The Third Soul Omnibus Two

by Jonathan Moeller

  Marsile swept his trembling hands before him, sending the crimson and white astralfire tearing into the reaper-ghouls. It tore through the dead flesh, mowing through the reaper-ghouls like a plow through earth. The reaper-ghouls shrieked and screamed, running back and forth, the fire consuming them to ashes.

  Silence fell over the ruins. Marsile gagged on the stink and slumped against a tree, his head hammering with agony. Too much, he had worked too much magic…

  Tored crept towards him, inch by inch, eyes agleam with hunger.

  Marsile surged to his feet, ignoring the dizziness, and raised his hands. “Another step, ghoul, another step, and I’ll rend the stinking flesh from your bones.”

  Tored froze. “Tored not betray the master.”

  “Tored is a liar,” snapped Marsile. “Get back, now!” Tored cringed away, whimpering. Marsile looked over the damage, gritting his teeth. Fourteen of his servants had fallen to the reaper-ghouls, their bodies destroyed. Marsile sighed and issued commands, bidding his surviving servants to take up the dropped baggage. When everything had been packed, Marsile fell back into his sedan chair. He felt as if he had aged ten years. At least the reaper-ghouls hadn’t gotten at the slumbering children. Marsile had no way of replacing them.

  “What are you waiting for?” he snapped, gesturing at Tored. “Lead on! The rest of you, follow.” Tored resumed his loping crawl, muttering to himself. Soon the hideous stench of the reaper-ghouls’ burned flesh faded. Marsile sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing the Book of Stolen Blood. He wanted to sleep. A decade past, such intensive spell casting would not have exhausted him so badly.

  He looked at his hands, noting the quivering fingers. The decline of his mortal flesh had accelerated. No matter how much life he stole, sooner or later his body would wear out. How much longer, Marsile wondered, before his heart burst, or his innards festered, or dementia took him?

  He had to reach Moragannon as soon as possible.

  His hands tightened into fists. He would not let his enemies stop him.

  But how to stop them? Perhaps he could trick them into a nest of the reaper-ghouls? The reaper-ghouls might overpower Carandis Marken, aye. But the Silver Knights’ Light-imbued swords destroyed demons with a touch. No, Marsile needed a more effective ambush.

  “Ambush,” he murmured, remembering his earlier thoughts. How many reaper-ghouls could a Silver Knight defeat? A dozen? Fifty?

  A hundred?

  “Tored,” said Marsile. “This…nameless city. How far to it?”

  “Three days, Tored thinks,” said the ghoul, cringing. “The master wishes to go there?”

  “I may,” said Marsile. “How many demons does it hold?”

  “Very many.”

  “Tell me,” said Marsile. “How many?”

  Tored shuddered. “More than Tored can count.”

  “Hardly an impressive number,” said Marsile. He could not escape Carandis Marken, so long as the younger Adept had that iron rod. But perhaps Marsile could lead his enemies into a trap. Suppose the city held thousands of reaper-ghouls, or even worse things? They would make short work of Carandis and the Paladins.

  Yet could Marsile survive in such a place? The city’s demons would hunt him as well. Still, Marsile had spells to drive back the demons, and newer, stronger spells from the stolen books well. He had a better chance of surviving than the Silver Knights.

  He made up his mind.

  “Tored,” said Marsile. “Take me to the nameless city.”

  Tored flinched. “Master?”

  “The nameless city,” said Marsile. “Do you question me?”

  “Nay,” whined Tored. “As you wish, master.”

  Marsile leaned back in the sedan chair and closed his eyes, trying to rest.

  Later that night he felt again the touch of Carandis Marken’s location spell. Walchelin must have failed, the fat fool.

  ###

  Ruins choked the countryside.

  Marsile and his servants passed crumbling castles atop rocky hills. The ancient, weathered walls of forgotten villages rose from the earth. They passed an abandoned monastery, its rusted bells clanging in the winter wind.

  And in every ruin Marsile’s spells detected lurking demons. Some lesser demons wandered the countryside, and more powerful ones waited in the ruins.

  Tored whined and gibbered in fear. Yet nothing appeared to attack them. Perhaps the daylight deterred them, given how sunlight blunted the powers of certain demons. Marsile hoped to find a defensible location before sundown.

  A stagnant pond appeared, encased in ice. The pond’s edges looked unnaturally straight. In the distance, Marsile saw a long line of similar ponds, the dull winter light glinting off the ice.

  “Was this once a canal?” said Marsile.

  “Aye, master,” croaked Tored, squatting. “The canal went from the great river to the nameless city. Barges came back and forth. Now empty, now dead.”

  “The canal goes to the city?” said Marsile.

  “Aye.”

  “Then let us follow it,” said Marsile.

  They walked along the edge of the ruined canal, and soon they came upon a road. It remained in fairly good condition, its ancient paving stones spotted and scarred with lichen. Marsile and his servants made good time. When night fell, Marsile lay down to sleep, bidding his servants to awaken him should anyone approach.

  He only had to drive off roving packs of reaper-ghouls twice.

  The next day Marsile sat in his sedan chair as his servants hastened. He felt, as usual, the feathery touch of Carandis’s location spell.

  The canal broadened and soon widened into a large lake. Marsile could see the far shore, but just barely. A short distance away, massive stone quays jutted into the water. Nearby, the broken tops of stone towers rose over the treetops.

  Tored whined to himself in fear.

  The forest ended in a thick stone wall, forty feet high, crowned with worn battlements. In several places the top courses of stonework had fallen, littering the forest with boulders. Tored led them along the base of the wall. They came to a lofty gate of stone. Moldering shards of wood and rusted hinges lay beneath the tall arch.

  “We are here,” whispered Tored. “The nameless city.”

  Marsile’s servants carried him through the gate.

  He looked around, impressed. To judge from the size, it had once been a substantial city of about ten thousand people. The stone shells of houses and shops stood roofless and empty, saplings springing from the rubble. The broad street had been paved, though the stones had cracked and tilted. A gaping hole yawned near one of the houses.

  “Put me down,” said Marsile. His servants complied and Marsile walked to the edge of the pit. It opened into a tunnel beneath the earth, a sickening reek rising from the depths. Marsile coughed and stepped back, fanning the air in front of his face.

  “Tored,” said Marsile. “Are there tunnels beneath the city? Sewers? Catacombs?”

  “Aye,” said the ghoul. “Many tunnels. Dark and cold.”

  Marsile cast his spell to sense the presence of demons.

  His eyes widened in surprise and alarm.

  Demons filled the city, thousands of them, their presence radiating from beneath the earth. Marsile took a few prudent steps back from the edge of the pit.

  “The demons dwell under the city?”

  “Aye, master,” said Tored. “They hate the sun. They only come out at night.”

  “Then we had best find shelter before the sun goes down,” said Marsile. They had a few hours of daylight left. He bid his servants to continue and walked among them, keeping himself ready for an attack.

  Soon they came to a massive square in the ruined city’s heart. Worn flagstones clicked against Marsile’s boots, and a gaping pit yawned in the center of the square. Even from a distance, Marsile smelled the reek rising from the blackness. At one side of the square stood a towering High Temple, rimmed with flying buttresses, its towers sharp against the gray sky.
Despite centuries of neglect, the High Temple still looked beautiful. Some of the stained-glass windows even remained intact.

  On the other side of the square a strong keep rose against the sky, ringed with a thick curtain wall. No doubt it had been constructed during the final days of the Old Empire, and the city had later grown up around the castle. Did any of the city’s demons lurk in the keep? Marsile murmured his sensing-spell. As before, he sensed countless demons beneath the city, but none within the castle itself. His mind felt a curious blankness when it brushed against the High Temple. He focused his will on the High Temple, and to his surprise, realized the Light warded its walls.

  The High Temple had been consecrated with the Light.

  “Follow me,” said Marsile, curious. He took great care to skirt the edges of the reeking pit. Tored looked at the High Temple, whining to himself.

  Marsile stopped before the High Temple’s steps. The doors had rotted away long ago. Within he saw a shadowy nave, lit by dusty shafts of sunlight.

  “You,” said Marsile, pointing at a ghoul. “Go inside.”

  The ghoul stopped, shuddering. Its gaunt head lolled back and forth, its few remaining wisps of hair snapping.

  “Tored,” said Marsile. “Go inside.”

  “Can’t,” said Tored, slouching.

  “Why not?”

  “It…burns. Full of fire.” The ghoul looked away. “Hurts.”

  “Wait here,” Marsile commanded. He strode into the High Temple. Dust and grime gritted beneath his boots, and pools of shadow filled the High Temple’s high arches. Statues of saints stared at Marsile from their high niches, and scenes showed Paladins triumphing over the hordes of demon-worshipping barbarians. Marsile scowled in irritation. How many generations had poured their skill and talent into this place, believing the Temple’s lie of immortality after death? No doubt they had believed great reward awaited them in the next life.

  Now their bones lay in the cold earth.

  Or their demon-possessed corpses haunted this desolate city.

  Marsile stopped before the high altar. Two skeletons in rusted armor lay on the floor. Their swords remained pristine and gleaming. Against the altar slumped another skeleton, the remnants of a Brother’s cassock clinging to the bones. The skeleton’s hands clutched a golden pendant wrought in the rose sigil of the Divine.

  No doubt the two Silver Knights and the Brother had consecrated the High Temple before their deaths. Marsile looked at the bones and wondered what had happened. Perhaps the city’s populace had fallen to a plague and risen as hordes of demons, the survivors taking refuge in this High Temple. They must have suffered a horrible death, devoured by thirst and hunger while rings of waiting demons prevented any escape.

  “Piteous fools,” said Marsile. The words echoed off the lofty ceiling. He left the High Temple behind.

  His servants waited, standing still as statues, save for Tored, who paced back and forth.

  “Dangerous, master,” rasped the ghoul. “We should go, aye.”

  “Go from here, aye,” said Marsile, walking towards the keep. “Follow. But we shall not leave this city just yet.”

  He paused by the edge of the pit and glanced downwards. Below a vaulted tunnel with brickwork walls stretched away in either direction. A stream of stinking water ran through the tunnel, now crusted with slimed ice. A layer of snow covered the stream’s banks.

  Dozens of footprints marked the snow, some clawed, some skeletal.

  Marsile stepped away from the stinking pit. He half-suspected the full strength of that stench could kill a man. What sort of demons lurked beneath this city?

  Marsile strode to the keep, his servants following. The gate had long ago collapsed, the arch lying in wreckage. The courtyard within was empty and barren. He into entered the keep. The great hall was cold and desolate, like the rest of the city. A rime of ice covered the floor, and a heap of ruined furniture stood in the corner. The keep’s stairs had been built of stone and stood intact. Marsile climbed to the tower’s roof, his servants following, and walked to the edge of the battlements. The ruined city spread beneath him like a field of bones, the lake gleaming like a mirror of ice. Marsile made a circle of the keep’s roof. The stairs were the only way to the top of the tower.

  “Master,” said Tored, cringing. “What are we doing here?”

  “Here?” said Marsile. “Why, here we shall wait.”

  With his servants and his spells, Marsile could defend himself here for a long time. Nightgrim could not surprise him here, and Carandis Marken and her Paladin allies could not attack him. They would fall back to the city or the forest to plan.

  And when night fell, the city’s demons would take them all.

  Marsile thought of his near-disastrous battle with the reaper-ghouls. He might have to defend against the city’s demons for several nights. Suppose they overwhelmed him? Yet Marsile could wreak tremendous havoc with his magic, and he knew spells to dominate the demons and turn them against their fellows.

  But suppose greater demons lurked in the ruins, things like Nightgrim or worse? They could prove a deadly foes. Still, Marsile could handle one such creature. And if the city had more than one, such powerful demons would no doubt be bitter rivals, and Marsile could play them off against each other.

  Remaining here was a gamble…but it was Marsile’s best chance to kill his pursuers.

  “You will wait here, master?” said Tored, shocked. “We might all perish!”

  “I suppose we’ll find out, will we not?” said Marsile. He sighed, crossed to the stairs, and began casting spells.

  Chapter 9 - Stench of the Dead

  Raelum sat by the dying fire, chewing on a piece of jerky.

  Lionel looked neither worse nor better. Raelum had kept a close eye on the older Paladin since their departure from Abbotsford. No new cuts had appeared on his arms, and the wound on his left wrist had more or less healed, but retained a sickly color. Suppose Nightgrim’s foul touch had left a slow-acting poison in Lionel’s bloodstream? Suppose Lionel died in his sleep and rose as a draugvir?

  Sir Oliver would have known what to do.

  “Is something amiss?” said Lionel.

  “Nay,” said Raelum. “I am simply cold. I grew up in the south, in the sun and dust. I’ll never grow used to these northern winters.”

  “And it has been a mild winter,” said Arthuras, wrapped in his mottled cloak. “Arvandil usually lies under heavy snows by now. I expectt a blizzard any day.”

  “A boon,” said Raelum, “that we may pursue Marsile all the faster.”

  “And a curse,” said Arthuras, “for if we are not hindered, then neither is Marsile.”

  “And since we are speaking of the devil,” said Carandis, finishing her breakfast, “shall we find out where he is, hmm?” She drew out the metal bar and laid it across her knees. Her fingers writhed over the rod, her lips mouthing the spell’s words. Blue light flashed.

  “Two days,” she muttered.

  Arthuras sat up straighter. “Two days? In which direction?”

  “The northeast,” said Carandis. She returned the rod to her pack. “Two days to the northeast.”

  “We’ve gained,” said Raelum.

  Arthuras got up and began to prowl around the fire. “Or he stopped.”

  “Aye,” said Carandis. “I…had that sense. There were…stone walls? Many stone walls, I think.”

  Arthuras closed his eyes, his face sagging.

  “What’s wrong?” said Lionel. “If he’s stopped, we have a better chance of catching him.”

  “I have a good idea where he stopped,” said Arthuras.

  Raelum looked up, remembering what Arthuras had said about the nameless city.

  “Two days to the northeast,” said Arthuras, “are the ruins of a great city. It was once the city of the king of Arvandil. When plagues and wars and demon-worship destroyed this land, the city fell into ruin. The living have long forsaken it, and demons fill the ruins. Some were once men
and women of Arvandil. Others are remnants from the Old Empire, like the creatures guarding Abbotsford. And some, I fear, are horrors from beyond the Silvercrown Mountains.”

  “Then why would Marsile stop there?” said Raelum.

  “Perhaps he seeks something buried in the ruins,” said Carandis. “Or to enslave more demon servants.”

  “He would be a fool to do so,” said Arthuras. “Even the mightiest blood sorcerer cannot control more than a few hundred demons at once. Thousands fill the ruined city. Marsile would claim one new ghoul, only to have a dozen more rip him to shreds.”

  “Then he’s stopped for another dark book, like the ones he took from the monasteries,” said Lionel.

  “And if he’s stopped,” said Raelum, closing his fist, “we can catch him at last.”

  “You speak as one who has never seen the nameless city,” said Arthuras. He looked at Carandis. “You should stop casting the location spell.”

  “What?” said Carandis. “Why?”

  “Because,” said Arthuras, “I think Marsile stopped in the nameless city to set a trap for us.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. The cold wind snapped the fire’s smoke into wild spirals.

  “He can most likely sense the spell,” said Carandis. “He must know we are pursuing him. But if he knows we chase him, then why stop?”

  “The only good reason he has to stop,” said Arthuras, “is to set a trap for us.”

  “Then you are sure,” said Carandis, “the reason he stopped is to set an ambush for us.”

  “Almost certainly,” said Arthuras. “Most likely he sensed your spell the first time you cast it. Marsile then realized you must live, since you were the only one at St. Tarill’s with the High Art. And if Nightgrim returned to Marsile, then he knows that both Sir Raelum and Sir Lionel yet live.” Lionel shuddered and looked away. “Every day he feels your spell. So he prepares traps. By now he realized that Walchelin failed. Therefore he now prepares another trap for us in the nameless city.”