“You can work the Great Rising, shadow-maimed child,” said the statue, “but the cost will be more than you can imagine.”
“If it rids the world of the Demonsouled,” said Lucan, “then the cost is well worth it. The Demonsouled have caused me too much pain, and I will make sure no one ever again suffers at their hands as I have suffered.”
“And what of you, shadow-maimed child?” said the oracle spirit. “Will you repay yourself, for all the harm you have done to yourself?”
Lucan felt a surge of irritation. “What does that even mean? Child of shadow? Shadow-maimed child, shadow-marked and shadow-bound?”
“You are a puppet who dances upon strings of shadow,” said the spirit. “The shadow of Marstan, who tried to turn you into his vessel. The shadow of your father, who tried to turn you into a weapon. The shadow of your brother, who tormented you. Those shadows left scars upon your soul, and the Old Demon has gathered up those scars like chains, and makes you dance upon them.”
“Absurd,” said Lucan. “I have never met the Old Demon.”
“You have,” said the spirit, the green glow of its eyes flickering. “You begged his aid, and in exchange for it, he carved away part of your soul and the memory of the encounter. Now you labor for him, but you know it not.”
“Ridiculous!” said Lucan, his voice rising to a shout. “I am doing what is necessary! I will rid the world of the Demonsouled, uncounted generations yet unborn will thank me for…”
“Lucan!”
Tymaen’s voice, full of concern. He glanced over his shoulder, saw her staring at him in horror. Malaric shook his head in dark amusement. Belatedly Lucan remembered that he had told them the oracle spirit’s words drove men mad.
“Be silent, spirit!” said Lucan. “I command it! Be silent and trouble us no more!”
“As you wish,” said the spirit, the green glow in its eyes fading. “I neither attack nor defend. I simply watch. And remember what I have told you, child of shadows, when the end comes.”
The stone eyelids closed, and the spirit fell silent. Lucan glared at the statue for a moment, and then rejoined the others.
Malaric watched him warily, one hand on his sword hilt. “I trust you’re quite sane, my lord?”
“Positively lucid,” said Lucan. He took a deep breath. “The spirit…proved more resilient than I had anticipated. But I was able to overcome it again.”
Malaric’s expression remained dubious. “As you say.”
“You weren’t hurt?” said Tymaen.
“I’m fine,” said Lucan. “A bit tired, but otherwise fine.”
Shadow-maimed and shadow-marked…
Lucan pushed the spirit’s voice out of his head.
“I overtaxed myself with that display in the valley,” said Lucan. “Some rest and I shall be fine. Come! The road to Morvyrkrad awaits.”
Malaric grunted, and shouted instructions to his men. They formed up around Lucan and Tymaen, and they marched deeper into Arylkrad’s black heart.
###
The stairs ended, and Tymaen felt her eyes grow wide.
She had never seen a room so vast.
“The Chamber of the Glamdaigyr,” announced Lucan.
The round chamber was enormous, and could have held Castle Highgate with room to spare. A balcony encircled the entire room, supported by thick pillars, and statues of kneeling slaves ringed the balcony. Each statue held an iron staff topped with a glowing green crystal, flooding the chamber with eerie light. A huge pyramidal dais rose from the center of the floor, topped with a throne and altar of black stone.
Lucan’s face was tight with pain.
“Here,” he said. “This is where the Glamdaigyr was.”
“A pity it’s still not here,” said Malaric, grinning at Tymaen.
She did not smile back. She had taken a dislike to the charming mercenary. He did not understand Lucan’s noble purpose. Malaric was only in it for the profit. Still, a lord had to use whatever tools lay at hand, even a man like Malaric.
“Quite a few bones in here,” said Malaric, picking his way over the floor.
Lucan nodded. “Malrag bones. Those were ebony dead.” He grimaced, pointing at a skeleton in battered black armor. “And that was Corvad.”
Malaric’s eyes narrowed, and he crossed to the armored skeleton. “So this was Corvad? A grandson of the Old Demon himself?”
Lucan nodded, looking over the chamber.
Malaric grinned, stooped over the armor, and pulled Corvad’s skull free.
Tymaen felt her lip crinkle. “Why do you want that?”
“Call it a trophy,” said Malaric, tucking the skull into his pack.
Tymaen looked to see if Lucan would object, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he led them around the base of the dais to the far end of the chamber. He crossed beneath the balcony and spread his hands over the wall. Tymaen saw his reflection, dark and distorted, in the gleaming black stone.
“Ah,” said Lucan, and he began casting a spell.
There was a bright flash, and then a large section of the stone wall vanished. A cavern mouth yawned in its place, revealing a wide, broad tunnel that descended into the depths of the earth. Stalagmites rose from the floor, giving the tunnel the look of a fanged mouth.
“Behold,” said Lucan. “The caverns below the Great Mountains.”
“The underworld, as some call it,” said Malaric. “Home to Malrags and worse things.”
“I can’t think of anything worse than a Malrag,” said Tymaen.
“Fear not,” said Lucan, his fingers brushing hers. “Nothing in those caverns can stand against me.”
“He thinks,” muttered Malaric.
Lucan started toward the cavern, Tymaen at his side. Despite her fear of the cave yawning before her, she nonetheless felt certain in her course. Lucan was doing something significant, something great, as he had been born to do.
And she was at his side, as she should have been from the beginning.
Together they descended into the darkness.
Chapter 22 – The Melee
“I am quite capable,” announced Aegidia, “of steering my own horse.”
Riothamus nodded. Yet he held her reins as he walked alongside her horse, and she made no effort to take them. The Guardian was comfortable riding on a mammoth or flying behind a skythain on a griffin’s back, but she simply did not care for horses.
“There is Castle Cravenlock,” Riothamus said, mostly to change the subject.
The castle sat atop its crag, a half-mile or so from a large town of eight thousand people. The castle’s walls stood tall and strong, its towers crowned with banners and battlements. Riothamus still marveled at the skill of the knights in working stone.
Had the Tervingi been able to raise such fortifications, they never would have been driven out of their homeland.
A sea of tents surrounded the base of the castle’s crag. Banners floated over the tents, and Riothamus recognized the sigils of the Grim Marches' lords and knights. Not as many as had gathered for the battle of Stone Tower, but a goodly number nonetheless.
“The melee has drawn many guests,” said Riothamus.
“Aye,” said Aegidia. “Athanaric was wise to accept Lord Mazael’s invitation. The knights and lords of the Grim Marches enjoy fighting as much as Tervingi thains.”
They walked at the rear of Athanaric’s column. Athanaric and two hundred of his thains marched along the road, eager to take part in the feasting and the fighting of the melee. It was gracious of Mazael to hold a melee, and not a tournament. The Tervingi had little skill at fighting from horseback.
Riothamus shook his head. “None of the lords friendly to Lord Toraine have come.”
“Unsurprising,” said Aegidia, “given that he wishes to kill us.” Her hands shifted against her staff, which lay crosswise against her saddle. “We must ally ourselves with Lord Mazael. For he is the man destined to face the Urdmoloch. And the fate of the Tervingi nation, of many nati
ons, lies in his hands.”
“We shall be vigilant,” said Riothamus. “Ragnachar may try to have Athanaric or Mazael killed to reignite the war.”
“True,” said Aegidia. “I…”
A strange expression came over her face, her eyes glassy. Riothamus knew that look. Whenever the Sight came upon her in power, she got that expression.
“Guardian?” said Riothamus. “Guardian!”
She blinked, eyes clearing.
“What did you see?” he said. “A vision of the future?”
“Yes,” said Aegidia.
She looked at him and begin to smile.
“An ill vision?” said Riothamus.
“Not at all,” said Aegidia. “One of pleasant tidings, in fact.”
“I don’t understand,” said Riothamus.
“Riothamus,” said Aegidia. “You are a good and loyal man. It is well past time you had some joy in your life.”
“You are not making any sense,” said Riothamus.
She smiled. “It is the prerogative of the Guardian to be mysterious. And of old women, too.” Her smiled faded. “Yet keep your eyes open. I doubt Ragnachar or Lord Toraine will try anything here. But if they do, we must be ready for it.”
Riothamus nodded and walked on, his mind turning over the possibilities.
Soon he had forgotten about Aegidia’s vision entirely.
###
Molly watched as her father greeted Athanaric.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said to Romaria.
Romaria shrugged. “Why do you think that?”
Mazael greeted Athanaric outside the field cleared for the melee. The Tervingi had some peculiar customs between guests and hosts, and Athanaric observed them to the letter. He offered Mazael a goblet of wine. Then Mazael responded by offering Athanaric a loaf of salty bread, which they both ate.
“By the exchange of salt and bread and wine,” declared Athanaric, his voice ringing over the assembled thains and knights, “I pledge to respect your rights as host, and defend your house and name from dishonor while I am a guest under your roof.”
“By the exchange of salt and bread and wine,” answered Mazael, “I pledge to defend you as my guest, and defend your house and name from dishonor while you are a guest under my roof.”
“Good! Now let’s get to the fighting!” said Athanaric, and a laugh went up from the men.
“It’s a terrible idea,” said Molly, “because a few months ago, these men were trying to kill each other. Now Father wants to give them blunted swords and have at it? We'll start a war within the hour.”
“No,” said Romaria. “Both the Tervingi and the folk of the Grim Marches respect valor. And save for circumstances, they would not have been enemies. And the barbarian nations beyond the Great Mountains often hold something like our melees, to prove their valor without the bloodshed of a war.”
Molly scowled. “It’s playing at a war, and war is about killing. Why make a game of it?”
“Better a game,” said Romaria, “than the real thing.”
Molly thought that over as the knights, armsmen, headmen and thains began to disperse for the melee. It would start like a tournament, with individual duels of skill using blunted weapons. Then the heralds would organize the men into two teams to fight a mock battle. She expected to see the men glare at each other with grim expressions, ready for blood. Instead they were eager, like men on a holiday, and some laughed and joked with each other.
And some of the thains joked with the knights.
“You may have a point,” Molly conceded. “Though it still seems foolish. Killing is not a game.”
“You enjoy hunting, do you not?” said Romaria.
“That’s different,” said Molly. “Hunting has a purpose. We eat what we shoot. Besides, killing deer and lions helps keep me from hunting…larger prey.”
“Perhaps,” said Romaria. “But…ah.”
Her senses were keener than Molly’s, and she always seemed to notice things first. She followed Romaria’s gaze, and saw Riothamus walking toward them, swinging his spear in hand like a staff.
“Lady Romaria,” said Riothamus with a bow. “Lady Molly. It is good to see you both.”
“And you, Riothamus,” said Romaria. “I am surprised you are not with the Guardian.”
Riothamus grinned, his blue eyes glinting. “I should be, but she insists upon going alone. Lord Mazael and the hrould Athanaric and the Guardian and the other mighty ones have gone off to discuss deep matters of peace and war, and a mere apprentice is left to his own devices.”
“In other words, they’re going to get drunk and place wagers upon the melee,” said Romaria.
Riothamus laughed. “I cannot think of a better way to discuss deep matters of peace and war.”
“I should join them, if you’ll excuse me,” said Romaria.
Riothamus bowed again, and Romaria departed.
Molly had no wish to watch the melee, but she supposed she had little choice in the matter. She would be the lady of Castle Cravenlock one day, and she ought to get to know the chief headmen among the Tervingi. But, gods, she would rather go hunting. Or, perhaps, retreat to a deserted room in the castle and practice with her weapons. That always put her mind at ease…
“Lady Molly,” said Riothamus. “Would you join me in watching the melee?”
Molly blinked, her worries vanishing in sudden surprise.
“What?” she said.
“I understand that is the custom among your people,” said Riothamus, scratching his chin. “That I would invite you to a feast or a tournament. Though I do not understand all your customs yet. If I have given offense, I hope you won’t challenge me in a duel to the death. I am only mediocre with a sword.”
“You could always use your magic to blast me where I stand,” said Molly.
Riothamus smiled. “That would be unbecoming of a Guardian.”
“And then it would be unsporting of me to kill you,” said Molly. “So you may accompany me to the melee, if you wish.”
His smile widened. “It would be my pleasure.”
###
Riothamus stood at the edge of the fenced-off area, watching the combatants. A knight in gleaming plate, a wooden sword in hand, circled a Tervingi spearthain armed with a wooden spear and a shield. A dozen blows were exchanged in as many heartbeats, the weapons blurring.
“So they will fight until one is knocked from his feet?” said Riothamus.
Molly nodded, her gray eyes on the fight. “Aye. The knight is going to win."
"The spearthain is faster," said Riothamus.
"Doesn't matter. The spearthain overextends himself every time he thrusts. Sooner or later he’s going to stumble, and the knight is going to knock him flat.”
“Among the Tervingi,” said Riothamus, “duels in melees are usually fought to the first blood.”
Molly laughed. “Apparently this melee is to promote peace and brotherhood and fellowship and all those other fine things. Spilling blood might preclude that.”
“But it seems to be working,” said Riothamus. “Lord Mazael and Athanaric are becoming fast friends.”
“They are,” said Molly. “But Ragnachar isn’t here, is he? Do you see any of the thains loyal to him?”
“No,” said Riothamus. It concerned him a great deal. Still, at least it meant none of Ragnachar’s men had come to kill Athanaric or Mazael.
“It will come down to blood, in the end,” said Molly, her voice quiet. “It always does.”
She looked tired, so tired, as she said it.
“What do you mean?” said Riothamus.
“Life is about killing,” said Molly, gazing at the duel. “The Malrags kill us, and we kill them. Lords and knights kill each other. The strong kill and rule, and the weak suffer for it.”
They were harsh words, but her voice held no conviction.
“You sound like Ragnachar,” said Riothamus. “Do you really believe that?”
“I do,”
said Molly. She sighed. “But I wish I didn’t.”
“I do not believe it,” said Riothamus.
She looked up at him with a frown. “Why not? You’re not an idiot. You can see how bleak life us. The Malrags slew your family and drove your people over the Great Mountains.”
“Life is painful, but it needn't be bleak,” said Riothamus with a shrug. “My mother and father loved me, I doubt it not. Aegidia, too, and I love her a great deal. And I believe that mercy is stronger than shed blood, and that forgiveness can overcome even the greatest rift.” He gestured at the crowds watching the melee. “Three months ago these men would have killed each other on sight. Now they cheer and drink and gamble together. If the Malrags return, they might well die defending each other. And if we are granted the blessing of peace, in a few generations the two peoples will become as one.”
“A lovely vision,” said Molly. “Unless Ragnachar starts a war first.”
“Then it is our task to stop him,” said Riothamus.
She stared at him for a long time, so long that Riothamus started to wonder if she had taken offense.
“You disagree?” he said.
“Yes,” said Molly. “No. I…” She frowned, closed her eyes, and shook her head, as if trying to shake off troublesome thoughts. “I don’t know. I would like such a story to be true, but…”
“But the entire experience of your life tells you otherwise,” said Riothamus.
Molly nodded.
“Your life was hardly normal,” said Riothamus. “How many women are brought up by assassin bands? How many women have their lovers murdered by their brothers?”
“More than you might think,” said Molly, “if you were to listen to the jongleurs' songs.”
“I think your pain has distorted your vision,” said Riothamus, “and made you view the world as darker than it really is.”
She glared at him. “I think I am entitled to a darker vision.”
“Perhaps,” said Riothamus, “but you’re not the only one to have known pain.”
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 26