Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Montigard sighed and rolled his eyes. “That was a joke.”

  “It is hardly a joking matter…”

  Hugh ignored them as they settled into their familiar bickering. What was he going to do about Adelaide? Sooner or later the runedead threat would diminish, and he would return to Barellion. Could he convince his father to let him wed Adelaide? But even if he did, how would he support her? Prince Everard would not live forever, and his eldest son Rodric did not like Hugh very much. Perhaps Montigard was right, and Hugh needed to find a wife with lands and titles.

  But he imagined the look on Adelaide’s face when he told her, and he did not like the thought one bit.

  The doors to the keep boomed open, and one of the sergeants ran into the hall.

  “Sir Hugh!” the sergeant shouted.

  Hugh rose. “What is it?”

  “One of the watchtower beacons has been lit,” said the sergeant. “The village of Kynoth is under attack.”

  Hugh frowned. Kynoth was a fishing village further along the shore, four or five miles north of the castle. “The runedead?”

  “Who else, sir knight?”

  Hugh nodded. “Give the word. We ride at once.”

  Both Montigard and Maurus shoved to their feet.

  ###

  An hour later Hugh’s force rode from Stormsea’s barbican. He had one hundred knights and one hundred mounted armsmen in his party, along with a hundred mounted militiamen from Lord Alberon’s villages. Every man bore a flask of wizard’s oil, ready to face the runedead. Maurus himself rode at Hugh’s side, ready to bring his powers to bear. Montigard rode beside Maurus, the Chalsain banner, a black tower on a field of green, flying from his lance.

  Hugh rode past the refugees outside the castle’s crumbling walls. The chaos of the runedead had displaced countless villagers, and many of them had fled to the safety of their lords’ castles. He saw Adelaide striding through their midst, her blue gown and cloak blowing about her in the wind as she oversaw the distribution of bread.

  Her eyes met his, and he saw the sudden fear for him that filled them. Hugh wanted to go to her, to comfort her.

  But he could not, so he lifted his lance in salute and rode on.

  ###

  An hour later Hugh saw smoke rising from the horizon.

  “That fire is coming from Kynoth,” he said, surprised. “And it’s more smoke than their beacon should produce.”

  Montigard shrugged. “Peculiar. The runedead have never burned villages before.”

  “Perhaps a lantern was knocked over in the fighting,” said Maurus.

  “Perhaps,” said Hugh, and he urged his men forward. Fear churned in his stomach. He had seen what happened when runedead fell upon helpless villagers, and he did not want to see it again.

  By the time his men arrived at Kynoth, the runedead would have had more than enough time to kill everyone there.

  A few moments later Kynoth itself came into sight, and Hugh reined up.

  He gazed at the village in shock.

  “What the devil?” he said at last.

  There were no runedead anywhere.

  Kynoth sat on the edge of a bluff overlooking the shore and the endless gray waves of the western sea. Half the houses and barns in the village were on fire. The villagers’ fishing boats waited at the docks in a small inlet beneath the bluff, and two much larger ships had been beached besides the boats. The ships had bright crimson sails adorned with the mark of a black serpent, and dual rows of oars jutting from either side. With their prows carved into snarling dragons, the longships looked like tigers crouching among sheep.

  “Sir Hugh,” said Maurus, “those are Aegonar warships.”

  “The Aegonar?” said Montigard. “What the devil are they doing here?”

  “Taking advantage of the Great Rising, I suspect,” said Hugh. “No doubt they think us distracted by the runedead, and hope to seize some slaves and loot while our backs are turned. Well, they will soon learn their folly! Montigard! Into the village!”

  Montigard raised his trumpet and blew a series of blasts, and the horsemen trotted forward, Hugh at their head.

  And as they did, the Aegonar emerged from the village, howling battle cries.

  They were tall men, clad in armor of steel scales, shields on their left arms and broadswords or crescent-bladed axes in their right fists. Spiked helms rested on their heads, and bushy red beards concealed their faces. The Aegonar sprinted, bellowing curses. They were a terrifying sight, but a thrill of elation filled Hugh. The Aegonar attacked in a ragged line, without formation, without discipline.

  And one charge of horsemen could sweep them aside.

  "Charge!" roared Hugh, raising his lance over his head.

  Montigard blew another blast, and the horsemen surged forward, the knights and armsmen lowering their lances. Hugh's lance felt like an extension of his arm as he lowered the point.

  An instant later the riders crashed into the Aegonar. Hugh drove his lance along the neck of an Aegonar, and the man's head vanished in a crimson spray. The warrior toppled, and Hugh shifted his lance. His weapon struck the chest of another Aegonar with enough force to drive the man to the ground, and the impact wrenched the lance from his hand. Hugh drew his sword with a steely hiss and sought another foe.

  He did not have to look long. An Aegonar sprinted at him, axe raised. Hugh lowered his shield and caught the stroke aimed at his leg. His shield shuddered with the impact, splinters flying from the wood. Hugh brought his sword crashing down upon the Aegonar's helmet. The blow sent the helm tumbling away, and Hugh saw his enemy's face, the glaring blue eyes, the tangled red hair and beard...

  And the stylized, S-shaped brands of a serpent on either cheek, visible through the beard, identical to the black serpents upon the crimson sails of the longships.

  Hugh drove his sword through the Aegonar's neck. The warrior toppled, and Hugh kicked him off the blade with an armored boot. He killed another Aegonar, and another, and the sheer press of the horsemen drove the enemy into the village square.

  The sight of the square surprised Hugh. He had expected the Aegonar to burn Kynoth and carry off its valuables as loot and its women and children as slaves.

  Instead, it looked as if the Aegonar had set up a tribunal. A row of dead villagers lay against the doors of Kynoth's small stone church. A tall crimson banner flew from a pole, adorned with the same stylized black serpent.

  Hugh had never heard of the Aegonar using a serpent as a sigil.

  Another score of Aegonar charged the horsemen, and a strange figure walked in their midst. Tall and gaunt, the man was clad only in boots, ragged trousers, and a leather vest that left his arms and shoulders bare. A bronze diadem in the shape of a serpent encircled his shaved head, and a half-dozen bronze rings adorned each of his arms, the metal piercing his flesh.

  The Aegonar lifted his hands, fingers hooked into claws...and purplish light flared and danced atop his palm.

  "Maurus!" roared Hugh. An Aegonar warrior lunged at him, and he parried the blow with his shield and spun his horse around. His mount's iron-show hooves struck the warrior's legs, and the Aegonar stumbled. Hugh slashed with his sword, denting the warrior's helm and sending him to the ground. "Maurus! Wizard!"

  The Aegonar wizard flung out his hands. Something like a serpent of violet light leapt from his fingers with the speed of an arrow. The glowing serpent plunged through the knight to Hugh's right, and the man screamed, his eyes rolling into his head, black foam bubbling at his lips as if he had been poisoned.

  The man fell dead from his saddle, and the purple serpent leapt from his back, killing another man, and another, before it faded into mist.

  "Maurus!" shouted Hugh, killing another Aegonar and spurring his horse forward. If Maurus could not deal with the wizard, then Hugh would have to do it. The Aegonar wizard spun to face Hugh, the sun glinting off his bronze rings. Hugh raised his sword as the wizard began another spell...

  Then a dazzling blue spark
slammed into the Aegonar's chest, knocking him backward. Hugh saw Maurus galloping towards the Aegonar wizard, hands gesturing in a spell. The Aegonar wizard turned to face Maurus, beginning a new spell.

  Hugh galloped past him, sword blurring.

  The wizard's head jumped from his shoulders in a crimson jet, the diadem clanging as it rolled across the ground.

  Hugh turned his horse to face the remaining Aegonar, and the battle soon ended.

  ###

  Kynoth's bailiff was an elderly man named Corman, and he shared the same sense of injured self-importance as his lord Alberon.

  "It is not surprising that those heathen devils should attack Kynoth," declared Corman, leaning hard upon his cane. "We are the most prominent of Lord Stormsea's estates. Why, the Prince of Barellion himself dines upon fish caught by Kynoth's fishermen."

  "Indeed," said Hugh, who had never once seen his father eat fish.

  They stood in Kynoth's cramped manor house. Hugh doubted Lord Alberon had ever spent the night here, but the stone walls were thick and sturdy. Corman and some of the villagers had barricaded themselves inside when the Aegonar longships pulled into the harbor.

  "I expect Lord Alberon will be enraged when he hears," said Corman.

  "No doubt," said Hugh. "But...you said the Aegonar were uninterested in slaves? Or in plunder?"

  "No," said Corman. "The leader made a...a speech to the men and women he captured. He said that he had come to spread the word of great Sepharivaim, and they would kneel before him or die."

  "Sepharivaim?" said Maurus, voice sharp. "You are sure of this?"

  "I'm old, not deaf," said Corman.

  Hugh scratched his jaw, thinking. He knew about the San-keth, though he had never encountered one. From time to time his father's men captured and executed San-keth proselytes, but Hugh could not fathom why any man would worship the serpent god. Did not the San-keth preach that they were the chosen race, and all others would be their slaves?

  "I suppose," said Hugh, "that there are stranger things in the world than a band of San-keth proselytes among the Aegonar."

  "But the Aegonar do not worship Sepharivaim," said Maurus, scowling. "They worship a peculiar variety of gods - a one-eyed old man with a staff, a warrior with one hand, a berserker with a hammer, and so forth. Not the serpent god. To my knowledge, they kill the San-keth whenever they encounter them."

  "I can only tell you," said Corman, "what I heard with my own ears, master wizard." He gave Maurus a sidelong look. "No one converted to the worship of the serpent god. We of Kynoth are good godly folk."

  "Indeed," said Hugh. The old man's indifference to the dead peasants annoyed him. "The Aegonar are slain, and I doubt they will return. Raiders prefer easier prey. Bury your dead and rebuild, and..."

  Montigard ran into the room. "Sir Hugh!"

  Hugh blinked. For the first time that he could recall, Sir Philip Montigard was not smiling.

  "What is it?" said Hugh.

  "You need to see this. Now."

  "Excuse me," said Hugh to Corman, and followed Montigard outside.

  "But, sir knight," said Corman, "I have messages to send to Lord Alberon and Prince Everard..."

  Hugh shut the door behind him.

  "If that was an excuse," said Hugh, "I thank you for it."

  "It's not," said Montigard. They walked to the edge of the village, overlooking the beach. "Look at the sea."

  Hugh did...and felt his eyes grow wide.

  Red sails rose over the horizon. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them.

  Thousands. Thousands and thousands of longships.

  "Gods," said Maurus.

  "All those ships," said Montigard. "They could hold an army."

  Hugh looked at the abandoned longships in the inlet.

  "They weren't raiders," he said. "They were advance scouts for an invasion."

  Chapter 7 - To Live Again

  Night fell by the time Lucan reached the gates of Castle Town.

  Though darkness no longer hindered his vision in the slightest.

  Castle Town sat on the banks of the Riversteel, a prosperous town of ten thousand people. At least it had used to enjoy prosperity. Once barges of goods had floated down the river, either bound for the harbor in Knightport, or moving inland to the lords and townsmen of the High Plain and the Stormvales. Now the town’s gates stood closed, militia patrolling the walls, crossbows and torches in hand.

  Beyond Castle Town rose a low range of mountains, and in their foothills sat Knightcastle itself.

  The castle was enormous, far larger than Castle Cravenlock, larger even than Swordgrim. The first Roland kings had settled here long ago, building a fortified citadel over the ruins of a High Elderborn stronghold. Every Roland king and lord since had expanded the castle, raising new towers and rearing new walls.

  Now Knightcastle was the size of a small city, a fantastic jumble of towers and courtyards and keeps. The castle boasted three concentric curtain walls, each higher than the other. Even at night, the Roland banner, a silver greathelm upon a field of blue, flew from the Old Keep, the highest and oldest tower of the castle.

  And within that castle, Lucan would find a Door of Souls, the path to Cythraul Urdvul…and the destruction of the Demonsouled.

  He kept walking. A maze of tents and ramshackle shelters squatted outside the gates of Castle Town. Refugees, Lucan supposed, driven from their homes by the runedead. He suspected both Castle Town and Knightcastle already overflowed with refugees, and any new arrivals had to survive outside the walls as best they could.

  Between the town and Knightcastle stood a fortified camp, ringed with a ditch and an earthen wall. Inside Lucan saw neat rows of tents, sentries guarding the camp, clad in chain mail and blue tabards adorned with an eight-pointed silver star.

  The sigil of the Justiciar Order.

  Lucan stared at the camp. It made sense for Lord Malden Roland to rely upon the Justiciars. He had been closely allied with them, and when the Great Rising came, they would have possessed the strongest military force in Knightreach. And the Justiciars were sworn to cleanse the world of dark magic and worshippers of the San-keth. No doubt they blamed the rise of the runedead upon the gods, visited upon mankind in repayment for wickedness…

  Lucan recalled what Skalatan had told him. Not many people would believe that one man had wrought the Great Rising. To most of the world, it would be an inexplicable disaster, a catastrophe without cause. People would seek a scapegoat for the horrors they had suffered.

  And Lucan needed a great deal of power to open the Door of Souls.

  The Justiciars and Lord Malden would claim it for him.

  He whispered an incantation, wrapping himself in a concealing spell. Then he walked through the tents of the dispossessed peasants, listening. Men stood in clumps, speaking in low voices. They discussed the news, and none of it was good. Bands of renegade runedead wandered the countryside, killing anyone they could catch. Most of the knights and lords had marched away to the south to deal with a huge runedead army led by a rebel named Caraster.

  Lucan wondered how this Caraster had managed to take control of the runedead.

  One rumor caught his ear. Lord Malden was gravely ill, and expected to die within in the month. His son Tobias would then become Lord of Knightcastle. A few men wondered if Lord Tobias would gain victory where his father had failed, while most despaired of any hope at all.

  Lucan nodded to himself. Lord Malden would make an excellent starting point. He turned to go…

  And froze, his eyes wandering over the tents.

  So many people, all of them scared and hungry. Most had lost loved ones to the runedead. A row of low mounds rose outside the camp. Fresh graves, dug for those who had died after reaching Castle Town.

  Lucan had done this.

  He had wrought their suffering. He could blame it on the Demonsouled, true, or upon Mazael’s interference, but that was a feeble justification. The Great Rising was Lucan’s doing, and his doing alo
ne.

  If not for him, none of this would have happened. Years ago, the Grand Master of the Justiciars had ordered Lucan’s assassination. Lucan had survived, if barely, but perhaps it would have been better if he died. Then the Great Rising would never have happened.

  All this suffering was his fault.

  So why didn’t he feel guilty about it?

  Perhaps he had lost the ability to feel such emotions when he had lost his mortality.

  For a moment an image danced in his mind, a ruined black city, a dragon breathing crimson flame, and then vanished into nothingness. Lucan dismissed it as a stray dream of Randur’s.

  He would not turn back now. He would rid the world of the Demonsouled. The cost would be great, but if he succeeded, he would free the world from the blight of the Demonsouled forever. To relent now would mean these people had suffered for nothing.

  That Tymaen had died for nothing.

  Lucan would not allow that.

  He looked around at the refugees, fixing them in his mind. In their name, in the name of their suffering, he would succeed.

  Even if he had to kill them all to do it.

  Lucan strode towards Knightcastle.

  ###

  Lord Malden Roland lay in his bed, dying.

  Every breath filled him with searing agony, his palsied limbs trembling.

  He struggled to rise, but he could not. The disease had gone too far, the tumors eating his flesh like rats. Sometimes he could not remember where he was, his mind wiped by the pain.

  Again he struggled to stand, to move. He had to rise! His people needed him. His remaining two sons needed him. Before the illness had advanced so far, he had heard the reports. The dead rose in the night to kill the living, sigils of green fire upon their brows. And in a south, a madman commanded the runedead, promising a new order and to destroy everything Lord Malden had spent his life to build.

  Knightcastle and the lords of Knightreach faced a foe more terrible than any they had ever known.

  His people needed him. His sons needed him.