Soul of Skulls (Book 6) (14 page)

Chapter 14 - The Staff of the Guardian

Mazael's heavy eyes opened.

He lay upon a floor of rough stone. A sky of black clouds writhed overhead, illumed with a bloody glow. Mazael turned his head, and saw the damaged stone hulk of the black temple rising over him, the pillar of crimson flame shooting into the sky. He sat up, and realized that he lay upon a balcony jutting from the side of the temple. Beyond the broken stone railing he saw nothingness. 

A drop of a thousand feet, and then an ocean of rippling black clouds, arcs of crimson lighting leaping between them. 

"Our father never comes here," said a woman's voice, low and familiar. 

That voice turned Mazael's heart to ice.

He surged to his feet, reaching for Lion, but as always in the dreams, her bore no weapons. 

A woman in a black gown stood at the other end of the balcony. She had long brown hair and cold gray eyes in a pale, sad face. Her gray eyes looked a great deal like Mazael's, like the Old Demon's. 

“You,” said Mazael.

“Yes,” said Morebeth Galbraith.

When Mazael had last seen his half-sister four years ago, she had been dead upon the floor of Knightcastle's chapel, her plan to twist him into the Destroyer foiled. 

"You're dead," said Mazael. "I killed you."  

"You did," said Morebeth. "And you are almost dead yourself. Which, I suspect, is why you can see me. Why you were drawn here, to where it began...and where it shall end." 

"No," said Mazael. 

Morebeth lifted her eyebrows. "No to what?"

"To this," said Mazael, gesturing at her. "I'm not listening to you. You tried to turn me into a monster. No more. I..."

"You are right," said Morebeth, voice quiet. "Forgive me."

Mazael hadn't expected that. 

"I sought a good end," murmured Morebeth. "To defeat our father, to rid both us and the world of his tyranny, his murders, his endless webs. Yet I sought evil means to reach that end. I seduced Amalric, and turned him into my weapon. And then when I realized that you were the stronger, I tried to seduce you, and I failed." She bowed her head. "Forgive me, brother. For I erred grievously, and paid with my life." 

Mazael stared at her for a moment, a dozen different emotions warring within him. 

"How am I talking to you?" said Mazael at last. "The power draws me here when I sleep, and I talk with our father. But you're...you're dead."

"So I am," said Morebeth. "When a Demonsouled is slain, any Demonsouled, his power is drawn here, to Cythraul Urdvul. And sometimes his spirit is pulled along with it."

"Cythraul Urdvul?" said Mazael.

"What the Dark Elderborn call this place," said Morebeth. "The birthplace of the dark. It was once a temple of the High Elderborn, the place where they first contacted the great demon. The father of our father. And when the great demon was destroyed, Cythraul Urdvul was pulled into the spirit world. Here it has waited over the long centuries...and as the Demonsouled have been born and slain, their power has returned here. Like iron filings drawn to a lodestone." 

"That's what our father been doing for all those centuries," said Mazael. "I thought he sired Demonsouled and then slew them to claim their power for his own. But instead the power has been going here, for thousands of years." He looked at the throbbing tower of flame. "Waiting for him to claim it." 

"The end has almost come," said Morebeth. "Soon there will be enough power. And then our father shall have what he has always desired. What he has labored to achieve, for so many centuries."

"What?" said Mazael. "What does he want?"

"Do you not know?" said Morebeth. "He wants to become a god. The demon god, reborn, but free to act in the mortal world. The world shall be his. The souls of all mortals shall be his for all time, free to rule as he wishes." She shivered. "To torment as he wishes." 

"No," said Mazael. "That cannot be."

"It will be," said Morebeth. "Unless he is stopped."

"Then I shall stop him," said Mazael. 

"You must," said Morebeth, her voice urgent. "I can no longer fight him. I am dead, and cannot act upon the mortal world. But you can, Mazael. You must stop our father. There is no one else who can." 

Suspicion colored Mazael's thoughts. "You...sound as you did before. When you convinced me to kill Amalric."

Morebeth's red mouth curled in a half-smile. "I suppose I do, do I not? Perhaps I am manipulating you, Mazael. It is a hard habit to abandon. But I speak the truth to you, as I never did in life. You must stop our father, or we shall be his slaves for eternity. We all will be his slaves."

"I will stop him," said Mazael.

"If you can," said Morebeth, and she sighed. "I am sorry for the pain that awaits you in the waking world. I would not wish it upon you." 

"What do you mean?" said Mazael. 

But the black temple, Cythraul Urdvul, dissolved into swirling nothingness. 

###

"Lord Mazael," said a man's familiar voice. "My lord, can you hear me?"

Mazael opened his eyes, and wished he hadn't.

Pain flooded through him, throbbing with every beat of his heart. After a moment his eyes swam into focus, and he realized that he lay upon a cot in the barracks of Castle Cravenlock. A man in a black wizard's coat stooped over him, face grim behind his mustache and beard. Mazael's court wizard, Timothy deBlanc. Behind him stood Riothamus, the staff of the Guardian in his right hand. 

"My lord," said Timothy, voice tight with anxiety. "Do you know me?"

"Yes," said Mazael. 

"My name?" said Timothy.

Mazael frowned. "Timothy deBlanc. When I first met you, some bandits were trying to kill you for your boots."

Timothy grunted. "They were good boots." 

"And me?" said Riothamus.

"Riothamus son of Rigotharic," said Mazael. "Betrothed to my daughter Molly."

Riothamus gave a slow nod. 

Mazael sat up. Timothy reached for his arm, but Mazael waved him away. The pain throbbed through him in a steady pulse, but with an effort of will he could stay upright. 

"Why are you asking me that?" said Mazael.

"We feared," said Timothy, "that the poison damaged your mind. That you would forget your own name, or that you would go mad, and see things that were not there, or the faces of those long dead." 

Mazael nodded, and saw Morebeth Galbraith standing in the corner, watching him.

He flinched. Had the dream been a hallucination? Was he going mad?

He blinked, and she was gone. 

"My lord?" said Timothy and Riothamus in unison. 

Mazael rubbed his face, trying to ignore the burning pain in his limbs. 

"Why am I not dead?" said Mazael.

"I do not know," said Timothy. "The poison...it was one of astonishing lethality. You should not be conscious. My lord, you should not even be alive."

"Timothy," said Riothamus, voice quiet. "Please find Lady Molly. We need her." 

Timothy bowed and left the room.

"What is it?" said Mazael. Gods, but his head hurt. 

"You should be dead," said Riothamus. "I believe the poison upon Malaric's blades was the venom of a San-keth archpriest." 

"What of that?" said Mazael. "San-keth are venomous. What is any different about an archpriest's venom?"

"The San-keth archpriests are ancient," said Riothamus, "and steeped in necromancy and dark magic. Their venom is more lethal than any other poison in the world. The only reason you are not dead is your Demonsouled blood. That pain you feel? That's the venom eating at your bones and muscles. Your Demonsouled blood heals you faster than the poison kills you, but only just."

Mazael stood, wincing. He felt as if every inch of his body had been beaten with clubs. "Can you cure it?"

"I cannot," said Riothamus. "There is only one antidote. The blood of the archpriest must be found and used to make a cure for the poison. Nothing else will work."

Mazael nodded, trying to think through the ache in his head. He felt as if he had missed something important, something vital. "So I will remain this way for the rest of my life?"

"No," said Riothamus. "Gradually the poison will pass from your blood as you sweat and relieve yourself. Eight weeks, I suspect, and the last of it will pass from you. Perhaps as long as three months. Had Malaric gotten any more poison into you, though, we would not be having this conversation."

"Good," said Mazael, taking a tentative step forward. He could still keep his balance. "What can..."

He blinked, and realized what he had forgotten.

Romaria wasn't here. 

He remembered Romaria springing upon Malaric, remembered the flash of steel in the assassin's hand...

"Gods," said Mazael, his voice a hoarse croak. "She's dead, isn't she? He killed her."

For a moment he felt nothing at all.

Then the rage and pain erupted within him, like lava cracking through stone. Malaric would pay for this. Mazael would hunt him to the ends of the earth, find him and break him utterly, butcher him and anyone he had ever loved and anything he had ever cared about. 

He noted that Riothamus had taken a cautious step back, had raised his staff, but Mazael did not care. He strode towards the door, intending to hunt down Malaric like a dog...

Darkness swirled, and Molly appeared in the corner. 

She looked at Mazael, and then to Riothamus. 

"You've told him?" she said. 

"Lord Mazael!" shouted Riothamus, and Mazael paused, just for a moment. "She's not dead!"

Mazael blinked. "She's not?"

"No." Riothamus took a deep breath. "But...I think you should say farewell."

"Show me," said Mazael. "Now."

Riothamus nodded and led him to another room of the barracks. Romaria lay upon one of the cots, her eyes closed, her black hair a sweaty tangle around her head. Her leather armor had been cut away, her shirt sliced upon, and Mazael saw the angry red scar Malaric's dagger had left between her breasts. 

"That cut?" said Mazael, scarce recognizing his own voice. "You healed it?"

Riothamus nodded. 

"How is she still alive?" said Mazael. "You said archpriest poison was lethal."

"It is," said Molly, her voice grim. "It's the wolf in her, I think. The Elderborn half of her soul. The earth magic refuses to relent."

"But she can't heal herself the way you can," said Riothamus. "My lord, she has a few hours left at most. Maybe less. You...should say farewell to her. While you still can."

Mazael said nothing and stared at his wife. He had seen her die once before, challenging the Old Demon. Her death had almost destroyed him. To think that she had survived the Old Demon, the wrath of Ultorin's Malrags, the Ritual of Rulership below Mount Tynagis, and the horror of the Great Rising, only to fall to the blade of a rodent like Malaric...it was more than he could process. He felt himself shaking, felt the rage threatening to erupt. 

Then he blinked, and Morebeth appeared on the other side of the bed.

"You love her," said Morebeth, "do you not?"

"You're not real," said Mazael.

"My lord?" said Riothamus. No doubt he thought Mazael addled from the poison. "I fear this is all too real." 

"Of course I am real," said Morebeth. "Your spirit has journeyed too often to Cythraul Urdvul, and now I can speak with you in the waking world. But you love this woman, do you not?"

"Yes," said Mazael. "More than anything."

"Then fight for her," said Morebeth. 

It was hopeless. The archpriest venom would take Romaria's life in a matter of hours. There was no time to act, no time to fight...

The rage burning within him hardened his heart. By all the gods, he would not yield! And if he had to leave the world in ashes to save Romaria, then he would do it, and woe to anyone who stood in his way. 

Morebeth's image flickered and vanished. Perhaps her spirit really had spoken to him. Or perhaps he had hallucinated her. Mazael found that he did not care which. 

"Riothamus," said Mazael. "You said the archpriest's blood can cure her?"

"Yes," said Riothamus. "If we locate the archpriest that provided Malaric's poison, we can extract his blood and use it to heal Romaria. But my lord, there isn't..."

"Then you can heal her," said Mazael, "if we find the archpriest?"

"Yes," said Riothamus. "But she will die long before we can find the San-keth!"

"What of the spell you told me about?" said Molly. "The one that could put her to sleep?"

"You can...suspend her?" said Mazael. If Riothamus could put Romaria to sleep, to suspend her until Mazael could find the cure, then time did not matter. No amount of time and no number of miles would save Malaric from Mazael's wrath. 

"Perhaps," said Riothamus. "I do not know if it will work. The High Elderborn knew a spell that permitted them to sleep for centuries, once they grew weary of their long lives. It will not work on a human, but Lady Romaria is half-Elderborn. It might work. Or it might kill her. I cannot know until I try."

"Do it," said Mazael. "If we do nothing then she is dead anyway." 

"It might kill you," said Riothamus. "I will need the power in your blood to act as a catalyst, as I did at Swordgrim." 

"You will have it," said Mazael. 

Riothamus gave a sharp nod. "We need to touch bare earth."

"The courtyard," said Mazael. He stooped and picked up Romaria. She felt cold, so cold, and a sheen of sweat glittered on the gray-tinged skin of her forehead. "Hurry."

###

Riothamus strode into the courtyard, the Guardian's staff warm beneath his fingers. 

He shot a glance over his shoulder. Mazael followed, Romaria in his arms, heedless of the crowd of servants and armsmen trailing after them. The nobles and knights of the Grim Marches might have feared Romaria, but the commoners loved her.

But Mazael's cold, dead eyes held his attention. 

The rage in those eyes unsettled Riothamus. He knew Mazael was a son of the Urdmoloch, and he had watched Molly struggle to control the darkness within her blood. How much harder would it be for her father? What would he do to save Romaria?