Soul of Sorcery (Book 5)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  And then Lord Richard would crush them.

  The lords of the Grim Marches had rushed back to their castles, calling out their knights. The assembled host of the Grim Marches would gather at Swordgrim and march forth to smash the barbarians.

  Until then, Mazael would hunt their warbands one by one.

  He found himself looking forward to it.

  The Demonsouled rage burned his chest, pulsing in his temples. He had yearned for a fight, and one had come to him. And here, at last, he could pour out his Demonsouled wrath. In this fight to defend his people and his lands, just as in the struggle against the Malrags, he would need not hold back.

  He would make these barbarians wish they had never set foot upon the Grim Marches.

  ###

  The next morning they arrived at the village of Bloody Ridge.

  The village had once been the manor of Sir Roger Gravesend. Yet Sir Roger had been a proselyte of the San-keth, a worshipper of the serpent god, so Mazael had dispossessed him and claimed Bloody Ridge for himself. He had left a peasant bailiff, a man named Wat, in charge of the village. Wat had proven to be a good choice – his militia had held against the Malrag raiders, and looked as if they had done the same against the barbarians.

  “Aye,” said Wat, a stout man in leather armor, “we’ve seen the barbarians, my lord.”

  Mazael met with Wat outside the stockade encircling Bloody Ridge. A few arrow-ridden corpses lay outside the walls, all that remained of the barbarian party that had attacked the village.

  “A band of about a hundred,” said Wat, gesturing at the corpses. “They tried rushing the walls with grappling hooks. Well, my lads stood fast against Malrags, so it will take more than mob of savages to scare us. We greeted them with a few volleys of arrows, and the rest ran off.”

  “You did well,” said Mazael.

  “We were lucky, my lord,” said Wat. “We have some refugees from the other villages the barbarians hit. They say the barbarians have great hulking beasts that can batter down gates and trample spearmen. We didn't see any here.”

  "Any horsemen?" said Mazael.

  Wat shook his head.

  “Good,” said Mazael. “If we catch them in the open, we can ride them down. And the horse archers can pepper these ‘great beasts’ with arrows, as we did with the Ogrags.”

  He turned Hauberk around and rode to the barbarian corpses. Romaria stooped over them, examining the dead. From time to time she bent close and sniffed.

  “Do you recognize them?” said Mazael.

  Romaria straightened up. “No. They could belong to any one of a dozen different barbarian nations from the other side of the Great Mountains. Sometimes barbarian warbands raid over the mountains, but not often. The Malrags and the dragons make the journey too dangerous. And Castle Highgate seals off the northern pass.”

  “And the southern pass opens into the Great Southern Forest,” said Mazael. “Except the Malrags decimated the Elderborn tribes of the Forest. So any number of barbarians could have reached the Grim Marches undetected.”

  “Most likely,” said Romaria.

  Mazael nodded. “Timothy!”

  Timothy approached, holding a wire-wrapped quartz crystal in his hand. His eyelids fluttered, and the crystal flickered with pale light. “There are no enemies within five miles, my lord.”

  Mazael turned back to Romaria. “Can you track the warband?”

  Romaria laughed. “Easily. They left a trail a blind man could follow.”

  “Then let’s find them,” said Mazael.

  ###

  “Look,” said Romaria.

  Mazael looked up, wondering if Romaria had spotted the barbarians. But he saw nothing but the rolling plains and Sir Tanam's distant outriders.

  “There,” said Romaria, pointing up.

  Mazael squinted into the blue sky. Far overhead, he glimpsed two dark specks circling.

  “Griffins,” said Romaria. “With riders.”

  Mazael grunted. “Barbarian scouts.” He thought for a moment. “Can you shoot them down?”

  “No. They’re at least three hundred yards up, maybe more. Not even an Elderborn bow can shoot that high.”

  “Timothy?” said Mazael.

  Timothy shook his head.

  “I could try to strike them,” said Lucan, voice quiet. He seemed distracted, as if his mind were somewhere else. “But not with any degree of accuracy, not at this distance. And if I miss, they’ll have a better idea of our capabilities. Better to save my spells for the actual battle, when they will have the greatest impact.”

  “Molly?” said Mazael.

  Molly looked up at the griffins and laughed. “I could try. Two or three strides through the shadows might get me up there. But if I lose my concentration, I’ll make quite a mess when I hit the ground.”

  “So,” said Mazael. “They know we're coming. Best to use that to our advantage, then.” He scratched his beard, thinking. “Timothy. Lucan. How much effort would it be to maintain some spells of illusion?”

  Timothy blinked. “Not hard, my lord.”

  “Could you create the image of a few hundred extra horsemen?” said Mazael.

  “Easily enough,” said Timothy, “but we could not maintain the necessary level of detail long enough to fool the riders.”

  “We don't need to,” said Lucan. “They’re a thousand feet up, and I doubt they have Lady Romaria’s keen eyes. All we need do is throw up some images of dust clouds and silhouetted horsemen.”

  “And if you change the number from time to time,” said Hagen, “it will throw the enemy into confusion, and they may make an error we can exploit.”

  “Do it,” said Mazael.

  Timothy and Lucan nodded and got to work.

  “Which way is this warband going?” said Mazael.

  “North,” said Romaria.

  Mazael grunted. “The nearest village that way is Redcrest. Stone wall around it. I doubt the barbarians will be able to take it.”

  “There may be others,” said Romaria. “This trail links up with the path of another warband. At least five or six hundred strong, with some strange footprints. Mazael, I think these ‘great beasts’ we’ve heard about are mammoths.”

  “Mammoths?” said Mazael. To his right the air shimmered, and the pale images of horsemen appeared, wreathed in billowing dust. “What the devil is a mammoth?”

  “Like an elephant, but much larger,” said Romaria, “and covered in thick fur. The barbarians use them as beasts of burden, and some of them train their mammoths for battle.”

  “Like a war elephant,” said Mazael. “I suppose you could use the thing as a living siege tower, too.” Romaria nodded. “Well, a mammoth is flesh and blood, which means it can be killed like anything else. How far are we behind them?”

  “No more than three or four hours. Five at the most,” said Romaria.

  Mazael cursed. “They’ll reach Redcrest before we do. Sir Aulus!”

  Aulus nodded and blew his horn. Mazael’s men formed up and rode for Redcrest, Lucan’s and Timothy’s illusions surrounding them.

  ###

  Romaria straightened up in her saddle, sniffing at the air.

  A dozen different odors filled her nostrils. The smell of the horses, and the men sweating inside their armor. The oil coating both sword blades and chain mail. The bruised grass beneath the horses’ steel-shod hooves. The smoke from a distant fire.

  And a musky, oily smell. It had not touched her nose for years, but she remembered it well enough.

  Mammoth fur.

  “They’re not far ahead,” she said.

  Beside her, Mazael nodded. One hand gripped the reins of his ill-tempered horse, while the other dropped to the hilt of Lion. “We’re almost to Redcrest. We’ll see them soon.”

  They saw the village before the enemy.

  Few hills stood in this part of the Grim Marches, and Redcrest filled the crown of one. Walls of red sandstone surrounded the village, strong enough to keep out t
he Malrags during Ultorin's invasion.

  The barbarians waited against the south slope of the hill.

  There were at least eight hundred men, maybe nine hundred, lined up in a shield wall bristling with spears. Most of the barbarians had ragged red or blond hair, and wore chain mail or black armor taken from slain Malrags. They had put their backs to the hill, keeping Mazael’s men from circling behind them.

  And to guard their flanks, they had the mammoths.

  Four of the massive beasts stood on either side of the barbarian shield wall. The creatures looked like massive, misshapen elephants, each one standing about twenty feet tall. Massive curling tusks rose from their brown-furred heads. Wooden platforms rested upon their backs, and a dozen barbarian archers stood on each platform, bows in hand.

  Mazael called for a halt. He gazed at the barbarian ranks, his expression grim.

  “Our horsemen can sweep aside their footmen, once we break their lines,” said Hagen.

  “Aye,” said Mazael, “and then we’ll find ourselves trapped between those mammoths.”

  “The beasts aren’t armored,” said Hagen. “If get close enough, we can hew their legs out from under them.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Mazael. “I doubt the horses are used to the smell of those things. If we get too close, the horses might panic. And if the horses panic, the mammoths can smash through us.”

  “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” said Molly. “To survive the San-keth, the Malrags, a dragon, and my brother, only to get squashed like an ant underneath some great damn ugly elephant.”

  Lucan gave her a dark look.

  “It would hardly be a death worthy of song,” said Tanam. “But better not to die at all, whether upon a sword or beneath a great damn ugly elephant.”

  “So, Father,” said Molly. “You’re the great general who threw down the Dominiars and drove back the Malrags. How do we fight those things?”

  Mazael said nothing, his head bowed. On another man, such a posture would have meant despair, or perhaps panic, but Romaria knew better. Her husband waged war, commanded men in battle, the way a masterful painter wielded a brush.

  It was a thing both beautiful and horrifying to watch.

  “This is what we’ll do,” said Mazael, and he told them.

  ###

  Mazael drew Lion.

  The blade glimmered in the afternoon sun, but did not burst into blue flames. Whatever else these barbarians were, they were not creatures of dark magic. They were only men.

  And if his plan worked, he was going to kill quite a lot of them in the next few minutes.

  Part of his mind recoiled in horror at the thought.

  But his Demonsouled blood sang in anticipation, yearning to see the men die beneath his blade, to see their blood spill in crimson arcs upon the ground…

  He forced aside the thought. He had a battle to win.

  “Aulus,” said Mazael, his voice calm. “Now.”

  Aulus lifted his horn to his lips and blew a series of blasts.

  The barbarians stirred, bracing themselves for the attack.

  Thee militia archers galloped forward. Many peasants of the Grim Marches were herdsmen, and learned how to ride and wield a horse bow from a young age, lest lions make off with the sheep. Those herdsmen had honed their skills in the peasant militias during the Malrag war, and Mazael had made sure that they continued to drill.

  Now two groups of horse archers rode for the barbarians, heading for the mammoths on the shield wall's wings.

  As one they drew their bows and fired.

  A storm of arrows flew at the mammoths. The beasts’ thick coats of fur deflected most of the missiles, but some struck home. One of the barbarian archers fell with a gurgling shriek, and the mammoths growled and stamped their feet, their long trunks lashing the air.

  The horse archers wheeled and galloped away. Mazael saw a wave of relief go through the barbarians. He realized they were not used to fighting horsemen, and would not know how to handle what came next.

  A wicked grin crossed his face.

  The horse archers began to gallop in a wheel before the shield wall and the mammoths. And as they did, they loosed arrow after arrow. The mammoths roared in annoyance, and a pair of archers fell screaming from the platforms. One of the barbarians in the shield wall began roaring out a song in a hoarse voice, and the rest of the spearmen and swordsmen followed suit. Soon all of them sang, striking their weapons against their shields in an ominous drumbeat.

  Mazael didn’t recognize the language, but he saw Romaria frown.

  “You know what they’re saying?” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said Romaria. “They’re speaking a dialect of Dark Elderborn. I think…”

  With a roar the mammoths surged forward.

  “Molly!” said Mazael. “Now!”

  ###

  Molly dropped from her saddle, relieved.

  She detested horses. She was only a mediocre rider at best, and she loathed fighting from horseback.

  She couldn’t walk through the shadows when she sat atop a horse.

  The mammoths thundered towards Mazael’s lines, and she felt a thrill of terror. Gods, but those things were huge. How could she possibly face them?

  Then the Demonsouled rage filled her, and she welcomed it.

  Molly sprinted forward, sword in her right hand, dagger in her left. The growling hymn of the barbarians thundered in her ears, and the archers on the mammoths looked toward her.

  She saw them raise their bows.

  Molly took another two steps and sprang into the shadows.

  Darkness swallowed her.

  She reappeared atop the nearest mammoth, standing on the edge of the platform. The archers turned towards her, stunned. The driver sat below her, perched on a leather saddle between the mammoth’s broad back and its enormous head.

  The archers raised their bows, and Molly stepped off the platform. She landed behind the driver, plunging her sword and dagger into his back. The man stiffened, eyes bulging, and Molly kicked him off her blades and sent him plummeting to the ground.

  The reins fell, and the mammoth continued its course.

  The archers drew their bows, and Molly whirled and stepped into the shadows.

  She reappeared atop the next mammoth, perhaps twenty yards from the first beast. Again Molly jumped from the platform, her blade ripping into the mammoth’s driver. The man fell dead, taking the reins with him. The archers bellowed and aimed at her, and Molly sprang back into the shadows.

  She reappeared atop the back of a third mammoth and killed another driver.

  And another. And still another.

  ###

  Romaria watched the shadows flicker atop the mammoths as Molly jumped from beast to beast, cutting down driver after driver. The woman’s training at the hands of the Skulls, coupled with her Demonsouled strength and ability to walk through the shadows, made her into an brutally efficient killer. In a matter of moments, Molly had killed all eight drivers.

  Not that it mattered, since the mammoths continued their plodding charge at Mazael’s lines.

  Darkness swirled in front of their horses, and Molly reappeared, blood dripping from her weapons.

  “Done,” she said.

  Mazael nodded. “Aulus.”

  Aulus lifted his war horn and blew a long blast. In one smooth motion, the horse archers broke offer their attacks and galloped back.

  The mammoths lumbered after them.

  “Romaria,” said Mazael.

  She nodded, dropped from her saddle, and changed even before she struck the ground.

  She reached into herself, into the raw earth magic of the Elderborn half of her soul, and took the shape of the great black wolf. The nearby horses nickered and shifted in sudden fear, and Romaria darted forward, racing across the plains.

  She made straight for the nearest group of mammoths.

  The great beasts outweighed her by many tons, and could crush her with a single stamp of their massive leg
s. Yet they were still herd animals, and a wolf was a predator. Romaria raced past the mammoths, growling, and the beasts reacted with fear. Their trunks curled in alarm, and they reared up on their hind legs, trumpeting. The archers on the platforms scrambled for balance, and a few tumbled to the ground.

  And with the drivers dead, the barbarians could not steer the mammoths.

  Romaria darted close enough to sink her fangs into a mammoth’s hind leg, the musky taste of its fur filling her mouth. The beast bellowed in rage, trying to catch her, but she was already moving. The mammoths veered in circles, two attempting to trample her, while the other two fled.

  Romaria ran in front of the shield wall, making for the second group of mammoths. As she did, she saw brilliant flashes of light. Lucan and Timothy had unleashed their magic, throwing bursts of light into the air before the mammoths’ eyes. A simple spell, but the mammoths reacted with panic. Romaria darted through the second group of mammoths, and the beasts trumpeted with terror.

  One mammoth turned to flee and forced its way through the barbarian shield wall, the ranks dissolving in sudden panic.

  The barbarians’ song faltered.

  ###

  Mazael watched the mammoths wheel in terror.

  “Sir Aulus,” he said, pointing Lion.

  Aulus nodded and blew his war horn.

  The horse archers turned, riding towards the panicking mammoths. Fires flared among the militiamen as they lit torches. Only fire and magic harmed the undead, so Mazael had commanded that all the men in his service carry the means to set their weapons ablaze. The men grumbled at that, but had soon come to see the wisdom of it.

  The archers raised their bows and loosed a storm of flaming arrows at the mammoths.

  The panicked mammoths screamed in fear and stampeded in all directions. Some took off for the open plains, a few archers still clinging to the platforms. One thundered towards Mazael’s men. Sir Hagen shouted orders, and the horsemen parted to let the enraged mammoth through. The beast passed through untouched, and kept running once it passed Mazael’s lines.