Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Read online

  Chapter 4 – Tremors

  "Your new armor, my lord," said Rufus Highgate.

  Mazael doubted that anyone in the Grim Marches had ever seen anything quite like it.

  It began with a coat of gleaming steel chain mail. That, it itself, was not remarkable. Most knights and armsmen wore chain mail.

  But no other knight wore a coat of golden dragon's scales over the mail. The larger scales provided plates for his shoulders and elbows, while the coat of smaller scales hung to his knees. The dragon's scales were far lighter than any armor Mazael had ever worn, and more flexible.

  Yet the scales were much stronger than steel, and impervious to heat and flame.

  “Your armor looks magnificent, my lord,” said Rufus, stepping back. When his father, Lord Robert of Castle Highgate, had sent Rufus to serve as squire, the boy had been arrogant and haughty. A year of fighting Malrag warbands had rubbed away most of his hard edges.

  Mazael grunted. “It’s too light.”

  Rufus smirked. “Not many knights say that about their armor, my lord.”

  A stab of rage shot through Mazael’s skull as the boy’s tone, and for a moment he considered snatching his dagger from the table and driving it through Rufus’s throat…

  He shook aside the thought, disgusted at himself.

  He could not indulge his Demonsouled nature, not even for a moment.

  Rufus buckled a sword belt around Mazael’s waist. Lion hung on the right side, and an ornate curved dagger, fashioned from a dragon's fang, on the left. Then a black cloak adorned with the sigil of the House of Cravenlock, three crossed silver swords, went over his shoulders.

  “I think that is everything,” said Rufus.

  “It is,” said Mazael. “Thank you. Come.”

  He left the King’s Tower, Rufus following, and went to the courtyard below the barbican, his armor and cloak keeping the autumn chill at bay. Many of Mazael’s knights and vassals waited before the gates, their armor polished, their surcoats and tabards crisp and clean. Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael’s armsmaster, stood before the waiting armsmen, grim and tall in his black and silver surcoat. Timothy deBlanc, Mazael’s court wizard, fidgeted in his long black coat.

  Romaria stood near the wizard, clad in a long blue gown that matched her eyes, a silver diadem on her black hair. She preferred a leather jerkin, trousers, and a worn green cloak, but since she had agreed to wed him and become the lady of Castle Cravenlock, she had begun wearing gowns more and more.

  Though she still wore a short sword and a dragon’s tooth dagger at her belt.

  There was no sign of Lucan.

  Not surprising, considering how well he got along with his older brother.

  “Mazael,” Romaria said with a smile, and kissed his cheek. “That armor is splendid.”

  Mazael snorted, the golden scales flashing as they reflected the sun. “Aye, and it will draw the eye of every archer on the field of battle.”

  Another voice laughed. “And it would turn every arrow that hit you.”

  Molly stood behind Romaria. Unlike Romaria, she refused to don gowns. Her only concession to formality was a black cloak over her usual dark clothes, her sword and dagger riding in her belt.

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael.

  Molly’s smile had an edge. “And it will send every foe on the battlefield running to come cut you down and claim that armor. Though…I don’t think you’d mind that very much.”

  Mazael didn’t answer. But the prospect of standing alone in battle, and cutting down every foe who came at him…the thought pleased him. Very much. He would butcher his way through his foes, and…

  He pushed aside the dark musings. He needed to keep his wits about him. If today went wrong, the Grim Marches might fall into war before winter. His Demonsouled blood wanted war, but his mind knew better. For the sake of his lands, for the sake of his knights and vassals and the peasants who dwelled on their estates, he would keep the peace.

  A blast of trumpets rang out below the walls.

  Mazael’s sword hand closed into a fist.

  Assuming, of course, that Toraine Mandragon even wanted peace.

  Molly stepped to his shoulder. “You know, your armor isn’t completely unique.”

  Mazael said nothing. Through the open gates he saw a band of horsemen riding for the castle’s barbican. They flew two banners from their lances. One was a black dragon on a crimson field, the sigil of Richard the Dragonslayer of House Mandragon, Lord of Swordgrim and the liege lord of the Grim Marches. The second showed a sigil of a stone tower, a corpse hanging from its battlements.

  The personal sigil of Toraine Mandragon, Lord of Hanging Tower and Lord Richard’s heir. Lord Richard was known for his open-handed generosity. Yet if one of his vassals rebelled, Lord Richard sent Toraine to settle matters.

  And Toraine was not known for mercy.

  “Lord Richard and Toraine both have suits of dragon scale armor,” said Molly, “don’t they?”

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “Richard ventured into the Great Mountains as a young man and a slew a dragon with his own hand. Twenty years later Toraine repeated the feat.”

  Molly smiled that nasty smile of hers. “And now you're wearing dragon scale armor. One might think you were planning to overthrow Richard.”

  “I’m not,” said Mazael. The first of the horsemen rode through the gate. “And we’re about to find out just what Lord Richard thinks.”

  He took a deep breath, and Toraine of House Mandragon, Lord of Hanging Tower, rode through the gate.

  The Black Dragon was in his late twenties, with black hair, black eyes, and the lean build of a master swordsman. A curved sword hung at his belt, and he wore armor fashioned from black chain mail and black dragon scales. Toraine was young, but had a fearsome reputation. One that was deserved, too – Mazael had seen him in battle against the Malrags.

  Toraine looked Mazael over. His lip curled in something between a sneer and a smirk.

  Then he vaulted from his saddle in a single smooth motion and sketched a shallow bow. “Lord Mazael.”

  Mazael responded with a bow of the exact same depth. “Lord Toraine. Welcome to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Indeed,” said Toraine. “I am sure you are as pleased to receive me as I am to visit.”

  “Truly,” said Mazael. “Your insight is keen, my lord.”

  Toraine’s eyes narrowed. A pair of pages hastened forward and took his horse, and Toraine's eyes fell on Romaria. A mocking smile flickered over his lips. It made him look a great deal like Lucan.

  “My lady Romaria,” said Toraine. “Wearing proper women’s clothing? I never thought I would see it. Perhaps the prophesied end of days is upon us, and the Destroyer has come with a burning sword to lay waste to the realms of men.”

  Romaria laughed. “Why should we need the Destroyer to destroy anything? We have you, my lord.”

  Toraine scowled, and looked at Molly. “And who is this?” He looked at Mazael, and back at Molly, and Mazael saw him understand.

  “This is Molly of House Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “My daughter.” He paused. “And my heir.”

  Molly’s mouth fell open, just a bit.

  “Your heir?” said Toraine. “Some bastard whelp you fathered on a roadside whore twenty years ago? She will be the heir to Castle Cravenlock?” He snorted. “Not surprising, given that your half-breed wife will be sterile as a mule. So when you’re dead, the whore’s daughter will rule Castle Cravenlock? How splendid.”

  Molly’s eyes narrowed, her hand twitching toward her sword hilt, and Mazael put his hand on her shoulder. She glared up at him.

  “My lord Toraine,” said Mazael, his voice soft, the fire in his blood pounding in his ears like a war drum. “You should apologize and withdraw your comments about my betrothed and daughter.”

  A dead silence fell over the surrounding knights and armsmen. Mazael saw hands inching towards swords and shields.

  “Or?” said Toraine, amused.

 
“Or I will name you a craven in front of your men,” said Mazael, “the sort of cringing dog who prefers to insult women rather than wield a sword and face a foe. You can decline, proving that you are in fact a coward. Or you can fight, and I’ll cut you to pieces. The choice, my lord Toraine, is yours.”

  Toraine’s sword hand balled into a fist. For a moment Mazael saw a future painted in blood before his eyes. Toraine would accept, and Mazael would kill Lord Richard’s eldest son and heir. And then Lord Richard would declare war in vengeance, and the Grim Marches would drown in blood.

  Mazael wanted to stop it, even as his Demonsouled nature yearned for blood. But no lord could accept such insults without answer, even insults from the son of his liege lord.

  Mazael saw the same calculations pass over Toraine’s face, and some of the anger passed.

  “Perhaps I spoke in…haste,” said Toraine. “I withdraw my remarks, and offer my apologies.”

  Mazael felt a wave of relief. “My lord is gracious.”

  But also some disappointment. He badly wanted to kill Toraine.

  “I am,” said Toraine. “Now, come, Lord Mazael. We must speak privately. My lord father has…thoughts about your betrothal to Lady Romaria, and he dispatched me to speak in his name.”

  “Of course,” said Mazael. “This way.”

  ###

  Lucan watched the confrontation from his tower window.

  He had no wish to meet his brother. Lucan detested Toraine He wanted nothing more than to walk down to the courtyard, conjure his most powerful spell, and rend the flesh from Toraine’s bones.

  So why not do it?

  Why not butcher Toraine where he stood, repay him for all the pain he had inflicted on Lucan over the years?

  He blinked.

  Lucan could not think of a single reason why not.

  Yet he hesitated.

  Consequences.

  If he slew Toraine now, there would be consequences. His father would blame Mazael, and the Grim Marches would erupt into civil war. The San-keth would take advantage of the situation, and the gods only know how the Old Demon would exploit a war between Mazael and Richard. Lucan could hardly protect the Grim Marches from dark magic then.

  He closed his eyes, shivering…and something brushed against his magical senses.

  He opened his eyes and scanned the crowd in the courtyard, wondering if Toraine had brought a wizard in his retinue. But no one in the courtyard was casting a spell. Lucan cast the spell to detect the presence of magic. He felt the wards Timothy had worked over the castle, the potent magical power in Mazael’s sword, the warded vault in the heart of the castle Timothy had built to guard the dangerous artifacts taken from Arylkrad…

  Yet he felt nothing else.

  Wait.

  There. The faintest of hint of power, coming from beneath the castle itself.

  Something left over from the San-keth temple? That seemed unlikely. The San-keth temple had been destroyed, and Mazael had ordered Lucan’s secret workshop purged.

  Besides, the power was coming from even lower than the temple, from the base of the hill.

  Lucan frowned and focused his spell.

  ###

  “His heir?” said Molly, disgusted. “Has he lost his mind?”

  She stood with Romaria atop the curtain wall, watching the pages and squires lead Toraine’s knights and armsmen to their lodgings. Mazael had disappeared with Toraine into the keep. No doubt they were shouting at each other even now.

  She wondered if Mazael would kill Toraine. She hoped so – Toraine was the sort of man she would have enjoyed killing when she had still been a Skull.

  She would enjoy killing him now.

  “You are Mazael’s heir,” said Romaria, unruffled by Molly’s irritation. Molly had yet to find a way to annoy the older woman. “You are his only living child, and the only living child he will ever have. That makes you the heir of Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Idiocy,” said Molly. “I don’t want Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Then what do you want?” said Romaria.

  Molly opened her mouth and found she did not have an answer.

  She wanted Nicholas Tormaud back, to lie in his arms again, but Corvad and her grandfather had killed him. She wanted to be free of her Demonsouled blood, but the only way to be free of it was to kill herself, and she wasn’t ready to die quite yet. She wanted revenge on her grandfather, but the Old Demon would crush her like a gnat in a direct confrontation, and anyway she had no idea where to find him.

  “I want to get very drunk,” said Molly.

  “I doubt that,” said Romaria. “The sort of discipline the Skulls teach is not easily discarded.”

  That was true enough. Molly felt uneasy if she did not practice with her weapons at least an hour every day.

  “Then it doesn’t matter what I want,” said Molly. “Life goes around in circles. Corvad killed Nicholas, and then Mazael killed Corvad. Mazael will kill Toraine, or Toraine will kill him. Or Mazael will kill Toraine, and then Lord Richard will kill him in vengeance. It’s just one bloody circle. That’s all life is. Misery and struggle and then death.” Her face tugged into something like a grin. “Misery and death and nothing else.”

  “You don’t believe that,” said Romaria. “Else you would have felt no grief when Nicholas was slain.”

  “I am done talking about this,” said Molly. Let Mazael kill Toraine, or let Toraine murder her father, it was all the same to her.

  She took a step and stumbled.

  Molly blinked.

  She never stumbled. Not since the training the Skulls had beaten into her.

  She stared at the rampart, her anger and pain drowned in sudden confusion.

  “Did you trip?” said Romaria, walking to her side.

  “I…think the ground just moved,” said Molly.

  ###

  “My father,” said Toraine, “does not approve of your impending marriage.”

  Mazael and Toraine stood in a small room behind the castle’s Great Hall, where Mitor and his advisors had once sat in council. A long wooden table ran the length of the room, and sunlight shone through the narrow windows, throwing the chamber into light and shadow. A carafe of wine and a row of goblets sat on the table, and Toraine helped himself.

  “Don’t you fear,” said Mazael, “that I might have poisoned the wine?”

  “Of course not,” said Toraine, taking a long swallow. “Your brother Mitor kissed the serpent, and he would have poisoned the wine. But not you, my lord Mazael. When you kill a man, you like to feel your sword in his gut, look him in the eye as he dies.” He smiled. “Like me.”

  Mazael had no answer for that, so instead he said, “Why does Lord Richard oppose the marriage? Romaria fought valiantly against both the San-keth and the Malrags. And if not for her valor, Ultorin would have never been brought to justice.”

  “Oh, no one doubts your half-breed’s valor,” said Toraine, swirling his wine in the goblet. “And I confess, even I would prefer not to face her in a fair fight. But that’s just it, my lord Mazael. She’s a half-breed, and my father’s pet scholars and tame wizards have assured him that an half-human, half-Elderborn woman cannot bear children. So. If I lose my temper in the next few minutes and kill you, who inherits Castle Cravenlock?”

  “Molly,” said Mazael.

  Toraine scowled. “Pretend your bastard doesn’t exist. Who inherits Castle Cravenlock?”

  “My sister Rachel,” said Mazael.

  “Who is married to Sir Gerald Roland,” said Toraine, “the son of my father’s greatest enemy, Lord Malden Roland. Even worse, your sister has a son, and she’s apparently pregnant with another brat. So her husband would rule Castle Cravenlock in her name, and when she dies, a grandson of Malden Roland takes Castle Cravenlock. Do you think my father would permit such a travesty?”

  “Lord Malden does not want a war,” said Mazael.

  “Lord Malden is old and tired,” said Toraine, “and the rumors coming out of Knig
htcastle say he has grown sick. How much longer does he have left? A year? Two? And when he dies, Sir Tobias Roland will become Lord Tobias. How long until he takes the war to my father?”

  “There is a way around the difficulty,” said Mazael.

  Toraine smiled. “I kill you and claim Castle Cravenlock for myself?”

  “No, a way that doesn’t involve my sword splitting your skull,” said Mazael. “Molly.”

  Toraine laughed. “Yes, your whore’s get.”

  “Her mother,” said Mazael, “was the Lady Elizabeth of Barellion. A minor noble, true, but still noble. When I die, Molly will inherit Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Unlikely,” said Toraine. “A bastard cannot inherit.”

  “A bastard can,” said Mazael, “if there are no trueborn children. Which there will not be.”

  “The other lords will not accept her,” said Toraine.

  “The other lords will,” said Mazael. “A bastard can inherit if there are no legitimate children.” He smiled. “As I recall, if you look back into the history of the Mandragons far enough, a bastard inherited Swordgrim once or twice.”

  “That was the past,” said Toraine. “And it is hardly relevant to matters now.”

  “And just why not?” said Mazael.

  “My father has two goals,” said Toraine, finishing off his goblet of wine. “The first is to ensure the security and prosperity of the Grim Marches. And the second is to secure the power and prestige of the House of Mandragon.” He pointed at Mazael. “And you stand directly in the way.”

  “If Molly inherits…”

  “If,” said Toraine. “If, if, if. If your bastard inherits. If Lord Malden decides to permit your bastard to inherit, rather than his daughter-in-law or his grandson. If Lord Tobias decides not to overthrow your bastard and claim Castle Cravenlock in the name of his sister-in-law. Of if one of the neighboring lords decides to assert himself and claim Castle Cravenlock.”

  “You’ll have peace so long as I am alive,” said Mazael. “I will not start a war with Lord Richard.”

  Toraine grinned. “Your death will also bring peace, my lord Mazael.”