He pushed the thought out of his mind, held up the cup, and began casting a spell. His left hand closed around the Guardian's staff, drawing upon its power. The blood flared with light, and then burst into brilliant golden flames.
Mazael growled, his hands balling into fists. As before, the spell drew on the power of his Demonsouled blood. Mazael's eyes screwed shut, the cords in his neck bulging, and for a moment Riothamus thought he would fall.
But then his eyes opened.
"Gods," he muttered. "You weren't lying about the pain."
Riothamus nodded and looked into the cup.
The blood had vanished, and now a faint golden glow radiated from the needle. If Riothamus was right, the needle would no longer point north. Instead, the essence of the archpriest's venom had been bound into the needle, and it would point towards the San-keth cleric.
Allowing Mazael to track him down.
"Permit me, Guardian," said Timothy, taking the cup. He took the needle from the cup with a pair of tweezers and mounted it in the compass's bronze housing.
"Your skill is remarkable," said Riothamus. “Not even the best goldsmiths among the Tervingi could do that. You..."
"Guardian," said Timothy, not looking up from the compass, "your words are kind, but please do not talk just now. I need to concentrate."
Mazael snorted, and Riothamus fell silent.
Timothy worked quickly, with the sort of skill that made the task only look easy. After a few moments he had reassembled the compass and cast several spells over it to focus and refine the tracking spell Riothamus had placed upon the needle. Timothy held up the compass, squinted at it for a moment, and then set it on the table.
"I believe it is finished," said Timothy.
"Is it working?" said Riothamus. The glowing needle swung back and forth, and at last settled to point at the wall.
"It's working," said Mazael, getting to his feet.
"How do you know?" said Riothamus.
"It's pointing west," said Mazael.
"Slightly to the northwest, I think," said Timothy. He unrolled a set of maps and made a set of calculations on a wax tablet. Most of the lands west of the Grim Marches claimed to be part of the same realm, the same kingdom, though liege lords like Mazael acted like sovereign kings in all but name.
"Guardian," said Timothy. "Does the spell upon the needle allow you to estimate the distance to the archpriest?"
"Yes," said Riothamus, laying one hand upon the compass. He concentrated for a moment. "I think...yes. Four or five hundred miles away. No more than that."
"Just as well," said Mazael. "More than five hundred miles would put you into the western sea."
"Greycoast," said Timothy, pointing at a peninsula jutting into the western sea. Riothamus scrutinized the map. This Greycoast was west of a place called the High Plain, and north of another peninsula named Knightreach. If Riothamus remembered correctly, Lord Mazael's sister Rachel was married to the son of the Lord of Knightcastle. Riothamus wondered what she was like. Probably some gray-eyed warrior with a temper, much like Molly.
"The Prince of Barellion rules Greycoast," said Mazael. "I wonder what a San-keth archpriest is doing there."
"It is entirely possible," said Timothy, "that there is a hidden temple of San-keth proselytes in Barellion. It is the largest city in the realm, with fifty thousand people."
"And the archpriest could be on the move," said Riothamus.
Mazael grimaced. “Can he block the compass?"
"No," said Riothamus. "Not without removing his fangs and the organs that produce poison, which would be fatal to a San-keth. So long as the archpriest still lives, no spell or ward can block the compass."
"Good," said Mazael.
Timothy frowned. "Both the Lord of the High Plain and Prince Everard of Barellion might object if you took an army through their lands, my lord. Or the lords of the Stormvales, for that matter."
"I'm not bringing an army," said Mazael. "I will go alone."
"My lord," said Timothy, "the San-keth are a formidable foe, and..."
"They are," said Mazael, "but an army will avail us nothing. The San-keth hide in the shadows and leave the fighting to their puppets and proselytes. Well, that compass will strip away their shadows. I will find the archpriest, take his blood, and return."
"I will not," said Riothamus, "permit you to go alone."
Anger flashed in the older man's eyes. “How do you intend to stop me?"
"You are the hrould of the Tervingi nation," said Riothamus, "and if you die, the Tervingi nation will almost certainly go to war with the lords of the Grim Marches. Therefore, as Guardian of the Tervingi nation, it is necessary that I accompany you, to keep you alive. Additionally, by attacking you, Malaric has attacked a Tervingi hrould. Both Malaric and the San-keth are wielders of dark magic, and I am within my rights to bring them to justice."
The anger in Mazael's eyes hardened, and Riothamus felt a twinge of alarm. How much of a grip did Mazael have on himself?
Then Mazael sighed. "I suppose you are right. I cannot simply ride west and kill everyone in my path, much as I might wish it." He took a deep breath. "We shall leave on tomorrow. As soon as I can make the necessary arrangements."
###
An hour later Mazael stood in the great hall of Castle Cravenlock, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his arms and legs and head.
Many of the Tervingi headmen and Mazael's vassals had arrived soon after Malaric's attack. Rumors had spread that Malaric had killed him, and most of the powerful men of the Grim Marches had set out for Castle Cravenlock at once, lest civil war break out and they find themselves at a disadvantage.
More than a few of the headmen and lords were disappointed that Mazael still lived, but he did not care what they thought.
He was going to save Romaria, or die trying.
"My lords, knights, and headmen," said Mazael, looking at the assembled nobles and Tervingi. "You may have heard the rumors, and most of them are true. Malaric of Barellion, at the instigation of the San-keth, attempted to assassinate me during the moot at Cravenlock Town. I was wounded, but I survived. Lady Romaria was wounded and lies near death. This is an attack upon both the lords of the Grim Marches and the thains and headmen of the Tervingi."
Riothamus stood at his side, face impassive, the staff of the Guardian in hand. His idea about declaring the attack an assault upon the Tervingi nation had been a clever one.
"Hrould," said Earnachar son of Balnachar, his chest puffing out. Besides him Arnulf son of Kaerwulf rolled his eyes. "This craven attack upon you is an insult to the Tervingi nation. I propose we gather our swordthains and spearthains at once. Let us lay siege to the city of Barellion, and demand that its Prince surrender Malaric to us. If he does not, we shall raze his city and seize his lands for ourselves."
Arnulf snorted. "From which you shall carve wide estates for yourself, no doubt."
Earnachar smiled. "To the victor goes the spoils."
"Your valor does you credit, Earnachar son of Balnachar," said Mazael, "but Malaric is a bastard and a renegade. No doubt the Prince of Barellion would gladly slay him and surrender his head. And Malaric acted at the instigation of the San-keth archpriest that provided the venom."
Toric, one of the Tervingi headmen, spat. "The serpents are ever treacherous."
"Mighty Tervingar," said Earnachar, "slew them whenever he found them."
"Mighty Tervingar showed wisdom," said Mazael. "The Guardian has worked a spell that will allow me to follow the archpriest wherever he goes. I shall hunt him to the ends of the earth and repay him for this grievous assault upon the Tervingi nation. Malaric of Barellion shall face justice for his crimes."
He remembered Malaric plunging that poisoned dagger into Romaria's chest.
Once Mazael found him, Malaric would regret it. Bitterly.
"I shall accompany the hrould," said Riothamus. "Malaric used dark magic, and it is the task of the Guardian to ensure that the Tervingi ar
e protected from dark magic. I shall find him and defeat him."
"But if you leave, hrould," said Earnachar, his eyes glittering with opportunity, "who will rule the Grim Marches?"
"Aye," said Lord Robert Highgate, one of Mazael's nobles. A plump keg of a man, he was nonetheless a capable battle commander. "The realm is unsettled, with more refugees and wandering bands of runedead crossing our lands every day. A firm hand is needed. Who will oversee the Grim Marches in your absence?"
"You will," said Mazael.
"Me?" said Robert, blinking in alarm.
"All of you," said Mazael. "Earnachar, Arnulf, Toric, Lord Robert, Lord Astor Hawking, and Lord Jonaril Mandrake will govern the Grim Marches in my absence. I expect you to defend the Grim Marches and maintain peace and order. Act as you will against runedead and bandits, but an attack upon another lord or one of my vassals will require each of you to consent."
The headmen and lords gave each other uneasy looks. Some of them were allies - Arnulf and Toric had been friends for years, while Lord Robert and Lord Astor had acted in concert since the earliest years of Lord Richard Mandragon's rule. Yet Earnachar loathed Arnulf and Toric, and Lord Astor could not stand Lord Jonaril. Mazael hoped the rivalries would keep the lords and headmen in check.
He would have named Molly castellan of Castle Cravenlock in his absence, but she would likely wind up killing half of his vassals from sheer annoyance. She was not yet ready for such a responsibility Besides, he suspected she would insist on accompanying him, just as Riothamus had.
"My lord," said Robert, scratching his chin, "are you sure this is...wise?"
"Of course I am sure," said Mazael. "My lords and headmen, I am certain you will maintain the peace in my absence. Because if you do not, and I return to find the Grim Marches rent by strife and civil war, I will be...wroth, my lords. Most wroth."
Dead silence answered his pronouncement.
"Fortunately," said Mazael, "I have utter confidence that I shall return to find the Grim Marches at peace."
"Yes," said Earnachar, his voice strained. "Of course."
Arnulf nodded. "You will have peace awaiting your return, hrould." He grinned and slapped Earnachar on the back, who responded with a sickly smile.
"Thank you, my lords and headmen," said Mazael. "I vow that this attack upon the Tervingi nation and the honor of the Grim Marches shall be avenged."
And he vowed that he would save Romaria's life, too.
If he could.
###
"I am coming with you, of course," said Molly.
Riothamus frowned. "I would prefer if you didn't."
They stood on Castle Cravenlock's curtain wall, watching the sun go down and paint the plains the color of blood.
Molly raised her eyebrows. "And just why not?"
"You could be hurt or slain," said Riothamus. "And you are the heir to Castle Cravenlock...which means one day you will be the liege lady of the Grim Marches. It's time the headmen and the lords learned to obey you."
Molly scoffed. "I could be hurt, aye...but I can heal far more quickly than you. And the lords can look after themselves for a few months." She glared over the walls. "This is my fault."
Riothamus frowned. "Malaric wounded Romaria, not you."
"Aye," said Molly, "but if I had killed that rat at Swordgrim, none of this would have happened." She shook her head. "If had figured out how he had gained the powers of a Demonsouled, perhaps I could have found a way to stop him."
"Or he could have killed you," said Riothamus.
But he had his suspicions. How had Malaric gained the powers of a Demonsouled? It seemed unlikely that they had been latent all his life and only manifested at the Battle of Swordgrim. He must have claimed them somehow. But where? Had Lucan given them to him? Or had he acquired them in another fashion?
Riothamus didn't know...but he intended to find out.
"And Romaria has been very kind to me," said Molly, her voice quiet. "When I first came to Castle Cravenlock, after Arylkrad and Corvad...I almost came to blows with my father a dozen times." She offered a ragged smile. "Romaria smoothed things over. Father and I would probably have killed each other if not for her."
Riothamus nodded.
"And," said Molly, her voice so faint it was almost a whisper, "Riothamus, watching you ride off, not knowing if you would return...I could not bear it. I lost Nicholas that way. I left his rooms and returned and found him dying in his own blood." She rubbed her face, and for a moment Riothamus glimpsed tears in her gray eyes. "I'm not...that's not going to happen. Not again. I am going to go with you and Mazael, and if anyone tries to kill you...gods, I swear they will regret it."
They stood in silence for a moment, and Riothamus took her hands.
"All right," he said. "Mazael and I should not go alone, anyway. And you know our enemy. You know how Malaric thinks, and you know the Skulls. Your aid would be invaluable."
"Damned right," said Molly, "and I owed Malaric a debt, even before he came to the Grim Marches to kill me. I owe him all the more for what he has done since."
"Then we will repay him together," said Riothamus, "and save Romaria."
###
That night Mazael stood alone before the tree in the courtyard, gazing down at Romaria.
People had brought gifts – flowers and candles and the like. Mazael had ordered his seneschal Cramton to keep watch over the tree and note those who brought gifts. Someday he would repay them a hundred times over for their kindness.
After he had saved Romaria.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the constant pain in his head and arms and legs.
And the rage that threatened to burn out of control.
He had always known how much he relied upon Romaria, how she helped him to keep the Demonsouled fury in check. But now that she lay in this state between life and death, preserved only by the power of Riothamus's magic...the Demonsouled rage hit him harder than ever before.
Gods, but how he had wanted to kill them all, the lords and the headmen and the knights and the thains. If he killed them all he would have peace, if he killed and killed until his arm ran red with blood...
He opened his eyes and looked at Romaria, trying to keep the rage at bay.
She looked almost peaceful. As if she were asleep.
But if she died...there would be no reason to keep himself in check, would there? No reason not to let the fury transform him into the monster he had always known himself to be?
He closed his eyes again, and when he opened them, Morebeth Galbraith stood next to the tree, a dark shadow in a black gown.
"Are you real?" said Mazael. "Or is Riothamus right, and you are only a vision induced by the poison?"
Morebeth shrugged. "Does it matter? Either way, I am dead."
Mazael said nothing.
"You truly love her," said Morebeth, "do you not?"
"What do you care?" said Mazael.
"Do you remember," said Morebeth, "why I hated Amalric? I was in love with a man, and Amalric arranged his death."
"I thought that another of your lies," said Mazael.
"No," said Morebeth. "It was the truth. I know what it is to have loved, and to have it stolen from you. I had hoped to wed him and forget my Demonsouled blood." She shook her head, her eyes hooded. "But that was not to be."
"Nicholas Tormaud," said Mazael.
"Who?"
He realized that she was not a hallucination, that he was in fact conversing with Morebeth’s spirit. If she was only a vision, a delusion created by his damaged mind, she would know everything he knew.
But she didn't recognize the name.
"Molly loved him," said Mazael.
"Your daughter," said Morebeth.
"She hoped to leave an assassin’s life behind and wed him," said Mazael. "But Corvad slew him and laid the blame at my feet. And he almost twisted Molly into a monster."
"As happened to me," said Morebeth. "Amalric slew my love...and I
twisted myself into a monster. And now Malaric of Barellion has left Romaria at death's door. Will you become a monster, Mazael?"
"I don't know," he said.
Morebeth shrugged. "The choice is yours. But remember two things. If you become a monster, if you become the Destroyer...it will only aid our father in his great work."
"I know," said Mazael.
But, gods, the rage burned within him, and he wanted to kill and kill...
"And this," said Morebeth. "Our father seeks to steal the power of the gods. But there are others who would steal that power for themselves. Malaric might have attacked you...but the San-keth sent him. Why do you think that is?"
"Because I've killed San-keth clerics and calibah," said Mazael, "and cost them dearly. They have every motive for revenge."
"True," said Morebeth, "but might they might play a larger game than mere vengeance?"
Mazael opened his mouth to answer, but the spirit had vanished.
He rubbed his forehead in irritation. Bad enough that his wife lay dying, that his Demonsouled nature threatened to burn out of control. Would he be haunted by the spirits of all the Demonsouled he had slain?
Still. Her counsel was sound.
Mazael stared at Romaria for a moment longer.
"I will return to you," he said. "I swear it."
He stooped, kissed her cold forehead, and walked away.
###
The next morning Mazael left Castle Cravenlock, clad in his dragon's scale armor, Lion at his belt. Riothamus and Molly rode at his side, Riothamus leading a string of pack horses with food and supplies. The compass rested on Mazael’s saddle, the gentle glow of its needle pointing to the northwest.
Mazael rode past the town, set his face to the west, and did not look back.
Chapter 18 - Last Stand
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 20