The second monk snorted. “The First Brother thinks shivering produces a holy spirit. He will not miss a little more wood.”
“I will put add the wood,” said Marsile. A few cords of firewood lay piled by the brazier, along with a small hand axe. Marsile tucked the axe under his arm, picked up his crossbow, and hastened to the courtyard. The bar holding the gate was heavy, but the Brother’s young body was up to the task. Marsile flung aside the beam and kicked open the gates.
“Brother!” said one of the other men, alarmed. “We are not to open the gates!” Marsile remained silent as the Brother hastened down the steps. “What are you doing?”
Marsile hit him in the neck with the axe. The Brother staggered back, his scream drowned in blood. The other two Brothers gaped in alarm. Marsile lifted the crossbow and pulled the trigger. One of the men shuddered and fell to the courtyard with a thump.
Then the ghouls rushed through the gate.
Sudden agony stabbed into Marsile’s arm, cold talons tearing through his flesh. He looked down and saw Tored gnawing at his wrist. Marsile bit back a scream and released his grip on the Brother’s body. Again he felt a moment of whirling dislocation, and settled back into his own weary, but intact, flesh.
He opened his eyes just as the ghouls finished ripping the guards apart. Marsile strode up to the gate, glancing at the monastery’s windows. He saw no sign of alarm.
“Great magic, master,” rasped Tored, clutching the remnants of a leg. “Great magic, to open the gates.”
“Yes,” said Marsile. “Now, into the monastery. Feast until you can feast no more. Remain stealthy for as long as you can.”
The ghouls loped towards the keep, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. The Brothers would destroy them all, but that didn’t matter.
Marsile began another spell, one he learned from the forbidden lore of the Secret College. The world changed around him, fading to indistinct, gray shadows. The shapes of the ghouls snapped into focus with awful clarity, crackling with the demons’ dark energies. Marsile stepped towards the wall and waved his hand.
His fingers passed through the thick stone without resistance.
The spell had worked. It had shunted Marsile’s flesh partway into the astral realm. Now he could pass through walls like a wraith. A pity ancient wards surrounded the vault, otherwise Marsile could walk in and take the Book of Stolen Blood without difficulty. Already the effort of maintaining the spell was draining him, but Marsile had strength enough to seize the book.
He walked through the walls, making for the First Brother's quarters.
Chapter 15 - Nightmares in the Dark
“I don’t trust it,” said Carandis, tapping her staff against the floor.
Lionel and the Adept stood alone in the corridor. Hildebrand had retired to the guest quarters for the night, and all the Brothers had gone to bed, save for those assigned to guard duty. Lionel could not sleep, and had gone for a walk.
Apparently Carandis could not sleep as well. Briefly Lionel entertained the thought of inviting her to his room, but he quashed the notion with shame. Such thoughts were unworthy of a Knight of the Silver Order.
“Surely Marsile will not try anything now,” said Lionel. “There are two Knights of the Silver Order here, an Adept of the Conclave, and a hundred and fifty Brothers.”
“Marsile won’t quail, whatever the odds,” said Carandis, pacing. “He might try something tonight. Unlikely, I’ll grant. But it is entirely possible. I’ll stay awake tonight, I think, and keep watch.
“I think you are worrying too much,” said Lionel. “Surely Marsile would fear to confront Sir Hildebrand.”
Carandis snorted. “You already know what I think of that, sir knight, so I’ll not weary your ears further. Rest well. I expect you’ll need it.”
Lionel bid Carandis a good night and went to his guest chamber. The room was small, but the bed was large, and layered with thick blankets. Lionel climbed into bed with a sigh. He had not slept in a proper bed for weeks, not since they had left High Morgon in pursuit of Marsile.
Surely Carandis’s fears were groundless. Marsile would never try anything so soon. The man was an Adept, after all, and Sir Hildebrand had always named such men craven.
Comforted, Lionel fell asleep.
###
Raelum saw Red Philip’s warehouse burning, saw Sir Oliver Calabrant cut down the slavers and free the kidnapped children. He felt a twinge of guilt, but the guilt soon faded. The men had been slavers, after all, and they preyed on the helpless and the weak. What had given them the right to do such a thing? The very thought made Raelum’s blood boil, as it always had…
Raelum jerked awake.
He lay bound and gagged in a cell of cold stone, iron bars crossing his vision. A sullen red glare illuminated the stonework. Had he died, his demonborn soul dragged down to eternal imprisonment?
He blinked and remembered the monastery of St. Tarill, the battle at Karrent, and Marsile’s long flight.
And now Raelum lay in the very vault holding the dark book Marsile sought. Raelum had to get free. Marsile was coming, and he would repeat the slaughter at St. Arik’s. Raelum had to get free, had to prepare, else more innocent men would die.
He squinted through the iron bars. His sword, armor, and shield lay propped against a pillar just outside his cell. Raelum tested the rope about his wrists, and found it dry and brittle. For a clever man, First Brother Ulrich had done a sloppy job of imprisoning Raelum.
Then again, Raelum doubted Ulrich had much experience holding men prisoner. And certainly not a man who had survived for years as a thief on the streets of Khauldun.
Raelum scooted to the rough stone wall. He found a sharp ridge, placed the rope against it, and jerked his hands back and forth. He kept at it until his shoulders ached, sweat dripping down his face and back.
Finally the rope snapped. Raelum yanked the gag from his mouth, untied his ankles, and stood. A massive chain and lock held the door to his cell shut. Any other time, Raelum could have picked the lock with ease, but he lacked the necessary tools. He ran his hands over the bars, and rust flaked away on his fingertips. The bars, standing for years in the damp vault, had corroded.
Ulrich truly believed him an impostor. Else he would not have imprisoned a Silver Knight in such a flimsy cage.
Raelum took a deep breath, drew on the Light for strength, and seized one of the bars. It bent back, screeching, rust showering to the floor. Raelum pulled until his heart pounded. He stepped back, gasping, and saw that he had bent the bar back a good four inches.
Raelum drew on the Light and kept at it.
###
He had been called Michael Kalenis in life, long ago. Though he really did not often think himself often, save for his appetites. The greater demon he had summoned and his own mind and soul had fused, and he was uncertain if he was the greater demon or Michael Kalenis.
He did not really care.
But when he did think of himself, he almost always now thought of himself as Nightgrim, the terror of Callia City.
It had such a nice ring to.
Nightgrim prowled through the dark corridors of St. Tarill’s. The thirst tore at him, like twisting knives plunged into his mouth and belly. His body trembled with its need, flakes of rotting skin falling from his hands and face. He needed blood, for the greater demon within his flesh would use that blood to fuel his strength.
And in the midst of his agony, the Adept’s domination spell howled in his mind like a winter wind, sharp and remorseless, screaming for him to kill the two Paladins, the Adept, and the impostor.
Yet Nightgrim ignored it.
He couldn’t kill Marsile, much as he would have enjoyed it. The domination spell prevented that much. But with an effort of will, he could ignore the spell’s other dictates. And he would ignore the spell's commands for now. In Nightgrim’s weakened state, the two Paladins would make short work of him.
Michael Kalenis had been cunning, but Nightgrim often
had difficulty thinking straight, especially while hungering for blood. He suspected it had something to do with the nature of his transformation from living man to demon-possessed draugvir. Kalenis had been ruled by his intellect, but the demon’s need for destruction ruled Nightgrim.
Yet a plan formed in Nightgrim’s pain-wracked mind.
He wanted to kill the Paladins, even without the Adept’s command. They threatened him in ways normal mortals could not. Had not three of their cursed Order almost destroyed him in Callia? He had to eliminate the threat.
More importantly, he would enjoy killing them.
But first, he had to prepare.
Nightgrim waited. A bit of light flared in the corridor, and a man in the robes of a sworn Brother of the Temple marched into view, carrying a lantern and a steel-shod cudgel. Nightgrim heard the man’s heartbeat, heard the blood rushing through veins. It took all his self-control to keep from leaping out and ripping the Brother to shreds.
Soon after his transformation, Nightgrim had discovered that he could hear the thoughts of living mortals. The Brother’s thoughts flitted across Nightgrim’s mind. The man was bored and tired, and kept daydreaming of naked women, and then slapped his thoughts back with a flush of shame.
Nightgrim grinned, stepped into the corridor, and locked his gaze with the young Brother’s. The Brother froze, mouth falling slack.
“Lay down your weapon and your lantern,” Nightgrim whispered, “and come to me.”
“Yes,” croaked the Brother, dropping the cudgel. “Yes…”
Nightgrim seized the Brother’s shoulders and ripped open the young man’s throat with blade-sharp fingernails.
The Brother tried to scream, the spell broken, but Nightgrim clamped his hand over the man’s jaw and drank the blood gushing from the wound. Molten fire rushed through him, filling him with strength and power. The young man’s vigor, his very life, spread through Nightgrim’s withered flesh like water into parched soil.
The Brother died, eyes bulging with horror. Nightgrim drained the corpse dry and dragged the body into an unoccupied guest room, noting that the skin on his hands and arms had become pale and whole once again.
“Cunning,” he whispered, pleased with himself. “Very cunning.”
He felt better, but he needed more.
Nightgrim crept into the corridors of St. Tarill, hunting.
###
Marsile drifted through the walls of St. Tarill’s like smoke. The gray and colorless world swirled beneath a curtain of mist, and every now and again Marsile saw webs of white light stretched over the corridors, crackling with power. Carandis Marken had been busy laying wards. No doubt the young Adept had commended herself for diligence, even as Marsile avoided the wards with ease.
He flowed through the door of Ulrich’s chamber. The old First Brother lay in bed, snoring. The keys dangled from his bedpost, glittering.
Marsile shifted back into the material world, his vision snapping back into focus. He took two quick steps and lifted the keys from the bedpost. Ulrich snorted and shifted in his sleep. Marsile waited a moment and stepped back.
He decided to kill the First Brother. Marsile had failed to kill Raelum, and that had come back to haunt him. He lifted his hands, the keys dangling from his fingers, and began to summon astralfire.
Someone pounded on the door.
Ulrich stirred in his sleep.
“Father!” came a man’s voice. “Father! Awake! We are attacked!”
Ulrich’s eyes opened.
Marsile abandoned the astralfire and cast the spell to shift his flesh back into the astral world, and his headache redoubled. He would need to rest for days to recover from this.
“Father! You must come at once!”
Ulrich sat up. “What? Who is it?”
“Father! The guards have been killed at the gate, and ghouls are loose in the monastery!”
“What?” roared the First Brother, springing from his bed.
Marsile drifted through the floor. He had to make haste. The minute Ulrich discovered his keys gone, he would realize what had happened. Marsile planned to be gone with the Book of Stolen Blood by then.
He did not have much time.
He drifted down until he came to the winding stairwell to the vaults. Marsile shifted into the material realm and hastened down the stairs, hand pressed against the cold wall for balance, and came at last to the massive door. The door and the stonework trembled with the potent magical energies of the ancient wards.
But someone had cast another spell over the door.
Marsile muttered a brief incantation and cursed. Carandis had laid a ward of her own over the door. Marsile could have dispelled it, but he did not have the time. To enter the vault, he would have to walk through the door, and alert Carandis to his presence.
“Clever girl,” he hissed, slamming the key into the lock. With any luck, Nightgrim would kill the Adept. And if not, then Marsile would just have to kill the girl.
The massive lock released. Marsile pushed open the door and felt a tingle as the ward reacted to his presence.
###
Nightgrim flung another corpse into the guest room.
It was the fifth one. Or the sixth? He couldn’t quite remember. Fresh strength surged through his body, his demon feasting upon the stolen life. He felt as if he could shatter stone blocks with his bare hands.
He felt ready to kill the Paladins.
Nightgrim prowled, his senses strained to their utmost. He stopped before another closed door. Behind it he sensed a painful concentration of the Light, the sort that always surrounded a Paladin. One Paladin lay beyond that door, and another rested in the next room. Nightgrim’s mind brushed their thoughts, and he realized they were both asleep.
More of his memories and powers had come back to him since he had fed, including a power he had once found most useful. Nightgrim concentrated, and the world around him went gray and hazy as his demon shifted his flesh partway into the astral world. Nightgrim stepped through the door and made himself solid again.
The Paladin, an old man, lay asleep in bed, his armor and sword leaning against the wall. Nightgrim made a silent snarl at the sword, a weapon forged with an aurelium core and worked with the Light itself. The Paladin’s face remained grim and stern, even in sleep, the brow slashed with deep furrows. An enormous gray moustache covered his upper lip.
Nightgrim had seen that man somewhere before. But where?
He hissed as the memory came in a flood of rage and hate.
“Hildebrand,” he growled. “Hildebrand of Oldenburg.” It had been thirty years ago, but he remembered it well. Hildebrand of Oldenburg had been the youngest of the three Paladins that had driven Nightgrim into hiding.
He had vowed revenge. But who would have thought he would find that revenge after only a few hours of wakefulness?
Oh, but he was going to enjoy this.
###
Raelum pulled at the iron bar, the Light filling him, the muscles in his chest and arm straining. The bar jerked back a few inches, and Raelum stumbled, panting, hot sweat dripping down his face and chest. The gap between the bars had widened another few inches. A little more, and Raelum could slip through, claim his weapons, and await Marsile. Raelum gripped the bar, drew on the Light, and tugged.
The iron bar bent back, screeching. Raelum felt a surge of triumph.
Then the bar snapped in two.
Raelum flew backwards, still clutching half the bar. His head slammed into the wall and he slumped to the floor, dazed.
###
Marsile stepped into the vault, hands raised to work a spell.
The place was deserted. Thick stone pillars supported an arched roof, and the walls gleamed with dampness. An iron brazier sat near one of the pillars, its dying coals throwing a bloody light over the stonework. It had been lit for someone. But who? Did a hidden guard watch him even now?
Marsile’s eyes swept over the shadowy vault, and his eyes fell on the podium standing
in an alcove.
Sheer excitement pushed aside his fear.
He hastened across the vault. The podium held an enormous book bound in worn black leather and corroded brass bindings. Marsile ran his fingers over the cover, feeling the magical energies pressed into the very fibers of the pages.
“The Book of Stolen Blood,” whispered Marsile, voice shaking as he deciphered the High Imperial symbols on the cover.
He laughed aloud, his excitement bubbling over. Marsile fumbled through the First Brother’s keys and unchained the book from its pedestal. He tucked the book in his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. The weight was considerable, but Marsile didn’t care. Now he just had to escape from this accursed monastery, and his long-sought goal would at last lie in his grasp.
###
Raelum came back to consciousness.
His head throbbed, and he still clutched the iron bar in his right hand. He levered himself up, using the bar as a cane.
A wide gap yawned between two of the iron bars, wide enough for Raelum to squeeze through. He turned sideways, put his right arm and right leg through the gap, and stopped.
A man in brown robes strolled across the vault.
It was Marsile. Raelum would have known that weary, grim face anywhere, with its gray-shot black hair and dead, cold eyes. Raelum’s shock melted in an inferno of fury, and he flung himself against the bars, trying to break free and kill his enemy.
Then he got stuck.
###
Marsile strode back into the main vault, and a flicker of motion caught his eye.
Sir Oliver Calabrant’s red-eyed squire stood in one of the alcoves, trying to squeeze past the iron bars.
###
Hildebrand stirred in his sleep. His old bones ached, he and needed to empty his bladder.
He sat up and saw the man standing at the foot of his bed.
The man looked no more than twenty, his body lean, skin pale, hair dark and thick. He wore the ragged remnants of a coat, trousers, and leather boots. His black eyes had a red gleam.
The Third Soul Omnibus Two Page 20