Soul of Sorcery (Book 5)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  She turned and almost ran from the room.

  Lucan smiled.

  ###

  That night, Lucan lay alone in his darkened guest room. For all its stern appearance, Castle Highgate had pleasant guest chambers, and the bed was quite comfortable.

  He heard a rasping noise in the hallway.

  Lucan opened his eyes, crossed the room, and opened the door.

  Tymaen stood alone in the corridor, hand raised to knock, and her mouth fell open in surprise. She wore a green robe, and her hair fell in golden waves over her shoulders and back.

  “Lucan,” she said. “I…”

  “Come inside,” said Lucan.

  He drew her in and closed the door before she could protest.

  “This,” she said, voice trembling, “we shouldn’t…my husband…”

  Lucan put a finger to her lips. He had forgotten how soft they felt.

  “Your husband,” said Lucan, “doesn’t give a damn about you. He doesn’t care for you. He doesn’t love you. Not the way I love you. Not the way I have always loved you, even after everything.”

  Tymaen started to cry, and then reached up, seized his face, and kissed him hard. He drew her into his arms, still kissing her. His hands slid over the sash of her robe, undid it, and pulled it away from her.

  She wore nothing underneath.

  Lucan picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  ###

  Later, Tymaen lay sleeping on her stomach, her hair glinting in the moonlight.

  Lucan sat beside her, running his fingers over the bare skin of her back.

  Gods, how he had missed her.

  For the first time in years, he felt…right. He had a great task before him, a mission to rid the world of the Demonsouled. And Tymaen was with him again.

  He should have done this years ago.

  A faint frown creased his face.

  Why hadn’t he done this before? What had held him back? Something had stopped him…

  But he could not remember what.

  ###

  The next day, Malaric’s company slipped away from Castle Highgate before the guards would note their absence.

  Or the absence of their lady.

  Tymaen rode at Lucan’s side, heart hammering in her chest. She had never done anything like this before. Yet it felt right. Castle Highgate had been a prison, and Lucan had set her free.

  And together, they would free the world of the Demonsouled forever.

  The mercenaries climbed the pass into the Great Mountains.

  Chapter 18 – Vassals

  The ceremony took place on the shore of the Lake of Swords, outside the walls of Swordgrim itself.

  The vast lake stretched to the north, shimmering like a sheet of gleaming steel in the sun, and the great castle of Swordgrim seemed to rise out of the waters. Surrounded by three sides on water, only a narrow spur of rocky earth connected the castle to the shore. A slender black tower stood in the heart of the castle, looming higher than the central keep, rising like an inverted sword against the blue sky. Night Sword Tower had been built by the lords of Dracaryl, and the grim tower had given its name to the castle.

  Swordgrim was a magnificent sight, but Mazael hardly noticed.

  The Tervingi occupied his full attention.

  Thousands of Tervingi thains filled the fields between Swordgrim and the walls of Sword Town, a thriving town of five thousand people. The assembled lords, knights, and armsmen of the Grim Marches faced the Tervingi, the lords and knights arranged by precedence. Mazael stood with Lord Richard and the other chief nobles on a wooden platform, their banners rippling in the wind overhead.

  Athanaric and his headmen approached the platform. The Tervingi hrould wore his finest armor, polished to a gleaming sheen, and a green cloak over his shoulders. Golden torques glittered on his throat and right arm. His headmen stopped, and Athanaric climbed the stairs to the platform.

  He drew his sword, and silence fell.

  “I am Athanaric son of Athaulf,” he said, his voice thundering over the assembly. The wizard of the Tervingi, a gaunt old woman in a cloak of black feathers they called the “Guardian”, stood at the base of the platform, using her magic to amplify their voices. “I am a hrould of the Tervingi nation, and many headmen have sworn to my name and pledged me their swords.”

  Lord Richard said nothing, his crimson armor glinting in the sun.

  Athanaric fell to one knee, laid his sword on his palms, and offered the blade to Lord Richard. “Richard Mandragon, the Dragonslayer, hrould of the Grim Marches. I offer you my sword, to wield against your enemies.”

  Richard took the sword in his right hand. “Do you swear your loyalty to me, to the end of your days?”

  “I so swear,” said Athanaric.

  “Do your swear that my enemies are your enemies, that my friends are your friends?”

  “I so swear.”

  “Do you swear that you shall provide me aid and counsel in time of war?”

  “I so swear.”

  Richard touched the sword to Athanaric’s right shoulder. “Then rise, Lord Athanaric.” Athanaric climbed to his feet with a grunt. Richard handed him the sword, along with a clump of earth. “Accept the fief of Stone Tower from my hand, to use for your maintenance and the maintenance of your sworn men.”

  “I accept this, Lord Richard,” said Athanaric, taking the sword and the earth.

  “Then go in peace,” said Richard, “and depart as my loyal friend.”

  Athanaric bowed, turned, and bellowed for his followers to come forth. The headmen, swordthains, spearthains, and skythains marched to the platform and knelt before Athanaric. One by one Athanaric touched his blade to their shoulders and made knights of them.

  Mazael glanced at Toraine. The Black Dragon had been furious when Richard had agreed to accept the Tervingi as vassals. Had Toraine been able to work his will, Athanaric’s head would occupy the top of a spear.

  Along with Mazael’s, most likely.

  The ceremony continued, and Mazael’s gaze wandered over the lake, over the ranks of the Tervingi and the knights, and his eyes settled on the Guardian.

  She stared right at him, and her pale blue eyes did not look away from his.

  Then Athanaric finished making knights of this thains, and Ragnachar came forth.

  He was in his middle fifties, with hair and beard and eyes the color of gray iron. Despite his age, he moved without the least hint of weariness. He wore elaborate black armor, much like the armor Corvad had found in Arylkrad. Ragnachar must have looted it from some Dracaryl ruin on the eastern side of the Great Mountains.

  Ragnachar went to one knee before Lord Richard.

  “Richard Mandragon,” said Ragnachar. His voice was colder than ice. “I offer you my sword, to wield against your enemies.”

  Lord Richard and Ragnachar went through the rest of the ceremony. Ragnachar’s voice remained cold, his eyes glinting like sword blades. He hated this, hated it as much as Toraine hated it. If Ragnachar could work his will, he would restart the war today, lead the Tervingi against the lords of the Grim Marches.

  If he and Toraine got their way, the Grim Marches would drown in blood.

  Mazael shivered in pleasure at the thought of all that killing…

  No. His lands would have peace.

  Ragnachar swore the oaths, his voice hard. Richard offered him the village of Gray Pillar, destroyed in the Malrag invasion, and Ragnachar accepted. Then the Tervingi hrould rose and stalked away without another word. Unlike Athanaric, he did not make any of his thains into knights.

  Or any of his orcragars, whatever they were. The mad berserkers been the most effective Tervingi troops. Had the Tervingi possessed more orcragars than mammoths, they would be sacking Swordgrim right now, not offering fealty to Lord Richard.

  Richard stepped to the edge of the platform.

  “Lords and knights,” he said, the Guardian’s magic amplifying his voice. “Let us put outside our enmity, and enjoy the
fruits of amity. We have both fought the dark hordes of the Malrags. Now let us put war behind us, and dwell together in peace!”

  A cheer, from both the nobles and the Tervingi, rang over the Lake of Swords.

  ###

  That evening, Mazael walked into the great hall of Swordgrim, Romaria on his arm, Molly following after them. To celebrate his new vassals, Lord Richard had ordered a great feast prepared for all his subjects, from the lowest peasant to the highest lord. The peasants and the townsmen would feast in the market square of Sword Town. The thains and lower knights would eat and drink in great pavilions thrown up outside the walls of Swordgrim.

  The lords, hroulds, headmen and chief knights would dine in the great hall of Swordgrim itself.

  The hall was twice as long and twice as high as the great hall of Castle Cravenlock, ringed with deep balconies. Long tables lined the hall, laden with food and drink. Behind Lord Richard’s seat and high table, enormous clear windows had a fine view of the glittering expanse of the Lake of Swords.

  “More opulent than I would have expected of Richard Mandragon,” murmured Romaria.

  Molly snorted. “He wants to impress our new Tervingi friends. All the songs of their loresingers say a great hrould is generous and openhanded to his followers. If he binds them to him now, they’ll fight all the harder for him if some other lord comes sniffing for land or if the Malrags come over the mountains again.”

  “Most astute,” said Mazael.

  Molly smirked. “You didn’t last long as a Skull if you didn’t keep your eyes open.”

  A page hastened over to escort them to the anteroom, to enter the hall in order of precedence.

  ###

  The feasting and drinking continued long into the night.

  At first Mazael had been sure matters would come to blows. The Tervingi headmen and thains gazed sullenly at the lords and knights of the Grim Marches, while the knights glared back. But Lord Jonaril began telling tales of the war against the Malrags, and a swordthain named Marothic followed suit. In short order the hostility melted, and the feast became a celebration of the Grim Marches’ victory over Ultorin and the escape of the Tervingi from the Malrags he had stirred up.

  The servants hastened out with wine and ale.

  Several hours later, most of the Tervingi and half of the nobles bellowed out one of the Tervingi war songs, a tale of a swordthain who held a bridge alone against a Malrag horde so his brothers might escape to safety.

  Mazael stood on the balcony, watching the revels. The temptation to get drunk and join in the celebration had been strong, but he wanted to keep his wits clear. Toraine, he noted, remained at the high table, his expression cold. And none of Ragnachar’s men had attended.

  Armor clanked behind Mazael, and he turned, reaching for his sword.

  Athanaric stepped beside him, expression grave.

  “Lord Athanaric,” said Mazael.

  “Lord Mazael,” said the Tervingi. “A strange word, lord. But not so different from a hrould, I suppose. A hrould must look after his bondsmen and provide for his thains and headmen, and a lord is not so different.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Mazael.

  “It seems we are to be neighbors,” said Athanaric. “Stone Tower is not so far from your Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Peaceful neighbors, I hope,” said Mazael.

  Athanaric nodded. “That is my wish as well. The Malrags inflicted grievous harm upon us, and it will take generations to recover.”

  “We desire peace as well,” said Mazael. “The Grim Marches, too, suffered at the hands of the Malrags.”

  “So it would seem,” said Athanaric. “We saw many empty villages when we entered your land.” He snorted. “Had we known your lands had been ravaged by the Malrags, perhaps we would have sent embassies asking to settle, rather than bothering with Ragnachar’s plan of an invasion.”

  Mazael laughed. “That would have been easier. Still, perhaps we can live in peace now.”

  Athanaric frowned. “Are you so sure? Not all of your nobles believe so. Our liege lord’s son and heir, for instance.”

  Mazael followed Athanaric’s gaze. Toraine still sat at the high table, watching the revels with obvious disdain.

  “He is not liege lord yet,” said Mazael.

  “Yet he will be one day,” said Athanaric. “Your hrould Richard seems like a strong warrior. Yet all men die. Lord Richard sees the wisdom of making the Tervingi into his friends and allies. I am not so sure that Lord Toraine sees the same wisdom.”

  “He doesn’t,” said Mazael. He hesitated for a moment, and decided to be candid. “Toraine hates me, as well. My family was once the liege lords of the Grim Marches, but they grew proud and corrupt, and Lord Richard overthrew them. I have no wish to be the liege lord…”

  Athanaric grunted. “Yet Toraine does not believe you.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “And when Lord Richard dies, Toraine will turn against me.”

  “It seems we have something in common, then,” said Athanaric. “Though I am curious, my lord Mazael. What do you want?”

  “Peace,” said Mazael, even though his Demonsouled blood made it a lie. “I wish for my people to live in peace, free from their enemies, and to grow rich and prosperous.”

  Athanaric nodded. “I have the same wish for my people, though I doubt I shall live to see it.” He paused for a moment. “If it comes to it, if we both wish for peace while…others…do not, will you aid me?”

  “Others?” said Mazael. “I assume you mean your friend Ragnachar?”

  Athanaric’s frown deepened. “He is not my friend. A mighty and valiant warrior, aye. But he would see the Tervingi destroyed before he yields an inch. We are bending only a little by becoming Lord Richard’s vassals, yet Ragnachar would sooner have seen us slain.”

  “Much like Toraine,” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said Athanaric. “So, Lord Mazael. Will you help me to keep the peace?”

  “I will,” said Mazael, and he gripped Athanaric’s hand.

  “Lord Mazael?”

  Mazael turned. A page in Mandragon colors stood on the stairs.

  “Lord Richard wishes to speak with you.”

  ###

  Lord Richard awaited Mazael in his solar. Like the great hall, it had a grand view of the Lake of Swords, the moonlight rippling across the waters.

  “I understand,” said Richard, once the page had left, “that you had a pleasant talk with Lord Athanaric.”

  “I did,” said Mazael.

  “What did you discuss?”

  Mazael saw no point in lying. “He thinks that Toraine will try to destroy the Tervingi once you die.”

  Richard barked out a short, harsh laugh. “He is correct. But he needn’t fear. Toraine dares not defy me.” He sighed. “And after I am dead, I doubt he will have the strength to act against the wishes of his vassals. My son is feared, but not loved, and neither you nor my other vassals desire to move against the Tervingi.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “But some of the Tervingi may desire to move against us.”

  Richard nodded. “Ragnachar, you mean. He would attack us, but he cannot on his own. The structure of power among the Tervingi has three legs.”

  Mazael nodded. “Athanaric, Ragnachar, and the Guardian.”

  “Correct,” said Richard. “Both Athanaric and the Guardian oppose further fighting, and Ragnachar is not strong enough to act against their consent.”

  “And if the Guardian dies?” said Mazael. “She has to be at least eighty, if not older.”

  “Then her apprentice becomes Guardian,” said Richard. “The Tervingi hold the office of Guardian in high reverence, and Riothamus agrees that we must have peace. So if Aegidia dies, peace we shall have.”

  Mazael nodded. “So be it.”

  “Speaking of peace,” said Richard, “have you received any additional news of Lucan?”

  Mazael felt himself scowl. “No.”

  The message from Castle Highgate had
been bizarre.

  According to a panicked letter from Lord Robert’s seneschal, Lucan had arrived at Castle Highgate with a company of mercenaries. Somehow he had kidnapped Lady Tymaen and escaped into the Great Mountains. Mazael could not make any sense of it. Was he going to Arylkrad? If so, why would he take Tymaen with him? Mazael knew that they had once been betrothed, but if Lucan had wanted to kidnap Tymaen, he could have done so any time in the last five years.

  Why now?

  “No,” said Mazael again. “No news at all.”

  “Such utter folly,” said Richard. “This will drive a rift between me and Lord Robert.”

  Mazael snorted. “Lord Robert will be fine. I saw him taking one of your maids to his bedchamber.”

  “Regardless,” said Richard. “Tymaen is his wife, and Lucan has violated Lord Robert's rights. If Lucan is captured, I will have no choice but to hand him over to Lord Robert’s justice, and that will weaken my position. Perhaps we…”

  Richard kept talking, and a realization came to Mazael. He had known Molly less than a year, and Richard had raised Lucan. Yet Mazael cared more about Molly than Richard cared about Lucan. Lord Richard Mandragon’s sons were his tools and his weapons. If he had any affection for them, it was the sort of affection a blacksmith had for his forge, or a carpenter for his hammer.

  Little wonder both men had become so ruthless.

  ###

  Ragnachar walked alone in the darkness outside of Swordgrim, his expression calm.

  His expression was always calm. He had learned, long ago, that if he did not keep himself calm at all times, if he did not keep himself under control, the inferno raging within his heart would destroy him.

  His father had told him that, and his father was older than the Tervingi and the noble Houses of the Grim Marches.

  And as always, the thought of his father brought a blistering headache.