Soul of Swords (Book 7) (39 page)

And the diadem caught fire and began to melt. 

A blast of power shot through Lucan and flung him across the room, the Glamdaigyr clattering against the floor as he slammed against the stone wall. Rivulets of molten metal ran down his face and neck as the Banurdem disintegrated, and he felt the spells binding his undead flesh unravel. He fought to stand, fought even to move as his flesh sizzled and his clothing caught fire, but the Banurdem’s grip was too strong.

But then the diadem broke apart entirely, and for an instant, Lucan was free to summon power.

Not much power, not enough to harm or even annoy the Old Demon. 

One final spell…in the desperate hope that he could undo at least some of the damage he had wrought. 

Lucan cast the spell, and then everything went black.

###

The creature that the Elderborn called the Hand of Chaos and the men of the Grim Marches called the Old Demon gazed at the smoking husk that had been Lucan Mandragon.

Wisps of smoke rose from the charred flesh, a few flames dancing over the ragged remnants of his clothing. The Old Demon smiled to himself. There had been no reason, no reason at all, to tell Lucan the truth before he died for the final time. 

Save that it had amused the Old Demon to do so.

And it had indeed been most amusing. 

But it was time to attend to business.

He picked up the Glamdaigyr. The burning sigils upon the black blade pulsed in response to his touch, and again the sword made that keening metallic noise. The weapon recognized the hand of its master. Randur Maendrag had borne the Glamdaigyr, as had Corvad and Lucan Mandragon. But they had been the weapon’s bearers, not its masters. 

Again the Old Demon stroked the blade with a finger.

“It has been such a long time,” he said, “hasn’t it?”

He turned his back on Lucan’s corpse, and a quick stride through the shadows took him to the Door of Souls. The silver light played over his face, and through the haze filling the arch he saw the black stone and crimson glow of Cythraul Urdvul.

“At last,” he murmured.

It had been over thirty centuries since he had last entered Cythraul Urdvul in the flesh, three thousand years since the Dark Elderborn in their pride and folly had tried to use another Door of Souls to summon and bind a demon god. The Door had been shattered, the demon god destroyed, and Cythraul Urdvul shunted into the spirit world…but the ruined temple had remained a magnet for the power of the Demonsouled, drawing their strength to itself. 

And now the Old Demon would seize that power for himself.

He cut his left palm on the edge of the Glamdaigyr and let the blood well forth. It was not enough to merely open the Door of Souls. Anyone passing through the Door would need Demonsouled power to pull them to Cythraul Urdvul, like offering up iron to a powerful lodestone. 

Fortunately, he had Demonsouled power to spare…and soon he would have much, much more.

All of it.

The Old Demon stepped through the Door of Souls and left the mortal world behind.

Chapter 29 - The Door of Souls

Mazael tapped his heels against Gauntlet’s flanks, urging the big horse to greater speed. The outer curtain wall of Knightcastle loomed before them, the gates in the barbican closed.

“Riothamus!” shouted Mazael. “The gates!” 

From the corner of his eye he saw Riothamus lift his arm, the staff of the Guardian glowing. A wave of blue-white mist rippled over the massive gates, and Mazael saw the iron hinges and bolts of the door turn orange with rust. An instant later they shattered, and the wooden doors collapsed into splintered ruin on either side of the curtain wall. Mazael steered Gauntlet through the wreckage and into Knightcastle’s lower courtyard. The castle had always bustled with activity, but now it was deserted, with no trace of either servants or armsmen.

“Lord Gerald will be wroth that you broke his door,” said Molly, glancing at the splintered boards. 

“If we don’t find Lucan and the Door of Souls,” said Mazael, looking around the courtyard, “then Gerald will have far greater problems than a broken gate. Riothamus. Can your Sight find the Door?”

“Perhaps,” said Riothamus, peering at Knightcastle’s great stone bulk. “It is…somewhere below the castle. But I cannot be more specific.”

“I can,” said Romaria. “To my Sight it’s like…like a bonfire atop a mountain. Though I don’t know how to get into these Trysting Ways you told me about.”

“I do,” said Mazael, swinging down from Gauntlet’s saddle. “There’s an entrance…”

Morebeth appeared before him. 

“You must hurry,” she said, her voice low and urgent. 

“Yes, I know,” said Mazael. “Lucan has opened the Door of Souls.”

“Who the devil are you talking to?” said Molly, looking around.

“The spirit of Morebeth Galbraith,” said Romaria. “One of the spirits of the dead Demonsouled bound in Cythraul Urdvul.”

“Truly?” said Molly. “Grandfather has nothing kind to say about her.”

“How reassuring,” said Morebeth. “But you must make haste. The Door of Souls has opened…and our father has entered Cythraul Urdvul.”

A fist closed around Mazael’s heart. “Already?”

Morebeth nodded, her black gown stirring. “He will make his way to the Chamber of Blood at the heart of the temple.” She reached for him. “He cannot become the new god! He will tyrannize the world as he ruled Amalric and I, transform all mortals in monsters as he does with the Demonsouled. You must fight him in Cythraul Urdvul, for I cannot.”

“What of Lucan?” said Mazael. “Did the Old Demon take him into Cythraul Urdvul? Or is he standing guard over the Door of Souls?”

“I know not,” said Morebeth. “I cannot manifest near the Door. The spiritual turbulence is too great.” A desperation he had never seen in her before twisted her features. “Go! If he becomes a god, I will never be free of him. No one will ever be free of his cruelty! Go, quickly!” 

She vanished into nothingness.

“You heard her,” said Mazael. 

“Actually, no, we didn’t,” said Molly. 

“But I suspect we can guess,” said Riothamus, “what she said.”

“This way,” said Mazael, striding towards one of the entrances to the Trysting Ways.

###

Skalatan’s body and carrier shifted back to material form.

He held a half-dozen defensive spells ready, prepared to block any attack Lucan or the Old Demon might unleash. The drachweisyr rested in his carrier’s right hand. The dragon was too injured to manifest in the mortal world, but Skalatan could use the scepter to access a portion of the dragon’s innate power. Specifically, the dragon’s fire. With an effort of will, he could fill the room with fire hot enough to melt steel.

But the great stone vault, as large as one of Barellion’s churches, was deserted.

The Door of Souls itself stood in the center of vault, lined in silver light. Skalatan’s head rotated back and forth, his tongue tasting the air. He neither saw nor heard any movement. 

He did, however, taste the scent of burnt flesh in the air. 

He saw what remained of Lucan Mandragon slumped against the wall, wisps of smoke rising from charred clothing and blackened bone. A few spells still clung to the charred husk, no doubt the collapsed remnants of the revenant’s defensive wards. 

The Old Demon had at last discarded his favorite tool. 

The San-keth were not an emotional race, and as they aged they felt fewer and fewer emotions, with cold logic taking their place. Skalatan himself had not felt strong emotion for centuries. 

Yet even he felt a flicker of pity as he looked Lucan’s corpse. 

“I did warn you,” Skalatan said to the silent chamber. “You should have listened to me.”

Then he dismissed Lucan Mandragon from his thoughts and strode towards the Door of Souls. 

Within the haze filling the pointed arch, he saw an edifice of black stone and a dull crimson glow. 

Cythraul Urdvul, and the Demonsouled power gathered in the Chamber of Blood at its heart. 

Even with the Door of Souls, there was one final piece needed to reach the birthplace of the Demonsouled. Only Demonsouled blood could bridge the gap, could draw the traveler to Cythraul Urdvul like an iron nail drawn to a powerful lodestone.

Skalatan had no Demonsouled blood of his own.

Nevertheless, he had come prepared.

His carrier’s left hand reached into a hidden pocket in his ragged robes and drew out a yellowed human skull. Dozens of tiny runes covered the skull’s jaw and brow and cheekbones, crimson light shining in their depths.

Even as Skalatan lifted Corvad’s skull, the sigils brightened, and the crimson glow within the Door of Souls seemed to pulse in answer.

Power called to power. 

He touched the skull to the shimmering haze within the Door, and felt the magic respond. Blood of the Demonsouled…and with the skull of the Old Demon’s grandson, Skalatan would enter Cythraul Urdvul, defeat the Old Demon, and become the new god of the San-keth. 

And with his new power, he would bring the world to eternal order.

His carrier strode through the Door of Souls.

###

“In here,” said Riothamus, pointing with his staff.

Mazael stepped through the stone doorway and into a great vaulted hall. It reminded him of the High Elderborn architecture he had seen atop Mount Tynagis, the same polished white stone, the same soaring walls and arched ceilings. 

And a Door of Souls, identical to the one atop Mount Tynagis, sat in the center of the hall, wreathed in silver light. 

“It’s still open,” said Riothamus.

Mazael swept his eyes over the hall, the eerie silver light throwing peculiar shadows everywhere, though a dull crimson glow throbbed in the center of the Door. He saw no trace of anyone, neither Lucan nor Skalatan nor the Old Demon himself. “They must have entered Cythraul Urdvul already, all of them. I thought we would have to fight our way to the Door, but they must have been in too much haste …”

“Mazael,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “Over there.”

He followed her gaze and saw a burned corpse slumped against the wall. A misshapen lump of black metal clung to the corpse’s head, and as Mazael walked closer, he saw that it had once been a diadem. A cracked, dull emerald rested in the center of the twisted mess.

The diadem had once been the Banurdem.

Which meant the corpse was Lucan Mandragon.

Mazael starred at the charred form. Lucan had betrayed him, wrought the Great Rising, unleashed the runedead, and twisted Caldarus and Lord Malden into leading a mad war against half the realm. If ever a man had deserved to die like this, it had been Lucan Mandragon. Yet Mazael still felt…regret, perhaps? Grief? Lucan had been his friend once, had stood with him against powerful and dangerous foes. 

Could Mazael have prevented this? Romaria and Molly had both told him to kill Lucan when he had the chance, and he had refused. Yet perhaps there had been another way. If he could have changed Lucan’s mind, warned him of the folly…

Mazael shook his head. What was done was done, and he could not linger here. 

“Looks like after the Door opened,” said Molly, “the Old Demon didn’t need him any longer.”

She lifted her sword to prod at the twisted remains of the Banurdem.

“Don’t touch him,” said Riothamus. “There’s still a spell on him. Not strong, but it could be dangerous.”

“What is it?” said Mazael.

“The…remnants of a broken ward, I think,” said Riothamus. “The Old Demon must have destroyed it when he killed Lucan.”

“Or Skalatan,” said Molly, looking at the Door of Souls. 

“No,” said Mazael, “it would have been the Old Demon. Morebeth said he entered Cythraul Urdvul, and she would not have been wrong about that.” He turned from the corpse. “We had best…”

“Father!” said Molly, stepping back.

Mazael whirled and saw green fire climb up Lucan’s corpse. He raised Lion’s burning blade, ready for an attack. Had the Old Demon left a trap for them? Or had Lucan been playing possum?

But the corpse did not move.

“What was that?” said Mazael.

“That spell activated,” said Riothamus. “But I don’t know what it…”

“Mazael.”

The voice was a wheezing rasp, little more than a whisper, and it came from the corpse.

Lucan’s voice.

“What is this?” said Mazael. 

“My last spell,” said Lucan’s voice. “You slew me atop Swordgrim, and the Old Demon destroyed the revenant that I became, but I bound my soul to my flesh ere the spells unraveled.”

“Why?” said Riothamus. “You have no power like this, no strength. You cannot even move. And the spell is weakening, I can see that plainly enough.”

Molly scoffed. “To escape his fate. Why else?”

“No!” said Lucan, his voice full of pain. “I must undo it. Some of the damage I have done. You were right, Mazael. I was a fool. Lady Romaria tried to warn me. I should have listened. I should have…I should have done so many things differently…”

“It is a bit late for regret,” said Mazael. A spike of rage went through him, sharp and hot, and had Lucan not already been dead he would have struck the wizard down on the spot. “Thousands died in the first moments of the Great Rising. I saw the slaughtered villages, Lucan, I saw the women and children torn to shreds. Or the butchery in Knightreach and Greycoast. I saw what Caldarus did to those villages. All that blood is on your hands, Lucan. And you regret it? It is far, far too late for that.”

His shout of anger echoed off the walls.

“I was deceived,” said Lucan. 

“A fine argument,” said Mazael. “You’ve said what you’ve had to say. I wish you joy of it.”

He turned to go.

“Wait!” hissed Lucan. “You must listen to me. You must! I did not linger to beg forgiveness, not for what I have done. But you must listen.”

“To what?” said Mazael.

“The Old Demon,” said Lucan. “You cannot defeat him.”

Mazael growled. “And you suggest we fall down and worship him, since he’s going to become a god?”

“No,” said Lucan. “He has no weaknesses. He is too powerful, too strong, too clever. Too old. You cannot overcome him. But the Glamdaigyr is his weakness.”

“How?” said Mazael.

“I didn’t understand the Glamdaigyr,” said Lucan. “It steals life and power from the victim and bestows it upon the bearer. But…it does not discriminate. It will steal any power, even if the power will harm the bearer. That is the only way you can hope to defeat him. The power the Glamdaigyr steals will enter his heart and spirit, bypassing his wards and defenses. That…that is the only way, Mazael, the only way…”

“And just how am I to do that?” said Mazael. “Lion’s fire could harm him, as can the staff of the Guardian, but I doubt he’ll be stupid enough to stab them.”

“Tymaen?” said Lucan.

“What about her?” said Mazael. “She’s dead.”

“Tell her…tell her that I love her,” said Lucan. “Please. I can…I can speak to my father, I can convince him to send Marstan away. He will heed me. He needs a wizard, Tymaen, please…”

“His mind is going,” said Riothamus. “The spell is about to unravel.”

“Tell her,” whispered Lucan. “Tell her…”

The corpse shuddered, the flare of green fire fading into nothingness.

And then Lucan Mandragon was dead at last.

“Poor damned fool,” said Molly.

“Aye,” said Mazael. After a moment he lifted his eyes from the dead man. “We’ve lingered here long enough.”

He crossed the hall and stopped before the Door of Souls. The silver haze danced before his eyes, and he had the sensation of staring into a chasm of great depth. Far in the distance, he glimpsed a crimson glow and gleaming black stone.

He had never been there, but he knew it from his nightmares.

Cythraul Urdvul. Where the demon god had died and the Demonsouled had been born…and a new demon god would be born, if Mazael did not stop his father.

“Blood,” said Riothamus.

Mazael looked at him. 

“You and Molly can step through the Door and go to Cythraul Urdvul,” said Riothamus. “Your blood will pull you to the gathered power of the Demonsouled. But you’ll need to touch Lady Romaria and me with your blood if we are to accompany you.”

Mazael nodded and cut his hand on Lion’s edge, and let a few of the droplets fall onto Romaria’s outstretched hand. Molly pricked her finger and did the same for Riothamus. Mazael flexed his hand, his Demonsouled power healing the wound, and hesitated.

“You do not have to go with me,” said Mazael. “None of you do. This is between me and the Old Demon, in the end.”

“No,” said Romaria, a sad smile on her face. “We are husband and wife, Mazael Cravenlock. We shall be joined together until death, and if we die together on this day, then so be it.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Molly. “Grandfather turned me into a killer. He would have turned me into a Malrag Queen, and he murdered Nicholas. He might kill me today, but by all the gods, I am going to spit in that wretched bastard’s eye before I die.”

“And I am the Guardian of the Tervingi,” said Riothamus. “The Guardian of the Tervingi nation, aye…but the Guardian’s office is to oppose the Old Demon. If we fail today, if the Old Demon becomes a new god…then I will have failed, three thousand years of Guardians will have failed, and the world will fall into an endless darkness.” He smiled. “I think, hrould, that if you want to go alone, you will have to tie us up first.”