“Up!” shouted the skythain, tugging at the griffin’s reins.
The beast rose higher, circling above Night Sword Tower's crown. The pillar of fire rose from the tower’s turret, surrounded by rings of burning sigils like the glyphs upon the foreheads of the runedead. A staff of black crystal floated in the center of burning pillar, rotating slowly. A woman in a blue gown stood just outside the ring of burning sigils, and Molly recognized Tymaen Highgate.
Lucan stood at the edge of the parapet, his black cloak and coat billowing around him. He wore the Banurdem upon his brow, and held the Glamdaigyr in both hands, the blade pointed at the battle below.
The clashing men and undead held Lucan’s close attention. A quick stride through the shadows, a pair of blades buried in the wizard’s back, and this entire thing would be over. Molly reached into her blood, for the Demonsouled fire that burned there, and…
Nothing.
The Glamdaigyr's power kept her from entering the shadows. Molly gritted her teeth, watching as Lucan began casting a spell. If the skythain could get close enough, Molly could creep behind Lucan and stab him in the back.
Or if the griffin dived lowed enough, it could sweep Lucan from the tower.
The griffin swooped around the tower, and Molly tensed, preparing to jump.
And then Lucan looked up and saw her.
###
Lucan looked up from the contesting armies, saw the griffins circling overhead. Circling closer than he would like, in fact. He knew each of the Tervingi skythains carried a bow, but he had raised wards against arrows.
Then he saw that the nearest three griffins each carried two riders.
A shock of recognition went through him as he saw Molly Cravenlock atop one. A second griffin, further away, carried Toraine, who looked none too pleased with Lucan’s treachery. And a third held Mazael Cravenlock, Lion an inferno of blue fire in his fist.
“Clever,” murmured Lucan.
Using the griffins to sneak up on him while he focused upon the Tervingi Guardian? Clever, indeed, but stupid. The griffins were vulnerable, and Lucan would blast them out of the sky.
And as an added bonus, he suspected that the Guardian had used Lion’s fire to set the weapons of the army below ablaze. Once Lucan killed Mazael, the spell would shatter, and the men of the Grim Marches would have no defense against the runedead.
He pointed the Glamdaigyr at Mazael’s griffin and focused his will.
###
Riothamus gripped his staff in both hands, staring at Swordgrim.
“A shield wall!” Romaria’s voice rang over the army. He saw her run past the front rank of men, a slim figure in leather armor, her bow in her right hand. “A shield wall. Swords and spears, defend the archers!”
Tervingi and armsmen, knights and thains, stood side by side to face the undead.
The great mass of runedead moved closer, marching in perfect order. They would throw themselves against the shield wall, Riothamus knew, grinding against it like the sea hammering at the shore. The men would fight for a long time, but unless Lucan was stopped, the runedead would overwhelm them.
He felt a surge of power from Night Sword Tower, and raised the staff, ready to cast a ward.
But the magical force was not directed at him.
Lucan had seen the approaching griffins.
Riothamus began casting a spell of his own.
###
Dark power welled up in Lucan, and he prepared to loose a blast of green flame that would wither Mazael's griffin to dust and bone.
Then blue-white lighting ripped out of the writhing sky and tore into Lucan.
The first blast knocked him back a half-dozen steps. His wards sparked and shuddered from the strain, but managed to hold. The second blast collapsed his wards, charring the stone around his boots.
The third blast drained into the Glamdaigyr.
As did the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth.
Lucan snarled and thrust out his left hand, crimson fire dancing in his cupped fingers, pouring the stolen power into a spell. He shouted the final word, and a ribbon of crimson flame ripped from his fingers, shooting toward the Guardian.
###
For an instant Riothamus thought that his spell had struck home, that he had managed to batter down Lucan’s wards.
Crimson light flared atop the tower, and a bar of blood-colored flame shot toward Riothamus. He swept his staff before him, another dome of golden light encasing him. The fire slammed into the dome, the howling snarl of straining spells filling Riothamus’s ears. He felt the dome start to buckle under the massive strain, and he drew on the staff's power and cast another spell.
His dome collapsed, but the bar of crimson flame rebounded and shot into the Lake of Swords, destroying a score of runedead and raising a plume of hissing steam. Riothamus began casting another spell without hesitation, throwing his full strength and the power of the staff into the incantation. He had to hold Lucan’s full attention. Otherwise Lucan would blast the griffins out of the sky.
And Riothamus would watch the woman he loved plummet to her death.
Blue-white lightning thundered into the tower, and ribbons of crimson flame and green light screamed toward Riothamus.
###
Mazael gripped the griffin’s saddle with his free hand, Lion ablaze in his right fist. Toric steered the griffin in a tight spiral around the tower, and Mazael’s stomach threatened to burst through his ribs.
If he lived through this, he swore, he was never flying again.
Lightning slashed out of the sky, ripping at Lucan, while Lucan loosed blasts of crimson flame. The air howled as Lucan dueled Riothamus, both wizards hurling spells at each other. Mazael had seen Lucan in battle before, and Lucan had never done anything like this. How much more powerful had he become? How much stronger had the Glamdaigyr and the Banurdem made him?
“I can't land!” screamed Toric over the wind. “The wizard will rip us apart. You’ll have to jump!”
"Do it!" shouted Mazael.
The griffin went into a sharp turn, banking over the crown of the tower, and dove. The top of Night Sword Tower rushed toward them, the pillar of green fire filling Mazael’s eyes. He glimpsed the other two griffins drawing closer, saw Molly and Toraine ready to jump.
“Now!” said Toric.
Mazael nodded and let go of the saddle.
He fell and slammed hard into the black stone of the tower, rolling over the sigils of green flame. For a panicked instant he thought he would roll into the black crystal staff and the pillar of green flame, but he managed to stop himself. He heaved himself to his feet, saw Tymaen Highgate staring at him with wide, terrified eyes, saw Molly come out of a graceful roll, saw Toraine turn towards his younger brother, mad hatred on his face.
Lucan stood with his back to them, wreathed in the blazing halo of his duel with Riothamus.
Mazael’s chance to end this madness had come.
He sprinted toward Lucan, Lion raised, Toraine and Molly trailing after him.
“Lucan!” shouted Tymaen.
###
Lucan tried to turn his full attention from the Guardian, tried to divert some of his strength to rip the griffins from the sky, but to no avail. The Guardian was simply too strong.
Then the griffins swooped overhead, and Lucan had to act. The wards sheathing him would turn aside arrows and steel blades, but Lucan suspected Lion’s power would tear through his magic like hot iron through paper.
A distraction, then.
Lucan deflected the Guardian’s next strike, draining the power through the Glamdaigyr and flinging it back at the Tervingi wizard. But his next spell was one of summoning, and he saw a patch of gray mist swirl around the dome of golden light that surrounded the Guardian.
He sent his will into the Banurdem, directing a command at the runedead, and a ripple of green light went through the undead army as hundreds of them took incorporeal form, walking through both the flesh of both their allies and enemies
with ease.
The ghostly runedead surged towards the Guardian, and his barrage of attacks stopped.
Lucan smiled and turned to see Mazael Cravenlock, Molly, and Toraine running at him.
Oh, but this was going to be sweet.
###
Gray mist swirled outside of Riothamus’s wards, and spirit creatures sprang forth from nothingness. The beasts looked like the ghastly offspring of scorpions and tigers, spiked tails rising over their striped haunches. The creatures surged towards him, passing through his wards, and Riothamus had to break off his attack on Lucan to defend himself. Blue light burned around him, disintegrating two of the creatures into gray mist, and lightning fell from the sky to destroy more.
Yet more kept coming.
Wraiths of green smoke drifted towards him, walking through startled knights and thains as if they were not there. The wraiths solidified into runedead, charging him with swords and spears. Riothamus met their attack, unleashing his powers. Fists of stone rose from the ground to smash the runedead. White mist rippled overhead, hardening into spikes of ice that pinned the runedead to the earth. Bolts of lightning ripped through runedead and spirit creature alike.
But still the runedead and the spirit creatures kept coming for him.
And he had no power to spare for a strike at Lucan.
###
Mazael was a dozen paces away when Lucan turned.
He raised Lion, and Lucan thrust out his left hand, his right remaining around the Glamdaigyr’s hilt.
And a wall of invisible force slammed into Mazael with enough violence that he felt bones break. The magic flung him from his feet, sent him sprawling towards the edge of the turret.
Towards the long drop to Swordgrim and the Lake of Swords.
He seized a battlement as he fell, and hung dangling against the side of the tower. He tried to heave himself up, saw Molly slam into the battlements, saw her scramble for a grip.
Saw her lose her grip.
“Molly!” shouted Mazael.
She slipped and fell, hurtling past him.
###
“Another!” said Romaria, drawing her bow.
A star of azure flame glimmered at her arrow's tip. She was grateful that whatever magic Riothamus wielded had set the arrows ablaze as well.
Otherwise the runedead would have overwhelmed them by now.
The men held fast, the shield wall repulsing the undead. Volleys of arrows weakened the runedead, and the burning spears and swords tore into the creatures. The men of the Grim Marches and the Tervingi repulsed attack after attack.
Yet the runedead kept coming.
And some of the runedead turned into wraiths and attacked Riothamus. His powers repulsed them, but that meant he had no magic to spare to aid the defenders.
Or to aid Mazael.
Romaria looked at Night Sword Tower just as a black speck fell from its turret, arms and legs flailing. Was that Lucan? Molly?
Mazael?
Romaria tore her eyes from the tower.
“Release!” she shouted.
A storm of burning arrows lanced from the bows, pouring into the next wave of runedead attackers.
###
Molly tumbled head over heels, the wind whipping past her face.
She tried to reach for the wall of Night Sword Tower, hoping to slow her fall. But Lucan’s spell had carried her too far, and the wall was out of reach.
The courtyards of Swordgrim yawned up to swallow her.
Molly reached for the shadows again and again. Every time she felt the Glamdaigyr’s strange barrier. The flagstones of the courtyard filled her vision. Would it hurt? Would she live long enough to feel any pain?
Gods, gods, she wished she could have seen Riothamus one last time, kissed him just once more…
The ground rushed up to embrace her, and Molly reached for the shadows once last time…
...and this time she could touch them.
She threw herself into the shadows.
She reappeared atop the stairs to Swordgrim’s great hall, her momentum still with her. She tripped and rolled across the courtyard, finally coming to a stop against the base of an inner tower. The impact made every bone in her body rattle, and she felt bruises on every inch of skin, but she was still alive.
A four hundred foot fall, and she was still alive.
“Gods,” muttered Molly, breathing hard as she got to her feet, ignoring the aches. “Let’s not do that again.”
A man’s laughter rang in her ears, and Molly whirled, weapons in hand.
“How appropriate! I came to the Grim Marches to kill you…and you fall out of the sky into my lap! Truly, fortune has smiled on me.”
Molly stiffened.
She recognized that voice.
###
Mazael strained and pulled himself onto the turret.
The black staff still floated in the center of the pillar of flame. Tymaen Highgate stood near the runes of fire, staring at him in terror. There was no sign of Toraine, and Mazael suspected that he had fallen to his death.
Lucan Mandragon watched him, face expressionless. The Banurdem rested upon his brow, the emerald in its dragon’s claws glowing, and the sigils of the Glamdaigyr blazed in his right hand. He reminded Mazael of the carvings in Arylkrad, the reliefs that showed the terrible high lords of Old Dracaryl.
For a moment they stared at each other.
“Why?” said Mazael at last.
“Because of you,” said Lucan.
“Me?” said Mazael. He raised Lion and took a step forward. Lucan made no response. “What does this possibly have to do with me?”
“Not you, precisely,” said Lucan, his voice cold and hard, “but what you are. You are Demonsouled, my lord Mazael, and so long as your kind exists, the world will never be free of war and bloodshed.”
“War and bloodshed?” said Mazael, incredulous. He took another step forward. “If you want to rid the world of war, loosing an army of your undead upon the Grim Marches is a strange way to go about it.”
“It is necessary,” said Lucan. “The Banurdem allows me to command the runedead. And they will hunt down every last Demonsouled and kill them all.”
“Then why are they attacking my men?” said Mazael.
Another step closer.
“Because they are Demonsouled,” said Lucan.
“Has your dark magic driven you mad?” spat Mazael. “I am Demonsouled! They are not! Your walking corpses are killing innocent men!”
“Some innocents will die,” said Lucan, “but they are a necessary sacrifice. And many of your men are Demonsouled, Mazael. They just don’t know it. Half your soul is demon. But the Demonsouled are old, and extend back for a hundred generations. Some of your men have blood that is one-twentieth Demonsouled, or perhaps even less. Not enough power to manifest, but Demonsouled blood nonetheless. They must die, if I am to cleanse the world of the Demonsouled taint.”
“You cruel madman!” said Mazael. “You will slaughter thousands of men who bear no threat to you or to anyone else. Men and women and children!” He pointed Lion at the walls of Sword Town. “Can you hear the screaming, Lucan? How many women and children did your undead slaughter today?”
“It is a hard thing I am doing, yes,” said Lucan, without a hint of remorse, “but it is necessary. From their deaths will arise a better world.”
“How can you believe that?” said Mazael. “Have you no conscience?”
Lucan flinched, all the blood draining from his face. “What did you say?”
Mazael opened his mouth to answer…and stopped.
He saw a dark shape crawling along the battlements, a curved sword glimmering with pale flames in his right hand.
Toraine.
###
Molly turned.
A man stood on the steps to the great hall, slim and fit. He wore a crisp white shirt and a black leather vest, and a sword and dagger hung at his belt. His blond hair and beard were trimmed with precision, and he desc
ended the steps with easy grace.
The man was handsome, and the sight of him filled Molly with alarm.
“Malaric,” spat Molly, pointing her sword and dagger at him.
“Little Molly,” said Malaric, grinning. “Look at you. All grown up and the daughter of a lord.”
“The Skulls sent you after me,” said Molly.
“They did,” said Malaric. He stopped a dozen paces from her and craned his head, still smiling.
And for an instant, he reminded her of Corvad.
“But I can’t blame you for leaving the Skulls,” said Malaric. “I did, too.” His smile widened. “I found something in the darkness, something that made me so much stronger than the Skulls.”
“So,” said Molly. “I suppose you work for Lucan now.”
“For now,” agreed Malaric. He drew his sword. “But I’m still going to kill you and take your head back to the Skulls. They will reward me richly…and I will use that reward to claim the throne of Barellion.”
“A stupid plan,” said Molly.
“Oh?” said Malaric. His sword burst into pale green flames. “Why is that?”
“Because it assumes you can kill me,” said Molly. “We’ve fought before. You can’t take me.”
“Things have changed,” said Malaric.
Molly set herself, sword and dagger ready. She had fought Malaric when they had both been assassins in the brotherhood of the Skulls. She had his measure, and she knew she could kill him in a straight fight.
Malaric charged at her.
Much, much faster than she expected.
###
Tymaen watched Lucan, a sudden hope flaring in her heart.
“What did you say?” he whispered.
“Conscience,” said Lord Mazael. He was a terrifying man, a solid mass of muscle and armor with gray eyes like sword blades. Yet Lucan was listening to him. “Have you no conscience?”
“Conscience,” said Lucan, a muscle in his jaw working. “I…I don’t know.” His free hand went to his head, as if he had a headache. “I don’t…remember.” He shook his head. “That can’t be right. All this is necessary. I am doing what is necessary. Yet…yet there’s something I’ve forgotten. Something important. I am ridding the world of Demonsouled. Yet what can’t I remember?”
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 43