Soul of Sorcery (Book 5)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  "So the spell collapsed?" said Lucan. "It was inherently flawed?"

  "No," said Randur. "My fellow high lords are fools." His dead eyes shifted over the scattered bones. "Or they were. They wrestled for control, each hoping to claim the majority of the harvested Demonsouled power and slay his fellows. I lost control, and the spell collapsed before I could even raise the runedead. I should have cast the spell myself, without their aid. With the Wraithaldr I had the strength to do it. "

  Lucan gave a slow nod, relieved. He had feared that the spell was fatally flawed, that any attempt to cast it would inevitably result in catastrophic failure. Instead Randur had bungled it. Lucan would not repeat his ancestor's mistake.

  "I had heard," said Lucan, "that the Old Demon taught you to forge the instruments needed for the Great Rising. Is this true?"

  "It is," said Randur.

  Lucan flinched. "Then you were his puppet and nothing more." Again he felt that curious sensation of dread, as if trying to remember something he had forgotten, something of terrible importance...

  The revenant laughed, a horrible sound devoid of humanity. "His puppet? Fool child. If the ancient devil sought to rule the high lords of Dracaryl, he failed! I studied at his feet, aye. But I stole his secrets, and with his knowledge I forged the instruments of power! I fashioned the Great Rising, not the Old Demon!"

  Lucan’s lip curled in disgust. "And then you failed, not the Old Demon."

  Randur hissed, a green light flaring in his black eyes. "Have you come all this way to mock me, child?"

  "No. I have merely come to claim my inheritance. For am I of your blood, and Dracaryl has fallen, which means the Wraithaldr is mine by rights," said Lucan. "I will succeed where you failed. I will cast the Great Rising and rid the world of the Demonsouled. And unlike you, I will not try to claim their power for my own. The world is better without it."

  He reached for the Wraithaldr.

  Randur snarled and thrust out his hands.

  Invisible force hammered into Lucan and flung him from the dais. He hit the ground, dry bones shattering beneath him. He scrambled to his feet and cast a ward around himself just as Randur hurled another blast of psychokinetic force. This time his ward caught the spell, blue light flashing, but the force of it knocked him back several steps.

  "What are you doing?" said Lucan. "I am your heir! The Wraithaldr belongs to me!"

  "Fool child," hissed Randur, stalking closer. "Do you think I have relinquished my rights merely because I am dead? Your blood shall give me the strength I need to break free from Morvyrkrad. I shall return to the surface and raise a new empire for Dracaryl."

  "No," said Lucan, "you shall not."

  He focused his will upon Randur, intending to command the revenant, and drew upon the power of the Banurdem.

  Only to have his will recoil, blocked by the power of Randur's magic.

  Randur Maendrag was too powerful for the Banurdem to control. Which meant Lucan now faced the might of an enraged high lord of Old Dracaryl.

  He cast another ward, even as Randur lifted his hands, fingers ablaze with emerald flame. A lance of green fire shot from his hands and exploded against Lucan's defenses. The flame danced over the floor around him, the black stone cracking and crumbling beneath his feet. Yet Lucan's ward held, keeping the spell from touching his flesh.

  He summoned psychokinetic force and thrust his first at the damaged section of the floor. It exploded in a spray of jagged black splinters, and Lucan swept his hand at Randur, sending a storm of debris at the revenant. Yet Randur’s robes held some sort of deflecting spell, and the debris bounced away from the cloth without a mark. A piece of stone left a long, bloodless gash across his face, a wound that closed almost at once.

  Randur was already dead. How could Lucan kill a dead man?

  A pity he had not thought to steal Lion from Mazael.

  Randur unleashed another spell, and a vortex of howling shadows surrounded Lucan. A deathly chill washed over him, a glittering layer of frost spreading over the broken floor. The swirling shadows drew closer, trying to penetrate his defenses. Lucan yelled and threw out his arms, drawing on the well of Demonsouled power in his mind. A sphere of blue light exploded from him, driving back the shadows.

  He stepped forward and pointed his left hand at Randur.

  A sigil of crimson flame appeared on his palm, the fiery light falling over the revenant.

  Randur raised his hands, a half-dome of shadows appearing before him. The beams of crimson light strained and shuddered against the shield.

  "So!" shouted Randur. "You have stolen the power of a Demonsouled? Then that power shall be mine when I feast upon you!"

  Lucan had to find a way to destroy the spells binding the revenant's soul to his undead flesh. Lion's fire could have done it with ease, but Lucan lacked any weapons of such power. He did have the Glamdaigyr...

  No. The Glamdaigyr would drain away the spells binding Randur, true. But it would channel the power into Lucan, and he did not want to draw on that kind of necromancy. Better instead to disable or distract Randur, and make his escape with the Wraithaldr.

  The sigil of crimson fire winked out, and Lucan cast a spell of summoning. Gray mist swirled around him, and a dozen spirit beasts appeared, wearing the forms of giant bears with wings and lions’ heads. The creatures roared and charged Randur. The revenant reacted with superhuman speed, dispatching three with a burst of ghostly green fire.

  The remaining creatures continued their furious attack.

  Lucan sprinted for the dais, his gaze fixed on the Wraithaldr. Randur destroyed four more of the spirit beasts in quick succession, but the remainder drove him back. Lucan stopped before the Wraithaldr and reached for the staff...

  A pulse of blue light washed over him, and the remaining beasts disappeared, dispatched back to the spirit world.

  Randur moved in a blur, his cold hand closing around Lucan's throat.

  Lucan gagged, grabbing Randur’s wrist, but the revenant's fingers felt like bars of frozen iron.

  "Mine," hissed Randur. "If you are my descendant, then you are mine to do with as I please. And your blood will allow me to escape at long last."

  He yanked a dagger from his belt with his free hand. Lucan tried to reach for a spell, tried to summon power, but Randur was choking the life from him.

  He had no other choice.

  He let go of Randur's wrist and summoned the Glamdaigyr.

  The sword materialized between Lucan and Randur, the sigils upon the blade burning with ghostly flame, and the point dug into Randur's shoulder.

  And power, cold power, flooded into Lucan.

  Randur screamed in horror, and Lucan leaned into him. The black blade cut through Randur's enspelled robes with ease and sank deeper into undead flesh. More cold power poured into Lucan, and he felt Randur's memories entering him as well, necromantic secrets dark and mighty.

  "No," rasped Randur, falling to his knees. “It is not...it is not possible! You cannot wield the Glamdaigyr, you cannot..."

  "Stop talking," said Lucan, "and die at last."

  He stabbed down, and the sword sank to its crosspiece into Randur.

  Randur Maendrag screamed once more and crumbled into dust and bones, his robes falling in a heap.

  Lucan staggered back, the Glamdaigyr dangling from his right first.

  Power flooded through him.

  All of Randur's magical might, now his to command. All of Randur's knowledge, too, his spells and secrets and skills. The lore of Old Dracaryl's greatest necromancer, now Lucan's to use as he saw fit.

  He leaned upon the Glamdaigyr for a moment, gasping.

  After a moment his head stopped spinning.

  The knowledge of the Great Rising, plucked from Randur's mind, buzzed in his thoughts. No need to hunt for the book Ardasan had described.

  Lucan climbed the dais, dismissing the Glamdaigyr. The sword dissolved into green flame, and he plucked the Wraithaldr from the air.

  Th
e staff felt like ice, a green glow welling between his fingers. Power stirred in the staff, power far stronger than the power he had stolen from Randur. With the well of Demonsouled power, the strength of Randur, and the magic of the Wraithaldr to command, Lucan had become the most powerful wizard in the world.

  Perhaps more powerful than the Old Demon himself?

  Lucan grinned. He would rid the world of the Demonsouled. The cost would be high, but it would be worth it, for the greater good.

  He left the Chamber of Summoning without a backward glance.

  ###

  Tymaen found that she could not remain still.

  She paced through the camp, her eyes straying across the bone-strewn cavern to the gloomy gates of Morvyrkrad. The mercenaries ignored her. None spoke to her. None even dared to look at her.

  Lucan had seen to that.

  Again she looked at the gates of Morvyrkrad.

  Still no trace of Lucan.

  "If you continue this pacing, my lady," said Malaric, sitting cross-legged upon the ground, "you shall wear yourself out, and we will have to carry you back to the surface. And then Lord Lucan will kill us for touching you."

  Tymaen glared at him. "Is that a roundabout way to tell me to stop pacing?"

  "Since you have put it so bluntly, yes."

  Malaric stooped over that skull he had taken from Arylkrad, using a chisel to cut sigils into the yellowing bone. He had cut dozens of them into the skull’s jaw, cheeks, and temples. From time to time one of the strange symbols flickered with harsh crimson light.

  Blood-colored light.

  “What are you doing to that skull?” said Tymaen.

  “Did Lucan tell you,” said Malaric, gazing at the skull, “about me?”

  “Only that you are a mercenary captain and a wizard,” said Tymaen. “That you agreed to follow him in exchange for spells.”

  “I am,” said Malaric, “the bastard child of the Prince of Barellion. The youngest bastard child, I should mention. The Prince’s legitimate children all received lands and titles. Even the Prince’s older bastards hold offices. But not me, no. Not the bastard that manifested magical talent. When the Prince cast me out, the only thing I had left was my magic. And I realized that if I wanted power and wealth, I would gain it through magic.” He grinned. “I suppose Lord Lucan and I have that in common.”

  “You have nothing in common with Lucan,” said Tymaen, though his words had more truth than she would have liked.

  “No,” said Malaric. “I suppose not. Lucan is better at it than I am.” His grin returned, and he patted the skull. “For now.”

  “So you are a bastard and your father hates you,” said Tymaen. “What has that to do with the skull?”

  “This,” said Malaric, “is power. Invincibility. Revenge. I will kill every last one of my half-brothers and sisters, and watch them beg before they die. I will make my father regret ever casting me out. I will take his city for my own, and Lord Richard, Lord Roland, Lord Alamis, and all the others will kneel and proclaim me as king. Forever.”

  “You’re mad,” said Tymaen.

  “I am not,” said Malaric. “It is only mad if I cannot do it, and I can. And you call me mad? Your lover wants to kill every last Demonsouled in the world. That is a touch more mad, don’t you think?” He shrugged. “Though if he succeeds, then my kingdom will be free of the Demonsouled.”

  “You, sir,” said Tymaen, “are above yourself…”

  She turned, and froze.

  A dark figure strode from the gates of Morvyrkrad.

  “Lucan!” shouted Tymaen.

  She ran for him, relief flooding through her. He had survived! Even Malaric had been afraid to go into that place, but Lucan had returned! And he had been successful, she saw the black staff in his left hand…

  “Lucan!” said Tymaen.

  He looked at her and smiled.

  Tymaen came to a shocked halt.

  He looked exactly the same.

  And yet so different.

  “Lucan?” she whispered.

  He seemed…older, somehow. Stronger. So much stronger. The strange staff of black crystal glimmered with green light in his hand.

  “What happened?” said Tymaen.

  He caught her in a hard embrace.

  “I found the staff,” he said, “and gained more than I expected. Come, my love. Let us change the world.”

  ###

  “We,” Lucan told Malaric and his mercenaries, “are going to Swordgrim.”

  The men stood in a circle around him and Tymaen. Malaric maintained his cool façade, yet Lucan saw the wariness in his pose.

  “Swordgrim,” said Malaric, “is far away.” He grinned. “It will cost you more.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Lucan. “But we will be there by this afternoon.”

  He lifted the Wraithaldr and drew on its power.

  He had known of the spell for years, ever since his duel in the spirit would with the San-keth archpriest Straganis. Using the spell, he could open pathways through the spirit world, travelling hundreds of miles in a matter of hours. But he had never possessed the strength to cast the spell, even with the well of Demonsouled power.

  The Wraithaldr had power to spare.

  Lucan swept the dark staff before him, a curtain of gray mist rising from the floor. The curtain rose, ten yards, twenty yards, thirty yards. Then the mist parted, showing a road winding through a dark, treeless forest.

  “Behold,” said Lucan. “The path to Swordgrim. Come along, Malaric. I want to return to the Grim Marches before sundown.”

  Malaric blinked, once, and then turned and barked orders to his men.

  “Why are we returning to Swordgrim?” said Tymaen. Perhaps she feared seeing Lord Robert again. No matter – if he proved troublesome, Lucan would simply kill the boorish fool.

  “Because,” said Lucan. “With the Wraithaldr, I have taken the first step toward ridding the world of the Demonsouled. The second step awaits at Swordgrim.”

  Randur’s memories told him that he would need a great deal of spilled blood to cast the Great Rising.

  And Lucan could find it at Swordgrim.

  Chapter 28 – The Lady of the Shadows

  “Well?” said Molly, arms folded across her chest. She wanted to howl with rage. Instead she forced herself to stand calmly.

  Timothy wiped sweat from his forehead. “He will live, my lady.”

  Molly managed a nod. “Good.”

  They stood in one of Castle Cravenlock’s guest rooms. Riothamus lay upon the bed, clean white bandages covering his shoulder and hip and side. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and chest. He muttered and thrashed in his sleep, his left hand rising to ward away enemies.

  In his right hand he clutched Aegidia’s staff. Timothy had tried to pry it out of his hand and given up.

  “His wounds heal with remarkable speed,” said Timothy. “I suspect his magic aids his recovery. Both he and the Guardian showed the ability to cure wounds and illness with their spells. And the staff may have some healing properties as well. There is magic upon it, but a type unknown to me.”

  “Good,” said Molly, blinking. She was not going to cry in front of anyone. She was not.

  “I suspect,” said Timothy, “that he will recover in a few days. At most.”

  "Thank you," said Molly.

  Timothy nodded, and Riothamus’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Molly,” he rasped.

  She knelt beside the bed, grabbing his free hand. “I’m here.”

  “Ragnachar,” he whispered. “It was Ragnachar. I can’t…I can’t let the Tervingi go to war over this. Not over a lie. The staff…I can’t…”

  He lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  “It would be best, my lady,” said Timothy, voice gentle, “if we let him rest. He is out of danger. He needs rest now.”

  Molly nodded and got to her feet. “Has there been any word from my father?”

  “None,” said Timothy. “An
d no riders from Swordgrim, either. But the peasants are fleeing into the walls of Cravenlock Town. All of them say that the Tervingi have gone on a rampage.”

  “Damn it,” said Molly. She really should have killed Ragnachar, despite what Mazael and Riothamus had said. And with Richard Mandragon dead, Toraine was the liege lord of the Grim Marches. Toraine wanted to kill both Mazael and Molly…and Mazael was at Swordgrim.

  She crossed to the window, glaring into the courtyard. Armsmen drilled and knights practiced with the lance below. Mazael had left Sir Hagen in command of the castle, and Hagen Bridgebane was not the sort of knight to tolerate laxness among his men.

  Just as well, considering they would march to war soon enough.

  “We’ve got to get word to my father,” said Molly. “Let him know that Ragnachar murdered Athanaric and Lord Richard. Hopefully he’ll stop Toraine from doing anything too idiotic.”

  “Lord Toraine is…rather rash,” said Timothy.

  “That’s just a polite way of saying he’s an idiot,” said Molly.

  Timothy opened his mouth to answer, and then a horn rang out.

  “Foes!” said Timothy. “The sentries on the walls have seen enemies.”

  Molly cursed under her breath, snatched her sword belt, and stepped into the shadows.

  She reappeared in the courtyard. A few nearby armsmen cursed in sudden alarm, but she ignored them. She spotted Sir Hagen Bridgebane atop the barbican rampart, talking to some of the guards.

  A quick step through the shadows, and she reappeared next to him.

  “What’s happening?” said Molly.

  The armsmen recoiled in fear, but Hagen remained impassive. He had seen Molly in battle enough by now.

  “Raiders,” said Hagen. He pointed. “The Tervingi are attacking Cravenlock Town.”

  Molly peered over the battlements. In the distance she saw a mass of Tervingi thains attacking the walls, throwing up ladders. The militia fought from the walls, sending arrows into the Tervingi, and casting down any ladders that reached the ramparts.

  She saw the dark cloaks of orcragars among the Tervingi.

  Ragnachar’s men.

  “The town is holding,” said Molly.