Demons came at his call.
Ogren’s corpse twitched, shuddered, and stood. Marsile cast another spell and forced his power into the new-made ghoul, binding it to his will. The villagers gaped in horror as their domn’s mortal shell lurched towards them. One villager summoned the courage to step forward, weapon raised, and Ogren’s axe split his skull. The few remaining villagers fled and vanished into their houses.
Marsile blew out a breath and rubbed his aching temples. He released the demon in Ogren’s corpse, and the body fell insensate to the ground.
“Into the village,” Marsile called. “Follow me.”
He broke into the houses one by one, inspecting the huddling children, and seized those that met his requirements. His servants gagged the children, bound them, and carried them away. The mothers screamed and wailed.
As he departed the village, his servants trailing behind, Marsile contemplated killing all the villagers. They might decide to chase him, or, worse, give aid to his pursuers. Yet if Marsile pressed them further, they might overcome their fear and fight him to the death. He would crush them, of course, but an errant arrow mind find its mark in his flesh.
Marsile could not take that risk.
He decided to give them something else to think about.
Marsile lifted his hand and unleashed a lance of blue astralfire, setting the thatched roof of a house ablaze. He pushed aside the ache in his skull and swept the bar of astralfire across the rooftops. Soon a crown of flames danced over the village, and screams and wails rose into the night.
Marsile left Karrent behind, following the road and the Alderine River northeast. His joints throbbed with pain, and he bid his servants to reassemble the sedan chair and carry him. He wanted to stop and get some proper rest, but he had work yet to do.
He didn’t have enough food to feed nine children.
The children thrashed and squirmed, screaming into their gags.
Five miles later Marsile commanded his servants to halt. He put several of them to work unpacking and assembling equipment. A few moments later a small collection of apothecary’s tools sat on a camp table. Marsile went to work himself, mixing ingredients and muttering the occasional spell. An hour’s labor produced a bottle of black, viscous fluid.
One by one, Marsile removed the gags and forced a mouthful of the black slime down the children’s throats. They fell unconscious, their breathing and heartbeats slowing.
The elixir had put the children into a deathlike sleep that would last for a year and a day, unless Marsile released them, or an Adept or blood sorcerer of sufficient skill awakened them. Now the children required neither food nor water, and were little more than a few pieces in Marsile’s extensive baggage.
Marsile bid his servants to chop and pile wood, and he set it aflame with a burst of blue astralfire. He sighed and wrapped himself in his cloak. At last, he could take some proper rest. A servant brought him one of the sacks containing food, and Marsile ate and drank his fill.
Now, one last task, and he could sleep. He had made numerous enemies in his long life. The Silver Knights desired vengeance for the death of Sir Oliver Calabrant. The Conclave of Araspan wanted him for the murder of two of their members and the theft of materials from their library. A pity both First Magister Talvin and Magister Orain were dead – they had both been members of the Secret College, and would have had enough influence to keep the Conclave from pursuing Marsile.
Even Sir Oliver’s squire, some demonborn rat from the streets of Khauldun, had sworn vengeance. The thought made Marsile laugh. He had survived the wrath of the Silver Knights, the Conclave of Araspan, rival members of the Secret College, mighty demons, and countless others. A demonborn orphan, the spawn of some drug-addled demon-worshipping peasant girl, would prove no threat.
Marsile closed his eyes and worked another spell. In Coldbrook he had bound the keep’s wraith, commanding it to kill any Adept of the Conclave or Knight of the Silver Order that entered. In the monastery of St. Arik, he had raised two of the slaughtered Brothers as wraiths and bound them with the same instructions.
His spell extended his thoughts towards Coldbrook, reaching for the knight’s wraith.
He found nothing. Marsile refocused his will. Had he miscast the spell? He drove his will towards St. Arik’s, seeking for the two wraiths.
He found nothing.
A twinge of alarm touched him. He focused his will on his nearby servants. Their minds, empty of anything but rage and hunger, brushed against his thoughts. Marsile scowled and swept his will towards Coldbrook and St. Arik’s. Again his thoughts found nothing. Could the spells animating the wraiths have failed?
Marsile sat up straighter.
Someone had destroyed the three wraiths. But who? Certainly none of the ignorant peasants huddling in their hovels. No, someone of power must had dispatched the wraiths? A Silver Knight? An Adept of the Conclave?
Or both, perhaps, united in their common goal of his death? The Silver Order and the Conclave detested each other…but perhaps they detested Marsile more.
Marsile shivered.
He lay down on his litter, trying to make himself comfortable, and endured the jouncing ride as his column of the dead marched forward.
Chapter 8 - Northmen
Raelum smelled smoke.
He stopped, placing a hand on the horse’s face, and sniffed the air. It carried a faint charred odor, like overcooked meat. He saw no sign of smoke, but the wind was blowing down from the north. Could the fire lie ahead? Yet Raelum saw neither smoke nor fire.
A forest fire? It seemed unlikely in the snowy trees. Or a battle of some kind? Had had Marsile unleashed some diabolical new blood sorcery?
Raelum shrugged and kept walking, one hand on his sword hilt, the other on his horse’s reins.
He had named the horse Fortune. It had been a good idea to take the beast. Raelum hadn’t realized how heavy his pack had become, and the horse could carry more food than Raelum ever could. But hopefully Raelum would not need the food. Marsile had a lead of only one or two days. His ghoul minions might be tireless, but Marsile was not. Sooner or later, he would rest, and then Raelum would have him.
He watched chunks of ice and dead branches drift down the Alderine River on his right. Raelum wished the road didn’t lie between the riverbank and the forest. Any foes coming out of the trees would pin him against the icy river.
The river’s splashing seemed almost rhythmic, like someone was throwing rocks into the water every few heartbeats. It sounded, he mused, almost like oars.
Then he heard faint voices drifting over the water.
Raelum squinted and just made out the dark shape of a large boat further downstream. What was a boat of any size doing this far up the river in the middle of winter, so far from any populous lands? He cursed and led Fortune into the trees. Better that the ship’s crew not see him. The captain might try to press-gang him, and the Divine only knew how a crew of river men would react to Raelum’s eyes.
The ship slid into view from the south, its oars lashing at the water. It was a longship, its prow carved in the shape of a roaring dragon, and dozens of round shields hung from the ship’s sides. A huge man, gray-haired and bearded, stood at the bow, clad in scale mail and furs. Every so often he bellowed orders at the unseen oarsmen. Other men in furs and armor stalked the deck, watching the river with narrowed eyes.
It was a ship of Northmen, raiders from the isles of Magarn. Their raids for slaves and loot terrified the folk of the coast, and every few decades they attempted to sack one of the great cities. Raelum had never fought the Northmen, but he had often seen them swaggering through the streets of Khauldun, proud and boastful. And Sir Oliver had fought the raiding Northmen in his youth, and told Raelum tales of their cruelty and bravery.
Yet what had brought these Northmen rowing up the Alderine River? The coast was far away. And surely richer loot could was found elsewhere Yet Sir Oliver had said the Northmen possessed a mighty wanderlust.
/> “And they yearn for glory,” Sir Oliver had told him. “They’ve no written language and know nothing of letters, and know nothing of the past, save for deeds recorded in their great sagas. And all the Northmen want to be in those sagas, and will spill rivers of blood in the name of glory.”
A darker thought came to Raelum. Had the Northmen pledged to Marsile’s service? No, that seemed unlikely. The Northmen hated Adepts, thought them demons, and killed them on sight. Their galley labored upstream. Raelum waited until it had faded from sight, and stepped back onto the road. He hoped the Northmen stayed away from Marsile. The Divine only knew what horrors Marsile would inflict upon them.
Raelum kept walking. He dared not make haste, lest the Northmen see him.
Yet Marsile was so close.
The smell of smoke got stronger.
Raelum picked up his pace. Had the Northmen burned a village? Raelum broke into a run, Fortune trotting behind him. Were the Northmen planning a raid? Raelum felt a twinge of anger. What right did the Northmen have to terrorize these people?
He would not permit it.
The trees opened up into empty fields, and a burned village lay ahead, smoke trailing from charred rafters. The Northmen couldn’t have burned the village so quickly. Or had they raided it before, and had just now returned? Northmen moved through the ruins, clapping screaming villagers into irons. Did Raelum risk interfering? If he fell here, Marsile would continue on his way, Sir Oliver’s murder unavenged. Yet Sir Oliver would not have let these monstrous deeds go unchallenged.
A child screamed.
Raelum’s anger burst into rage.
He drew his sword and tied Fortune’s reins to a small tree. With any luck, he would live to return for the horse.
Another scream captured his attention. Raelum turned, sword ready. A girl stumbled towards him, her dress torn and bloody. A hulking Northman lumbered after her, broadsword in his right hand, a chain in his other.
“Come on, wench!” growled the Northman. “No use fighting! You’ll fetch a fair enough price in Khauldun, aye.”
The mention of Khauldish slavers pushed Raelum’s rage into molten flame. He stepped past the quaking girl, sword raised.
“Stand and fight!” said Raelum.
“Hah!” said the Northman, tossing aside the chains, “finally, a proper fight.” He locked eyes with Raelum, grinning…and flinched. “What sort of devil…”
Raelum’s sword lashed out. The Northman parried, snarling in fear. Raelum twisted past the Northman’s two-handed hack and thrust. His sword slashed across his enemy’s leg, and the Northman bellowed and fell to one knee. Raelum’s next swing took off the Northman’s head. Corpse and head toppled to the ground, staining the snow.
The girl stared at him in terror, making the sign of the Divine to ward off evil.
Raelum paid her no further heed. He drew on the Light, letting it fill him with strength and speed. Raelum sprinted into the smoldering ruins, screams and cries filling his ears. In the village’s square a half-dozen Northmen stood guard over a score of sobbing villagers. The sight brought back memories of the slave markets in Khauldun, the whips and the screams and the stench.
“Come, you villains!” yelled Raelum. “I challenge you!”
He roared and threw himself at the Northmen.
The Northmen whirled, flinching in shock. Raelum killed one, ripping his sword through a throat. Another Northman bellowed and came at Raelum, brandishing broadsword and shield. Raelum parried a blow and ducked past another. He swung, his muscles moving with Light-enhanced strength, and his strike shattered the Northman’s shield. The Northman reeled back, and Raelum’s next swing smashed into the Northman’s side, crushing armor. His foe fell, and a red-bearded Northman charged at him. Raelum ducked and hit the Northman across the face. The Northman stumbled back, clutching his jaw, beard darkening with blood.
A sword stroke grazed Raelum’s scalp, sending blood down his cheek, and another struck his side. His mail stopped the edge, but the blow rattled his teeth. He wheeled and killed another Northman, growling. The remaining Northmen fell back, eyeing him.
“Where is your chieftain?” Raelum said. “Come, coward! Will you hide behind these weaklings?”
The huge, gray-bearded Northman Raelum had seen on the longship’s prow shoved to the front. He looked like an armored old wolf, eyes cruel and cunning. “Neither man nor devil mocks me, for I am Mjallir! I have come to these lands to claim Ashborn hides to hang in my hall.” He laughed. “I care not if you are mortal or a blood-eyed devil, but your head shall make a fine trophy!”
“You will not take these villagers,” spat Raelum, trying to keep his balance.
“I do what I wish,” said Mjallir, raising his broadsword. “No man is strong enough to stop me.” He grinned. “They shall make songs of your death, of how Mjallir the Gray slew you!”
“By the Divine,” growled Raelum, “I am Raelum of the Silver Knights, and I swear you shall never see another sunrise!”
His blade whistled towards Raelum’s stomach. Raelum had just enough time to recognize it as a feint. He blocked Mjallir’s sword an instant before it would have split his skull. Raelum sidestepped and thrust, and Mjallir accepted the hit, the sword point scraping against his armor. The Northman’s boot crashed into Raelum’s knee, and Raelum stumbled, pain exploding up his leg. Mjallir hacked, and it took all of Raelum’s strength to stop the strike.
“Ha!” said Mjallir, grinning. “Cold steel can slay even a devil!”
“Or a mortal murderer,” said Raelum. He sprang at Mjallir, sword flying through a volley of slashes. Mjallir danced back, blocking, ducking, dodging. Raelum stumbled, his sword blurring past Mjallir’s shoulder. The Northman laughed and brought his blade whistling down. Raelum parried, catching the blow a foot from his face. For a moment they strained against each other, blades grinding.
Raelum sidestepped, one hand dropping to his belt, and Mjallir’s sword bashed against Raelum’s mailed shoulder. An explosion of pain went through Raelum’s sword arm, but he yanked his dagger free with his left hand and plunged it into Mjallir’s neck. The Northman roared in pain, blood spraying from his mouth. Raelum dropped the dagger, took his sword in his left hand, and stabbed, the blade crunching into Mjallir’s chest.
The chieftain shuddered, clawed at Raelum, and collapsed to the ground.
Raelum turned to the surviving Northmen, Mjallir’s blood steaming on his sword. “Who shall die next?” He expected they would rush him. Instead, the Northmen fled back to their ship. Perhaps his eyes had frightened them, and they dared not face the red-eyed devil that had slain their mighty chieftain. Raelum leaned on his sword, sweat and blood dripping down his face. For a moment Raelum thought he would topple, but he mastered himself and faced the shackled villagers.
They stared at him with abject fear.
“You are free,” said Raelum. “You will not be slaves.”
One of the dead Northmen clutched a ring of keys. Raelum took it, and the villagers shied away from him.
“For the Divine’s sake,” said Raelum, disgusted. He flung the keys at them. “Unlock yourselves, then.”
“My lord,” said one the villagers, a young man with greasy brown hair. He took the keys and began to unlock the chains. “What…will you do with us?”
“Nothing,” said Raelum.
“As you say,” said the man. His voice shook with fright.
“Who are you?” said Raelum.
“I am Terrick,” said the peasant. “I was Brother Mulgrim’s assistant. Brother Mulgrim is dead. I suppose I am the keeper of the village Temple now.”
“Does this village have a lord?” said Raelum.
Terrick unlocked more villagers. They fled and huddled together, staring fearfully at Raelum. “Sir Ogren ruled this village. He was a hard man, but kept us safe. The Adept killed him. He laid a witchery over Sir Ogren, driving him mad, and the men of the village cut him down.”
“Adept?” said Raelum. “A
grim man, with lordly bearing, clad in crimson robes?”
“Aye,” said Terrick, stepping back. “You know of him? Did he summon you up?”
“Nay,” said Raelum, biting back his irritation. He turned his bloodstained blade, showing the sword-and-rose sigil. “I am a Silver Knight.”
“I know the sigil. Father Mulgrim steeped me in the lore of the Temple,” said Terrick. “Perhaps you are a demon in the guise of a Paladin, or simply a demonborn. Please, I beg of you, leave our village. We have suffered enough grief.”
“Marsile is not my master,” said Raelum. “I have come to kill him. And I’ll leave your village. Just tell me about Marsile,” he sighed, “and you’ll never see me again.”
Terrick gazed at him. “If you wish him dead, then I will tell you what you want to know, even if you are possessed.” He unlocked the last of the villagers, and they huddled on the far end of the square, leaving Raelum and Terrick alone.
“When did he come?” said Raelum.
“Yesterday, just after sundown,” said Terrick.
Raelum felt a surge of excitement, despite his pain and exhaustion. Marsile was just a day ahead.
“Why did he attack you?” he said. It made little sense. Raelum doubted the village Temple hid books of necromantic lore.
“Children,” said Terrick, closing his eyes. “The sorcerer wished for our children.”
“What?” said Raelum.
“He came to our gates,” said Terrick, “and demanded that we give him nine children. Sir Ogren refused, and the sorcerer unleashed his ghouls and his spells on us. He killed most of the able-bodied men, and stole away nine children.” Terrick shook his head. “Then he set fire to the village and departed. We labored through the night trying to put out the flames and beheaded the dead so they would not rise as ghouls.” He looked towards the river. The longship moved southward, carried by the current and the frantic lashings of the oars. “And then the Northmen came upon us. What have we done to deserve such misery?”
The Third Soul Omnibus Two Page 12