Soul of Sorcery (Book 5)

SOUL OF SORCERY

Jonathan Moeller 

Book description

For fans of David Gemmell, Robert E. Howard, Robert Jordan, and Raymond E. Feist, the DEMONSOULED saga continues in a new volume.

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK has defeated the Malrags, and returned to the Grim Marches in triumph. Yet with no new enemies to conquer, his Demonsouled blood threatens to blaze out of control. When a deadly new foe attacks, will Mazael rally the Grim Marches to victory?

Or will he listen to the whispers in his blood and kill everyone who stands in his way?

RIOTHAMUS is the apprentice of the Guardian, the arcane defender of the barbarian Tervingi nation. Driven from their homes by the Malrag hordes, the Tervingi must find a new homeland. Will Riothamus help lead the Tervingi to safety?

Or will the Tervingi nation be destroyed to the last man, woman, and child?

LUCAN MANDRAGON has returned from the spirit world, his magic and his will stronger than ever. His purpose is now clear, and a great mission lies before him, a quest to rid the world of a terrible evil.

The utter destruction of the Demonsouled.

Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Moeller.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

Ebook edition published June 2012.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law. 

Chapter 1 – Blood Thirst

Mazael Cravenlock awoke from a dream of blood and death.

He sat up, sweat trickling down his face. For a moment it seemed as if the bedchamber had been drenched in blood, that the corpses of the slain lay piled against the walls in ragged heaps. Mazael’s fists clenched in horror. He had killed them, he had enjoyed it…

Then the last shards of the dream faded, and his bedchamber was dark and quiet once more. Some moonlight leaked through the balcony door, throwing pale light over his bed. Romaria Greenshield lay on her side next to him, her dark hair a tangle around her head, her breathing slow and steady. 

Good. He hadn’t awakened her. 

Or done worse things.

The recollection of another dream flashed before his eyes, and he saw himself striding through Castle Cravenlock, sword in hand, killing and killing until the halls ran red with blood…

Mazael stood, walked barefoot across the room, and picked up a carafe of wine from the sideboard. A swallow of the wine felt bitter and hot against his tongue, helping to shock him back to lucidity.  

They were just dreams.

Only dreams.

But they came more and more often.

Mazael walked to the balcony, the autumn night cold against his bare skin,. His bedchamber occupied the highest level of the King’s Tower, and from here he had a fine view of Castle Cravenlock. He saw the sentries patrolling the curtain wall, crossbows in hand. Beyond the wall he saw the distant glow of torchlight in Cravenlock Town, throwing shadows over the new construction within the town’s walls. 

Everything was peaceful. With Ultorin and Corvad dead, the remaining Malrag warbands had fled into the caverns of the Great Mountains. No neighboring lords had taken advantage of the chaos to seize lands from the Grim Marches. One did not cross Lord Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer, after all. 

So many people had perished in the Malrag attack, but now Mazael’s lands and people could rebuild, could grow fat and happy and prosperous over the years. It was everything he had wanted for his lands.

Peace and prosperity.

How it grated on him.

Mazael closed his eyes, hands gripping the balcony’s worn stone railing. His dreams had begun again after returning from Arylkrad. At first only a few fevered images, here and there. Then the nightmares. 

And now dreams of death and blood every night for the last five nights. 

His Demonsouled blood yearned to fight, to slay, and to kill. The dreams had not troubled him during the war against Ultorin’s Malrags, and Mazael had come to realize that the constant fighting had kept his Demonsouled nature sated, like a drunkard slaked by a constant flow of wine. 

But now peace had come, and his Demonsouled blood was hungry. 

Mazael gripped the railing, his knuckles white. He would not turn into a raving monster like Amalric Galbraith or Corvad. But it was so hard. It took so much effort to keep himself in check. 

And if his control slipped…

A gust of wind struck him, so cold that Mazael’s eyes popped open, and he began laughing. Yes, he was a child of the Old Demon, the destroyer of the Dominiar Order, the vanquisher of Malrags and dragons. It certainly would be amusing if he died of a chill caught while agonizing over his woes on a balcony. 

He went back into the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. 

“Mazael?” said Romaria, her voice thick with sleep. Her blue eyes opened in her pale face. “Is something amiss?”

“No, nothing’s amiss,” said Mazael. “I cannot sleep.” 

He had not told her of the dreams. He had almost killed her, years ago, caught in the grip of his Demonsouled madness, and he loathed the memory of his folly. Besides, she slept beside him almost every night. She knew already. 

“Go for a walk, then,” murmured Romaria, closing her eyes. “It will clear your head.” She curled up beneath the blankets and sighed, the movement almost wolfish.

Appropriate, really. 

Mazael dressed, pulling on a tunic, trousers, and boots. His sword, its pommel shaped like a golden lion’s head, went in a scabbard at his belt. Lion had been forged in the ancient world, created to fight things of dark magic, and its power had saved Mazael’s life more than once. 

He shrugged a heavy cloak over his shoulders and left, closing the door behind him. Rufus Highgate, Mazael’s squire, lay snoring on a cot in the anteroom. The boy could sleep through almost anything. Yet his weapons lay close at hand beside the cot.

He, too, had survived the Malrag war.

Mazael left the King’s Tower, went to the main keep, and began climbing. The castle was quiet, save for the rasp of boots and the clink of armor from the sentries. The smell of bread baking in the kitchens reached his nostrils. Mazael climbed the stairs and reached the roof of the keep, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. From here he saw the barbican and the stables, and…

A dark flicker from the corner of his eye.

Mazael whirled, his reflexes taking over, and yanked Lion from its scabbard. The blade glimmered with hints of azure fire. Steel flashed for his head, and Mazael parried once, twice, three times, Lion’s glow growing brighter. 

His attacker, a young woman of about twenty, stepped back. She was short and trim, her pale face made ghostly in Lion’s blue light. She wore trousers of dark wool, a leather jerkin, and a sword belt around her waist. Her cold gray eyes gleamed with a battle lust Mazael knew all too well. 

“Daughter,” said Mazael.

Molly Cravenlock smirked. “Father.”

Rage filled Mazael, and his blood screamed for him to attack, to cut her down. Yet he made himself hold back. He saw the same struggle reflected in Molly’s face, her eyes glinting like sword blades. 

At last they lowered their weapons. 

“You should probably put that away,” said Molly. “Else your guards will see the light and come running.” 

Mazael slid Lion back into its scabbard. “We’re jumping at each other like two rabid wolves. If we’re not careful we’re going to kill each other one day out of sheer reflex.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “And wouldn’t that be a tragedy. Two fewer Demonsouled to trouble the world.” 

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Ill dreams?” said Mazael at last.

Molly looked at him. “I always have ill dreams, Father. Ever since Corvad murdered Nicholas.” Her eyes tightened at the mention of her slain lover. “I used to dream about killing you, watching you suffer. But now that Corvad is dead, I simply dream about watching Nicholas die.” She shrugged. “I haven’t slept the night in a long time.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Mazael. “But those aren’t the kind of dreams I meant.”

“Ah.” Molly smirked. “Am I lonely, you mean? Those kinds of dreams? Well. Your armsmaster Sir Hagen is a bit large for my taste, but…”

“You know,” said Mazael, “what kind of dreams I mean.”

Molly looked away. The wind caught at her brown hair, the same color as his own.

“The dreams,” he said, “of blood and killing.”

“Yes,” she said. “You, too?”

Mazael nodded. “They…went away for a few years. I think it was because of the Malrags. I had enough killing to keep even my Demonsouled blood satisfied.”

Molly laughed. “Now you’ve got what you’ve always wanted. Peace for the Grim Marches, and it’s driving you mad. Nothing to kill, eh?”

“Yes,” said Mazael, voice quiet.

Molly grinned without a hint of mirth. “Romaria feels sorry for me, you know. When I tell her how the Skulls raised me after my mother died. How dreadful it must have been, raised by master assassins. Well.” She shook her head. “It was dreadful…but I liked the killing. I liked the hunting. The Skulls can burn for all I care, but, ah…I like to kill things, Father. And you do too.”

Mazael said nothing.

“We’re monsters, you and I,” said Molly. “The world would be better off without us.”

“And if we kill ourselves,” said Mazael, “who will stop your grandfather?” 

That kindled a harsh light in her eyes. Molly sometimes talked of killing herself. Yet Mazael need only mention the Old Demon and her rage returned. Corvad might have killed Nicholas Tormaud, but the Old Demon had given the command. 

Still, Mazael wished he could give her more. 

One could not live on hatred forever.

Molly looked into the courtyard. “What’s all that?”

“That?” Mazael gestured at the row of tents standing below the curtain wall. “Lord Toraine Mandragon will be arriving tomorrow, or possibly the day after.” 

Molly laughed. “Lord Richard’s mad dragon of a son. What does he want with you?”

Mazael already knew. Toraine wanted to kill Mazael and claim Castle Cravenlock for himself.

“To haggle,” said Mazael aloud. “I’m going to wed Romaria, and Lord Richard does not entirely approve.” 

“You’re going to marry Romaria?” said Molly. “I thought you loved her. Why inflict yourself upon her?”

He’d wondered that too, sometimes. Romaria would be better off without him. Yet their lives were bound together by blood and fate. She had helped him keep his Demonsouled nature at bay, and he had helped rescue her from the wild magic of the Elderborn half of her soul.

With Lucan’s help.

Mazael did not want to think about Lucan Mandragon just now.

“Because,” said Mazael. “I love her.”

Molly snorted. “You’re a lord. Lords marry for power and land, not love. Besides. You already have one Demonsouled daughter. Do you desire more?” 

“No,” said Mazael. “Romaria is a half-breed. Half human, and half Elderborn. She cannot have children.”

“Just as well,” said Molly. “I have no wish for any half-siblings. Given that my one full sibling tried to turn me into a monster.”

Mazael thought of Amalric and Morebeth. “I understand.”

“So why doesn’t Lord Richard approve?” said Molly.

“Because he knows Romaria won’t have children,” said Mazael.  “Which means when I die, Castle Cravenlock will pass to my sister.”

“Who is married to Gerald Roland,” said Molly. “And when she dies, her son Aldane will become Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Which means a Roland will be Lord of Castle Cravenlock.” She gave a nasty laugh. “Lord Richard will love that.”

“He won’t,” said Mazael. 

“He’ll probably try to kill you,” said Molly.

“Perhaps,” said Mazael. He had given Lord Richard good service, and Lord Richard would not turn on his sworn men. But Richard Mandragon would put the stability and safety of the Grim Marches before anything else, and if he felt Mazael’s death was necessary to secure the Grim Marches…

“Is that what you want?” said Molly. “A war with Lord Richard? Oh, but you’ll have plenty of killing then.” 

“No,” said Mazael.

“You shouldn’t lie to your daughter,” said Molly.

“Perhaps my blood does want a war,” said Mazael, “but it shall not have one. I will marry Romaria, and I will find a way to keep the piece with Lord Richard.”

He did not tell Molly that he intended to leave Castle Cravenlock to her, not to Rachel’s son. Molly would find out, soon enough. 

Molly’s smile was brittle. “Father, Father. These things have a way of coming to blood in the end.”

“I know,” said Mazael. 

They stood in silence for a while longer. The eastern sky began to brighten, painting the bleak plains of the Grim Marches with a pale glow. Mazael saw more lights flare in Cravenlock Town as the blacksmiths and the potters lit their forges and kilns. 

“Father,” said Molly.

He looked at her.

“Do you think,” she said, voice distant, “that something is wrong?” 

“What do you mean?” said Mazael. 

“With us.”

He burst out laughing. “Quite a bit is wrong with us.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Molly, and Mazael stopped laughing. Before leaving the Skulls, she had spent years as assassin. More specifically, she had survived for years as an assassin, which meant her instincts for trouble were invariably correct. “All these dreams, so suddenly. Like something is happening. Something’s going on, but I don’t know what.” 

“Yes,” said Mazael. “I think…I think something is about to happen.”

“Do you know what?”

He gave an irritated shake of his head. “No.”

His sword hand balled into a fist.

But whatever it was, he would be ready for it.