Soul of Sorcery (Book 5)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  The Old Demon grinned, the red light flashing brighter in his eyes, pulsing in time to the crimson column.

  “Go and find out,” he said, and gestured.

  The dream dissolved into nothingness.

  ###

  Mazael awoke gasping, sweat pouring down his face. He sat up, clawing aside the blankets.

  Romaria’s hands were on his shoulders.

  “What is it?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mazael.

  The dream flickered through his memory, the Old Demon’s smile filling his thoughts.

  “But something is wrong.”

  Chapter 20 – The Assassin and the Apprentice

  A week after discovering the theft of the Glamdaigyr, Mazael rode for Stone Tower, accompanied by Molly and fifty of his armsmen. Romaria remained behind to rule in Castle Cravenlock, assisted by Sir Hagen and Timothy.

  He gazed across the plains, thinking about the dream.

  “You can’t stop me,” said Mazael. “I have been laboring in the shadows for three thousand years, manipulating history itself to my will.”

  “That’s what he told you?” said Molly. They rode ahead of the column, far enough ahead that the armsmen could not overhear their conversation.

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “Do you know what he might have meant?”

  Molly shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Grandfather…Grandfather spins deceit the way bees make honey. He never told me that he intended to turn me into a Malrag Queen, and he had never told Corvad that he would devour him, the way he tried to devour you.”

  “I know,” said Mazael.

  “He’s three thousand years old, Father,” said Molly. “He could have a dozen different plans in the works, all of them going back centuries. Between the two of us, we probably know a tenth of what he’s been doing, if that.”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “Why do all of this?”

  “Why not?” said Molly. “He’s cruel and enjoys playing with people. Maybe he does it for fun. Maybe he’s bored after all these centuries. But I think it’s for the power, so he can raise Demonsouled and harvest our strength. That’s what he was going to do to Corvad.”

  “I have an idea,” said Mazael.

  Molly lifted her eyebrows.

  “Athanaric and Aegidia both say a sect among Ragnachar’s followers worship something called the Urdmoloch,” said Mazael.

  Molly frowned. “That a Dark Elderborn word. It means either ‘ancient evil’ or ‘father of darkness’, something along those lines.”

  Mazael nodded. “Romaria says it’s the name they use for the Old Demon.”

  Molly snorted. “They worship him? He must laugh his head off.”

  “Aye, and he’ll use them as his weapons, laughing all the while,” said Mazael. “That must be what he meant, when he said I would die in a matter of months. He’s planning something with the Tervingi who worship him.”

  “Maybe,” said Molly. “But what? It’s not as if he cares about thrones and kingdoms. They’re only game pieces to him. All he cares about is his power, and he increases it by creating strong Demonsouled and then consuming them. If he drives the Tervingi to war against Lord Richard again, so what? What does he get out of it?”

  Mazael thought it over. “A Demonsouled,” he said at last. “A Demonsouled among the Tervingi.”

  He and Molly stared at each other for a moment.

  “Ragnachar,” they said in unison.

  “It has to be him,” said Molly. “You saw the way he fought during the battle. Only a Demonsouled could fight like that.”

  “It explains his orcragars as well,” said Mazael. “The orcragars fight harder than an ordinary man, and they heal from wounds faster. Ragnachar must have given them each a drop of his blood, like Corvad's infused Malrags. That would make them stronger and faster.”

  “It might drive them mad,” said Molly.

  “Ragnachar would see that as a virtue,” said Mazael.

  “Then we kill him,” said Molly.

  “No,” said Mazael. “We only suspect that he is Demonsouled. I will not kill a man on suspicion alone. Besides, if we kill him, the Tervingi will unite against us.”

  “I could kill him and make it look like an accident,” said Molly.

  “Are you sure?” said Mazael.

  She sighed and looked away across the plains. “Not…entirely. I couldn’t take him in a straight fight. And unless I managed to ambush him and kill him at once, he would kill me.”

  “Then we watch him,” said Mazael, “and find out more. And wait until we can take action.”

  He sighed in frustration. There were so many unseen currents swirling around him. Perhaps Ragnachar was truly Demonsouled, and the Old Demon planned to use him as a weapon. Or maybe Ragnachar was only a Tervingi warlord with a thirst for violence, and Mazael was jumping at shadows. Maybe the Old Demon wanted Mazael chasing shadows, wanted him to…

  He shook his head. He could not second-guess himself into paralysis. He had failed to anticipate the danger that Lucan would steal the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem, but he could make sure that Ragnachar did not drown the Grim Marches in blood.

  “And what,” said Molly, “would you like me to do, if you won't let me cut Ragnachar’s throat?”

  “Find things out,” said Mazael. “Talk to the Tervingi. The Guardian’s apprentice seems to trust you. Try to find out more about Ragnachar.”

  “And if I find out something interesting?” said Molly. “Like that, oh, Ragnachar is using his Demonsouled blood to take control of Malrag warbands?”

  “Then we’ll take action,” said Mazael.

  They rode on.

  ###

  The next afternoon they rode into the village of Stone Tower.

  Molly looked around in surprise.

  The Tervingi had been busy.

  A dozen new burial mounds stood outside the village, housing the Tervingi slain during the battle. New thatched roofs had been raised over the stone walls of the village’s houses, and Molly saw bondsmen laboring to repair more homes. Other bondsmen worked in the fields, putting in a crop, while herdsmen tended to flocks of sheep and pigs. Stone Tower looked little different than any other village in the Grim Marches.

  Though the mammoths grazing in the pasture did looked rather odd, along with the hobbled griffins in their pen.

  A dozen thains met Mazael at the edge of the village, Athanaric himself at their head. The Tervingi hrould had removed his armor, and wore the long tunic, trousers, boots, and brooch-pinned cloak the barbarians donned when not at war.

  Riothamus walked behind them, lean and tall in his leather and chain mail, carrying his spear the way the Guardian carried her staff. The other Tervingi kept their distance from him. They had relied on their Guardian’s arts to defend them during the battle, yet they feared and loathed magic.

  “Lord Athanaric!” said Mazael, dropping from Hauberk’s saddle. “I see you’ve been busy.”

  “Aye,” said Athanaric, giving Mazael’s hand a vigorous shake. “There’s much to be done. We’re at the end of our supplies, and we need to plant a crop, or our folk will starve come winter.” A smile spread over his tired face. “But we shall do it. This is a good land, your Grim Marches. Good soil for grain, I think, and plenty of pasture for our beasts. We can feed ourselves here, free from the Malrags.”

  “The Malrags may return,” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said Athanaric. “They might. But now we have allies. The Tervingi nation and the knights of the Grim Marches are stronger, now that we stand together, and the Malrags shall not overcome us.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” said Mazael.

  “You speak valiantly,” said Athanaric. “Come, my lord! I have taken the great stone keep as my hall. Let us sit and drink, and speak of great deeds, and discuss the future to come. Your men shall have lodging as well! Let it not be said the Terving
i are miserly hosts.”

  Mazael and Athanaric walked toward the tower, the armsmen and thains following. Both the thains and the armsmen made sure to keep a distance from Riothamus. The Guardian’s apprentice seemed not to notice or care. Instead he stared at Mazael, face lost in thought.

  And Molly realized he probably knew all sorts of interesting things about the Tervingi.

  “Riothamus,” she called as the men headed toward the tower.

  Riothamus turned and smiled as he saw her.

  “Lady Molly,” he said. “Decided to kill me yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Molly. “My father and Athanaric are getting on well, and he would take it rather amiss if I killed you.”

  “I suppose both your father and Athanaric are men of a similar mold.”

  Molly blinked. “How so?” Did Riothamus know that Mazael was Demonsouled? Did that mean Athanaric was Demonsouled?

  “They both care a great deal about their people,” said Riothamus. “Athanaric led the Tervingi across the Great Mountains to save them. Lord Mazael was willing to destroy the Tervingi to save his people. It’s just as well we found a way to live in peace. Neither one of them would have yielded.”

  “I suppose not,” said Molly. Mazael would have enjoyed destroying the Tervingi. She had seen the bloodlust in his eyes during the battle, the same bloodlust she knew so well. Yet he had stopped himself and convinced Lord Richard to give lands to the Tervingi.

  And perhaps the Tervingi and the folk of the Grim Marches would have the chance to thrive.

  “Athanaric will have a feast in Mazael’s honor,” said Riothamus. “No doubt they’ll try to drink each other under the table. You should go before you’re missed.”

  “Aren’t you coming?” said Molly.

  “No,” said Riothamus. “I fear the thains would not respond well to my presence. And the Guardian is resting.” He sighed. “The exertion of the battle took a heavier toll than she will admit. She requires rest, and I must perform her duties in her absence.”

  “Duties?” said Molly.

  “Tending to the people,” said Riothamus. “And I must begin. If you will excuse me…”

  “Perhaps I could come with you,” said Molly.

  Riothamus blinked. “Why?”

  She decided to tell the truth. “Since you’re our neighbors, and since I am going to be the Lady of Castle Cravenlock one day, my father thinks I should learn more about the Tervingi.”

  Riothamus stared at her, his blue eyes cool underneath his shock of black hair. To her surprise, Molly felt a flicker of discomfort.

  “A wise suggestion,” said Riothamus. “This way.”

  ###

  An hour later they stood outside one of the village houses. Riothamus sighed and took a deep breath, flexing his fingers. Molly still felt the residual power from his spell lingering in the air. He was strong. Not as strong as Guardian, but at least as strong as Lucan Mandragon.

  The Tervingi bondswoman looked at the girl of three in her arms. The child stirred, blinked once or twice, and looked around. A few moments earlier the girl had been on the edge of death.

  And now, after Riothamus had worked his spell, she was the image of health.

  “She’ll…she’ll get better?” said the bondswoman.

  “She will,” said Riothamus. “You did well, summoning me. Another few days, and the infection would have been fatal. Make sure she gets rest and plenty of water.”

  “Thank you,” said the bondswoman. “Oh, gods, witcher. Thank you.”

  The woman smiled. Then the fear returned to her expression, and she disappeared into her house with the child.

  “Why is she so afraid of?” said Molly, handing Riothamus back his spear. “You?”

  “In part,” said Riothamus, tapping the butt of his spear against the ground. “Her husband as well. He would not have approved of approaching me. I suspect she did so behind his back. He would have forbidden it, had he known.”

  “Absurd,” said Molly. “You saved the child’s life.”

  “The Tervingi fear and loathe magic,” said Riothamus. “It stems from ancient days, when the Dark Elderborn enslaved our ancestors. The Dark Elderborn used powerful dark magic. So by the custom of the Tervingi, only two wielders of magic are permitted among the Tervingi. The Guardian, and the Guardian’s chosen successor.”

  “You,” said Molly.

  “Me,” agreed Riothamus.

  They walked along the street. The Tervingi gave them a wide berth.

  “How did you become the Guardian’s apprentice?” said Molly.

  “My father was Rigotharic, a thain in Athanaric’s service,” said Riothamus. “He had his own hold. When I was six, the Malrags fell upon his hold, and slew everyone. The Malrags would have slain me, but Aegidia arrived and destroyed the Malrags. She raised me, and taught me to use magic.”

  “A grim tale,” said Molly.

  “No different than many others among the Tervingi,” said Riothamus. “The Malrags harried us for years, and many were slain.” He gestured with his spear. “Everyone here has lost kin to the Malrags.”

  “So have most of the folk of the Grim Marches,” said Molly.

  “What of you, my lady Molly?” said Riothamus. “What of your tale? It must be more interesting than mine.”

  Molly laughed. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I have heard your father’s armsmen speak,” said Riothamus. “Lord Mazael only married Lady Romaria a few months past. She is not your mother.” He paused. “And you look nothing like her.”

  “I suppose not,” said Molly.

  She hesitated. Why not tell him the truth? Or at least as much as the truth as he could handle?

  “My father used to be a wandering knight,” said Molly. “He seduced my mother and kept wandering, never realizing that she was pregnant. My mother died when I was six, and my brother Corvad and I were taken in by the Skulls of Barellion.”

  Riothamus frowned. “The Skulls?”

  “Assassins,” said Molly. “Hired killers.”

  “How does one go from being a hired killer to the heir of Castle Cravenlock?” said Riothamus.

  “I left the Skulls,” said Molly. “I met a man, Nicholas Tormaud, and…I fell in love with him.” His face, strong and confident, flashed through her memory. “My brother murdered him and cast the blame upon Mazael. So I tried to hunt down Mazael. Eventually I realized the truth, and Mazael killed Corvad when they fought.” She took a deep breath, making sure her voice stayed steady. “I can’t go back to the Skulls. And Nicholas is dead. I had no place left to go. So why not become the heir of Castle Cravenlock? It is certainly more pleasant killing for gold.”

  Riothamus said nothing as they walked, and Molly wondered if she had disgusted him. Perhaps he would shun her now, or denounce her before the Tervingi as a craven murderess.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “That was a grim tale, grim as any among the Tervingi. Darker than mine, certainly. Aegidia has been a kindly teacher. I doubt your Skulls could claim the same.”

  “No,” she said, remembering. “They could not.”

  “But they left you with some gifts, that is plain,” said Riothamus.

  “What do you mean?” said Molly.

  “That spell you use to walk through the shadows,” said Riothamus. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  Molly shrugged, uncomfortable. How would Riothamus react if he knew that she was Demonsouled? “I don’t have much magic. Just enough to do my little trick.”

  “And you have great skill with a blade,” said Riothamus. “Shieldmaidens used to be common among the Tervingi, but our women are too few now, and are needed to bear children. I saw you during the battle. You could have held your own against any of the shieldmaidens of old.”

  Molly snorted. “I’m capable with a blade, but no more. Mazael and Romaria are better. It’s the shadow-walking that gives me an edge.”

  “You crossed blades with Ragnachar and
survived,” said Riothamus. “Few can make that boast.”

  Molly shivered. She had been enjoying her talk with Riothamus, so much that she had almost forgotten her true purpose.

  “Ragnachar,” she said, her voice low. “Is it true what they say? That he worships the Urdmoloch?”

  Riothamus looked around, and then took her arm. Molly’s instincts took over, and she almost attacked him, but she held herself in check. He steered her into an empty garden behind one of the village’s houses. No one was around to overhear.

  “Aye,” said Riothamus, voice quiet. “He does worship the Urdmoloch, is devoted to him in heart and soul. He hates this.”

  Molly frowned. “This village?”

  “This peace,” said Riothamus. “The Urdmoloch teaches that only the strong are worthy to survive, that the weak should either be slain or used as cattle.”

  “Charming philosophy,” said Molly. She had once believed it herself. And it sounded a great deal like her grandfather.

  “Ragnachar wanted the Tervingi to conquer the Grim Marches and exterminate or enslave your folk,” said Riothamus. “And barring that, he would rather fight to the death than make peace. Our vassalage is intolerable to him. He has withdrawn with his orcragars and his closet followers to his fief at Gray Pillar, and has not come forth since.”

  “Do you think he will attack?” said Molly.

  “He cannot on his own,” said Riothamus. “Most of his own followers want peace, as do Athanaric and the Guardian. His orcragars will follow him into battle, aye, along with his most devoted thains, but that would come to no more than fifteen hundred men. Lord Richard and Lord Mazael would crush him utterly. He will probably try to find some excuse for war, some reason for the entire Tervingi nation to rise up.”

  Molly’s expression darkened. “Like if he murdered Athanaric or Aegidia, and then cast the blame upon Lord Richard. The Skulls took contracts of that nature.”