Malaric grinned. “Why, to follow you, my lord Lucan. Power follows in your wake."
"And death," said Lucan.
He remembered the life fading from Tymaen's blue eyes, the shard of the Wraithaldr transfixing her heart. The grief filled him, more intense than any grief he had felt while still alive.
Were rage and grief the only emotions he would ever feel again?
"There might be more power in your wake," said Malaric. A hint of scorn entered his tone. "Unless you plan to spend your newfound immortality gazing into that lake."
The grief vanished, replaced again by rage. Tymaen had been taken from him. Lucan had been so close. He had almost rid the world of the Demonsouled forever, and then...
Something in his expression made Malaric flinch, and the other man vanished in a swirl of darkness.
Lucan's lip curled in an amused sneer at Malaric's new trick, a power gleaned from that skull he had taken from Arylkrad. Of course, those tricks had saved Malaric's life when the Great Rising had unraveled...
When Tymaen had died.
Lucan bowed his head and stared into the rippling waters.
###
Lucan could not have said how much time passed. He had no need to eat, to drink, to sleep, or even to rest. He had not realized how much those simple rituals allowed him to mark the passage of time. But now he had no need to maintain his physical body. He was a revenant, a soul housed in a body of changeless undead flesh, immortal and unfeeling.
He had nothing but time.
With that time he brooded.
Where had it all gone wrong?
Here, in this cavern, when he had defeated Marstan?
When he had taken Mazael's tainted blood to forge a bloodstaff?
Perhaps when he had stolen the Glamdaigyr and gone to find the Wraithaldr?
So many mistakes, so many errors. Every step had seemed logical at the time. Yet together they added up to catastrophe. The Great Rising had failed. He had died and risen as this undead horror.
And Tymaen had perished.
It had all been for nothing.
Yet he had come so close. Another few hours, and Lucan could have rid the world of the Demonsouled forever. Yes, the cost would have been high. But a new world would have risen from the ashes, a world free of the Demonsouled.
So close...but it had all been for nothing.
Unless Lucan made it right.
Memories flickered through the black ice filling his mind. Lucan had used the Glamdaigyr to destroy the revenant that had once been his distant ancestor Randur Maendrag. The sword had stolen Randur's memories and powers and bestowed them upon Lucan. Randur had designed the Great Rising, had forged the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem and the Wraithaldr, and his arcane knowledge had been broad and deep.
And Randur had known of another way to destroy the Demonsouled.
Lucan thought upon it.
###
After some more time, Lucan realized that Malaric had returned.
Malaric sifted through the shelves and the tables, examining the books and the scrolls and bottles. He was looking for power, for relics and secrets that Marstan had left behind. Just as he had in Arylkrad, plucking that skull from the dust of the throne chamber.
"Why are you still here?" said Lucan.
Malaric glanced up from a shelf. "I told you, my lord Lucan. You leave power in your wake." He grinned. "And I rather like power, you know."
"You have power," said Lucan. "Your own magic. The spells I taught you. And the skull you took from Arylkrad. With that, you are a match for any mortal man...ah."
"Oh?" said Malaric.
"You're afraid," said Lucan, "that Molly Cravenlock is going to hunt you down."
"I could have taken the girl," said Malaric.
"And yet," said Lucan, "she is still alive."
Unlike Tymaen.
"I do not fear her," said Malaric, his tone frank. "I could kill her. That Tervingi wizard, though, the one they call the Guardian. I could not defeat him."
Lucan had faced the Guardian during the Great Rising, wielding the full might of the Glamdaigyr, the Demonsouled power he had stolen from Mazael, and the knowledge and strength he had taken from Randur.
And yet the Guardian had still held his own.
"So I shall stay near you," said Malaric, "in case the Guardian pursues me. If he does, you can kill him for me. And perhaps rid me of Molly Cravenlock as well." He tilted his head to the side. "Though one thing does puzzle me. I have power now...but you have even more. Why not kill Mazael Cravenlock and his court? I doubt they could stop you."
Again Lucan saw Tymaen dying with the black crystal shard in her heart, and rage burned through him.
"The Guardian," said Lucan, "is a formidable opponent. But even if he were not, this is not about revenge. This is about creating a world free of Demonsouled."
Malaric snorted. "Revenge is sweet, my lord Lucan. And I intend to gorge myself upon it."
"A futile endeavor," said Lucan.
"You only think so because you are undead," said Malaric. "If you were still alive, if you had the passions of a living man, you would feel differently. If you really loved Tymaen, you would take Mazael's head for..."
Rage filled Lucan's mind. He would have killed Malaric then and there, but the renegade realized his mistake and vanished in a swirl of darkness.
After a moment Lucan's fury subsided, replaced by the usual cold numbness, and he stared into the underground lake. Revenge would achieve nothing.
Better instead to free the world from the curse of the Demonsouled.
###
Weeks passed, and Lucan contemplated his plan.
Malaric made good use of his ability to walk through the shadows, and returned from time to time with news. With both Richard and Toraine Mandragon dead, Mazael had become the new liege lord of the Grim Marches. The news filled Lucan with dark amusement. Toraine had always been so fearful that Mazael would overthrow him.
No doubt Toraine had never dreamed that Lucan would kill him.
"He's become the hrould of the Tervingi rabble," said Malaric, examining one of Marstan's tables. "Apparently he's managed to unify them, and leads them on campaigns against your runedead."
"Is he?" said Lucan, unconcerned. Still, perhaps he should take caution. If Mazael realized what Lucan had become, he would try to stop Lucan's plan.
As he had before.
"You've made quite a mess of the world," said Malaric, tapping the side of the table with the pommel of his sword. "I've been listening to the merchants of Cravenlock Town. They speak of entire towns overrun by runedead, by vast stretches of land haunted by vengeful corpses. Do you still have control over them, incidentally?"
"No," said Lucan. "The spell broke when the Wraithaldr shattered. I could resume control over some, easily enough." He touched the black diadem encircling his brow, its metal shaped like a dragon holding a glowing emerald in its claws. "The Banurdem would let me take control of many, perhaps thousands. But not all of them at once, not any more."
"Pity," said Malaric. He squinted at the table and returned his sword to its scabbard.
"What the devil are you doing to that table?" said Lucan.
"There is a spell on it," said Malaric.
"A preservation spell," said Lucan. "Marstan put preservation spells on everything down here. The lack of mold should have made that obvious."
Malaric smirked. "Perhaps that's why you haven't begun moldering yourself, my lord Lucan. But there's another spell beneath the preservation ward. One to keep an object concealed, I believe."
Lucan gave an indifferent shrug. Marstan had loved his little secrets. The necromancer had left hidden caches and lairs scattered all over the Grim Marches. Lucan had destroyed some, but no doubt others remained.
Malaric whispered a spell. A pulse of blue light washed over the table...and then a dagger appeared on its surface.
"Gods," whispered Malaric.
The dagger was a foot an
d a half long with a peculiar tapering blade, its hilt bound with rubies. In fact, the blade looked like a feather fashioned out of steel.
Even from a distance, Lucan felt the magical power within the weapon.
Malaric looked at the dagger, and then at Lucan, eyes wide.
"Do you have any idea what that is?" said Malaric.
"Of course," said Lucan.
"And...you do not wish to claim it?" said Malaric. "All that power, and you're just going to let it...sit there?" His voice was incredulous. "You're not going to take it?"
"It is too dangerous," said Lucan.
Malaric barked a laugh. "Too dangerous? From the man who went to Morvyrkrad to claim the Wraithaldr?"
"The Wraithaldr," said Lucan, "would not earn me the enmity of creatures that even I cannot control."
Malaric blinked, his eyes straying to the dagger.
"Stop prevaricating," said Lucan. "If you want the damned thing, take it. I have no need of it."
Malaric picked up the dagger, his green eyes alight with glee. "Perhaps you are a fool to give it up so easily. With it, I am a threat even to you, my lord Lucan."
For the first time since Tymaen had died, for the first time in months, Lucan felt himself smile.
"No," he said, "you're not."
Malaric's grin faded. "I suppose not. But I'm not a threat to your plans, am I? I have my own objectives, and you have yours."
"Correct," said Lucan.
"So there is no need for hostilities between us?" said Malaric.
"Not unless," said Lucan, "you get in my way."
A hint of Malaric's bravado returned. "Yes, I'm make sure not to stand between you and that lake. No doubt you have learned many impressive secrets by staring at it for the last few months."
Lucan walked away from the lake, making for the cavern's entrance.
He felt a flicker of amusement at the surprise on Malaric's face.
"You're leaving?" Malaric said.
"Yes," said Lucan.
"To do what?" said Malaric. "To attempt the Great Rising again?"
"No," said Lucan. "Tymaen...destroyed the Wraithaldr, and it took the combined might of the high lords of Old Dracaryl to create it. I have not the power to remake it. The Great Rising is over."
"Then what," said Malaric, "do you plan to do?"
Lucan considered this. Malaric was treacherous and ambitious, and would turn on Lucan at the first sign of weakness. Perhaps it would be safer to simply kill him now.
But Lucan was not weak. And he cared nothing for thrones and titles. Malaric might make a useful tool once more.
"Have you ever heard of Cythraul Urdvul?" said Lucan.
"No," said Malaric. "Those are Elderborn words, aren't they? They mean something like...birthplace of the dark, or stronghold of the dark, I think."
"Correct," said Lucan. "It is has been forgotten, but the high lords of Dracaryl knew of its existence. Cythraul Urdvul was once a temple of the High Elderborn. When some among the High Elderborn turned to the worship of evil and became the Dark Elderborn, they made contact with the demon god who fathered the Demonsouled in Cythraul Urdvul. When they tried to summon the demon god and failed, the backlash destroyed the realm of the High Elderborn and pushed Cythraul Urdvul into the spirit world, where it remains to this day."
"A historical curiosity," said Malaric. "What use is it?"
"The power of every Demonsouled that has ever been slain," said Lucan, "has been pulled into Cythraul Urdvul. It is like a...lodestone, for want of a better word, pulling the power of slain Demonsouled to itself. Or a reservoir, perhaps. All that power is there, waiting. And I will use that power to destroy the Demonsouled."
"Or," said Malaric, "you could claim that power for yourself and become a god."
"No," said Lucan. "I have no wish for that kind of power." The pursuit of power had cost him everything - his friends, Tymaen, even his mortality. "The world does not need a new demon god rising from the ashes of the old. No, I will use the power to destroy the Demonsouled."
Malaric frowned. "That was what Randur Maendrag tried to do, was it not? Kill all the Demonsouled and take their power?"
"And look what happened to him," said Lucan.
"A moot point," said Malaric, "since it is impossible to physically enter the spirit world."
"Unless," said Lucan, "you have a Door of Souls."
"I thought those were legendary," said Malaric.
"They are not," said Lucan. "The High Elderborn used them to enter the spirit world, and the Dark Elderborn tried to summon their demon god through one." Randur's memories floated before his eyes. "The High Elderborn created three. The first was in Cythraul Urdvul, and destroyed along with the demon god. The second was in the temple atop Mount Tynagis. That fool Malavost destroyed it a few years ago."
"And the third?" said Malaric.
"In Knightcastle," said Lucan.
"Knightcastle?" said Malaric, incredulous. "You mean old Lord Malden has been sitting on a Door of Souls for all these decades and never knew about it?"
"Lord Malden and all his ancestors," said Lucan. "Knightcastle was once a stronghold of the High Elderborn. After it fell, their human allies settled in the ruins and built what would become Knightcastle. The lords of Dracaryl warred against the old Roland kings to claim the Door of Souls, but they were never successful."
"Then the Door of Souls is still there?" said Malaric.
"Yes," said Lucan. "Most likely in the Trysting Ways below the castle. I will find the Door, open it, and use the gathered power in Cythraul Urdvul to destroy the Demonsouled."
"Just how will you accomplish that?" said Malaric.
"Life energy," said Lucan. "It will take a great deal of power to open the Door...and stolen life energy is the most obvious available source. The deaths will be regrettable, but will serve a greater good."
"You want my help, I assume," said Malaric.
"You said power follows in my wake," said Lucan. "What I plan to do will create a great deal of chaos. A clever man might exploit it and rise high."
Or Malaric might overreach and get himself killed. Either outcome did not matter to Lucan.
"Very well," said Malaric. "I wish to travel to Barellion, and Knightcastle is not that far from the city."
"Yes," said Lucan. "Your plan to gorge yourself on vengeance."
Malaric's smile did not reach his icy eyes. "I have a few debts to repay."
Lucan did not know the full details of Malaric's banishment from the Prince of Barellion's court. Or of his falling out with the Skulls and the wizards' brotherhood. But now that Malaric had the power of that skull, Lucan suspected anyone who had ever wronged Malaric was going to regret it bitterly.
"Come," said Lucan.
Malaric followed him to the entrance.
Lucan emerged from the cave and onto the rocky shore of the Lake of Swords. The sun rose over horizon to the east, painting the lake's waters the color of gold. Lucan still expected to see the dark mass of Swordgrim, his father's castle, rising from the water, strong and unyielding.
But Richard Mandragon was dead, and Swordgrim was a pile of rubble at the bottom of the lake.
Lucan turned and looked to the east.
"We had best start walking," said Malaric. "It is sixteen to twenty days to Knightcastle from here, assuming the roads are clear. Which they will not be, thanks to the runedead you have unleashed. We will make better time if we steal some horses, though given your...peculiar nature, your presence might frighten the animals."
"We have no need of horses," said Lucan.
Malaric nodded. "Ah. One of your paths through the spirit world?"
"Something better," said Lucan, and he lifted his hand to cast a spell.
Power roared through him, more power than he had ever before summoned. That kind of power would have killed him, had he still been a living man. But he was a revenant, and he was no longer bound by the limitations of the flesh.
A column of mist rose fr
om the rocky beach, ten feet, twenty feet high. The gray mist broadened into a sheet, and through the haze Lucan saw a broad green valley, rocky hills rising on either side.
"A mistgate?" said Malaric, a hint of fear in his voice. "You're strong enough to conjure a mistgate?"
"Yes," said Lucan, gazing into the gate. "Corvad's Malrag warlocks knew the spell. This will put us a day south of Knightcastle itself. From there I can decide how best to begin the great work."
The work that would at last rid the world of the Demonsouled. He had failed once before, and Tymaen had paid the price for his mistakes. But this time, he would not fail.
In Tymaen's name he would free the world of the Demonsouled.
Lucan strode through the mistgate.
###
The mistgate closed, the mist itself blowing over the waves.
A figure in a dark robe stood on the bluff overlooking the lake, gazing at the shore.
He had many names. The High Elderborn, in the days before the destruction of their civilization, had called him the Firstborn. In later days the surviving Elderborn had called him the Malevagr, and the San-keth had named him the Hand of Chaos. The Tervingi and the other barbarian nations called him the Urdmoloch, the elder evil.
The folk of the Grim Marches named him the Old Demon.
He had watched both Lucan and Malaric for weeks. Neither man had seen him, for he had not wished it. Malaric commanded considerable magic, and Lucan was even stronger - but they were both gnats next to the Old Demon's power.
But his nature imposed limitations on that power. He was the greatest of the Demonsouled, the eldest and the strongest - but that meant he was half-spirit, and bound by the limitations of the spirit world. He could not attack or kill, could not use his vast magic unless he was first attacked.
So he had to use others as his weapons and tools.
His smiled widened.
He had gotten very good at it, over the long millennia.
And he was almost ready.
Soon the world, and everything in it, would belong to him.
"Lucan, Lucan," murmured the Old Demon. "You are going to do great things for me."
For centuries the Old Demon had harvested the power of his children and grandchildren. How amusing that, in the end, his most effective tool would not be of Demonsouled blood.
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 4