Mazael sat up, and saw Lion’s hilt near his hand, the blade melted away. He picked it up and gazed at it. For three thousand years, that sword had fought the forces of dark magic, of the Demonsouled, of the Old Demon himself.

  But now its purpose had been fulfilled at last.

  Some of Mazael’s mind came back into focus.

  “Why am I not dead?” he said.

  “Father,” said Molly, her voice quavering, “you look terrible.”

  “I suppose I do, at that,” said Mazael.

  Romaria let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh, and kissed him so hard he almost fell back over.

  ###

  Hugh Chalsain walked through the battlefield, the High King of the Aegonar at his side.


  He had walked through many battlefields, more than he cared to remember. He knew what he could expect to see. The men tending to the wounded. A few enterprising souls looting the corpses of the slain. Men standing with blank looks on their faces, or laughing and rejoicing in their survival.

  Yet now the men walked with looks of wonder on their faces, gazing at the sky. Marveling that the strange horror in the heavens had been defeated.

  Marveling at their own survival.

  “I wonder,” said Ryntald, “if the Herald is slain.”

  Hugh shrugged. “He must be. He almost certainly failed.”

  They stopped halfway between Knightcastle and Castle Town, the breeze blowing past them, the afternoon sun slipping lower towards the western horizon.

  “Perhaps,” said Ryntald. “Either way, I do not think it matters now.”

  “Indeed?” said Hugh. “He was your…prophet, your high priest. The one that converted your people to the worship of Sepharivaim.”

  “And he failed us,” said Ryntald. “We crossed the sea at his bidding. He promised that we would release Sepharivaim into the mortal world. Though I always suspected that he planned to become a god himself, as proved to be true.” He shrugged. “I followed him because I thought he would be triumphant, and he failed. So his defeat is hardly a shattering blow to me. Yet I suspect others of my kin will feel differently.”

  “I see,” said Hugh. The Aegonar had put their faith in Skalatan, had crossed half the world at his bidding to release Sepharivaim, and Skalatan had failed them.

  How did one worship a god that failed?

  Korvager had not been the only seidjar to cut his throat when the abomination filled the sky.

  “I wonder what truly happened?” said Ryntald.

  “If I had to guess,” said Hugh, “the Old Demon slew Skalatan and seized the power, but Lord Mazael and the Guardian defeated him.”

  He wondered if they had survived. He somehow doubted it.

  “Perhaps,” said Ryntald. “More important is the question of what comes next.”

  “Oh?” said Hugh.

  “You could kill us all, if you wanted,” said Ryntald. “My folk are demoralized, their faith shaken, if not broken. And we are surrounded by the armies of the Grim Marches, Knightreach, and Greycoast. Certainly we cannot stand against those great Tervingi war beasts. It would be a sharp fight, but you would prevail.”

  Hugh hesitated. He saw the logic in what Ryntald said, and he was sorely tempted. In one stroke, he could wipe out the Aegonar utterly. Generations to come would remember him as the Prince who reclaimed Greycoast from the invaders.

  But thousands would die, and there had been so much killing already.

  And the Aegonar had been deceived. Skalatan had used them as a tool, and then discarded them once they had served their purpose. The archpriest had saved Barellion from Lucan Mandragon’s runedead…but Skalatan could just have easily burned Barellion to ashes, if it had served his purpose.

  Hugh made his decision.

  “No,” he said.

  Ryntald blinked, puzzled.

  “We had an agreement,” said Hugh. “Go in peace to the north of Greycoast, and we will not hinder you. Your men fought valiantly against the runedead.”

  “You are certain?” said Ryntald. “You could kill us all.”

  “There has been enough killing,” said Hugh. “And if we start a new war now, we will bleed each other until Greycoast is desolate.” He shrugged. “And after what we have seen today, after all that has happened…do we truly want another battle?”

  “No,” said Ryntald. “I suppose not. You are a different man than I expected, Hugh Chalsain. You continually surprise me.”

  “Who knows?” said Hugh. “Perhaps we can surprise each other for years yet.”

  ###

  Gerald Roland returned home, surrounded by his vassals.

  He stepped over the ruined timbers of Knightcastle’s gate and into the lower courtyard. The castle was deserted and silent. Not surprising, given that the remaining servants had fled Lord Malden’s tyranny. And the pulse of blue fire had destroyed any remaining runedead.

  All the runedead, perhaps? Had the Great Rising finally come to an end?

  That would be a blessing beyond measure.

  “The gate shall have to be rebuilt,” said Lord Agravain.

  “More than that shall have to be rebuilt,” said Gerald. “But we shall do it, my friends. My father’s crimes have tarnished Knightcastle and the Roland name. But we shall rebuild our lands, make our peasants safe and prosperous once more, and…”

  He saw movement across the courtyard.

  Mazael walked across the flagstones, his golden armor in tatters, Romaria at his side. Riothamus and Molly followed them, the Guardian’s staff tapping against the ground.

  “Mazael,” said Gerald. “Gods, it’s good to see that you’re still alive.”

  Mazael smiled. “It was…it was a very near thing.”

  “What happened?” said Gerald. “Truly, what happened? That thing in the sky…”

  Mazael fell silent, gazing at the towers of Knightcastle.

  “We won,” he said at last.

  Chapter 34 - Legend

  “How many people,” said Molly the next day, “will understand what really happened here?”

  Riothamus shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  They walked through the ring of camps encircling Knightcastle. Both the armies of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi had raised camps outside of Knightcastle’s walls, along with the remnants of Aidan Tormaud’s Justiciars and the remaining lords of Knightreach. The Aegonar had departed for the north, along with the armies of Greycoast. Hugh had followed the Aegonar to keep an eye on them, but Molly doubted he would have trouble.

  The Aegonar had the dispirited look of men who had lost their faith.

  “I have heard,” said Molly, “a dozen different stories describing what happened yesterday. Some men say that Sepharivaim appeared over the sky, fighting the Old Demon, and they destroyed each other. Or that the Destroyer appeared to crush the kingdoms of men, and that Mazael slew him.”

  Riothamus squeezed her hand. “They know that a great evil was defeated. Is that not enough?”

  Molly snorted. “Given that we’re still alive, I suppose I don’t have the right to ask for anything more.”

  They walked in silence for a moment.

  “What is it?” said Molly a while later. “I know that expression.”

  “I suppose,” said Riothamus, “that Lucan got what he wanted. A world without the Demonsouled.”

  Molly laughed. “Hardly. I’m still alive, and so is my father.”

  “But the two of you are the last of the Demonsouled,” said Riothamus. “Lucan killed all the others. Mazael and Romaria will not have children, and the Guardian cannot have a child, lest he pass his office onto his son rather than the most worthy candidate.” He sighed. “Aegidia made that mistake with Ragnachar.”

  “Lucan was still a fool,” said Molly.

  Riothamus nodded.

  “But I was fooled by the Old Demon, too,” said Molly, voice quiet, “and if I had kept listening to him, I suppose I might have done things worse than what he did.”

  “But you didn’t,” said Riothamus.

  “No,” said Molly.

  “And Lucan, at least, told Mazael what he needed to know,” said Riothamus. “Things might have gone…rather ill, otherwise.”

  Molly did not want to talk about Lucan. She took a deep breath. “You said you wanted to marry me.”

  “I do,” said Riothamus. “That certainly hasn’t changed.”

  “Then let us wed, now,” said Molly.

  His eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead. “Now?”

  “It is a new world,” said Molly. “My grandfather manipulated kingdoms and nations for centuries. Think of how many wars he started, how many lords and kings he cast down. That’s all over now. Lucan wanted a world free of the Demonsouled…a
nd we’ve got it.” She took both his hands. “So let us go into the new world together.”

  “Molly Cravenlock,” said Riothamus. “I would not have it any other way.”

  They went to Castle Town in search of a priest.

  ###

  Gerald shook his head. “All this time, you were a child of the Old Demon?”

  He stood with Mazael atop the outer curtain wall of Knightcastle. Masons and carpenters labored nearby, repairing the damage to the barbican gate. Many of his vassals and knights had dispersed to their homes, to repair the damage wrought by the Great Rising, Caraster’s rebellion, and Caldarus’s march. It would take a long time for Knightreach to rebuild…but at least the first steps had been taken.

  But for now, Mazael’s news had driven all thoughts of reconstruction from his mind.

  “All my life,” said Mazael. “You can see why I wasn’t eager to share it with anyone.”

  “I suppose not,” said Gerald. “Did you always know?”

  Mazael shook his head. “Not until we returned to Castle Cravenlock. Simonian of Briault, Mitor’s pet necromancer, was actually the Old Demon in disguise. He told me the truth of what I was, in hopes of turning me into the Destroyer.” He scowled. “But that was only another lie. He would have killed me and tried to harvest my strength with all the others.”

  “And that’s what this was about?” said Gerald. “The San-keth, the Dominiars, the Malrags, the Great Rising, the runedead, all of it…all of it was the Old Demon’s plan to become a god?”

  Mazael nodded.

  “And he almost succeeded,” said Gerald, remembering the abomination in the sky with a shudder.

  “Almost,” said Mazael, “but not quite.”

  “A pity about Lion,” said Gerald.

  “Aye,” said Mazael, “but the sword’s makers, I think, would have been pleased. They created the sword to kill the Old Demon. It fulfilled its purpose at last.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Gerald had feared the Demonsouled all his life, regarded them as monsters to be exterminated. Yet the man who had taught him, the man who had saved Knightcastle more than once, was one of them.