Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) (33 page)

“Nothing in life is certain,” said Lucan. “Perhaps Mazael will defeat Ragnachar. Or maybe Ragnachar will defeat Mazael. Either way, the victor will be badly weakened, and you can smash him. And once the battle is over, the Tervingi will be broken, and the disloyal lords will have perished.” 

“And what do you get out of this?” said Toraine.

“Vengeance against Lord Mazael,” said Lucan. “And once it is completed, I will leave the Grim Marches. I am weary of this land.”

There would be work do to elsewhere.

Toraine stared at him, black eyes flat and cold, and Lucan stared back. If Toraine refused, of course, Lucan would have to take more drastic action. A mind-controlling spell, perhaps. Or Lucan could kill Toraine and use a spell of illusion to take his place. Any wizard of skill could see through the spell, but Lucan would only need it long enough to send Mazael to his doom. 

“Very well,” said Toraine at last.

Lucan concealed his smile.

###

An hour later he stood atop Night Sword Tower, the Lake of Swords to the north and the plains of the Grim Marches to the south. 

Tymaen looked around, eyes wide. “I’d forgotten what the view is like. I never thought I would see it again.”

Lucan kissed her. “I am pleased you could see it once more. And you will see great things from here.”

The end of the Demonsouled and the rise of a new world. 

Malaric stepped onto the wide black turret, his fine cloak snapping in the breeze. The height of the tower did not faze him, and he strolled with ease to Lucan’s side. He seemed…calmer, somehow. And stronger. Much, much stronger.

Not surprising, considering what he had done to Corvad’s skull.

“Malaric,” said Lucan. “Guard the Tower. Make sure no one gets in here. Once the spell begins, my foes may try to stop me. Make sure they fail, and your reward will be great.”

Malaric offered a sardonic smile. “Of course.” He bowed and walked to the stairs.

“We’ll be able to see the battle from here, won’t we?” said Tymaen.

Lucan nodded, considering his preparations.

“I don’t want to see men die,” said Tymaen.

Lucan smiled. “Only a few will die. No more than is necessary.”

That was a lie. 

He had no wish to upset Tymaen, and there were two things he hadn’t told her.

The first was that the Night Sword Tower amplified magic cast within it. The high lords of Dracaryl had constructed it as an engine to augment their spells, and few knew of its secret. Marstan had, which was no doubt why he had come to Swordgrim in the first place. But he was dead, and his memories belonged to Lucan now. 

The second was that the Great Rising would kill more than a few people.

Far, far more.

But that was acceptable. The Demonsouled would be destroyed, and a new world, one free of dark magic, would rise from the ashes. Lucan would kill as many people as necessary to rid the world of the Demonsouled.

He began casting spells, preparing for the Great Rising.

Chapter 31 – The Staff of the Guardian

“My lady,” said Sir Hagen. “We must stop for the night.” 

Molly shook her head. “I would like to make another mile.”

“That is unwise,” said Hagen. The big knight looked tired, dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Some of the horses might break their legs, and a few of the men could get lost. Push on, and you’ll arrive at Swordgrim with men too tired to hold their swords up.”

“Sometimes too late is worse than not at all,” said Molly, but she knew he was right. “Very well. Have the men make camp. I want to be ready to head north again as soon as the sun is up.”

Hagen grunted and went to carry out her orders. He had come to accept her commands, but he rarely let one pass without offering advice. Annoying as it was, Molly was nonetheless grateful. She was an assassin, not a knight and a captain of men, and despite all the fighting she had seen, she knew little about leading men in battle. 

She was going to have to learn. 

The column came to a halt, and men began making cook fires, raising tents, and unrolling bedrolls. Molly walked among them, overseeing their efforts. She didn’t particularly want to, but Mazael had said that a lord ought to spend time with his men, and he had won enough battles that he knew what he was talking about. And to her surprise, the men responded. They straightened up as she passed, and bowed to her. They were frightened of her, but they were glad she was on their side.

An oddly heartening thought.

She found Riothamus at the edge of the camp, gazing at the Guardian’s staff. 

“Sir Hagen thinks we have another two days to Swordgrim,” said Molly. “Maybe less, if we push hard.” 

Riothamus nodded, still gazing at the staff. 

“Are you listening to me?” said Molly.

“Yes,” said Riothamus. He looked up, his face strained and tired.

“What’s wrong?” said Molly.

“I have to face myself,” said Riothamus.

“What does that mean?” said Molly. “If you need to face yourself, go find a mirror.”

He managed a faint smile. “Would that it were so simple. The men are calling me the Guardian, as if I were Aegidia’s successor.”

“You are,” said Molly.

“Not yet,” said Riothamus. “The staff bestows tremendous power on its legitimate wielder. Anyone can carry the staff, but only the true Guardian can use its power.”

“And to become the true Guardian,” said Molly, “you must face yourself. That’s what you were talking about earlier, isn’t it?”

Riothamus closed his eyes and nodded. 

“But what does that mean?” said Molly. 

“I must commune with a staff, using a spell that Aegidia taught me for when this day came,” said Riothamus. “The staff will…challenge me. It will show me my deepest fears, and I must overcome them. If I succeed, then the staff will yield to me, and I will be the Guardian of the Tervingi.” 

“And if you fail?” said Molly.

“Then I die,” said Riothamus.

“No.” She seized his hand. “You are not going to do this. You have magic already. No need to risk your life for more power.” She hesitated. “That is the sort of thing a Demonsouled would do.”

“This is different,” said Riothamus. “The Tervingi need a true Guardian, a legitimate Guardian. And I can become the true Guardian only by facing myself and conquering the staff.” 

Molly scowled, gripped his hand, and looked at the star-strewn sky. 

“You’re sure about this?” said Molly.

“No,” said Riothamus. “But I must do this. Ragnachar and Toraine will destroy both the Tervingi nation and the people of the Grim Marches, and to stop them, I must be the Guardian. Truly, and not just in name.” 

Molly gave a sharp nod, trying to work moisture into her try throat. 

“Very well,” said Molly. “If you have to do this, then do it. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He squeezed her hand. “I have to do this myself.” 

Molly let out a long breath. She had lost Nicholas to Corvad’s sword. Would she lose Riothamus to that damned staff? She couldn’t help him. She couldn’t save him. 

“I love you,” said Molly.

Riothamus smiled. “I love you, too.”

He closed his eyes, released her hand, and took the staff in both hands. He whispered a spell, and the air stirred around them, the grasses rustling. Molly felt a surge of power thrum through Riothamus, his eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids. 

Nothing else happened. 

Molly wondered if the spell had failed.

Then the runes on the staff blazed with white light, and every muscle in Riothamus’s body went rigid.

###

The sky burned. 

Riothamus looked around.

He stood in father’s hold, the hall and the bondsmen's homes burning around him. Corpses lay strewn on the ground, hacked to bits by Malrag blades. He felt the eyes of the dead upon him, felt them gazing at him with judgment and accusation. 

He backed away. He had dreamed of this before. The destruction of Rigotharic’s hold, the death of his family. In life, Aegidia had come to save him.

But Aegidia was dead now.

“Your fault,” said a man’s voice.

Riothamus spun.

His father staggered into view, his flesh burned to charcoal, blood seeping from crimson gashes in his chest.

“Your fault,” rasped Rigotharic. “If you hadn’t insisted that I tell you a story, if you hadn’t wasted my time, I would have been at the walls. I would have seen the Malrags coming.” 

“No,” said Riothamus. “No, I…I…”

“You failed,” whispered Rigotharic, “you failed to save me.”

“I couldn’t,” said Riothamus. “I’m sorry, I…”

“You let me die!”

Aegidia walked toward him, her clothing stained with blood. She glared at him, her pale eyes filled with loathing. 

“You let Ragnachar kill me,” said Aegidia. “You should have seen him coming. You should have realized his treachery. Yet you did nothing!”

“I’m sorry,” said Riothamus, “I tried, I should…”

“You let me die,” said Athanaric, walking to Aegidia’s side. His eyes were glassy, his clothes and flesh torn by Ragnachar’s sword. “I could have kept the peace, I could have stopped Ragnachar. Yet you let  him kill me, and you doomed the Tervingi to oblivion.” 

More men and women walked through the blood-soaked earth of the hold, more and more. All those he had seen perish during the long war against the Malrags, all those who had died during the march to the Grim Marches. Thains and bondsmen, poor and rich, friends and enemies.

All those he had failed to save. 

Riothamus blinked the tears from his eyes. It was his fault, his fault they had perished. He should have saved them. If only he had been cleverer. If only he had been stronger!

If only he had the power to make sure no one ever died again.

A harsh white light fell over the burning hold.

Riothamus turned, and saw the Guardian’s staff. 

It floated toward him, the sigils cut into its length ablaze with brilliant white flame. Riothamus felt the magic pouring off the staff, the raw arcane power. The staff’s power would augment his magic, and with it, he could make sure no one in his care ever died again. 

And perhaps he could even resurrect those who had fallen…

Riothamus walked toward the staff, reaching for it. He would tell Molly, and how she would rejoice at the news!

He stopped, frowning. 

Molly would not rejoice, but laugh. She would tell him that no magic could raise the dead to life again. She would tell him that he was not responsible for those who had died. 

And all at once Riothamus realized the trap. 

He turned, and saw the dead staring at him. 

“I’m sorry,” said Riothamus. “I tried to save you. I would have saved you, if I could. But I don’t have the power. Not even the Guardian has the power.”

The dead vanished.

Only Aegidia stood in the ruined hold. 

“You do understand,” said Aegidia. “You passed the test.”

“Guardian?” said Riothamus.

“Not any longer,” she said, smiling as if a dreadful burden had been taken from her. “The Guardian wields vast power, and the temptation to misuse that power is great. Even compassion can be corrupted and turned to evil.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Riothamus.

“You will,” said Aegidia, “for the Sight was bestowed upon me, and I now bestow it upon you.”

She waved a hand, and the world went dark.

###

A chaotic storm of visions danced before Riothamus’s eyes. 

He saw the world as it had been when the High Elderborn ruled, when mortal men had been only a few savage tribes in the wastelands. Shining cities of white palaces dotted the world, and the High Elderborn wizards worked mighty spells and wonders. The wizards tamed the very elements themselves, and shaped the skies and the earth to their will. 

They fashioned a paradise.

Then some of the High Elderborn began to worship an imprisoned demon god, believing it held the promise of even greater power, of creating a perfect world. They opened a gate to the demon god’s prison, and offered it captured human women.

The Demonsouled were born.

And Riothamus watched as the world burned. 

The corrupted wizards, now called the Dark Elderborn, spawned armies of Malrags to destroy the High Elderborn who refused to worship the demon god. The Dark Elderborn, with the assistance of the San-keth, prepared to summon the demon god. But the High Elderborn forged swords of mighty power, blades that burned with azure flame, and slew the demon god as it emerged from the gate. The explosion laid entire nations waste.

But the Demonsouled remained. 

And the firstborn of the Demonsouled, the strongest and the cleverest, slew or imprisoned his brothers and sisters, and began spinning his webs across the world.

The Urdmoloch, the Old Demon. 

The High Elderborn dwindled, overwhelmed by the Malrags and the San-keth and others. And as they dwindled, the remaining High Elderborn wizards gathered and infused their collective powers into a staff. The staff’s bearer would stand forever vigilant against the Demonsouled and the Urdmoloch.  

The staff of the Guardian.

###

The visions cleared, and Riothamus found himself standing on a hilltop near the Iron River, in the heart of the former homeland of the Tervingi. 

Aegidia stood nearby, watching him.

“You understand now,” she said.

“The office of the Guardian is older than the Tervingi nation,” said Riothamus. “How did we become the Guardian of the Tervingi?”

“When Tervingar liberated the slaves from the Dark Elderborn,” said Aegidia, “one of the Guardians assisted him. When that Guardian died, he passed his office and staff onto a Tervingi. The staff has remained among the Tervingi ever since, and the Guardian has defended the Tervingi nation from supernatural threats to this day.” 

“But the first task of the Guardian,” said Riothamus, “is to defend against the Demonsouled, against the Urdmoloch.”

“Yes.” Aegidia closed her eyes and sighed. “And in that, I failed grievously.” 

“How?” said Riothamus, and then he understood. 

He remembered how Aegidia had been unable to confront Ragnachar. How she deferred to him, how she only challenged him in the most urgent situations. She feared nothing…but she seemed to fear Ragnachar.

“Ragnachar,” said Riothamus. “He’s your son, isn’t he?”

Shame flickered over the old woman’s face, and she nodded.

“And his father,” said Riothamus, voice quiet, “was the Urdmoloch.”

“Yes,” said Aegidia. “For all his power, the Urdmoloch is…limited in some ways. He cannot kill or harm, unless he is first attacked or invited. He can only cajole, convince, and corrupt. And he has never forgotten about the Guardian and the staff, not even after all these thousands of years.”

“So he seduced you,” said Riothamus.

“I was young,” said Aegidia, “younger than you are now, and in my first year as Guardian. Oh, I was a fool. The Urdmoloch deceived me completely. When at last I realized what happened, we fought and he withdrew. And eight months later, I gave birth to his son.”

“Ragnachar,” said Riothamus.

“I was such a fool,” said Aegidia, voice bitter. “I thought I could raise him in secret as a man of the Tervingi, as a valiant warrior. I wanted to turn him into someone like Mazael Cravenlock, or perhaps your Molly. In that, as in so many things, I was wrong. I failed, and I failed badly.” 

“You did the best you could,” said Riothamus.

Aegidia shook her head. “You are a kind man, Riothamus.”

“What happens next?” said Riothamus.

“That is up to you,” said Aegidia. “You are the Guardian now, Riothamus. The power of the staff is yours. The Sight is yours. You must do as you see fit.” She gripped his wrist with a thin hand. “You must beware the Urdmoloch. His web is almost complete, and Mazael is destined to face him. You must aid Mazael, else the world shall perish forever.”

“I will,” said Riothamus.

“Farewell,” said Aegidia. “You are the Guardian now, Riothamus. You will do well, I know.”

“Thank you,” said Riothamus. “For everything.”

Aegidia smiled, and the world dissolved into mist.

###

The Sight came upon Riothamus in power.

He saw the past, the present, and the future, woven together as one vast tapestry. He could not perceive it all at once, but he did see the individual threads. And one thread, glowing with blue and crimson fire, drew his attention. He focused upon it, and saw a man in golden armor, a sword of azure flame in his fist.

Mazael Cravenlock.

Uncounted thousands of threads wrapped around his. The lives of millions hung upon his decisions. Blurred images flashed before Riothamus’s sight. Ragnachar, with his sword of crimson flame. A furious battle before the gates of Swordgrim. The dead falling like leaves to the ground.

And something…and something darker behind it…

A cloaked man with a black staff, dancing upon invisible strings.

Riothamus turned his Sight toward Swordgrim, to the black tower at the castle’s heart. The cloaked man stood upon the tower, a black sword in his right hand, sigils of green flame burning upon the blade. Invisible strings bound the cloaked man’s arms and legs, and at the other end of the strings Riothamus saw the grinning shadow of the Urdmoloch.