Soul of Swords (Book 7) (6 page)

But the name he preferred was the one used among the people of the Grim Marches.

The Old Demon.

For he was the firstborn and the strongest, the oldest and the greatest. His mother had been a nameless human slave, and his father an imprisoned demon god, summoned by the wizards of the Dark Elderborn in their pride and folly. The demon god had been destroyed in the attempted summoning, the Dark Elderborn scattered, and the High Elderborn destroyed. 

But the Old Demon was still here. 

Kingdoms rose and fell and empires collapsed into dust, but he endured. His children and grandchildren rose and carved domains of their own…only to fall when he slew them and sent their strength to Cythraul Urdvul where it had all begun. 

Where it had begun…and where it would end.

“Almost there,” said the Old Demon, watching Lucan. 

For millennia the Old Demon had sired children and grandchildren and then slain them, their power gathering in Cythraul Urdvul. The death of the demon god had pushed the ruined temple into the spirit world, along with the remnants of the god’s power. That power had drawn the strength of the slain Demonsouled into Cythraul Urdvul, and after centuries of work a vast reservoir of power awaited there.

Power enough to transform any who claimed it into a new god.

The Old Demon intended to claim that power.

Unless Skalatan or Mazael stopped him first.

Skalatan did not concern the Old Demon, not greatly. Skalatan was powerful and clever, but like all his kind, the San-keth preferred plotting and working through tools rather than action. The Old Demon would deal with him when necessary. And Mazael…the Old Demon had crushed rebellious children before. He could do so again.

But none of those rebellious children had ever carried a sword forged by the High Elderborn. 

He felt a twinge of misgiving. The High Elderborn were dust and bones…but their weapons remained. Mazael carried Lion, and the Tervingi Guardian wielded that miserable staff. The High Elderborn had created those weapons to destroy the Old Demon, and even after three thousand years, they still posed a threat to him. 

But no matter. Lucan would open the Door of Souls, and his army of runedead would keep Mazael from reaching Knightcastle. And once the Door opened, the Old Demon would claim the power for himself.

He would become a god…and no weapon would ever have the power to threaten him again.

And the world would be his to do with as he pleased.

He strode into the shadows, leaving Lucan to do his work.

Chapter 5 - Raiders

Hugh Chalsain, the Prince of Barellion and liege lord of Greycoast, awoke to feel a rock digging into his back.

He sat up with a curse, stubble rasping beneath his palms as he rubbed his face. His sword and dagger lay next to his bedroll, close at hand in case the Aegonar decided to launch a night raid. Hugh pulled on his boots, wrapped his sword belt around his waist, and left the tent.

He stepped into the tangled woods that housed his camp. The woods offered concealment from any passing Aegonar scouts, though no comfortable places to lie down, alas. Hundreds of tents spread in every direction, and smoke rose from small cooking fires as the knights and armsmen of Hugh’s force awoke.

He wondered how many of them would still live come nightfall.

“My lord Prince?” A boy of twelve hurried over, clad in chain mail and a green surcoat adorned with the sigil of a broken spear. Unlike his father, the boy was whip-thin. “What are your commands?”

“Bring me some breakfast, Roger,” Hugh told his squire, “and find your father and Lord Karlam.” He did his best to keep the scowl off his face at the mention of Karlam Ganelon. “Bid them to attend me at once.”

Roger ran off into the camp.

Hugh still was not used to people jumping to obey his commands, even though he was the Prince of Barellion. But he had never expected to become the Prince. He was Prince Everard Chalsain’s youngest son, and Hugh had expected to ride in his father’s armies or wander across the realm in search of coin and battle.

But instead Malaric had butchered Hugh’s family…leaving Hugh as both the Prince and the last son of the House of Chalsain. He had never wanted to become Prince, and would have been content to ride from petty fight to petty fight.

He didn’t want to be Prince.

But, then, he hadn’t wanted the runedead to arise or the Aegonar to invade, either. He might as well wish for the sun not to rise every morning. 

Two men strode towards him. One was burly and wore a surcoat with the Prince’s colors over steel plate, his head crowned by a mop of curly brown hair. The other was tall and gaunt, with iron-gray hair, and wore a long black wizard’s coat. 

“Well, sir knight, master wizard, what news?” said Hugh.

Sir Philip Montigard grunted and scratched his beard. “The news is that it’s damned cold and damned early, and I want something hot to eat.”

The master wizard Maurus scowled, which was little different than his usual expression. “The Prince of Barellion has requested our presence, Sir Philip. You would do well to show respect.”

Montigard snorted. “Aye, he’s the Prince, and no doubt about it.” He gave a bow in Hugh’s direction. “But I remember when he was just Sir Hugh, and we’d visit the brothels together. Now we tramp through the mud and chase down serpent-worshipping madmen.” He sighed. “I miss the old days.”

“As do I,” said Hugh. 

But things were not entirely bleak. In the old days he had not yet met Adelaide…

“Ah,” said Montigard with a snort, “you’re thinking of your wife. I suggest we whip the Aegonar and go home. Then you can devote your time to planting an heir in your wife’s belly.”

“That is hardly a proper way,” said Maurus, “to speak of the Lady Consort.”

Roger returned, holding trenchers laden with bacon and a skin of wine. “From the quartermaster, my lord Prince. And Lord Bryce and Lord Karlam are on their way.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh.

“I don’t suppose you thought to bring us all food?” said Montigard, eyeing the squire.

Roger blinked. “Ah…I saw that my lord Prince had guests, so I made sure to bring enough!” He held out the trenchers.

“Capital!” said Montigard. “A fine lad. Hugh, if Adelaide has a daughter, you should marry her to this boy.”

Roger’s flush managed to get deeper.

“Go and get my horse ready,” said Hugh, “and see to my weapons and armor. We shall ride to battle soon.”

Roger bowed, handed out the food, and ran off.

Hugh took a bite of the bacon. “Well?”

“It is as you thought, my lord Prince,” said Maurus. “The Aegonar are indeed trying to construct a wooden bridge over the wreckage of the Castle Bridge.”

“Aye,” said Montigard around a mouthful of bread, “Malaric’s witchery tore down the bridge, but the piers are still there, and the Aegonar have thralls laying down planks. Another few days, and they’ll be able to march right over the River of Lords.” 

Hugh cursed. “So that’s why they threw those warbands against us. Not to cause chaos, though they stirred up enough. To distract us while they finished their damned bridge.”

Maurus nodded. “Several thousand Aegonar warriors are waiting on the northern bank, and a strong band holds the southern bank. As soon as the bridge is complete, I suspect they will cross and construct a ringfort to hold the crossing.”

Hugh sighed. “And then they’ll bring their whole host across and assail Barellion itself.”  

“Just as well,” said Montigard, taking a swig from the skin of wine, “that you sent that lad to fetch your horse.”

Armor clanked, and Hugh turned. A dozen lords and knights walked towards him. At their head strode two men in fine plate armor. One was stout and middle-aged, wearing a green surcoat identical to Roger’s. Lord Bryce Spearshore was one of the most powerful lords in Greycoast. He had sworn to Hugh after Malaric’s disastrous defeat at Castle Bridge, and Hugh trusted him.

He did not trust the man at Lord Bryce’s left.

Lord Karlam Ganelon of Rutagne was tall and lean, a wispy mustache and pointed beard covering his lip and chin. Despite his foppish appearance, his eyes were hard and cold. Hugh’s father had never trusted Lord Karlam, and Karlam had been one of the first to swear to Malaric. After Malaric’s defeat at Castle Bridge, Karlam had remained aloof, refusing to choose a side until after Hugh had prevailed.

Lord Karlam also had numerous daughters, and had suggested, more than once, that Hugh divorce Adelaide for a woman of higher birth.

That had not endeared him to Hugh any further.

“My lords,” said Hugh. “Thank you for coming. It seems our fears were correct. The Aegonar are building a temporary bridge over the wreckage of Castle Bridge.”

Lord Karlam swore. “The barbarian devils will not be content until they worship their serpent-god in the ruins of the Prince’s Keep.”

Lord Bryce shrugged. “The master of the barbarian devils wants Knightcastle, not Barellion. We are simply in their way.”

Karlam lifted a pale eyebrow. “Then perhaps we ought to permit them passage through Greycoast and let Lord Malden deal with them.”

Bryce scowled. “Then you would expose the folk of another land to these Aegonar butchers? You know the atrocities they have committed in the north.”

“I am simply saying it would be a way to get rid of them,” said Karlam.

“No, Bryce is right,” said Hugh. “If we grant the Aegonar passage, Skalatan and Ryntald would use the opportunity to attack us.” He had met both the San-keth archpriest and the Aegonar High King, and he knew neither one would hesitate to eliminate a potential threat. “And even if they marched south, they would leave a trail ruin a hundred miles wide through southern Greycoast. Perhaps even through your own lands, my lord of Rutagne.” 

Karlam’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing else.

“No, best we keep the Aegonar on the northern bank of the River of Lords,” said Hugh. “If they cross, it will be a disaster. The sooner we can gather our strength and launch an offensive, the better, but until then, we need to keep them where they are.”

“What do you propose, my lord Prince?” said Bryce.

“Master Maurus and Sir Philip have scouted the enemy,” said Hugh. “There are five hundred Aegonar warriors holding the southern bank, waiting for the thralls to finish their wooden bridge. Some ulfhednar and seidjar are among their numbers.”

A rumble went through the lords and knights. The ulfhednar, the Aegonar berserkers in their bronze serpent helms, were terrible foes. The seidjar, the priests of Sepharivaim, wielded deadly magic in battle. 

“Maurus and our court wizards can handle the seidjar,” said Hugh, and Maurus gave a curt nod. “Dealing with the warriors and the ulfhednar is up to us. The footmen will charge the foe, and once the Aegonar are pinned in place, the horsemen will strike from the flanks.”

“We have used this tactic before,” said Karlam. “The Aegonar will expect it.”

“Almost certainly,” said Hugh. “What they will not expect is that I will split our horsemen, and send half of them to circle around the battle. Once our footmen and horsemen have engaged, I will lead a charge into the enemy’s unprotected flank. We can then drive them into the river.”

“This plan is folly,” said Karlam.

Montigard scowled. “You question our Prince’s commands?” For all that he teased Hugh in private, in public he was Hugh’s most vocal supporter. 

Karlam glared at the knight. “I am the Prince’s loyal vassal. But we only have six hundred footmen and four hundred mounted men with us. We take unnecessary risk by going into battle with so few. We should send word to Barellion and summon reinforcements. Once they arrive, we can bring superior numbers to bear against the Aegonar. It is highly unlikely the Aegonar will have finished their bridge by then.”

“Forgive me, Lord Karlam, but I fear that is optimistic,” said Maurus. “The Aegonar are using thralls to build their bridge, peasants conscripted from their conquered lands. They drive the thralls day and night, and I suspect they will finish the bridge within two days.”

“And if the Aegonar host crosses the River of Lords, Karlam,” said Bryce, “we will lose the advantage of superior numbers.”

“I see.” Karlam’s face gave away nothing. “Then I bow to my Prince’s wisdom. My men are ready to march.”

“Good,” said Hugh. “Lord Bryce, take command of the footmen. I will lead the sortie around the battlefield myself. Lord Karlam, take command of the remainder of the horsemen, and attack as soon as Lord Bryce is engaged.”

Both lords bowed and went to their respective armsmen, their knights following. 

“A good plan,” said Maurus.

“Aye,” said Montigard, “we’ll whip those Aegonar. Pity there’s more of them, though.”

“It should work,” said Hugh, watching Lord Bryce and Lord Karlam walk away. Of course, no battle plan was foolproof, and once the fighting began chaos ruled instead of the commanders. But Hugh thought it should work. 

And the plan offered one other bonus. 

Lord Karlam could not ruin it by betrayal. If Karlam refused to ride to the aid of the footmen, Lord Bryce’s men would be hard-pressed. But they were veterans of the fighting against the runedead and the Aegonar, and they would hold the line until Hugh came to their aid. 

And if Karlam betrayed them …

“Well,” said Hugh. “We’ll see then, won’t we?”

“See what, lord Prince?” said Maurus.

Hugh shook himself out of his dark musings. “We’ll see the Aegonar driven back over the River.”

Montigard finished his bread and smacked his lips. “That’s the spirit.”

###

Hugh held his lance in one hand and his reins in the other.

He rode along the southern bank of the River of Lords, steering his horse around the thinning trees. Montigard rode at his right, holding the Chalsain banner, a black tower upon a field of green. Maurus rode at his left, ready to unleash his spells. The River of Lords itself lay to the north, the river itself broad and fast and far too deep to easily cross.

At least without a bridge.

Then they left the woods, and both the ruined bridge and the battle came into sight.

The Castle Bridge had once been tall and strong. A fortified tower, a keep in its own right, had risen from the center of the river, supporting the massive stone bridge. Yet after Malaric lost the battle against the Aegonar, he had unleashed the great winged spirit under his command, destroying the keep and collapsing the bridge into the river. 

The Aegonar had been hard at work building their own bridge. A wooden walkway had been built across the jutting piers and the broken stump of the tower, stretching perhaps two-thirds of the way over the river. The thing looked rickety, but could the Aegonar host could use it to cross the River of Lords in a day, maybe less. Dozens of men stood on the bridge, holding hammers and timbers and watching the battle on the shore.

A mass of five hundred Aegonar warriors stood in a shield wall, their backs to the river. Lord Bryce’s footmen strove against them, the banner of Spearshore flying overhead, while the Aegonar flew their crimson banners. Hugh glimpsed the bronze serpent helms of ulfhednar, and saw a flare of purple light as the seidjar priests unleashed their arts against the wizards. 

A wedge of horsemen had driven into the flank of the Aegonar shield wall, disrupting their formation. 

Lord Karlam had not betrayed them. At least not today.

“Sir Philip,” said Hugh, lifting his lance. “The charge.”

Montigard grinned, his face savage beneath his thick beard, and lifted his war horn. He blew a blast that echoed over the river and the battle, and for a moment the fighting came to a surprised halt. Hugh put spurs to his horse, and the beast surged forward, hooves tearing at the ground. Around him the knights gave a mighty shout and kicked their horses to a gallop. Hugh shifted his grip on his lance, holding it as he had been taught as a child. The knights lowered their lances, forming a gleaming wall of razor-edged steel. The Aegonar warriors shifted, trying to meet the new threat while keeping Lord Bryce’s footmen and Lord Karlam’s horsemen at bay.

But it was too late.

An Aegonar warrior whirled to face Hugh, red-bearded face howling in fury, and then Hugh’s lance struck home. The steel point drove through the Aegonar’s scale armor and hurled the warrior to the ground. Hugh ripped the lance free, even as another Aegonar fell beneath his horse’s steel-shod hooves. Around him the knights charged into the Aegonar, men screaming and wood splintering and horses neighing. Hugh drove his lance into another Aegonar, the momentum and weight of his horse driving the weapon forward, and the impact ripped it from his hand. He drew his sword with a steely hiss, twisted in his saddle, and swung.