Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Read online

  “Reap?” said Lucan. “Harvest? Harvest what?”

  The Old Demon smiled. “Time to find out.”

  He stepped forward, the hellish light in his eyes brightening, and his right hand darted forward. Claws, long black, filthy claws, sprouted from his fingertips.

  Lucan just had time to flinch, and then the Old Demon’s hand sank into his chest.

  He screamed in agony, every muscle in his body going rigid at once. He pawed at the wall, trying to keep his balance, but toppled to the floor. The Old Demon stooped over him, grinning. Somehow, impossibly, his arm had sunk to the elbow in Lucan’s chest.

  “This,” said the Old Demon, “is really going to hurt.”

  Lucan felt the Old Demon’s fingers flex against his ribs, and pain erupted through him. His heels drummed against the floor, and his palms slapped against the rough stone. He felt the Old Demon’s fingers ripping through him, tearing through his mind.

  Memories darted through his agonized thoughts.

  His long trek through the spirit world, fighting against the Demonsouled corruption devouring his soul.

  The bloodstaff shattering in his hands, Malavost’s laughter filling his ears.

  Tymaen turning away from him in horror and fear.

  Marstan trying to seize control of his mind.

  The look of disgust on Richard Mandragon’s face when he realized his son could use magic.

  “Yes,” murmured the Old Demon, his eyes like dying coals in his gaunt face. “Perfect. You, Lucan. You are the instrument I have sought for all these centuries.”

  “No,” gasped Lucan.

  Gods, how had it ever come to this? He had made so many bad choices. The desperate agreement with the Old Demon. Forging the bloodstaff from Mazael Cravenlock’s blood. Using the dark magic he had inherited from Marstan.

  Losing Tymaen.

  “Ah,” said the Old Demon. “There it is.”

  Where had it gone all wrong? He had wanted to use his powers for good, to defend the people of the Grim Marches. But Marstan had twisted him, Marstan had corrupted him…

  “Just a little tug,” murmured the Old Demon.

  Lucan screamed.

  And Marstan had studied under Simonian of Briault.

  An alias for the Old Demon.

  “And here we are,” said the Old Demon.

  He stood and ripped his hand free from Lucan’s chest in one fluid motion.

  Pain exploded through Lucan, and darkness swallowed him.

  When his vision cleared, he found himself on the floor. He grabbed at his chest, expecting to feel blood and torn flesh, but his skin felt smooth and unbroken. He sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  The Old Demon stood in the corner, still watching him. A tiny sphere of pale blue light danced and flickered over his right palm.

  Lucan swallowed. “Is that…”

  “Your conscience?” said the Old Demon. “It is. Tiny little thing, isn’t it?” He laughed. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

  “You did this to me,” said Lucan.

  “Oh?” said the Old Demon.

  “You taught Marstan,” said Lucan, “you twisted me, you turned my entire life into your puppet…”

  “Do stop whining,” said the Old Demon, examining the tiny sphere of light. “It is most unbecoming.” He grinned. “But, yes. Remember this, Lucan. All your woes, all your pain…I did it to you. The Demonsouled did it to you. Remember that.” He titled his head to the side. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel…” Lucan frowned. The horrible pain in his chest and limbs had vanished. “I don’t feel anything different.”

  In fact, he felt a little better. As if a burden had been taken off his shoulders.

  “You won’t,” said the Old Demon. “And that is entirely the point. Nothing will feel different. And you’ll even feel good as you do me a little favor.”

  “I won’t do anything for you,” said Lucan.

  The Old Demon’s smile was indulgent. “I think not.”

  He flicked a finger.

  Invisible force seized Lucan, slammed him into the tower wall with terrific force. He would have screamed, would have fought, but he could not even draw breath.

  “You’re going to fall asleep now,” said the Old Demon, “and when you wake up, you will forget our little chat.”

  Lucan growled, trying to fight his way free from the spell. He reached for his magic, trying to summon arcane power, but the Old Demon’s magic was like a tower of iron. Lucan could no more have opposed the Old Demon’s strength than he could have tried to extinguish the sun.

  “But don’t forget,” said the Old Demon, “that the Demonsouled are the cause of your woes. Every ill that has befallen you, every last shred of pain…lay it at the doorstep of the Demonsouled.” He grinned. “Of me.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  The pressure holding Lucan vanished, and he collapsed to the floor.

  Darkness swallowed him.

  ###

  Lucan blinked.

  He felt the cold stone floor resting against his cheek.

  Confused, he sat up, leaning against the wall. His tower room was deserted.

  Why the devil was he on the floor?

  He stood up, frowning.

  He remembered walking through the door, considering a new location for a workroom. And then…and then…

  Nothing.

  Lucan turned in a circle, hand raised in the beginnings of a spell. Had he been drugged? Or had someone cast a spell upon him? He worked the spell to sense the presence of magic and felt nothing, save for the wards against the San-keth and the undead Timothy deBlanc had cast over the entire castle.

  There was no trace of any spell cast upon Lucan. And had he been drugged, there would have been other symptoms – dizziness, nausea, something.

  So what had happened to him?

  Tentatively he reached for the well of Demonsouled power within him, left behind by whatever strange ordeal he had suffered after the destruction of the bloodstaff. But the power was quiet, waiting for him to call upon it.

  “Exhaustion,” muttered Lucan, shaking his head and sitting down upon the bed. That was it. His ordeal with the shattered bloodstaff and Corvad had drained him, and he hadn’t yet recovered.

  And yet…

  He felt…better.

  Lighter, somehow. As if some heavy burden had been lifted. Or if all his cares had been taken away. For a moment Lucan felt the absurd impulse to go enjoy himself, to get drunk and seduce the first willing woman he could find. Or why bother with willing? He knew enough spells to override the will of another, to force the victim to comply with his wishes…

  He shook his head, annoyed. He had better things to do with his time than to debauch himself like a drunken caravan guard. He had sworn to fight dark magic, to keep others from suffering as he had suffered, and he would do it.

  Lucan would do whatever was necessary.

  He titled his head to the side, puzzled.

  For the first time, the thought filled him with anticipation.

  ###

  Darkness swirled, and the creature that some men called the Old Demon stepped out of the shadows and onto the ramparts of Castle Cravenlock’s curtain wall.

  He did not worry that anyone would see him. A hundred nations had risen and fallen in the centuries since he had mastered the spells of concealment and disguise. True, Mazael’s pet wizard had mantled the castle in warding spells, but those spells were like candle flames against the inferno of the Old Demon’s might. It required only a thought to bypass them. With the tiniest effort of will, he could have shattered the spells and left their caster a drooling idiot. He could have killed every last man, woman, and child within the walls, and reduced the castle itself to a pile of smoking slag.

  But only if they attacked him first.

  His vast power carried limitations.

  So he had to use others as his tools, as his weapons.

  And he had become very good
at it.

  His eyes fell over the dome of the castle’s chapel, and the rage in his mind stirred. Mazael had defied him in that chapel, and few of his children had ever done so. And with that cursed sword of his, Mazael could have hurt him, as the ancients had foretold so very long ago. Mazael could even have killed him.

  Mazael could still kill him with it.

  But Mazael was going to die soon enough.

  The Old Demon had no wish to face Mazael himself…but he was very good at using others as his weapons.

  He smiled.

  It was time to begin.

  He made his way to the courtyard. He could have traveled the shadows to his destination, as his rebellious granddaughter could, but the walk amused him. Castle Cravenlock was old, but the Old Demon was older. He remembered when the Cravenlocks had been the liege lords of the Grim Marches, when the San-keth (at his suggestion) had built their secret temple below the castle, converting the first Lord of Castle Cravenlock to the worship of the serpent god. And he remembered when this castle had been nothing more than one of the outer fortresses of Old Dracaryl, ruled by one of their necromancer-lords.

  The high lords of Old Dracaryl, so eager to learn the secrets of necromancy, had been some of his most useful tools. A pity their own dark magic had devoured them.

  Though they had left behind weapons he could put to good use indeed.

  The castle’s gates stood closed, so he walked through the shadows and appeared outside the walls, unseen by the guards. He strode down the road leading from the castle’s gates, lost in his thoughts. How many times had he orchestrated the downfall of kingdoms and empires over the centuries? There had been so many. He could no longer remember them all.

  His smile widened.

  But this time…this time would be the last time.

  It was already in motion. Nations stirred in the barbarian lands east of the Great Mountains. And Lucan and Mazael, between them, would do the rest of the work, whether they willed it or not.

  And then, and then…

  And then the Old Demon would have what he had sought for so very long.

  He stopped in the darkness below the castle’s craggy hill. Lucan Mandragon thought he knew all the secrets of Castle Cravenlock when he built his secret workshop in the abandoned San-keth temple. The San-keth thought they knew all the castle’s secrets when they constructed their hidden temple. But they were wrong. The Old Demon was ancient, and he knew secrets held by no other living creature.

  Including what the high lords of Dracaryl had left buried beneath the castle.

  The Old Demon lifted a finger, reaching out with his magical senses. He felt the cold, icy power of necromantic magic waiting beneath the rock of the hill. The high lords had left it there, intending to return. But their hubris had destroyed them, and now the power lay forgotten in its ancient vaults.

  Along with the creatures trapped inside.

  Now. How best to unleash them?

  The Old Demon whispered a spell, summoning power with the ease of long centuries of practice. He thrust out his hands, focusing his will, and the magic sank into the very rock of the hill itself. He made a twisting gesture, binding the power to the rock, commanding it to wait.

  But not very long.

  The spell settled into the rock of the hill, latent.

  Mazael had survived the horrors the high lords had left behind in Arylkrad.

  Would he survive the horrors they had left beneath his own castle?

  The Old Demon gazed at the hill for a long time.

  “And so,” he said to himself, “the end comes at last.”

  He smiled, looking over the plains of the Grim Marches, over the world itself.

  The world that would soon belong to him, forever.

  The Old Demon strode into the shadows and left Castle Cravenlock behind.

  Chapter 3 – Dead Villages

  In his dreams, Riothamus son of Rigotharic was always six years old again.

  Riogotharic had been headman of his own hold, with over a hundred swordthains and spearthains sworn to him. Riothamus’s father had been a warrior of renown, tall and strong, his armor and sword fashioned from costly steel. All the clans of the Tervingi nation had respected him.

  And none of that did any good when the Malrags came.

  Riothamus ran, screaming, as the hold burned around him, the beams and thatch of the roof vanishing in curtains of raging flame. His father’s thains lay strewn across the muddy ground, their armor ripped apart by the black axes and swords of the Malrags. A blast of green lighting screamed from the black sky, setting the roof of the granary ablaze. Riothamus stumbled from his father’s hall, weeping, and stopped.

  The Malrags ran at him.

  The creatures were gray-skinned, with six-fingered hands and white, colorless eyes. Yellowed fangs jutted from their lips, and their long fingers ended in ragged claws. Black chain mail jingled as they ran, and black axes and spears gleamed in their hands.

  Riothamus sprinted, his legs churning at the muddy street beneath his feet. The Malrags surged after him, roaring with glee and bloodlust.

  Riothamus stumbled.

  A hard hand closed about his shoulder, and he screamed…

  “Riothamus!”

  Riothamus jerked awake, his heart pounding.

  A grim-faced man in chain mail stooped over him, face half-hidden behind a tangled yellow beard. The handle of a massive battle axe rose over his left shoulder, and a broadsword hung from his leather belt. A necklace of Malrag claws dangled from his neck, clicking against his mail.

  “Arnulf,” said Riothamus, blinking.

  “You were screaming to wake the dead, witcher,” said Arnulf, his voice a raspy rumble. “Half the camp was up.”

  “Damnation,” said Riothamus. After twenty years, one would think the nightmares would stop.

  Of course, the Malrags hadn’t stopped, either.

  Arnulf snorted. “I’d heard that female demons visited witch-folk in the night for acts of unnatural congress. The way you were screaming, I think the rumors were true.”

  Despite everything, Riothamus burst out laughing.

  “No,” said Riothamus. “No such pleasure, I fear. Just…bad dreams.”

  Riothamus could never recall Arnulf smiling, though the older man’s scowl did fade somewhat. “Bad dreams. Well, you’re still alive. The dead don’t dream.”

  “No,” said Riothamus. “I suppose I’ve woken everyone.”

  Arnulf grunted. “Aye. But it’s almost dawn. Past time we got moving.” He straightened up. “Up, lads! It’s a lovely day! And there are Malrags that need killing.”

  The thirty men encamped on the hilltop cursed and bellowed insults, but began climbing to their feet. The swordthains and the spearthains were sworn to the great hrould Athanaric, all veterans of the long wars against the Malrag ravagers.

  And all of them, these battle-scarred veterans, kept well away from Riothamus.

  He tried to ignore that.

  Riothamus picked up his spear, stretching his sore legs. He walked to the edge of the hilltop. It was a cold, gray day, the sky the color of hammered steel. Steep hills stretched away to the south, their slopes lined with barren trees. The Iron River flowed to the north, almost a half-mile wide. The air was still and silent.

  A deceptive silence.

  “Move, you sluggards!” roared Arnulf, pacing the crest of the hill. “Are you warriors or women? Move!” He stalked to Riothamus’s side. Unlike the others, he showed no fear of Riothamus. Of course, Arnulf showed no fear of anything. “Witcher. Any Malrags about?”

  Riothamus shrugged. “No Malrags have been seen south of the Iron River since winter.”

  Arnulf grunted. “You’re not that stupid. Check anyway.”

  Riothamus nodded, drew in a deep breath, and cast the spell, just as the Guardian had taught him. He felt the power rise within him, obedient to his will, and he sent the magic out, soaking into the earth and air around him. For an instant he sense
d the wind blowing against his face and the rock beneath his boots, the flow of the Iron River and the rustling of the barren trees.

  He sensed no Malrags. A Malrag would have felt like a shadow against his senses, a corruption eating its way through the earth and wind.

  The spell faded away.

  “Nothing,” said Riothamus. “No Malrags for five miles in any direction.”

  “Only five?” said Arnulf.

  Riothamus shook his head. “I can’t reach any farther. The Guardian can, but I cannot.”

  “It will serve,” said Arnulf. “Get moving. I want to reach Skullbane by noon.”

  ###

  They saw the first dead village an hour later.

  A few years ago the banks of the Iron River had been lined with villages of the Tervingi. The prosperous villagers had fished the river and logged the trees, trading with the Tervingi clans in the hill country or the other nations further south. But the Malrags had annihilated the other nations and driven the Tervingi from the hills.

  And now the village lay desolate.

  It squatted by the river’s bank. The stone walls stood like dry bones, their roofs and interiors burned away. Some of the docks had collapsed into the Iron River’s gray waters, and a half-sunken fishing boat jutted from the debris. Bones littered the village’s street. Some were the misshapen skulls and clawed fingers of Malrags, but most were the bones of the men and women and children the Malrags had butchered.

  The hold of the village’s headman stood on a hill over the docks, now nothing more than a half-collapsed shell of loose stone. Riothamus saw the charring where the Malrag shamans’ lightning had ripped into the structure.

  “Feasted there, once,” said Arnulf. “Old Eordric the Gray. Fat old bastard, but generous with his beer and his loot. Good man to follow into a fight. Suppose the Malrags did for him when they burned the village.”

  He shook his head, and kept walking.

  They passed three more burned villages, weeds growing in their fields and pens. Sometimes the Malrags preferred to amuse themselves with captives rather than slaughter them out of hand, and Riothamus saw ample evidence of that. In one village a row of empty skulls sat atop the loose stone wall of a sheepfold. In another a line of skeletons lay upon the earth, rusting iron stakes driven through the bones of their arms and legs. Every hour he cast the spell to detect the presence of Malrags, but he sensed nothing.