Riothamus stepped into the circle of light from the fire.
Molly stepped forward, put her hand in his hair, and kissed him.
Riothamus smiled. “What was that for?”
“Well,” said Molly with a grin. “My lips were dry.”
“I love you, too,” said Riothamus.
They stood in silence for a moment
“I’ve had a look around,” Riothamus said at last. “There’s a village about two miles north of here. Empty, like all the others we’ve seen. No sign of any living villagers or the runedead.”
“Perhaps we’ll have a peaceful night,” said Molly.
Riothamus sighed. “We may have other problems.”
Molly snorted. “Beyond the obvious?”
“Aye,” said Riothamus. “Your father has been talking to himself.”
Molly said nothing. She had seen it herself.
“It’s as if he’s talking to someone who isn’t really there,” said Riothamus. “He’s careful not to let us overhear him, but he sometimes makes mistakes.”
“Do you think,” said Molly, “that the poison damaged his mind?”
“Possibly,” said Riothamus. “Probably, even. Or the Demonsouled power is driving him mad. The poison is still in his blood. It’s being filtered out, but slowly. It’s doing continuous harm to him, which means the Demonsouled power has to heal him constantly.”
“And Demonsouled power,” said Molly, voice quiet, “can scramble the wits.”
She knew that well.
“If we face enemies…when we face enemies,” said Riothamus, “we may have to stop him. He could go berserk and kill everything in sight.”
“I don’t know,” said Molly. “He’s been controlling himself for a long time now. He knows what Demonsouled rage feels like.”
“But he’s always relied on Romaria,” said Riothamus, “to balance him.” He shrugged. “A man with a wife works harder than a man without. And with Romaria, he had a reason to keep himself in check. But now…”
“He does have a reason to hold himself in check,” said Molly. “If we fail, Romaria dies.”
###
Again Mazael found himself standing on the balcony outside Cythraul Urdvul, the pillar of crimson flame stabbing into the black vortex of the sky.
Morebeth awaited him near the railing, her black gown stirring in the cold breeze. Her gray eyes glimmered in her pale face, reflecting the crimson glow of the fiery pillar.
“Do you know,” she said, “what the most amusing part of this is?”
“None of it,” said Mazael. “I find myself singularly unamused.”
“It is a cruel joke,” said Morebeth, “that our father has played upon both us and the rest of the world.” She gazed at the black mass of Cythraul Urdvul. “Did he offer to make you the Destroyer?”
“He did,” said Mazael. “He promised to make me the lord of the world, that the kings of the earth would kneel before me. But only if I slew both Mitor and Rachel.” His hands curled into fists at the memory. He had almost done it, too. But Skhath had killed Mitor, and Romaria had stopped him from killing Rachel.
And for that, she had spent two years locked in a dreamless sleep while Mazael believed her dead.
“I didn’t become the Destroyer,” said Mazael, “but Romaria suffered for it. As she does now.”
“Such is the fate of anyone who loves a Demonsouled,” said Morebeth.
“I tried to send her away,” said Mazael. “After Malavost fell. I thought she would remain behind as the new Champion of Deepforest Keep. But she followed me, and I was too weak to send her away.”
“Because you love her,” said Morebeth, voice distant.
“Yes,” said Mazael.
“She saved you,” said Morebeth, “from becoming the Destroyer, as our father wished. And here is the cruel joke. There never will be a Destroyer.”
Mazael frowned. “But one day the Destroyer will rise and trample the kingdoms of men underneath his feet. Every peasant child knows that. The Amathavian church teaches it. So do the Elderborn druids, and the San-keth clerics. Gods, I even once heard a Malrag balekhan talk about it. Everyone knows that prophecy.”
“And why,” said Morebeth, “do you think that is?”
Mazael said nothing.
“Our father made it so,” said Morebeth. “He has spread that tale in every nation and land for over thirty centuries. There never will be a Destroyer. He sows his children like seeds across the nations, and he gives the Destroyer’s sword to those who grow strong enough. He lets them wax mighty…and then he arranges their downfall, and their power is drawn here.” The fiery pillar reflected in her cold eyes. “To await the day when he will claim it.”
“So what is he waiting for?” said Mazael. The floor thrummed beneath his boots, pulsing in time to the burning pillar. “There must be enough power in that fire to make him into a god a dozen times over. Why hasn’t he claimed it yet?”
Morebeth frowned. “I don’t know. He is…waiting for something, I think. I suspect he seeks a way to enter the spiritual world in his material form. Not even our father can enter the spirit world in physical form, and to claim the power, he needs to be here in his material body.” Her frown deepened. “And he requires something else. Some instrument, some method that will actually allow him to claim the power without destroying himself. He cannot simply reach out and touch it. Even he is not strong enough for that. The power would burn him to ashes. He needs something that will let him take the power, but what such a thing might be, I cannot image.”
“I don’t know, either,” said Mazael.
“Nor do I,” said Morebeth, “but I fear we shall find out soon.”
###
The next day Mazael led Riothamus and Molly further west. From time to time he saw flashes of Morebeth as well, standing amongst the trees as she watched him.
He ignored her. His attention remained focused on the road ahead and the compass in his left hand. The glowing needle had begun to move very slightly. The San-keth archpriest was heading south, but not quickly. No more than four or five miles a day.
Let him run. No distance would suffice to keep Mazael from tracking the archpriest down.
“Lord Mazael,” said Riothamus, his voice cutting into Mazael’s thoughts. “There are people ahead. About a score or so, I think.”
“Bandits?” said Mazael.
Riothamus shook his head. “There are women and children among them.”
“Travelers, then,” said Mazael.
“Or refugees,” said Molly.
“We’ll let them pass,” said Mazael. The delay annoyed him, but a few moments to let some peasants pass would do harm.
He reined up alongside the road, and the peasants came into sight.
There were about twenty-five of them, men, women, and children. All looked tired and hungry, their clothes dirty and ragged. The leader, a rail-thin man in his forties, flinched when he saw Mazael.
“Oh, gods,” said the man, “not more. Please no more.”
Mazael frowned. “What are you talking about?”
The man closed his eyes. “Please, we have nothing left to take. All our goods are gone, along with the food. All we have left is our clothing. Please, sir, if you have any mercy, let us pass in peace.”
“We are not robbers,” said Mazael. “What is your name?”
“Ryker,” said the peasant, “once the bailiff of Bluepeak Village, but our knight was slain in the Great Rising, and the runedead swarm through our fields. They attacked every night, and we had no choice but to flee.” He swallowed. “We heard…we heard that Lord Mazael welcomed any who came to the Grim Marches, so long as they came in peace.”
“He does,” said Mazael. “I have just come from the Grim Marches.”
He glanced back at Molly and Riothamus, and they nodded and kept silent. The San-keth had many spies, and Mazael would not take the chance that one traveled in Ryker’s party.
Ryker rubbed his face.
“The Grim Marches lie only a few days away. But…but bandits fell upon us, sir, and took all our goods. We have no food.” He shook his head. “You should take another path, sir knight. Your armor and sword are very fine, and the bandits will kill you to take them.”
“Will they?” said Mazael, voice soft.
The rage was always in his mind, threatening to boil over like a pot under pressure. So many people had been killed in the Great Rising, and so many more had lost their homes since Lucan cast that thrice-damned spell. But to see these desperate, starving men and their families was like oil thrown upon the inferno of his rage.
He wanted to kill someone.
He was going to kill someone.
“These bandits,” said Mazael, surprised at how calm his voice was. “How many of them were there?”
“Close to thirty or forty, sir,” said Ryker. “Maybe as many as fifty.”
“Wait here,” said Mazael. “We shall return presently.” He glanced back at his companions. “Follow me.”
“Father…” said Molly, her voice tight.
“Follow me or wait here,” said Mazael, spurring his horse to a walk.
After a moment Molly and Riothamus followed him.
“Sir knight!” said Ryker, his voice full of fear. “There are too many of them! They will kill you and…”
His voice trailed off, and Mazael kept riding.
A short time later he came to the bandits’ ambush. They had felled a pair of trees to block the road, and a half-dozen men waited behind the trees, short bows in hand. Mazael glimpsed more men concealed in the branches overhead and waiting in the undergrowth.
One bandit stood before the barricade, his bearded face split in a grin. He wore a shirt of rusting chain mail and carried a massive spiked battleaxe in his right hand. The weapon looked far more ornamental that useful.
“Welcome, travelers!” said the armored bandit. “You seem to be lost.”
Mazael said nothing and stared at the bandit, battle plans flickering through his mind. Riothamus, he knew, would not use his magic to kill, though his spells could do numerous other things. And Molly would have no compunction about killing anyone who attacked her.
He kept staring at the armored bandit, whose grin wavered just a bit.
“See,” said the bandit, “this is my road, and there’s a toll for passing through. We’ll take your horses, and that fine armor and sword of yours.” His eyes flicked over Mazael’s armor of dragon scales and Lion’s golden pommel. “And any food you have, too. Then you can go peacefully on your way. Wouldn’t want…”
“Stop talking,” said Mazael.
The armored bandit blinked in surprise.
Mazael dropped from the saddle. Fighting from horseback would be useless in the thick trees. He reached up, pulled his shield down from the saddle, and slid it onto his left arm.
The bandit laughed. “Now, I can appreciate gallantry, but surely you don’t mean to fight! We have you outnumbered twenty to…”
“I said,” said Mazael, “to stop talking. I will give you exactly one chance to save your life. Those peasants you robbed a few hours ago? You will return their goods, and then leave your life of banditry. Otherwise I’m going to kill you all.”
The armored bandit’s mask of jollity vanished in a moment, and Mazael heard the creak of drawn bowstrings.
“You think you can lord over us?” snarled the bandit. “You know what I’ll do? I’ll take that fancy sword and ram it so far up your arse you’ll taste steel. And then we’ll take your daughter, right in front of you, and make you watch as we…”
Molly’s derisive laugh drowned out the bandit’s threats.
“You?” she said. “Please. Your heart would give out from exertion long before you finished.”
Some of the waiting archers laughed.
“Kill them all!” roared the armored bandit, lifting his spiked axe.
“Riothamus!” shouted Mazael.
The archers took aim, but Riothamus was faster.
The Guardian of the Tervingi lifted his staff, the sigils flaring with golden light. A thunderclap rang out, and a gust of wind howled through the trees as the archers, over two dozen of them, released at once.
The gale caught the arrows and scattered them.
“Wizard!” shouted the armored bandit, charging at Mazael. “Take the wizard! Take…”
Mazael drew Lion and swung, all his rage driving his blow. Lion’s blade ripped through the bandit’s neck, and the man went down in a heap, blood pouring over his rusted mail.
###
Molly stepped into the shadows, eagerness burning through her veins.
She worked to keep her Demonsouled rage in check, to keep the power from twisting her into a monster like Corvad or Ragnachar. But the bandits had attacked them first. She felt no compunctions about fighting them.
She reappeared behind the fallen trees, the archers in front of her. Their eyes were focused on Riothamus, and then on Mazael as he beheaded their leader with a single savage blow.
So they didn’t see her at all as she attacked.
Her sword plunged into the first man’s back, the steel sliding through leather and muscle to pierce his lungs, while her dagger plunged between a second man’s ribs. Molly ripped her weapons free and stepped back, the blades dripping blood, as the astonished bandits spun to face her.
She killed one more man as they turned.
“Your leader has given me to you to do with as you please,” said Molly. “Who wants to go first?”
One bandit flung himself at her with a scream, brandishing a rusty mace. Molly sidestepped, her sword and dagger moving in a blur. Her sword took the man’s hand from his wrist, and her dagger opened his throat. The bandit fell with a gurgling scream, and Molly pivoted to the side to avoid his body.
“Well?” she said, beckoning with her dagger. “Who’s next?”
The other two bandits fled.
###
Mazael raced through the trees, Lion raised in his fist.
The pain of the poison throbbed in his chest and legs with every step, but it no longer mattered. The Demonsouled rage howled through him, making him faster and stronger. It made him invincible and implacable. He stalked the bandits and cut them down one by one. Sometimes they managed a blow that got past both his shield and armor, but Mazael ignored them. His tainted blood would close the wounds soon enough.
“Die, you devil!” screamed a bandit, a terrified young man with a spear. He stabbed, and the head opened a gash across Mazael’s cheek and jaw. “Die, die…”
Mazael caught the next stab on his shield and shoved, knocking the bandit sprawling. Then a thrust from Lion caught the bandit beneath the ribs.
He turned, searching for new foes as the cut in his jaw closed. He saw flickers of darkness in the branches as Molly disappeared and reappeared, hunting the bandits one by one. Another bandit sprinted past the trees, and Mazael started after him. The man whirled, terror filling his face, and raised a club in a shaking parry…
“No!” he shouted. “Whatever you are, I…”
He tried to manage a crude swing, and Mazael blocked and killed him.
He turned in a circle, his eyes sweeping for any bandits…
“My lord!”
Mazael lifted his sword as a young man with blue eyes and ragged black hair walked towards him. He wore chain mail beneath a leather jerkin, and carried a staff of bronze wood in his right hand. The sigils cut into the staff flickered and flared with golden light…
The rage drained from Mazael’s mind, leaving only the constant pain.
“Riothamus,” said Mazael, lowering Lion, blood sliding from the blade.
“It’s over,” said Riothamus. “Between you and Molly, you’ve killed most of the bandits. The rest are fleeing.”
The rage simmering in Mazael’s mind demanded that he chase them down, kill every last one of them, laugh as they screamed before him…
But Romaria needed him, and he had dela
yed too long here already.
“Let them go,” said Mazael. He tore a cloak from a dead bandit and wiped down Lion. “They’ll think twice before robbing any other travelers.”
Riothamus nodded, watching him.
"I know," said Mazael, "what you are thinking. You're watching me to make sure I don't go mad and kill everyone in my path. You think the pain from the venom has worn me down, that the Demonsouled blood is going to drive me mad."
"I am that transparent?" said Riothamus.
"No," said Mazael, "you're merely correct. You are right to watch me." He sighed and looked over the corpses scattered about the wood. "I was justified to kill those bandits."
"I would have preferred," said Riothamus, "that you had forced them to surrender."
"I know," said Mazael. "But Ryker and those peasants weren't the only ones this lot robbed, I'll warrant. They'll have done it before, and if I spared them, they would have done it again. And I'm sure they forced the women in Ryker's group."
Riothamus shrugged. "A lord has the right of high justice, does he not? And a Tervingi hrould would have hanged them all. But I am the Guardian, and I am sworn not to take life with magic. Besides, I am weary of death."
"Part of me is also weary of it," said Mazael. "But the other part revels in it, yearns to kill and slay. And I am so tired of holding myself in check. These bandits...they gave me an excuse not to hold myself." He rubbed his forehead. Gods, but his head hurt. "And so you are right to watch me."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"There have been Demonsouled among the Tervingi before," said Riothamus.
"Oh?"
"Some tried to conquer the Tervingi and the surrounding nations, to make themselves kings, into the Destroyer of prophecy, much like Ragnachar," said Riothamus. Mazael wondered how many Tervingi Demonsouled had gone into the pillar of fire at Cythraul Urdvul's heart. "But some controlled their power, and defended the Tervingi from foes of terrible strength. I think you will be one of them, my lord."
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 25