Lucan gripped it. Malaric had the cold, hard hand of a killer.
“When do you wish to set out?” said Malaric.
“Today.”
Malaric frowned. “That will be difficult. We will need to gather supplies.”
Lucan snorted. “I suspect a man like you is always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
Malaric grinned. “I cannot argue with that.”
“I want to leave by midday,” said Lucan. “I shall have sufficient funds that we can purchase supplies along the way. But I want to be well away from Castle Cravenlock by nightfall.”
Malaric looked at him sidelong. “Why? You have some mischief planned?”
“Not at all,” said Lucan, stepping toward the pavilion’s entrance. “I merely need to take some tools with me. Have your men waiting north of Castle Cravenlock. I will meet you there by midday.”
He left without another word.
###
The guards challenged him at the castle gate.
“Lord Lucan,” said the armsman atop the wall, a crossbow in hand. “What news from the east? Has Lord Mazael been victorious?”
“He has,” said Lucan. He had no doubt Mazael would crush that ragged warband. “There are more barbarian raiders abroad, and some of them have wizards in their midst.” The lie rolled easily off his lips. “Lord Mazael sent me here, lest the barbarian wizards infiltrate the castle.”
“Damned savages,” said the armsman, waving Lucan inside.
Lucan hurried through the courtyard and to the castle’s cellar. The stairs were deserted, and he sealed the door with a quick spell.
He had no wish to be disturbed during this business.
He walked to the vault's steel door and considered his options.
His power exceeded Timothy’s, but the older man had done an excellent job of preparing the wards over the vault. If Lucan simply blasted through the wards or tore open the door, Timothy would know at once. Nor could Lucan take the shape of a wraith and walk through the door, as he had done with Ardasan's sword. The Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem were far too powerful to take with him in wraith-shape.
A subtler approach might succeed.
Lucan cast a spell of his own, blue light flaring around his fingertips. A shimmering blue shell appeared over the steel door. Lucan focused his will and gestured. For a moment the blue shell flickered and pulsed, fighting with the wards. And then it disappeared. It had been pulled into the wards, becoming part of them.
Altering the spell to Lucan’s will.
He cast another spell, and the intricate locks sealing the door came loose.
A deep breath, and Lucan pulled open the heavy steel door. He felt Timothy’s wards come to life, the power straining against his magical senses. Magical force gathered over the door, preparing to burn Lucan to ashes where he stood.
But the power crashed against his ward.
Lucan hesitated, probing the wards. Had Timothy been within the castle, he would have realized what was happening at once. Not even Lucan’s spells could have stopped the alarm. But Timothy was a day’s ride to the east, no doubt flinging blasts of fire at the barbarians. The minute Timothy set foot within Castle Cravenlock, the spells would alert him.
But by the time Timothy returned, Lucan would be long gone.
Lucan strode into the vault. Flickering blue and green light crawled over the stone walls as his spells strained against Timothy's wards. The light fell over the rough wooden table filling most of the chamber.
Over the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem.
The Glamdaigyr was a two-handed greatsword of gleaming black metal. The pommel had been fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s skull, sigils of ghostly green fire burning in a row down the center of the blade. The Banurdem was a diadem of black metal, a glowing emerald set in its center. It had been shaped like a long serpentine dragon, the emerald cradled in its claws.
Lucan felt the power radiating from the diadem and the sword, power far greater than his own.
He took a deep breath, lifted the Banurdem, and set it upon his head.
At once he felt its cold power fill him, like freezing water pouring into his heart. His magical senses extended, growing stronger and stronger, until he could sense every trembling thread of power in the clashing wards. With this diadem, he could sense every undead creature for miles, and take control of them with ease. He could even take control of dragons with the Banurdem.
His hands closed around the hilt of the Glamdaigyr.
And if the Banurdem's power was a fire, the Glamdaigyr was the sun itself.
He shivered, his pulse pounding in time to the throbbing light of the Glamdaigyr’s sigils. The weapon felt like a shard of living ice in his hands, a spike of hungry darkness. And the sword was so hungry. It yearned for life and power and warmth, to drink them in and fill the endless ravening void…
On impulse, Lucan lifted the Glamdaigyr and touched the blade to the wall. At once the lights vanished, the wards drained into the sword. Lucan flinched as he felt the spells’ stolen power pour into him, the strength adding to his own. He felt stronger, and for a wonderful instant, a terrible instant, he wanted to march through the castle, killing everyone in sight, and feasting upon their lives…
Why not do it? With that stolen strength, he could destroy every creature of dark magic in the world.
No. Too much of a risk. He was not invincible, and that sort of rampage might make Mazael turn his attention from the barbarians.
Besides, once he had the Wraithaldr and the Great Rising, he would have the tools he needed to free the world of the Demonsouled forever.
Lucan closed his eyes and whispered a spell. The Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem dissolved into green flames and vanished, shunted into the spirit world. Yet he still felt their presence, felt their power pouring into him. He could recall both relics to his hand with an act of will. The spell would keep the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem concealed until he needed them.
Which was useful, considering that Malaric might try to kill Lucan and claim the artifacts for himself.
Lucan left the vault, closed the steel door behind him, and walked to the courtyard.
The armsman on the gate hailed him. “No barbarian wizards, my lord?”
Lucan smiled. “No. None at all. Castle Cravenlock is secure.”
###
Malaric and his men waited north of Castle Cravenlock.
Lucan reined up the horse he had taken from the castle’s stables.
“You’re early, my lord,” said Malaric. He sat atop a fine horse, his cloak thrown back to reveal gleaming chain mail and leather armor.
“My business went well,” said Lucan.
Malaric tilted his head to the side. “You look…different.”
“Different?” Lucan frowned. “How so?”
“Stronger,” said Malaric. The gloved fingers of his right hand fluttered, and Lucan felt the faint touch of a spell. “And your aura is…different. As if you were more powerful.”
“You shouldn’t assume too much about me, captain,” said Lucan.
The flicker of unease that passed over Malaric’s face was gratifying.
“So,” said Malaric, “if I might inquire. Where is our little expedition going?”
“A place called the Red Valley, in the Great Mountains,” said Lucan. “But first, we’re going to make a brief stop at Castle Highgate.”
Malaric yelled a command, and his mercenaries rolled into motion, turning to face the northeast.
“Why Castle Highgate?” said Malaric.
“There’s something there that belongs to me,” said Lucan. “And it is past time I claimed it.”
He had seen Tymaen, standing in the nobles’ box at the tournament, and could not remember why he had let her go, why he had not challenged Lord Robert for her hand. Something had stopped him. But what?
No matter.
It was well past time he rectified that mistake.
The mercenaries marched to the
northeast, Lucan and Malaric riding at their head.
Chapter 14 – Conquerors
“No,” said Aegidia.
The thains standing before the Guardian frowned, and Riothamus tightened his fingers around the shaft of his spear.
They stood on the outskirts of a ruined village. It had been ruined when they found it, no doubt a victim of the Malrags. Stone walls stood roofless along the streets, wind whistling through the empty doors. A massive round tower rose from the center of the village, standing nearly sixty feet tall. The tower’s roof and interior had burned away, but the stone walls still stood strong. Perhaps someday some future Tervingi hrould would rebuild the tower, and claim it as his hold.
Assuming the Tervingi held these lands.
“But, Guardian,” rumbled a tall swordthain with a bushy red beard. “The lands I have claimed are broad and fertile, suitable for both wheat and grazing. If my bondsmen plant now, we may yet claim two harvests before…”
“No,” said Aegidia.
“But I have won the land!” growled the swordthain.
“You have not,” said Aegidia. “The skythains report a great host of our enemies have massed in the west and march to find us. What do you think will happen if the knights defeat us, Marothic?”
Marothic shook his head. “The lands are…”
“If the lords of the knights defeat us here,” said Aegidia, “do you think we shall keep any land? Do you think you will keep yours, Marothic?”
Marothic scowled, but said nothing else.
“You see wisdom,” said Aegidia. “We must defeat our enemies. And to do that, you and your men must stay here, to lend your strength to Athanaric.”
“So be it,” said Marothic. “But once we prevail, I shall expect my fair share of lands!”
“And you shall have them,” said Aegidia. She didn’t lean upon the staff in her right hand, but Riothamus recognized the weariness in her voice. “Go quickly. The enemy approaches, and Athanaric shall need every man.”
Marothic bowed and departed.
Aegidia let out a long sigh, her thin shoulders slumping with exhaustion beneath her cloak of black feathers.
“Come into the shade,” said Riothamus. “We’ve been in the sun too long.”
Aegidia snorted. “I spent all day in the sun decades before you were born, boy.”
But she let Riothamus lead her to the shade of a stone wall.
“The Tervingi,” she said, taking a drink from a waterskin Riothamus handed her, “will stand in a burning house and argue what to do even as the roof crashes down upon them.”
“Will Athanaric call for another moot?” said Riothamus.
“No,” said Aegidia. “The skythains say an army of twenty thousand men is coming to defeat us. There is no time for a moot, and even if there were, we can make only one decision. The Tervingi must fight or die. We have nowhere else to go.”
“Athanaric thinks we can negotiate with the lord of the knights,” said Riothamus. “That our victories have given us a position of strength, and we can negotiate a truce.”
“I hope he is right,” said Aegidia. “But I fear he is not. Storms fill my sight, boy. I see the dead rising with words of fire upon their brow to slay the living. I see a man walking into darkness, a sword of poison in his hands, to claim a staff of frozen shadows. And I see a black dragon rising to strangle the Tervingi in its coils. And I do not know which of these futures will come to pass.”
The crunch of boot on stone caught Riothamus’s attention.
Arnulf strode into sight, his necklace of Malrag claws clicking against his mail. He looked around with his customary sour grimace, his yellow beard stirring in the wind. Not even this strange new land had managed to ruffle him.
“Arnulf,” said Riothamus.
Arnulf grunted. “Witcher. There you are.”
“Swordthain,” said Aegidia. “What do you make of our new home?”
Arnulf shrugged. “Too flat for my taste, but I grew up in the hills. If we live through the next few days, I think I’ll settle near the mountains, have my bondsmen dig iron out of the foothills.” He coughed, shook his head. “Guardian. Athanaric, Ragnachar, and their headmen are meeting at the foot of the stone tower.”
“They wish the Guardian to mediate?” said Riothamus.
Arnulf snorted. “The Guardian needs to keep Athanaric’s lads and Ragnachar’s lads from going at each other. Otherwise we’ll cut each other to pieces before the knights and their damned horses arrive.”
Aegidia drew herself up. “Take me to them.”
Arnulf led them to the base of the stone tower. A large square lay before the tower, and thousands of swordthains and spearthains packed the space. Athanaric’s men occupied one side of the square, and Ragnachar’s the other, both groups of men glaring at each other.
Athanaric and Ragnachar stood on the steps to the tower. Athanaric was agitated, almost angry, while Ragnachar retained his usual cold calm.
“This is madness,” said Athanaric. “To face horsemen an open field is to invite defeat.”
“Our mammoths can counter their horses,” said Ragnachar. “Their scent will throw the horses into a frenzy, and we can sweep away their footmen.”
“Or they will use a cunning stratagem to make the mammoths panic, as they did before,” said Athanaric, “and we shall lose everything.”
Ragnachar shrugged. “War is risk.”
“And your folly will lead the Tervingi to destruction!” said Athanaric.
Ragnachar had the right to challenge Athanaric to single combat over an insult like that. And if Ragnachar slew Athanaric, or Athanaric slew Ragnachar, the Tervingi would split apart into civil war, and the knights would smash them utterly…
Aegidia rapped the butt of her staff against the ground, and Riothamus felt the surge of magic power.
“Peace!” she said, her magic turning her voice to thunder.
Athanaric and Ragnachar stopped bickering, and every eye in the square fell upon Aegidia. She strode towards the tower, her staff clicking against the flagstones, her posture betraying not a hint of the weariness Riothamus knew she felt.
“Guardian,” said Ragnachar.
“Honorable hroulds,” said Aegidia, “have we so few foes that we must bicker amongst ourselves?”
“Hardly,” said Athanaric. “The skythains have returned with their reports. A great host of the enemy is marching on us. At least fifteen thousand strong, probably more, with five thousand of those damned horsemen.”
“We have the numbers to match theirs,” said Ragnachar.
“In footmen, aye, but not in horsemen!” said Athanaric. “The knights will gallop right through our lines.”
“Our mammoths can counter the horsemen,” said Ragnachar, “and will trample through their footmen.”
“Are you blind as a stone?” said Athanaric. “They will make the mammoths panic! If they do, our swordthains and spearthains will be vulnerable to a cavalry charge, and we shall lose everything! We must…”
For the first time, a hint of anger entered Ragnachar’s icy voice. “You repeat the same tired arguments. Have the years unmanned you, Athanaric? Perhaps you should wrap yourself in a blanket and sit by the fire, and wait for your bondsmen to bring you some warm gruel.”
Athanaric’s eyes blazed, his hand flying to his sword hilt.
Thousands of thains followed suit.
“Hold!” said Aegidia, her voice thundering over the square. “I said hold! If you or your men come to blows, I shall show you why I am the Guardian of the Tervingi.”
Athanaric eased his hand away from his sword, while Ragnachar stared at the old woman, his face unreadable behind the iron-gray beard.
“So, Ragnachar,” said Aegidia. “How do you propose we deal with our foes?”
“We destroy them,” said Ragnachar. “We gather the host of the Tervingi and march to face them. Our mammoths will overwhelm their horsemen, and our swordthains and spearthains shall stand fast again
st their footmen. The victory shall be ours.”
“Simplistic folly,” said Athanaric.
“And you, hrould?” said Aegidia. “What do you propose?”
“If we face the host of the knights in open battle, we very well could lose,” said Athanaric. “Only a fool faces horsemen on an open plain. If we march out, the knights will destroy our thains while their archers deal with the mammoths one by one.”
“And what is your plan instead?” said Ragnachar. “To flee?”
“Of course not!” said Athanaric.
“Or to crawl on your belly to the knights and beg them for mercy?” said Ragnachar.
“Think, you damned fool!” said Athanaric. “You’ve seen the eastern Grim Marches. The Malrags wiped out most of the villages. There are empty lands waiting to be claimed.”
Ragnachar barked a harsh laugh. “And you think the knights will let us claim them?”
“They will,” said Athanaric, “if they can be made to see wisdom.”
“You speak of capitulation,” said Ragnachar.
“I speak of reason,” said Athanaric, turning from Ragnachar to address the assembled thains. “Hear me! I propose we send an embassy to the overlords of the knights. They, too, have suffered grievously from the Malrags. You have seen the ruined villages near the mountains! I propose a treaty between the Tervingi nation and the knights. If they will allow us to settle in peace in the empty lands, we will offer them peace in return.”
“Capitulation,” repeated Ragnachar.
“It is not!” said Athanaric. “We will negotiate from a position of strength. The knights have called out their full might to face us in battle. They know that we are a danger. Would it not be preferable to gain everything we seek without a battle?” He spread his hands. “Every man here has seen a son, or a brother, or a father fall in battle against the Malrags. Have we not had our fill of war? Would it not be better to sow our fields and tend our crops in peace, to have our children grow free of terror in this new land?”
A murmur went through the thains, and Riothamus saw that Athanaric’s words had struck home.
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 16