Soul of Skulls (Book 6)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “I’m sorry,” said Rachel.

  Rhea let out a ragged breath. “He’s lived a long life, the philandering old scoundrel. But I will miss him.” She gazed up at Knightcastle’s jumble of towers and keeps. “I have seen Knightcastle through war before, daughter. But this…our lord dying, and these armies of dead men, and a rebel who wants to kill every man who is not poor…Rachel, we have never faced anything like this. I fear how it will end.” He voice dropped. “Grand Master Caldarus says the runedead are the vengeance of the gods, a punishment for our sins, and sometimes I wonder if he is correct.”

  “Oh, rubbish,” said Rachel. “Lucan Mandragon cast the Great Rising, and my brother slew him. If the Grand Master thinks otherwise, then he is a pompous windbag.”

  Her eyes widened as she realized her lapse, but Lady Rhea laughed.

  “I cannot dispute your logic, daughter,” said Rhea. She lowered her voice. “But mind your words. The Grand Master’s pomposity is exceeded only by his ruthlessness. Malden allied himself entirely too closely with the Justiciars. Caldarus would turn all of Knightreach into a fiefdom for the Justiciar Order. Once my husband dies, he will try to challenge Tobias, mark my words.”

  They reached the barbican, and already hundreds of ragged, hungry people awaited bread, most of them women holding children. Rachel looked at them and wanted to weep. So many people had died in the Great Rising, and so many more had been displaced. But perhaps it would be over soon. Perhaps Gerald and Tobias would defeat Caraster, and…

  “Make way!”

  Hooves clattered as a band of horsemen robe into the barbican, the peasants pulling away. The lead rider bore a lance with the Roland standard. Rachel’s heart rose into her throat. Had they come bearing news? Had there been a battle? Had…

  Then she saw Gerald, handling his horse with easy skill, and her fear melted away. His armor was scratched and ragged, his blue surcoat stained with dirt and blood, yet he looked uninjured, thank the gods.

  Thank the gods.

  Tobias Roland swung down from his horse, and Gerald joined him.

  He smiled as his eyes strayed to Rachel, and she smiled back.

  “Mother,” said Tobias. “We came as soon as we received word. How is he?”

  “Not well,” said Rhea. “Tobias, Gerald, it is…it is good you have come. I think he will want to see you one last time before, before…” She swallowed and gathered up her dignity. “How goes the war?”

  “Gerald gave the runedead a whipping at the ford of the Abelinus,” said Tobias with a faint smile. “That ought to slow them down.” His grin faded. “But the war’s not over. Not until we find Caraster and stick his head on a pike.”

  “Grand Master Caldarus has also returned from the field,” said Gerald. “He is two hours behind us.”

  Rhea scowled. “Damnation. Can that grasping rogue not give us a few moments of peace?”

  “Now, now, mother,” said Tobias. “That grasping rogue is the Grand Master of the Justiciars.”

  “And he will make himself master in Knightcastle, if you let him,” said Rhea.

  Tobias nodded. “Well, if he thinks to find me half-crazed with grief from Father’s death, he shall be disappointed. Father would rise from his grave in wrath if I gave away a single inch of land.”

  “Caldarus will argue that you need his knights to defend Knightcastle,” said Rhea.

  “True enough,” said Tobias without rancor, “but he needs Father’s vassals and knights as well. Neither Knightcastle nor the Justiciar Order are strong enough to face Caraster on our own, and Caraster wants to kill us all. Come. We have a few hours before the old buzzard arrives. Let us exchange news,” he took a deep breath, “and then say farewell to Father.”

  “I will join you presently,” said Gerald, taking Rachel’s hand.

  ###

  Her husband returned to their rooms with her, and Rachel slipped out of her gown and shift.

  She had tried to take care of herself after Belifane had been born, making sure not to overindulge in food or to sit about in idleness. She knew many noblewomen who had let themselves grow fat after their first child, only to react with dismay when their husbands took younger women as mistresses.

  Rachel doubted that Gerald would be unfaithful…but, gods, she loved him too much to give him the temptation.

  She thought looked much the same as she had before Aldane had been born…though her breasts sagged more, and her belly was no longer as flat as it had been.

  Fortunately, Gerald’s ardor had not diminished in the slightest.

  ###

  Gerald entered the Hall of Triumph with Rachel on his arm to find the argument already well underway.

  The Hall of Triumph sat at the base of the Old Keep, in the High Court of Knightcastle’s highest curtain wall. Slender marble pillars supported an arched ceiling, and gleaming crystal windows offered a magnificent view of the Riversteel valley. Dozens of faded banners hung from the ceiling, and hundreds of ancient swords and shields adorned the walls. The lords of Knightcastle had hung the banners and arms of defeated foes here for centuries.

  The great hall was empty, save for Tobias, Lady Rhea, and Grand Master Caldarus. His mother stood between the two men, as if to keep the two men from coming to blows.

  “Outrageous,” said Tobias. “Absolutely outrageous. Caraster threatens to overwhelm both our lands, and you dicker about manors? Truly, the Justiciars are selfless champions indeed.”

  “Your sarcasm,” said Caldarus, “does not become your rank, Lord Tobias.” He was in his early sixties, lean and trim, with close-cropped white hair and eyes like chips of gray ice. His ornate plate armor looked heavy, yet the Grand Master moved with the ease of a man clad in light clothing.

  Gerald felt a stab of annoyed anger. Lord Malden Roland was hardly a saint. Yet he was generous to his friends, and had defended his lands and people for decades. That his father should lie dying and a man like Caldarus should remain hale seemed a gross injustice.

  But when had the world ever been just?

  Caldarus’s cold eyes swept over Gerald and Rachel as they approached. “Surely you cannot deny the justice in my request, Sir Gerald? Justiciar Knights have bled and died to defend Knightcastle. Our calling is to defend the entire realm from dark magic, not just the lands of one lord. But we must have the means to support this mission. The castle of Breaksword lies just south of Swordor. Surely you can convince your brother to see reason and gift it to the Justiciars?”

  “The knight who holds Breaksword in my father’s name,” said Gerald, “might be inclined to disagree.”

  Caldarus sniffed. “I suppose I should expect no less from a man who married a former San-keth proselyte.”

  Gerald felt Rachel stiffen against his arm, and his sword hand closed into a fist.

  “Insults, Grand Master?” said Gerald, voice soft.

  “I withdraw my remark,” said Caldarus. Perhaps he had recognized he had gone too far. “Nevertheless, the point remains. Breaksword would serve our noble cause well.”

  "Your order's mission is indeed noble," said Gerald. When he had been a boy, serving as Mazael's squire, he had dreamed of becoming a Justiciar knight. Of wearing gleaming armor and a blue cloak with a silver star, and going into righteous battle against the San-keth and dark wizards. That dream had shattered five minutes after meeting the Grand Master for the first time. "And your time is valuable. I have no wish for you to waste it."

  "Oh?" said Caldarus. "Then you would deny us entirely?"

  "Not at all," said Gerald. "But only Lord Malden can recover the fief of Breaksword and assign it to a new vassal."

  Tobias shot Gerald a grateful look.

  "Unless, of course," said Gerald, "you wish to swear as Lord Malden's vassal."

  "The Justiciar Order," said Caldarus, "answers only to the gods, and not any earthly lord."

  "Indeed," said Gerald. "Then this discussion is merely an exercise in rhetoric. I submit, Grand Master, that we have more urge
nt concerns. Such as the defense of our lands from the runedead."

  "Very well," said Caldarus. "We shall await the decision of Lord Malden." His cold eyes shifted to Tobias. "But I might soon have to speak with a new lord of Knightcastle."

  "Perhaps not."

  The strong voice echoed off the walls. Gerald turned with a frown, wondering who would intrude, and...

  His eyes widened with shock.

  Malden Roland, Lord of Knightcastle, strode into the Hall of Triumph. He wore gleaming boots and dark trousers beneath a fine blue coat. His cloak had been thrown back, a beret with a golden badge resting atop his head, and carried a polished walking stick in his right hand.

  But he hardly seemed to need the cane.

  Rhea's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. Tobias stood with his mouth hanging open, and Rachel kept blinking as if to awaken from a dream. Caldarus stared at Malden, his eyes thinned to hard slits.

  "Husband?" whispered Rhea.

  Gerald could not look away from his father. When last he had been at Knightcastle, six weeks past, Malden Roland had been at death's door. Now he looked vigorous and healthy.

  If anything, he looked fifteen years younger.

  Malden grinned. "You all seem surprised to see me. Am I not still lord here? May I not enter my own hall?"

  "Husband!" said Rhea, and she flew into his arms.

  A moment later they were all clustered together, laughing and crying while Caldarus watched.

  "I was so sure," said Rhea, "I was so sure that you were going to die. I even summoned Gerald and Tobias home."

  "I can see that," said Malden. "But I have a little more life in me yet."

  "How?" said Rachel. "It is...it is a miracle. I can think of no other word for it."

  Malden's smile faded, and his eyes grew distant. "I...had some help."

  He turned his head, and Gerald followed his gaze.

  Then he stepped away from his father, pushing Rachel behind him, and dropped his hand to his sword hilt.

  A dark shadow stood in the doorway besides the dais, utterly motionless. For some reason it made Gerald think of a statue draped in a cloak. Or perhaps a spider lurking in a web. The hooded shape moved forward, and Gerald saw a steel mask concealing its face, black gloves hiding its hands.

  "Husband?" said Rhea. "Who...is this?"

  "My benefactor," said Malden. "This is Ataranur."

  Rachel blinked, staring hard at the masked figure.

  "And just who," said Gerald, "is Ataranur?"

  "His identity," said Malden, "is a secret known only to the Lord of Knightcastle. Suffice it to say, I owe my life to his intervention. With his aid, we shall defeat Caraster, destroy the runedead, and restore peace and prosperity to Knightreach." He turned to Caldarus. "Come, my old ally. Too long I have laid abed while my lands need my sword. With Ataranur's aid, we shall at last be victorious."

  ###

  "Gerald," said Rachel, her arms wrapped tight around herself, "something's wrong."

  She walked with Gerald along the Arcade of Sorrows, a covered colonnade running along Knightcastle's inner curtain wall. The Arcade ended at Audea's Garden, a small square of bushes and flowering trees.

  "It seems to be a miracle," said Gerald, but his voice was thoughtful, and his hand tensed as it touched her shoulder. "Father restored to health, ready to lead his vassals to war once more. He could unite us and bring the Justiciars to heel as Tobias and I never could."

  "It's just like Simonian of Briault!" said Rachel.

  "What do you mean?" said Gerald.

  "Mitor wanted to overthrow Lord Richard for years," said Rachel. "But he was never strong enough, and he knew it. Then Simonian came to Mitor's court. He poured lies into Mitor's ear, made him think that the San-keth would have the power to give him the Grim Marches. And then the San-keth came, and...and..."

  And Mitor had sworn his soul to the San-keth, and Rachel had done the same. She had become a San-keth proselyte, pledging herself to Skhath. The serpent priest would have fathered calibah, San-keth changelings, upon her. Once she had thought it a great honor. Now the thought made her skin crawl with horror.

  Gerald and Mazael had saved her from that. Gerald, who had wed her anyway, despite knowing what she had done.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked, looking away.

  "Rachel," said Gerald, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I, too, am suspicious of this Ataranur."

  "It's not even a name," said Rachel. "It's just a title. It's High Elderborn for...Lord of Gifts, I think."

  "You know High Elderborn?" said Gerald.

  Despite her dark mood, the astonishment on her husband's face made her smile a little. "Romaria taught me some, when we rode north from Deepforest Keep after Ultorin's defeat."

  "An alias, then," said Gerald. "Whoever he is, he wishes to remain anonymous." He scratched his chin. "There are legends of High Elderborn kings sleeping below Knightcastle, waiting until the hour of greatest need to come forth. And our present need is certainly dire."

  "Aye," said Rachel, "and that is exactly the sort of legend a trickster would use to gain trust."

  "I agree," said Gerald. "But we cannot deny that my father has been healed. Neither Simonian of Briault nor Skhath ever did anything like that."

  "No," said Rachel. "At least, Simonian never did. Skhath had a trick of necromancy. He could take the blood from a sacrificial victim and use it to heal the wounds of another. But...gods, Gerald. You saw how ill your father was. Now he looks fifteen years younger! Skhath never had the power to do anything like that."

  Gerald nodded. "Perhaps this Ataranur is a necromancer. Or a renegade wizard. Still, he has healed my father, and we need all the allies we can find. I promise you I shall keep a close eye over him, and if I see anything suspicious, I shall act."

  Rachel nodded. She trusted Gerald's judgment, and she knew if Ataranur was a danger, then her husband would act decisively.

  But that was not enough to conceal the dread that rose in her heart when she thought of that cold steel mask.

  "I could almost swear," she murmured, "that I've met him somewhere before, but cannot recall where."

  ###

  Lucan Mandragon stood to the right of Lord Malden's seat, watching as the lords and vassals assembled. Lord Malden would gather his vassals and the Justiciar officers, and lead them south to smash Caraster and his runedead host.

  After Lucan had made a few preparations.

  He looked at the Hall of Triumph's doors, and in the distance saw Sir Gerald and Lady Rachel on the other side of the High Court, walking along the Arcade of Sorrows.

  Discussing him, no doubt.

  That might prove a problem.

  He considered what to do.

  For a brief moment, he had been certain, utterly certain, that Rachel had recognized him. Both Gerald and Rachel had known him as a living man, and without the mask they would recognize him at once.

  And if Lord Malden realized who he was - what he was - the entire plan would collapse. For all his power, Lucan could not open the Door of Souls unaided, not without allies, unwitting or not.

  He would have to proceed carefully.

  And if Gerald and Rachel interfered, he would have to kill them both.

  Chapter 9 – Lies and Shadows

  "Your name?" said the big knight, scowling behind his black beard.

  Malaric grinned. "Gaston of Travia, at your service. I've come with two hundred doughty lads."

  Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael Cravenlock's armsmaster, gave a sour grunt. Despite his size and strength, the knight looked tired. Which was not surprising. No doubt Hagen had spent the last several months in the saddle, hunting down marauding runedead.

  “You’re a Travishman, then?” said Hagen at last.

  “Aye, sir knight,” said Malaric.

  They stood south of the walls of Cravenlock Town. The two hundred calibah Skalatan had given him stood in orderly ranks a short distance away, arrayed in chain mai
l and helmets, swords at their belts and shields on their backs. With their fangs hidden and their yellow eyes concealed behind their inner eyelids, they made a passable imitation of a mercenary company.

  “Why come here?” said Hagen. “The Prince of Travia is dead, and his sons are fighting each other to claim his title. Good business for a mercenary company.”

  “Truly,” said Malaric, “but riskier than I’d like. Rampaging runedead, and every lord taking arms against his neighbor. A noble loses a battle, he gets ransomed. But his mercenaries, alas, end up with their heads atop pikes. In the Grim Marches, a man need only worry about the runedead. Lord Mazael does not seem the sort to tolerate rebellion.”

  “He’s not,” said Hagen. “Or disorder. You start looting and terrorizing the peasants, you’ll wish you had stayed in Travia.”

  Malaric grinned and spread his hands. “We simply want to make an honest wage.”

  “And it will be an honest wage,” said Hagen. “We'll have hard fighting in the days ahead. Mark my words, if you take Lord Mazael’s coin, you’ll earn your pay. We’ve cleared out many runedead strongholds, but there are more left. There seems to be no end of the things.”

  A mischievous impulse took Malaric. “I heard a priest say the runedead are the punishment of the gods.”

  “Rot,” said Hagen. “Lucan Mandragon’s black wizardry wrought the Great Rising, and nothing else. I was at the Battle of Swordgrim, and I saw him raise the runedead. If you doubt me, ride north and look at the empty spot where Swordgrim used to stand. But Lord Mazael dealt with Lucan Mandragon, and he’ll deal with the runedead, too.”

  Malaric hid his smile.

  “So if you want work for your company, you’ll have it,” said Hagen. “Fight hard and loyally, and you’ll be paid well. And many nobles fell in the fighting. If you’re loyal and clever, you might become a landed knight or a minor lord by the time this is done.”

  “Then we shall join,” said Malaric. “My company is at your disposal.”

  “Good,” said Hagen. “Camp north of the town, near the tournament grounds. Make sure your men dig proper privy trenches. Lord Mazael will not be pleased if you start a pestilence in Cravenlock Town. Oh, and watch your step around the Tervingi.”