The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Clearly,” said Carandis.

  “We have a decision to make,” said Arthuras.

  “And that is?” said Raelum.

  Arthuras pointed over the bridge. “Look yonder. What do you see?”

  “A hill,” said Raelum, “with ruins.” He extended his demonborn senses and flinched. “There…are demons in the ruins, powerful ones. We had better stay away unless we want a fight.”

  “Aye,” said Arthuras. “Beyond?”

  “More trees,” said Raelum. His eyes narrowed. “And smoke.”

  “Smoke,” said Arthuras, “from hearth fires.”

  “A village,” said Carandis. “Abbotsford, if I remember First Brother Ulrich’s description.”

  “You did,” said Arthuras. “Now we must decide if we shall show ourselves.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” said Lionel. “They will give us aid. They might even have seen Marsile.”

  “They might have,” said Raelum, “which means Marsile might have killed them all, and left traps as he did in Coldbrook Keep and St. Arik’s.”

  “Have you been here before, Arthuras?” said Carandis. “What are these villagers like?”

  “I do not know,” said Arthuras. “I have only crossed this bridge twice, thirty years past, and ten years before that. Both times I avoided the village. Something about the village…I did not like the way it smelled. It made me uneasy. So I continued without stopping.”

  “We should stop,” said Lionel. “Suppose Marsile harmed the villagers? They might need our help.”

  “All right,” said Raelum. “We’ll stop. But be on guard.”

  “So be it,” said Arthuras.

  They crossed the bridge, the horses’ hooves clicking against the ancient stones. Raelum looked at the ruins atop the hill and wondered if the demons within could see him. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  He was still holding his sword when his foot touched the earth on the river’s eastern bank and the nauseating shock blasted through him. Raelum hissed in pain and staggered, falling to one knee. For a moment it seemed as if legions of howling, raging shadows rose from the earth, reaching for him with ragged claws.

  “What is it?” said Arthuras. Raelum cursed, blinked, and looked to his side. Lionel leaned against the side of his horse, sweating, his face gray. Yet the older Paladin's eyes held a stunned fascination, even something like dark joy.

  “What’s wrong?” said Carandis, and she stepped upon the far bank. She gasped, her eyes growing wide, and she almost fell.

  “I should have warned you,” said Arthuras, voice quiet. “I did not think it would hit you quite so hard.”

  Carandis turned in a circle, eyes still wide. “It’s the astral world. It’s stronger here.”

  “Stronger?” said Raelum. “How is that possible?”

  “He’s right,” said Lionel, voice feeble. “Can’t you feel it?”

  Raelum frowned. His demonborn senses, he assumed, allowed him to feel the closer presence of the astral world. Carandis was an Adept, and she had a connection to the astral realm. But why could Lionel feel it?

  The taint from Nightgrim, perhaps?

  “You are correct,” said Arthuras, rubbing his chin. “The Hierarchs tore open a rift to the astral world in the heart of the Old Empire. The closer one draws to the rift, the more tattered the barrier to the astral realm.”

  “If the astral realm is closer, my spells will be stronger. And if my spells are stronger,” said Carandis, “then Marsile’s magic will also be stronger.”

  “Even if Marsile has become ten times as strong,” said Raelum, “I will still pursue him. And I can still reach the Light.”

  “As can I,” said Lionel. The grayish cast had not left his face.

  “Wine?” said Arthuras, pulling a skin from the horse. “You look in need of something to settle your stomach.”

  “Aye,” said Raelum. He took a drink. “Lionel?”

  “No,” said Lionel. “I’m not thirsty. At least, not…”

  Raelum looked at him.

  Lionel swallowed. “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Come,,” said Arthuras. “Let us see Abbotsford.”

  On the far side of the river the road looked better traveled, less covered by weeds. The smell of smoke grew stronger as the trees thinned, opening into empty fields. Beyond lay a large village, smoke rising from the chimneys. The tower of a stone Temple jutted against the gray sky, and Raelum saw people moving through the village, children playing, women carrying buckets of water.

  “Why, it’s larger than Karrent!” said Lionel.

  “No wall,” said Raelum.

  “You’re right,” said Carandis.

  “Every village from here to the sea has at least a palisade to keep out roving ghouls,” said Raelum. “With those demons in the ruined monastery on the hill, I think they would need a palisade.”

  “Perhaps the demons are dormant,” said Carandis.

  “Perhaps,” said Raelum, “but what of ghouls from the woods?”

  “It is strange,” said Arthuras. “I say we move on.”

  “But the people,” said Lionel, gazing at the village. “They might need our help. And suppose Marsile stopped here? The villagers might give us news of him.”

  “If we are careful,” said Carandis, “the four of us should prove a match for any number of villagers.”

  Carandis, Lionel, and Arthuras looked at Raelum.

  Raelum sighed. “I would prefer that we move on.” The Divine only knew how the villagers would react to his eyes. “But if Marsile has harmed these people, we have a duty to aid them. But be careful. Do not trust them.”

  He squared his shoulders and strode towards the village, the others falling in line behind him. A woman at the edge of the village froze, stared at them for a moment, and then vanished into a house. Raelum stopped at the end of the village’s main street and waited. The place looked normal enough, no different from a hundred other hamlets Raelum had seen.

  Yet how could a village exist, without a wall, in these demon-infested lands?

  A group of villagers towards them, led by a fat, red-faced man with a wide smile. None of the villagers carried weapons, Raelum noted, a fact that puzzled him.

  “Welcome, sirs!” said the fat man, bowing from his ample waist. “I am Walchelin, bailiff of this village, though our lords,” he glanced at the ruined monastery, “have long passed away. We bid you welcome to our humble village. I beg of you, share your names with us.”

  “Lionel of Tarrenheim,” said Lionel, “a Knight of the Silver Order.”

  The villagers looked impressed.

  “Carandis Marken,” said Carandis, “of the Conclave of Araspan.” Raelum expected the villagers to flinch or jeer. They did neither.

  “Raelum, once of Khauldun, now of the Silver Order,” said Raelum.

  “Two Paladins!” said Walchelin, blinking. “Our little village has never known such honor!”

  Raelum stepped forward, pulling back the hood of his cloak and letting Walchelin and the villagers see his eyes.

  Walchelin’s beady eyes skittered over Raelum’s. The fat man said nothing, nor did any of the other villagers.

  Raelum’s disquiet grew.

  “And you, sir?” said Walchelin, peering at Arthuras. “How may I address you?”

  Arthuras wrapped himself in his mottled cloak. “You may address me as Arthuras.”

  “Arthuras?” said Walchelin, as if puzzled. Then his smile returned in full force. “Again, my lords, welcome! It has been many years since we have seen such noble guests. Two Paladins! Our food, drink, and shelter our yours.” His smile faltered. “Though perhaps we are not as merry as before.”

  “Why?” said Lionel. “What is amiss?”

  “Five of our own have died, killed three days past by a traveler in red robes…”

  “Marsile,” said Raelum, his rage flashing.

  “He called himself such,” said Walchelin, “though I wonder if that was h
is real name.”

  “It is,” said Raelum. “Tell me what happened. Now.”

  “Marsile came to our village,” said Walchelin. “He…demanded children as tribute. We refused, but he laughed at us, and said that if we loved our children so dear, then we would love orphans all the more. He killed five men, all men with children, and went on his way.”

  “The fiend!” said Lionel.

  Raelum looked at fat Walchelin, at the villagers. The village seemed to lack a strong protector, and without a palisade or a wall, they would have had no chance of resisting Marsile’s ghouls. Why hadn’t Marsile destroyed Abbotsford as he had Karrent?

  It didn’t make sense.

  “We are pursuing Marsile,” said Lionel, angry color returning to his gray face, “and will slay him for evils he committed long before he ever came to your village. We shall find him, I swear to you, and bring him to justice.”

  “Lord Paladin,” said Walchelin. “Truly you are kind to us.” The villagers swarmed around Lionel, muttering thanks. Lionel beamed, and for a moment looked like his old self.

  “Before we move on,” said Carandis, “it would aid us greatly if you can tell us everything Marsile said, and did, while in your presence.”

  “We shall tell you gladly,” said Walchelin. “But will you not take some rest? We must have a feast to celebrate your arrival.”

  “That sounds grand,” said Lionel

  “No,” said Arthuras.

  “No,” repeated Raelum. “A bit of food and some wine, tell us what we need to know, and then we shall go.”

  “Quite right, Lord Paladin,” said Walchelin, nodding. “You are most wise. A little food, and some wine. Our humble village has an inn, though not many travelers!” Walchelin’s smile widened. It made him look almost cherubic. “Come to the Inn of the Brothers with us, and we shall tell you everything.”

  Chapter 5 - The Guardians

  The Inn of the Brothers was a stout timber building with a stone foundation and a shingled roof. Walchelin bowed and opened the door. The smell of cooking food flooded Raelum’s nostrils.

  “How did the inn get its name?” said Lionel.

  “I forget,” said Walchelin, waving them inside. “But are we not all brothers together in the love of the Divine?”

  “Most certainly true,” said Lionel.

  A long trestle table ran the length of the inn’s common room. The floorboards thumped hollowly beneath their boots. Raelum wondered how deep a cellar lay beneath the inn, and what it held.

  He looked at the villagers’ beaming, ruddy faces. Despite Abbotsford’s oddities, the villagers themselves seemed nothing more than simple peasants. Perhaps by some prodigious twist of fortune their village had been spared the calamities that had inflicted Karrent. Both Lionel and Carandis seemed at ease, and even Arthuras had begun to relax.

  But the gnawing doubt refused to leave.

  “Sit, sit,” said Walchelin. “If you must leave so soon, then at least we shall get some warm food into you, eh?” Women emerged from the inn’s kitchen, bearing platters of bacon, cheese, and bread.

  “Some warm food would be welcome,” said Carandis.

  “And wine!” said Walchelin. “We have little wine here. It is too cold to grow grapes, and few merchants dare to make the journey. But we have some wine, and we shall drink it in your honor!” The women produced a skin of wine and some wooden goblets. One of the women laid a goblet before Raelum with a smile.

  Why did this all seem so familiar?

  Some part of Raelum’s mind screamed warning, but he could not understand why. The women poured the wine. Raelum, Carandis, Lionel, and Arthuras each had a goblet, along with Walchelin and a dozen village men.

  “A toast, I say, a toast!” said Walchelin, hefting his goblet. “To our noble visitors! May they return triumphant, so we can have a proper feast!”

  “To justice!” said Carandis.

  Raelum stared at his goblet, watching the red wine sparkle. He sloshed the cup, listening to the others make their toasts. For some reason he found himself thinking of Red Philip. The wine that Red Philip’s lieutenants had drunk, the wine Raelum had poisoned, had looked quite like this.

  “To justice and the Divine!” said Lionel.

  “My wishes are simpler,” said Arthuras. “To that feast, and may we live to taste it.”

  “A good toast, my lord!” said Walchelin. “And you, Sir Raelum?”

  “It matters not.” Raelum shrugged and lifted the goblet. A bit of wine sloshed near the edge. It left behind a shadow of gray, lusterless powder.

  “Then let us drink, sirs!” said Walchelin, raising his goblet.

  Raelum stared at the gray powder, his mind whirling with sudden memory.

  He had found Sir Oliver prone and dying at the house of Lucas Parwaith in High Morgon, an empty goblet and a puddle of wine by his hand. Parwaith had put the poison in Oliver’s wine, but Marsile had given him the poison.

  On the rim of Sir Oliver’s goblet, Raelum had seen the lightest dusting of gray powder.

  And Marsile had come to Abbotsford, perhaps even to this very inn.

  “Stop!” roared Raelum, exploding to his feet. He swept the goblets from the hands of Arthuras, Lionel, and Carandis. “Stop!”

  Walchelin froze. “Is something amiss?”

  “Poison,” said Raelum, snatching a goblet, “the wine is poisoned.” He pointed at the rim. “The gray powder. I have seen it before. Marsile. Sir Oliver. In High Morgon.” His words tumbled over each other in his anger. “Marsile killed Sir Oliver with this powder.”

  Arthuras lifted the goblet to his nose, sniffed, and flung it away in disgust. “He’s right!”

  For a moment no one said anything. Walchelin gripped his goblet, the color draining from his face. Lionel gaped at the spilled wine. Arthuras scowled, stood, and drew his sword.

  “You knew of this,” said Raelum.

  Walchelin set down his wine and tried to smile. “No, no, of course not.”

  “You’re in league with Marsile,” said Raelum. “What did he offer you for our lives? Gold, power, immortality from one of his demons? He gave you the poison for us!”

  “He did not, I swear it!” said Walchelin. “Marsile, Marsile must have crept into the inn and poisoned the wine before he continued to Moragannon…”

  “How do you know that name?” said Carandis, “or that Marsile was going there?”

  Walchelin offered a queasy grin, sweating, and then all at once his face twisted into a grimace of hate and rage.

  “Kill them!” he bellowed, shoving back. “Kill them in the name of the great Lord Baligant!”

  The men drew daggers and charged, howling, while the women fled through the doors. Walchelin lurched to the corner and knelt by a trapdoor, fumbling with the latch.

  Raelum yanked out his sword and took off a villager’s arm. Carandis threw out her hand, and invisible force seized one of the villagers and flung him over the table and into the far wall. Two men grabbed Lionel’s arms and slammed him against the table. Raelum decapitated one of Lionel's attackers, while Arthuras stabbed the other. The surviving villagers, about a half-dozen, retreated back towards the inn’s door, daggers raised.

  “Murderers!” shrieked a villager. “You’d murder us under our own roofs!”

  “Poisoning is acceptable?” said Carandis. “Lay down your blades and surrender, and we’ll spare your lives.”

  Walchelin laughed in contempt and flung open the trapdoor, a hideous stench flooding the room. Then he wheeled and fled out the inn’s doors, the remaining villagers at his heels. An enormous, grayish hand erupted from the trapdoor, and all at once a huge bulk burst into sight.

  Raelum’s and Lionel’s swords erupted into white flame, and the presence of an awakening demon brushed against Raelum’s senses.

  “The Divine protect us!” said Lionel.

  It was the fattest ghoul Raelum had ever seen. The thing looked like an enormous, rotten pear, its gray skin bulging w
ith stolen flesh. It reeked of carrion, a frothing mixture of blood and slime dribbling from its fang-choked mouth.

  “Flesh!” said the beast in a watery voice. “Flesh!”

  It sprang on the table with a shriek, talons extended.

  Raelum let the Light fill him with strength and struck. His burning blade struck the ghoul’s belly and bounced away, repulsed by layers of congealed fat. The ghoul swiped and Raelum ducked, the demon’s claws brushing his hair. The thing bounded from the table, the floor shaking with its impact. Raelum jerked back, slashing. Again his sword bounced away from the ghoul’s greasy hide.

  Carandis waved her hands, and a blazing shaft of blue-white astralfire lanced from her fingers and sliced into the ghoul’s side, grayish slime bursting from the wound. The creature howled and spun to face her, and Raelum drew on the Light, filling his arms with strength, and stabbed down. The point sheared through the ghoul’s blubber and plunged into its torso. The ghoul wailed and tried to tear free. Raelum growled and twisted his sword as Lionel leapt forward and stabbed, his blade plunging into the creature’s chest. The ghoul screamed and frothed, trying to tear free.

  Arthuras took his sword in both hands and swept off the ghoul’s head. It bounced across the table, rolled over the floor, and stopped against the wall. A jet of slime bubbled from the neck, and the headless body lurched back and forth across the room, knocking over the table. The severed head continued to scream and snarl, gnashing its teeth, until Carandis destroyed the demon in the dead flesh with a burst of white astralfire.

  “Inn of the Brothers, indeed!” said Carandis. “A brotherhood devoted to the worship of Baligant, I should say!”

  The presence of more demons flooded against Raelum’s senses, and he stepped over the villagers’ corpses and looked into the trapdoor. A gray hand reached over the edge, trying to pull itself up, and Raelum saw a stinking, blood-stained cellar, a half-dozen ghouls trying to climb a wooden ladder. Raelum kicked the ladder over and slammed the trapdoor shut.

  The ghouls’ screams of hunger still came through the thick wood.

  “By the Divine,” croaked Lionel, looking paler than usual. “By the merciful Divine.”