“What,” rasped Raelum, pawing at Red Philip’s greasy fingers, “did you do with them?”
Red Philip laughed. “They’re gone, rat.”
“What?” choked Raelum.
“Gone,” said Red Philip, bringing his blotched face close. “I sold them the very day I burned their rathouse to the ground. I packed them onto the first galley that would take them. They’re gone to Carth. The wench will adorn some sultan’s harem until he tires of her and gives to the lions. The brats will toil in the mines until they die.”
“No,” said Raelum. He forgot the pain, his fear. “You’re lying.” It couldn’t be. If Red Philip had sold them four days ago, then they were gone forever, vanished into the vast lands of Carth. “You’re lying! You wouldn’t have sold them, not on the first day! You’d have made no profit.”
Red Philip brayed laughter. “Profit? You think I did this for profit? I did it for revenge! You cost me coin. So I took something dear from you. My spies saw how your brought food to the wench and her brats.” His hand tightened on Raelum’s throat. “Nobody crosses me! I watched the slavers brand and chain the brats, I watched them take turns with your pretty little Sister and I laughed…”
Raelum’s pain and grief vanished in a volcanic tide of grief.
He rammed his head forward, his forehead smashing into Red Philip’s nose. The big man stumbled, spluttering in surprise, and Raelum’s foot crashed into his groin. Red Philip howled, stabbing, and blade cut a deep gash down Raelum’s forearm. He ignored it and snatched up his own dagger.
“You’re lying!” said Raelum. He stabbed Red Philip in the belly. “You’re lying!” Red Philip went even paler, tripped over one of the corpses, and fell onto the table. Raelum stabbed him again and again. “You’re lying, you’re lying, you’re lying…”
“Damn you!” snarled Red Philip, trying to ward off Raelum’s furious blows. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”
Raelum stabbed him in the shoulder.
Red Philip roared and clawed at Raelum. “Die! You miserable rat, die, die, die…”
Raelum’s arm plunged down again and again and again, even after Red Philip stopped moving. Everything vanished in a flood of red.
Some time later, Raelum fell back from the table, staring at the bloody mess that had been Red Philip. Blood soaked Raelum’s face, his hands, his clothes. He took two steps back, doubled over, and threw up.
It had been for nothing. Julietta and the orphans were gone forever. Even if Raelum took a ship and sailed across the ocean, he would never find them. A dozen vast cities lined the coast of Carth, and a hundred petty princedoms filled that far land. Julietta and the orphans would spend the rest of their days in misery and suffering, because of him.
And Raelum had murdered these men for nothing.
He looked at Red Philip’s butchered carcass and the strewn bodies of the lieutenants. In a night and a day demons would enter the dead flesh and raise them as ghouls. Raelum bared his teeth, snatched a lantern, and flung it to the ground. The dry floorboards caught fire, flames spreading over the dead men. Raelum ran into the street as the warehouse filled with black smoke. He stood and watched as flames devoured the structure.
The numbness filling Raelum’s mind cracked, and he ran through the streets, trying to get away. Exhaustion washed over him like a black wave, and he flung himself to the ground and knew no more.
###
Days later, Raelum wandered the streets, his clothes stiff with crusted blood. Men took one look at his bloodstained clothes and his red eyes and headed in another direction. Even the guards refused to look at him.
Raelum didn’t care. He would wander until he collapsed from exhaustion or someone killed him.
“Boy.”
Raelum ignored the voice.
“Boy. Raelum!”
Raelum blinked and turned.
Sir Oliver Calabrant stood behind him.
“What do you want?” said Raelum.
“I heard what happened,” said Sir Oliver. “I had feared you dead or taken.”
“I wish I was dead,” said Raelum. “They are all dead and gone.”
“What happened?” said Oliver.
“Red Philip,” said Raelum.“He took Julietta, and the orphans, and shipped them to Carth.” Raelum’s hands clenched into fists. “I killed him for it!” He began to sob. “But it was my fault. I shouldn’t have helped you. I shouldn’t have helped them. If…if I had stayed away, Red Philip…he…he wouldn’t…”
Raelum found himself sobbing into Sir Oliver’s shoulder like a baby.
At last he managed to recover himself and pull away.
“I killed him for it,” he whispered.
“And does that,” said Oliver, “ease the grief?”
“No,” said Raelum, closing his burning eyes. “No.”
“It does not,” said Sir Oliver. “Revenge accomplishes nothing. And in the end, it does far more harm to you.”
For a moment they stared at each other, the grim Paladin and the ragged street thief.
“Come with me,” said Oliver.
“Why?” said Raelum. “Why should I not lie down and die?”
“Because,” said Oliver, “if you come with me, then someday you may have the chance to stop another man like Red Philip. Not for revenge, but for justice. For the protection of the weak. Someday, you will have the chance to keep something like this from happening again.”
Raelum wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked at the wretched squalor of the slums, the warrens where he had spent his entire life.
“All right,” he said.
Raelum left Khauldun, walking besides Sir Oliver’s horse, and soon left the city behind.
###
Five years later they came to the crumbling, half-abandoned city of High Morgon.
For those five years Raelum walked besides Sir Oliver’s horse, carrying the old Paladin’s shield. Raelum helped Sir Oliver fight ghouls, wraiths, and mortal villains. Oliver taught Raelum to use a shield, to fight with a sword, and to ride a horse.
And he taught Raelum to use the Light, the shining power that opposed the dark strength of the demons.
And in High Morgon Sir Oliver died, poisoned by Marsile of Araspan. But before the old man passed, he placed Raelum’s hand on the hilt of his sword, and led Raelum through the oaths of a Silver Knight.
Raelum had burned the body of Oliver Calabrant and left High Morgon with the old Knight’s sword, yearning for vengeance and Marsile’s blood.
That had been several months and almost a thousand miles past.
It felt like an eternity.
###
“Sir Raelum?”
Raelum blinked and realized that Carandis and Lionel were staring at him. How long had Raelum stood there, lost in the dark shadows of memory?
“Why did I become a Silver Knight?” said Raelum.“Because…there wasn’t anything else I could do. Come. Let us walk for an hour longer, then find a place for camp.”
They walked in silence, following the northeastern road.
THE END
The Third Soul VIII: The Tomb of Baligant
The Paladin Raelum has followed the renegade Adept Marsile to the edge of the world. With the aid of his companions, Raelum must stop Marsile from releasing the horrors sealed in an ancient tomb.
But Marsile is not Raelum's only enemy.
For the power of the tomb wishes to claim Raelum for its own...
Chapter 1 - Pursuit
Marsile blinked awake, pale sunlight brushing his eyes. He winced, expecting to feel molten agony in his back and his joints.
Instead, he only felt a dull ache in his knees. Marsile sat up, the satchel holding the Book of Stolen Blood sliding against his chest. He frowned and opened the satchel, touching the leather of the book’s cover.
“Of course,” he whispered, laughing as he remembered the life force he had stolen from the unfortunate Brother at St. Tarill’s. “Halt!”
His servants
stopped, robes rustling.
“Bring me food and drink.”
Two servants bearing food and wine stepped forward. Marsile ate with a will. He could not remember the last time he had been so hungry, nor could he remember the last time his stomach had held food without a trace of pain or nausea.
“You,” said Marsile, taking a drink of wine, “mirror.”
The ghoul complied, holding up a mirror in its skeletal fingers. Marsile gazed at his reflection in pleasant surprise. Most of the lines had vanished from his face. His hair now held more black than gray.
He looked almost healthy.
But it never lasted. The stolen life energies would dissipate within a few months. The gray would creep back into his hair, the lines etching his face anew. No matter what spell Marsile used, he could not stave off aging and death forever.
He laughed, running his fingers over the book. Death stalked him, but at long last, he had found the key. A little while longer, a brief journey, and he could escape death’s clutches forever.
“You,” he said, pointing at one of his ghouls. “How long have I been asleep?”
The creature did not answer. The domination spell invariably wore down a lesser demon’s already feeble intellect until the creature became nothing more than a raging beast.
“Answer me. How long have I been asleep?”
“Twice, master,” rasped the creature.
“Twice what?” said Marsile.
“Twice. The sun. Comes and goes,” said the ghoul.
“Two days, then,” said Marsile. He looked at the ancient, overgrown road, now crusted with snow and ice. His servants would have made thirty or forty miles while he lay unconscious. His eyes strayed to the Alderine River on his right, the cold water the color of dark steel. “Have we passed a bridge?”
“No, master,” said the ghoul.
“Good,” said Marsile. He did not want to backtrack. “Prepare my chair.” His servants assembled the sedan chair, and Marsile sat down with a contented sigh. “Follow the road until I command otherwise.”
His servants resumed their stride, picking their way along the half-vanished road. Were there any roads on the far bank of the Alderine River? For that matter, would the weather hold? A strong blizzard might stop him for months.
Marsile shook his head, dismissing his concerns.
He pulled the Book of Stolen Blood from the satchel, opened it, and began to read.
His excitement grew. The book had clearly been written by one of the Hierarchs of the Old Empire - Arazhon or Ramhirdras, perhaps, or Siglorel, or even Baligant himself. It described the ways a wielder of the High Art could manipulate, use, and control demons and further master blood sorcery. And the book held powerful spells, stronger than any Marsile had seen. One spell of blood sorcery was similar to the one he had used to heal his wound. Yet with this spell the stolen energy would dissipate in years, not months.
He flipped through the rest of the book, intending to study it in depth later. To his delight, he found an improved spell for controlling lesser demons. Once Marsile had mastered it, he could control twice, perhaps thrice, as many servants as he had done previously.
He closed the book, intending to walk for a while, and he heard something crashing through the brush. Something large and dark blundered through the trees. A renegade ghoul, perhaps? Or a bear? Bear meat would make a welcome addition to his supplies.
And then to his utter astonishment, Tored the ghoul clawed its way free from the trees and staggered to the middle of the road.
How had the wretched thing survived St. Tarill?
“You lie to Tored,” hissed the ghoul. Wounds and burns marked its gray flesh, and the skin had burned away from most of its right arm, revealing rotten muscle. The snapped-off heads of a several crossbow bolts jutted from Tored’s torso. “You lie! No meat for hungry Tored.”
The creature loped towards Marsile’s litter.
“Oh?” said Marsile, focusing. His domination spell had lapsed from the ghoul’s mind. “I got you into the monastery, did I not?”
“You lie!” shrieked Tored, clawing at the air. “No flesh! Tored devours your flesh instead!”
Marsile lifted his hands and cast the domination spell over the ghoul, crimson astralfire dancing around his fingers. Tored skidded to a stop, yellow eyes widening, and Marsile’s will hammered through the demon’s mind like an axe through rotten wood. Tored snarled, thrashed, then went limp.
“Master,” croaked the ghoul.
“Very good,” said Marsile, rubbing his temples. “How did you survive?”
“Too many Brothers.” The ghoul shuddered, flakes of burned skin falling from its shoulders. “And the Adept. And the Paladins, with horrible light. Tored ran before the Paladins took him. Tored is clever.” Marsile laughed, and Tored snarled. “Tored is clever! Otherwise he would not have survived for three centuries in this cold woods.”
Marsile frowned. “You mean to tell me you’ve existed for three centuries?” Marsile supposed it was possible, but he had never heard of a ghoul existing for more than two hundred years. Sooner or later, the demons inhabiting their flesh became reckless, made too many mistakes, and perished. Then again, these empty lands did not hold many living hunters.
“Master,” said Tored. “Three hundred years, long and cold.” He whimpered. “Before Tored died, he lived on the other side of the river. In the great city, aye, where the King of Arvandil reigned. There were people then, living people. But all the people died. So Tored came to this side of the river, looking for flesh.”
“You say you know the lands on the far side of the river?”
“Aye, Master,” said Tored. “Not always empty. Once it was the great kingdom of Arvandil.”
“No doubt,” said Marsile, thinking. All of the maps in his books had been created by the Hierarchs before the fall of the Old Empire. But in the fifteen centuries since, kingdoms had been founded here, realms built by the Seeress’s barbarian followers or refugees from the ruin of the Old Empire. Yet those kingdoms had long since fallen into ruin, ground down by the Ashborn and the demon hordes beyond the Silvercrown Mountains. Marsile knew the way to Moragannon, but what dangers lay between here and there?
A guide might prove useful.
“We shall make a bargain, you and I,” said Marsile. “I am going to Moragannon.”
Tored stared at him for a long time. Had the ghoul recognized the name?
“Tored knows it not,” the ghoul said at last.
“You may have seen it,” said Marsile. “A great black fortress, sitting upon a spur of the Silvercrown Mountains.”
Tored flinched. “The black castle? The great lords lived there, long ago. A very bad place. A great lord is buried there. A bad place. Anyone who goes inside never comes out again. If you go inside, master, you will never come out again.”
“Do not think to command me,” said Marsile. “I offer you a bargain. I shall release you from my service. In exchange, you will take me to Moragannon.”
“Why bargain?” said Tored. “You tell Tored, and he goes.”
“Because,” said Marsile, glancing at his silent servants “my domination spell will reduce your mind to jelly within a few months. You would not make a good guide then, I daresay.” He clenched his will and lightened his spell about Tored. “You shall take me to Moragannon.”
The ghoul licked its lips.
“Do not think to betray me,” said Marsile, smiling. “If you run off, I can find you again. Or perhaps you think to kill me in my sleep?”
“No, master,” said Tored, shaking its head, “no, no.”
“Yes,” said Marsile. “My servants watch over me. Lift one finger against me, and they will rip you to shreds before I even wake. And I am a light sleeper. Betray me,” Marsile lifted a hand, summoning power, “and you shall see what I can do.”
A blast of white astralfire erupted from his hand and lashed at the ground before the ghoul’s feet. Tored flinched back, gibbering in terror, b
abbling promises of eternal loyalty.
“Be silent,” said Marsile. “Walk before my servants. I shall call you if I need you. And do not think to flee.” Tored loped to the front of the column.
Marsile watched with a satisfied smile. Sheer terror, he judged, should prove sufficient to keep Tored cowed.
“Forward,” said Marsile. His servants resumed their shuffle, Tored loping at their head. Marsile walked among them, enjoying the lack of pain in his limbs. A morning’s stroll, and then he would return to the sedan chair and the books taken from the abbeys…
Something like a finger of air brushed Marsile’s head.
He whirled, raising a hand, and his servants stopped. He scanned the trees on both sides of the wide river, seeking for unseen foes. He saw nothing but gray water and barren branches.
Again the feather-light presence brushed Marsile.
It was not touching his skin, but the inside of his mind. Marsile snarled a spell, focusing his will. He sensed the presence of a spell of the High Art, its subtle power centered on him, on his blood.
Someone had used a spell of astral resonance to find his location.
Marsile turned in a circle, snarling in rage. How could this have happened? Few Adepts had the talent to work such a spell, and those who did always needed some blood to cast the location spell. Marsile had always taken great care never to leave such traces. Could he have erred? Such folly could cost him dearly…
He remembered the vault beneath St. Tarill, the jagged iron bar plunging into his flesh. His fingers brushed his side, feeling the faint scar beneath his robes. He had plucked the iron bar from his flesh and flung it aside. After stealing the Brother’s life-force and fleeing the monastery, Marsile had forgotten about it.
More than enough blood had stained the iron bar to fuel the spell.
“Fool,” he growled, “fool, fool, fool.”
Carandis Marken must have survived the ghouls and Nightgrim’s hunger. Now the young Adept had the ability to find Marsile. Suppose some of the three Paladins had survived? They would continue their hunt for Marsile. And guided by Carandis Marken, they could find him. They had defeated the ghouls, defeated Nightgrim...
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