The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  The villagers murmured. By all rights, after five minutes naked in the winter night, he should have died. Yet here he stood, calm and confident. Nightgrim let his eyes rove over the villagers, feeling their growing disquiet.

  “So you did?” said Walchelin. A wide smile spread across his face. It looked, Nightgrim thought, like a reflex. “You must be mighty, sir, to survive a night in these woods, alone, unarmed, and…unclad, even.”

  “Well,” said Nightgrim, “I flatter myself to think I have some small ability.”

  “Truly,” said Walchelin. “You heard us speak?”

  “I did,” said Nightgrim, “and found the subject of your discourse so interesting that I could not help but stop. I heard you speak of Marsile and the Paladins.”

  Walchelin hesitated. “Are you their friend? Or enemy?”

  “The latter, I fear,” said Nightgrim. “I am most interested in them. You see, I find it necessary to carry out the uncouth but nonetheless necessary business of killing them.”

  “All five?” said Walchelin. “Marsile, Raelum, and his followers?”

  “Yes, all five,” said Nightgrim.

  “They have wronged us!” said Walchelin. “Marsile brought the red-eyed devil down on us. Raelum and his band killed dozens of our best men and destroyed our noble guardians. We wish revenge!” The villagers murmured agreement, no longer interested in Walchelin’s head. “Sir, if you could but revenge us…we will reward you and give you whatever aid we can.”

  “Indeed?” said Nightgrim. “Truly?”

  “Truly!” said Walchelin.

  “Splendid!” said Nightgrim. “Excellent! You can aid me best by letting me kill you all.”

  Walchelin blinked. “Sir?”

  “You are confused, I see,” said Nightgrim. “Permit me to explain. I am very hungry. Therefore, I am going to kill you all and the demon within me shall feast upon your blood.” He considered this, examining the villagers’ horrified gazes, and amended his thought. “Upon further contemplation, I will behead your corpses. Mortal blood is rare in these lands, and I have no wish to share with a pack of ravenous lesser draugvir.”

  The word “draugvir” whispered through the crowd like a black wind.

  “Sir,” said Walchelin, shuffling towards Nightgrim, “I beseech you, surely there must be some other way. Spare our lives, I beg…”

  He chopped, right-hand axe whistling towards Nightgrim’s neck. Nightgrim’s fist snapped up and shattered Walchelin’s wrist. The fat man wailed, dropping his axes. Nightgrim broke Walchelin’s other wrist, stepped around the big man, and broke his back just below the neck. Walchelin toppled and Nightgrim caught him, raised him up, and flung him with all his strength. The bailiff sailed through the air, smashed into the inn’s roof, and fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

  Needless to say, Walchelin stopped screaming.

  “Now, worthy folk,” said Nightgrim, no longer bothering to hide his laughter, “shall we begin?”

  The villagers fled in all directions, but Nightgrim moved faster. He snatched a young man and ripped open his throat. He feasted, the stolen life filling him like fire, until the young man went dry. Nightgrim tore the corpse’s head from its shoulders and flung the carcass aside, looking for new victims.

  “Fight, I tell you!” screamed a voice from the inn. Nightgrim peered through the inn’s door with interest. “Kill the thing, and I promise you the flesh of my infant daughter!”

  “That is appallingly gauche,” called Nightgrim. “A true man would stand and fight.”

  A half-dozen gray, loping shapes sprang from the inn’s opened door. Slime dripped from their fangs and greasy hides. Their rotting scent filled Nightgrim’s nose.

  “Kill him!” screamed a man from the doorway, “kill him!”

  The ghouls dashed towards Nightgrim.

  Nightgrim threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  The ghouls took one look at him and froze, tongues dangling over their fangs. He looked at the ghouls, one by one, and enslaved the wills of their lesser demons to his own.

  “Master,” they croaked, crawling in the dirt at his feet, “master.”

  The man at the door gaped in horror.

  “A brave effort, sir,” said Nightgrim, suffering the ghouls to lick his feet in adoration, “but unquestionably a poor idea.” He sprang through the air and landed on the inn’s front step. The man just had time to scream before Nightgrim took him. He drained the man dry and flung the corpse into the street. The ghouls fell on the dead man and feasted.

  Nightgrim strolled back into the street. The villagers had vanished into their houses, barring their doors. Flush with stolen life, drunk on it, Nightgrim decided to take a playful approach. The fleeing villagers had left torches lying on the ground. Nightgrim scooped one up, strode to a nearby house, and tossed the brand into the roof. The thatch took fire at once, and soon roaring flames and black smoke rose into the sky. Nightgrim waited, the ghouls squatting at his heels. Soon enough the door burst open, and a man and woman of middle years stumbled out, coughing, followed by a half-dozen children.

  Nightgrim and his new followers feasted.

  They worked through three more houses. Screams rang in the black night, flames dancing in the sky. Nightgrim’s pale skin warmed, becoming ruddy, while the ghouls’ bellies swelled with gorged flesh. As Nightgrim finished with his fourth victim, his hunger dulled with stolen life, his mind began to work again. He paused for a moment to think. Why should he kill all the villagers now? True, he would enjoy it. But his hunger had been stilled, at least for a few nights. He thought of how shepherds had once driven great herds of sheep to Callia City to sell in the city’s merchant fairs.

  “My loyal servants!” said Nightgrim, snapping his fingers. The ghouls hastened to his side. “I have need of your gallant service for some time yet.” His mind, unaccustomed to such lucidity, whirled with plans. “Follow me, and you shall receive ample flesh for many days.” Nightgrim laughed. “Not that you have any choice in the matter, of course. But follow me, and do as I bid, and you shall feast.”

  The ghouls responded with a croaking sort of cheer.

  Nightgrim retrieved a torch and led them from house to house. Men, women, and children flooded into the streets. One by one, Nightgrim gazed into their eyes and commanded them to sleep. A ghoul fetched a length of rope from a barn, and Nightgrim used it to bind the captives.

  Towards the end, the surviving villagers tried to flee. Nightgrim killed those who resisted and let the bodies fall. The rest he beguiled and then bound. The sun began to rise in the eastern sky. Nightgrim commanded his ghouls to guard him and the prisoners, and retired to the cellar of an unburnt house to rest.

  The next night he awoke to hear scuffling. Nightgrim emerged from the cellar and into the street, fearing that Marsile or the Paladins had returned to attack.

  Instead he saw his enslaved ghouls fighting with several newly-risen ghouls, struggling to keep them from the unconscious villagers. Nightgrim had forgotten to shred the corpses of several dead villagers, and lesser demons would have transformed them into ghouls by now. Nightgrim strolled among them and slaved their minds to his mighty will.

  “Master.” Death, sadly, had not improved Walchelin’s appearance. The obese ghoul groveled at Nightgrim’s feet, whimpering. “Master. I…I am hungry. So hungry…”

  “Indeed, bailiff?” said Nightgrim. He looked at the smoldering ruins of the village. “Though, if I may be bold, your village is no more, so you cannot be a bailiff any longer. A tragedy, that. But, fear not. I shall let you feast as the fancy takes me. After all, I cannot drink the tainted blood of Sir Raelum.” Walchelin growled. “Perhaps I will let you devour him, after I snap his neck.”

  Nightgrim took an unconscious girl, drank her dry, and fed the corpse to the ghouls. Afterwards, he directed the ghouls to gather up the unconscious villagers, to carry them as Marsile’s enslaved demons had carried the children.

  He had erred, he saw now,
dwelling for so long in Callia City. His feastings had drawn attention, and the Paladins had come for him. But here, in these tiny villages, who had the power to stop him? Once he killed Marsile and the Paladins, Nightgrim would return to the civilized lands, and move from village to village, feasting and killing as he desired. The Paladins would never find him.

  Laughing, Nightgrim ordered his slaves forward. They dashed in a run, following the trail of Nightgrim’s foes.

  Behind him, the ashes of Abbotsford grew cold.

  Chapter 8 - The Nameless City

  Three days after leaving Abbotsford, Marsile saw the Silvercrown Mountains.

  He sat up straighter, ignoring the ache in his back. Far to the east, beyond the barren trees, he saw the faint shapes of massive, snow-mantled mountains. They were yet many days away. But every step, every mile, took him closer to Moragannon and his long-sought goal.

  “Tell me,” said Marsile. “How far to the Moragannon ”

  Tored glanced back. “Many days and nights. But the lands become very dangerous.”

  “What sort of dangers?” said Marsile, settling back into his sedan chair, adjusting the Book of Stolen Blood on his lap.

  “Many great ones in the ruins,” said Tored. “And the scarred devils come from the mountains.”

  “Scarred devils?” said Marsile. He laughed. “You fear bears, then? Or perhaps an invasion of mountain goats?”

  Tored snarled. “Not bears. Not goats. Devils, with fangs and claws. They eat flesh, like hungry Tored. They eat you, master, if they can.”

  Marsile snorted. “They may try. But the mountains and Moragannon are yet distant. What dangers lie close at hand?”

  “Many hungry ones,” said Tored. “And the great city.”

  “A city?” said Marsile. “There is a city here?”

  “It was the king’s city,” said Tored, “when Tored was alive. Now it is filled with the dead. Tored does not like to go there. Great ones sleep under the city.”

  “Do you know this city’s name?” said Marsile.

  “Tored forgot,” said the ghoul.

  “A nameless city, then,” mused Marsile. He had seen numerous ruins since leaving Abbotsford. With his arcane strength enhanced by the proximity of the astral world and the new spells from the books, Marsile had dominated thirty more ghouls. He had even enslaved a pair of wraiths, little different from the specter that had reigned in Coldbrook Keep. The wraiths now drifted behind Marsile’s litter, passing through trees without difficulty.

  The ruined kingdom of Arvandil had once been populous, settled by survivors from the Old Empire. Had the city possessed a library? Did books of the Old Empire’s arcane lore lie in the ruins? Walchelin and the poison would dispose of Marsile’s pursuers. Perhaps he had the leisure to stop and investigate.

  Still, he needed to take great care. A ruined city would harbor mighty demons. Marsile thought of Nightgrim and shuddered. No, he did not dare stop, not now. After he had returned from Moragannon perhaps he could explore the ruins. But not until then.

  Marsile’s litter-bearers moved around yet another boulder. In places Marsile saw ancient, moss-cloaked milestones, the remnants of an ancient road, but such relics did little to facilitate speedy travel. His pace had slowed to an infuriating crawl as his servants picked their way trees and boulders. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Walchelin would dispose of Carandis Marken and the Paladins, and Marsile now had enough enslaved demons to keep Nightgrim at bay.

  Marsile turned a page in the Book of Stolen Blood and felt the faint, tingling touch brush against his mind. He hissed in fury and slammed the book.

  “Master?” croaked Tored, turning around.

  “Keep going,” said Marsile.

  Carandis Marken had cast the location spell again. The girl was still alive. But surely she had reached Abbotsford by now? Walchelin, coward that he was, would waste no time in administering the poison. Then again, perhaps Carandis hadn’t found Abbotsford yet.

  Or maybe she had gone around the village, fearing something amiss.

  Or maybe Walchelin had failed.

  Sooner or later either the Paladins or Nightgrim would catch up to Marsile. He rubbed the scar in his side beneath the crimson robes. Even if Walchelin managed to kill Carandis and the Paladins, the fat bailiff could do little against the likes of Nightgrim. Sooner or later, Marsile’s enemies would find him.

  But he did have one advantage.

  They would plan on surprise. Yet Marsile knew they were coming nonetheless. If he could find a suitable location and prepare an ambush…

  The forest thinned, and the trees here looked younger, less weathered by wind and storm. In places the ground bore traces of worn furrows. This land must once have been cultivated. Marsile saw a tangle of moss-cloaked foundations, woven with thicken roots. A village, then. Perhaps it had fed the nameless city when Arvandil had once been a kingdom of the living.

  Tored halted, sniffing.

  Marsile lifted a hand, his servants halting. “What is it?”

  “Go around,” said Tored. “Dangerous. Go around.”

  “I thought you were guiding me,” said Marsile. “Did you forget to pay attention?”

  Tored shook his head. “Please, please go around…”

  A twisted, gray shape heaved its way free from the ruined foundations. Marsile wrinkled his nose at the sudden wave of carrion stench. The demon thing looked like a ghoul, yet bigger and stronger than any Marsile had ever seen. It had a mouth of jagged fangs and a pair of enormous tusks that gashed its cheeks, sending gray slime oozing down its face. It had talons, wicked curved things like a reaper’s scythe, four or five inches in length.

  The claws flickered with a pale, blue-green flame.

  Another reaper-ghoul hauled itself from the ruins, followed by three more. Soon a dozen of the creatures stood and stared at Marsile with eyes of blue-green flame. Marsile smiled and began working the spell to dominate demons. He had sufficient strength to control a few more, and these monsters might prove useful.

  He cast the spell…

  …and reeled back into his chair, stunned, as the spell’s force rebounded into his mind. It felt as if his will had struck a stone wall.

  Could someone have placed a spell the reaper-ghouls? Marsile focused his will, probing the demons. They had no minds, no reason. Yet they raged with hunger like death, a devouring pain that made a normal ghoul’s appetite seem petty. That all-consuming hunger had shredded his spell like paper.

  Marsile sat dazed for a moment, then came to himself just as the reaper-ghouls tore into his servants. Their scythe-claws shredded the ghouls’ flesh with ease. Three of Marsile’s ghouls collapsed, their baggage falling. The reaper-ghouls shrieked, their wailing plunging into Marsile’s ears.

  “Master!” howled Tored, “master, master!”

  “Fight!” yelled Marsile. “Fight! Drive them off!” He cast a spell and flung a blast of white astralfire into the nearest reaper-ghoul. The thing crumpled to the ground, lay still for a few moments, and then lurched back up.

  Even as he considered what spell to try next, a reaper-ghoul burst free from the melee, gnashing its tusks, a deathly chill radiating from its claws. Marsile barked out a spell, and his will struck the creature like an invisible fist, spinning it head over heel. The reaper-ghoul twitched and clambered to its feet, undamaged.

  Marsile snarled a stunned curse.

  Could nothing harm these wretched things?

  The reaper-ghoul screamed and tore into one of the ghouls holding Marsile’s litter. The ghoul collapsed, and Marsile toppled to the ground, the precious Book of Stolen Blood bouncing from his lap. The old pain exploded through his joints. For a moment he lay immobile with the pain. He heard the reaper-ghoul’s advance, heard its snapping tusks, and knew he must act or die.

  Marsile rolled to one knee, crimson robes flapping, and cast a spell. A blast of blue astralfire hammered into the reaper-ghoul’s chest, driving it back. Marsile cast another spell, drawing upon
as much power as he could manage. Blue flame snarled and danced around his fingers, his bones thrumming from the sheer force of the power he had summoned. He focused his will on the staggering reaper-ghoul and flung out his hands.

  Azure fire erupted from his hands and blasted the reaper-ghoul to a charred husk. Marsile refocused his will and sent waves of flame exploding from his palms, the astralfire chewing into the reaper-ghouls.

  Within a heartbeat the reaper-ghouls had been reduced to smoking coals.

  Marsile released the spell. His head blazed with pain from the effort, his arms trembling and weak. He cursed, went to one knee, and scooped up the Book of Stolen Blood. The book was undamaged, to his immense relief.

  “Master?” whimpered Tored.

  Marsile turned. “You should have warned me!” Eight of his ghouls had been destroyed, their baggage lying strewn over the ground.

  “Master!” said Tored, scrambling back, pointing with a claw that seemed puny against the reaper-ghouls’ talons.

  The husk of a reaper-ghoul twitched and jerked across the stained snow. The burned flesh writhed and began to regenerate. Marsile stared, astonished, as the reaper-ghouls rebuilt themselves before his eyes.

  Within seconds they looked unharmed.

  Marsile contemplated running.

  The screaming things tore into Marsile’s servants. He tucked the Book of Stolen Blood under his arm and began gathering power for another spell. He would need something far greater than simple astralfire to defeat the reaper-ghouls. Marsile flung out his hand, releasing a spell to shatter a demon’s hold on its dead flesh and send it back to the astral world.

  The spell struck the nearest reaper-ghoul in a spray of snarling sparks and did nothing. The demon was too strong to succumb. Marsile stared at the reaper-ghouls in growing panic. Had he come this far only to perish a few weeks’ from Baligant’s tomb?

  One of the reaper-ghouls sprang at him, cold claws slashing. Marsile barked out a spell that armored his body in an aura of brilliant blue light. The reaper-ghoul’s claws rebounded from the ward, and Marsile cast another spell, his limbs trembling with the strain. Mingled crimson and white astralfire erupted from his fingers and drilled into the reaper-ghoul, simultaneously attacking both the demon’s astral essence and its material form. The reaper-ghoul wailed and dissolved into a pyre of smoking cinders.