“Silence,” said Nightgrim. That tunnel led to an opening in the street behind the High Temple. Nightgrim’s frown tightened into a grimace. If they reached the city, and vanished into the High Temple, they would elude Nightgrim.
But Nightgrim knew of another corridor, a shorter route that led to the pit.
“Come,” he beckoned. They raced through the corridors, up a flight of brick stairs, and into one of the higher corridors. Soon they came to the opening into the street. Nightgrim gazed through the hole, towards the sky, and flinched in alarm.
The sky had begun to brighten. He felt even that dim light draining the powers of the greater demon within him. For a moment Nightgrim wanted to flee back into the depths of the catacombs, back into the cool darkness.
He heard a clatter and turned. Far in the distance, he saw the golden-white gleam of Raelum’s sigil. They would come any moment. And if they reached the High Temple, they would return with their companions and destroy Nightgrim.
“No,” he whispered.
“Master?” said Walchelin.
“Stay here,” said Nightgrim, “beneath the hole, and do not move.” He stepped back into the shadows, wrapping himself in his dark cloak.
“Don’t leave me for them,” said Walchelin, pleading.
“Do not,” said Nightgrim, bending his will on the ghoul, “move.”
No doubt the sight of the Walchelin would distract both Raelum and Lionel. And then, with their attention diverted, Nightgrim would spring from the darkness and snap Raelum’s neck. He had no time for gentlemanly combat.
The light drew closer.
Nightgrim crouched, waiting.
###
“There,” said Raelum, pointing. “Look.” Far down the long tunnel, he saw a faint glimmer of starlight. “The city. We’re almost there.”
“You’re right,” said Lionel. “By the Divine, you’re right!”
They hastened down the tunnel. No demons loitered in the passageway. No doubt they waited on the surface, ringing the High Temple. The faint light grew brighter, and Raelum realized it was almost dawn. He had spent half the night wandering the dark catacombs.
Something moved.
A bloated ghoul crouched in the shaft of light, trembling. The ragged remnants of clothing hung from its greasy flesh. The wretched thing looked familiar.
“Walchelin,” hissed Raelum, fresh fury pulsing through him. The ghoul cringed back. “You murdering dog. By the Divine, if there’s anything left of you in that ghoul, I’ll send your black soul screaming down to hell.”
He stepped forward, sword and medallion raised. Walchelin flinched, quivering, but did not move. Surprise pushed through Raelum’s rage. Every other demon, save Nightgrim, had quailed from the light. Raelum brought his burning blade crashing down, and the sword sheared through Walchelin’s chest.
“Master!” screeched Walchelin, collapsing to the floor.
“Raelum!” said Lionel, scrabbling for his sword.
Raelum turned just as something heavy and cold slammed into him. He caught a glimpse of enraged black eyes, and then cold hands locked about his throat.
Raelum fell backwards, choking, and Nightgrim landed atop him. His sword and the medallion clanged against the floor. Blackness swarmed through Raelum’s vision, the draugvir’s iron-hard fingers squeezing with horrible force. Nightgrim would tear Raelum’s head from his shoulders…
Lionel yelled and stabbed. Nightgrim raised one hand, swatted aside the blade, and seized Lionel by the hair. The pressure on Raelum’s throat lessened.
“Your pardons, sir,” said the draugvir, “but I’ll deal with you in a just a moment.” He flung Lionel back. Raelum’s scrabbling fingers found the fallen medallion, and he thrust it against Nightgrim’s chest. The draugvir screeched and rocked back, letting go of Raelum’s throat. Raelum coughed and tried to crawl back to his feet as Nightgrim snarled and reached for him.
Raelum had no other weapons left. He yanked the silver dagger from his belt and plunged it into Nightgrim’s knee. The weapon flashed with white fire, and Nightgrim screamed and jerked back. The dagger clanged against the floor, and Raelum gaped at it. The blade had only discomforted other demons. But Arthuras had forged it, had faced a draugvir in the ruins of the Old Empire.
Raelum had no time to worry about it.
He snatched up his sword and the medallion and lurched, coughing, back to his feet. Nightgrim circled him, eyes narrowed. The draugvir moved with a marked limp.
“Well done, sir,” whispered Nightgrim, eyes blazing. “Well done. I’m going to greatly enjoy ripping you limb from limb.”
“Enough talk,” rasped Raelum. “Get on with it.”
Nightgrim executed a little bow. “As you wish.”
Lionel climbed to one knee, shaking with fear.
“Remain still,” said Nightgrim, voice ringing with command. “Do not move until I say otherwise.”
“Lionel!” said Raelum.
Nightgrim laughed. “He cannot resist me!”
Raelum and the draugvir struggled in the narrow corridor. Nightgrim’s punch tore a chunk of brick from the wall, and Raelum’s missed sword stroke clanged off the floor. They staggered like drunken men. Raelum’s blows must have slowed Nightgrim. Yet Raelum could scarce keep his feet.
The light from the gash in the ceiling grew brighter. If Raelum could drive Nightgrim into the sunlight, he might have a chance. Nightgrim punched and spun in a high kick, and Raelum and thrust the sigil into the draugvir’s face. Nightgrim hissed and reared back, and Raelum came at him, not slowing, slashing with all his strength. He overbalanced and struck too hard. Nightgrim’s cold hand seized his wrist, and his other hand rammed into Raelum’s stomach.
Pain blasted through Raelum, and the breath exploded from him. His sword and the medallion fell from nerveless fingers. Nightgrim roared in triumph, seized him by the throat, and slammed him against the wall. Raelum’s head cracked against the bricks. Darkness began to drown his vision, and Nightgrim’s free hand took the top of Raelum’s head and twisted.
“Good-bye, noble Sir Raelum,” whispered Nightgrim, grinning.
Raelum screamed in pain.
Lionel loomed up behind Nightgrim, bellowing like an enraged bull, and threw himself at the draugvir. Raelum’s dagger flashed in Lionel’s hand and plunged into Nightgrim’s back. The draugvir howled and let Raelum go, trying to spin around. Lionel stabbed Nightgrim thrice more before the draugvir’s desperate blow sent him flying.
“That!” shrieked Nightgrim, “that was ungentlemanly!”
Coughing, spitting blood, Raelum went to one knee, seized his sword, and stabbed even as Nightgrim turned to face him.
The sword plunged through Nightgrim’s stomach, up through his chest, and exploded from his back. The blade burst into raging white flames. Nightgrim screamed, trying to tear free. Raelum kept his grip on the hilt, Nightgrim’s struggles dragging him along.
Lionel reeled to his feet and plunged his sword into Nightgrim’s back. The tip burst from the draugvir’s stomach and scraped against Raelum’s mail. Nightgrim roared in agony, caught between the two blades.
“The light!” groaned Raelum, jerking his head at the gash in the ceiling. “Get him in the light!”
They dragged the hilts of their swords towards the brightening sunlight, Nightgrim howling and thrashing. Blow after brutal blow landed on Raelum’s shoulder and arm. He felt flesh shudder, bones crack, but kept dragging.
He and Lionel thrust Nightgrim into the sunlight.
Nightgrim’s scream raked at Raelum’s ears. The draugvir’s bone-pale skin smoked, the swords’ white fire flashing through his flesh. Nightgrim’s clothes went up in smoke, exposing burned flesh and charring muscle as the flames devoured him. Raelum winced and looked away from the brightness.
And all the while Nightgrim screamed. Soon only a charred, twisted thing remained, then only a blackened skeleton. The skeleton bucked and burst apart. The bones struck the walls and floor and sha
ttered, and Nightgrim was no more.
Raelum slumped to his knees, panting with pain and weariness. Lionel gazed at his left wrist in wonder. Even as Raelum watched, the half-healed scar on Lionel’s wrist vanished.
“It’s gone,” whispered Lionel, eyes wide with wonder. “His taint…oh, merciful Divine, I can’t feel his taint any longer!”
Raelum heard a snarl. He looked up and saw dozens of reaper-ghouls staring down at him. With Nightgrim destroyed, the creatures had been freed to flee the sunlight. Raelum tried to stand, tried to lift his sword, but had no strength left.
Lionel seized the fallen medallion and held it high. White-gold light blazed from the gleaming metal. The reaper-ghouls flinched, sprang into the pit, and fled down both directions of the corridor. Hundreds of them swarmed down the walls, running so close that Raelum smelled the waves of stink washing off their corrupted flesh.
Yet none dared come within the medallion's light. Soon they vanished into the darkness of the catacombs.
“The taint is gone!” said Lionel, gazing at the sigil. “This miracle has saved us!”
“I’m glad,” said Raelum, trying to keep from falling over.
“And you have saved me!” Lionel knelt before Raelum. “If not for you, Nightgrim would have made me into his slave.” He drew his sword, laid it flat on his palms, and held it out before Raelum. “I pledge you my service and my fealty for the rest of my days.”
Raelum opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
He fell flat on his face and knew no more.
###
Some time later he swam back to consciousness. He lay on his back, beneath his cloak, and a fire crackled nearby. Raelum turned his head and watched as Carandis threw more pieces of broken pews into the flames. He was in the High Temple, lying on the stairs before the altar.
Raelum groaned and sat up. A wave of dizziness flooded through him.
“You’re awake,” said Carandis. “How do you feel?”
“Awful,” said Raelum.
“Lionel healed you as best as he could,” said Carandis.
Lionel lay on one of the intact pews, snoring.
“And you are young yet.” Arthuras squatted besides Raelum. “You will heal fast enough, I warrant.”
“How did I get here?” said Raelum.
“We had thought you dead, I am ashamed to admit,” said Carandis, “but when the reaper-ghouls fled, we knew you must have destroyed Nightgrim.”
“We went into the city to search,” said Arthuras. “It did not take us long to find you. We carried you back to the High Temple. Here, eat.” He pressed some bread and a wineskin into Raelum’s hands.
Raelum devoured the food. “How long have I been asleep?”
“The entire day,” said Carandis. “It’s night now.”
Raelum glanced out the High Temple’s yawning doors. He saw hundreds of demons milling through the city’s square, though they did not surround the High Temple as they had before.
“We have to go,” said Raelum. “Marsile flees...”
“No,” said Arthuras. “The demons will return to their catacombs when dawn comes. Then we will leave this accursed place. Tonight, with Nightgrim gone, we can rest. And you were right. We should have gone after Nightgrim at once.”
Raelum laughed, coughed and lay back down. “No. You were right. I would have perished, if not for the priest’s medallion.” He looked around, alarmed. “The medallion. Where…”
“Back with the Brother’s skeleton,” said Carandis, pointing. Gold gleamed on the skeleton’s breastbone. “Perhaps we should take it with us.”
“No,” said Raelum. “It doesn’t belong to us. It should stay here. Perhaps someday men will return to this city. If so, they’ll have need of the medallion.”
“So will we,” said Arthuras. “The lands along our path grow more perilous, not less. But we shall leave the medallion behind, if you wish.”
“I do,” said Raelum. With Nightgrim gone, they should not linger. They had to catch Marsile. Raelum had to convince the others to move. But he had never felt such weariness. He closed his eyes to rest a bit.
Sleep took him.
Chapter 14 - For Justice
The Silvercrown Mountains drew closer, filling the empty sky.
Marsile smiled. Soon he would see the dark mass of Moragannon perched upon the mountain’s foothills. His fists clenched with suppressed excitement. Soon the spell from the Book of Summoned Dead would tear open the wall between worlds, bringing Baligant’s high demon to him.
And then Marsile would possess the secret of life eternal.
He looked over his column and smiled. His domination spells had now enslaved over ninety demons. Six wraiths, created from the fusion of demons with the memories of long-dead knights, drifted through the line. Marsile used them as scouts, since rough terrain did not hinder their immaterial forms.
For that matter, rough terrain failed to hamper the rest of his minions. The forests had thinned after a day of travel. Marsile saw empty meadows, brown grass poking above the white snow. The land rose in hills, but the road remained flat and level. It was in better condition than the roads south of the nameless city.
Marsile frowned.
Why were the roads in better condition?
Mortal men had not lived here for centuries.
“Perhaps the Elder People yet dwell beyond the great bridge,” Marsile mused aloud.
He pushed aside the absurd notion. The Elder People had died out millennia ago. Maybe a small band of mortal men yet lived in these hills, as the village of Abbotsford had lingered in the shadow of the ruined monastery.
Or had lingered until Nightgrim found them.
The thought of the draugvir brought a smile to Marsile’s lips. He had left the nameless city three days ago, and had not felt the touch of Carandis Marken’s spell since. Marsile returned his attention to the Book of Stolen Blood in his lap, studying the spell to drain the life energies of the children and bind Baligant’s high demon.
“Lord.”
One of the wraiths drifted before his litter, a shimmering image of green light. It looked like a knight, eyes dead, face sorrowful.
“What is it?” said Marsile.
“There is power ahead,” whispered the wraith.
“Where?” said Marsile.
The wraith pointed.
A hundred paces ahead the road twisted around a rocky hill. A small, dark shape crouched a few steps from the road. Looking at it sent a tingle down Marsile’s spine. He whispered an incantation, and felt a concentration of blood sorcery in the dark object.
“Hold,” said Marsile, frowning. He clambered down from the litter, wincing at the pain in his joints, and walked towards the object.
It was a stout wooden stake. A human skull sat atop the stake, the backbone dangling. Black feathers had been attached to the bones. Skull, spine, and stake had all been painted with arcane sigils in dried blood. Marsile stared at it, puzzled. He recognized the sigil of summoning, and another of warding, but he had never seen the others before. What power did this totem possess?
For that matter, who had left it here?
Marsile took another step towards it.
The bones rattled, the black feathers stirring.
The skull opened its jawbone, eyes flashing with crimson fire, and began to scream.
Marsile stumbled back, the hideous shriek cutting into his ears like a hot knife. Even with his hands over his ears, the wail still sliced into his mind. The skull launched into the air, still screaming, the backbone trailing like a ghastly tail. The apparition hovered for a moment, then floated away to the north.
Marsile pulled his hands from his ears and worked a spell. A shimmering blast of silver astralfire launched from his fingers and smashed into the hovering skull.
The bones shattered, and the wail came to a merciful end.
Marsile lowered his hands, shuddering.
“An alarm,” he croaked.
Someone ha
d left this totem here as an alarm, and Marsile had blundered right into it. Cursing, he limped back to his litter and climbed into his sedan chair.
“Follow the road,” he ordered. He bid his wraiths to resume their scouting. Marsile scanned the hills and the trees, half-expecting a host of enemies to pour from the wilderness. Atop the next hill sat a collection of charred logs and piled stones. The wreckage looked to have once been a village, log huts with stone foundations.
And it looked to have been burned recently.
Marsile’s spells detected no demons within the ruins, save for his own minions. His litter-bearers took him to the top of the hill. Broken wooden spears with flint tips lay strewn about, along with innumerable flint-tipped arrows. Jars of baked clay had been smashed against the ground. Marsile saw two more sigil-marked stakes topped with skulls, though neither held any magical power.
He saw no bodies, no bones.
Yet he saw no sign that any corpses had been burned here.
Marsile looked again at the skull-crowned stakes.
He doubted any Brother of the false Divine had dwelt here. Someone in this village had possessed sufficient blood sorcery to create the skull-totems. Yet what had happened here? For that matter, who had dwelt here?
Or what?
Marsile pushed aside his uneasiness, his litter-bearers to returning to the rest of his servants. Whoever had dwelt here had perished or departed. They meant nothing to Marsile. If they lived and stood in his way, he would destroy them, as he had destroyed his other enemies.
His column had not traveled another hundred yards when another wraith approached his litter.
“What now?” said Marsile.
“Lord,” said “Something approaches from the south.”
“Something?” said Marsile. “What is it?” Had the screaming skull totem summoned aid?
“A reaper-ghoul,” said the wraith.
“Just one?” said Marsile, puzzled. The things always seemed to travel in packs. “Halt! Turn my litter about.”
His servants halted, his litter-bearers turning. Marsile set himself and gathered power, ready to unleash astralfire or work a defensive ward.
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