The Third Soul Omnibus Two Read online

  Marsile would have come here, yes. But wouldn’t he have known Raelum would come here as well? And if he had known Raelum would come here…

  Raelum stiffened and took his sword in both hands.

  The keep was a trap.

  He turned just as the wraith rose from the floor.

  It seemed like a man fashioned out of blue smoke, clad in chain mail, a sword of pale light ready. A green glow shone from deep within the wavering form. Demons could possess men both living and dead. But sometimes a demon fused with the memories of a dead man, with his very thoughts…and a wraith was the result.

  “You,” moaned the wraith, “you are the one I am bidden to slay. I am the domn of Coldbrook Keep, and I shall be domn again, once you are slain and join my service.” Its face looked like tapestries and illuminations Raelum had seen of ancient Callian knights, proud, scarred, and mustached.

  Raelum raised his sword. “Marsile bid you to slay me, did he not?”

  The wraith glided towards him. “You will serve me. Your strength will become mine.” The chill stabbed into Raelum like frozen knives. He remembered what Sir Oliver had taught him about such demons. They drained away life from the living, using it as fuel to make themselves stronger.

  Raelum drew on the Light as Sir Oliver had trained him. A faint nimbus of protective radiance surrounded his mail, and the chill vanished, his vision snapping back into focus.

  “You dare!” said the wraith. It lunged at him, sword swinging. Raelum blocked, ducked, and slashed. His burning blade passed through the wraith, and the demon shrieked and glided back.

  “Aid me!” the wraith said. “My vassals, come forth!”

  A section of the floor broke open, and a ghastly stench flooded the hall. Hunched, shuffling forms emerged from the hole, corpses clothed in rags. No wonder the village folk avoided this place. They were mindless demons housed in dead flesh, enslaved to the wraith’s will, but nonetheless possessed of great physical strength.

  “Slay him!” said the wraith.

  Raelum’s sword burned through one ghoul, decapitated another, and took a third through the knees. Yet one drew close enough to slash at his chest. His mail turned the talons, but the force of the blow sent him sprawling. Raelum staggered back to his feet as ghouls moved into a circle around him, sightless eyes gaping. At least two dozen of the wretched things choked the small hall.

  “Take him!” said the wraith. “He shall rise to serve me, and I shall again have a knight in my service.”

  Raelum lifted his sword and drew on the Light. The blade blazed with radiance, throwing back the shadows. The ghouls flinched back, repulsed. The wraith hissed and flowed forward.

  “Fools!” it said. “Fools! I shall take him myself…”

  Raelum stabbed, his blade plunging into the wraith’s translucent chest. It screamed and tried to twist away, but Raelum kept his blade buried in the apparition’s chest. The wraith snarled and shrieked, but could not pull free.

  “Release me!” it said. “Let me go!”

  “No,” said Raelum. “Tell me what I wish to know, and I’ll release you from this living death.”

  “You…you are a Knight of the Order of the Silver Blade?” said the wraith. “I can see the aurelium core within your sword and the Light within you. Ah! How it burns me! Yet I have not seen such in my hall since…since I was yet a living man. I shall speak, Paladin, if you wish it.”

  “I wish it,” said Raelum. “You said a man bade you to slay me? What did he look like?”

  “It…is hard to remember,” said the wraith. “The days are but reflections on the mist. The man…he came here, dressed in robes of red, like an Adept of the Conclave of Araspan.”

  “Marsile,” said Raelum. “He was an Adept of the Conclave.”

  “Thirty men came with him, clad in the robes of Brothers of the Temple,” said the ghostly knight, “and waited at the base of the hill. The Adept came into my keep. I thought to slay him, take him into my service.” The wraith shuddered. “Yet he had great strength. He forced his will into me.”

  “And he commanded you to kill me,” said Raelum.

  “Aye!” The wraith groaned. “And he also bade me answer his questions.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “A monastery,” said the wraith. “These lands were not always so empty. After the fall of the Old Empire and the destruction of the Elder People, many settlers came here. Years ago I donated lands and money to a monastery, a cloister dedicated to St. Arik.”

  “The patron saint of guardians,” said Raelum. The Silver Knights revered him, among others. “What did the Brothers guard?”

  “A book,” said the wraith. “A tome called the Book of the Summoned Dead. The Brothers feared to destroy it, lest its evil escape into the world. So they vowed to guard the book eternally.”

  “And Marsile wants that book,” said Raelum. It made sense. Books had started this whole affair, had they not?

  “And then the Adept commanded me to slay his pursuers,” said the wraith. “He said that you would come here.”

  “Where is St. Arik’s?” said Raelum.

  “Follow the road to the east,” said the wraith. “It will take you there.”

  “Very well,” said Raelum. “Then I release you from this curse.”

  He yanked his sword up, slashing through the wraith’s chest and head. The form blazed with white light and vanished in a swirl of smoke. The ghouls stood motionless, freed from their master, but without will of their own. Raelum lifted his sword and decapitated them one by one. He stepped outside and looked at the keep. He sensed no further demons within the crumbling stone tower. No doubt another group of ghouls, or a band of human bandits, would claim the place. Perhaps Raelum’s efforts had been a waste.

  Yet Sir Oliver would have entered the keep, and Raelum could do no less.

  He left Coldbrook Keep behind, following Marsile’s trail.

  Chapter 5 - The Dead Monastery

  Raelum ate on his feet, chewing some hard bread and withered jerky. It seemed best to save Jenny’s food for leaner times. He rested only for a few hours each night, stopping after sundown and continuing before sunrise. A fierce rage was cutting through the fog of his grief.

  He was so close to Marsile.

  Two days after leaving Coldbrook he came upon a long-ruined village. The stone walls still stood, but the roofs had long ago rotted away. Raelum let his senses wash over the place. Dozens of demons lurked within, perhaps watching him. Some of the demons possessed considerable power – wraiths, most likely, or perhaps even a greater demon of some kind. Had Marsile slaughtered the villagers and raised them as demon-possessed ghouls? No, the ruins looked ancient.

  Raelum wanted to draw his sword, charge into the place, and destroy every one of the creatures. But they would overwhelm him, and his oaths to Sir Oliver would go unfulfilled. Raelum made a wide circle around the ruined village, keeping an eye for any movement.

  No demons emerged from the village, and Raelum kept going.

  The next day, the forest thinned, and the road turned northeast, running alongside a wide, icy river. Raelum remembered the maps Sir Oliver had shown him. This was the Alderine River, which ran southwest from the Silvercrown Mountains all the way to Callia City itself. It explained how any villages at all remained in these demon-haunted lands. The villagers sent their goods downriver, to more populated lands, and enterprising merchants rowed upstream.

  Though the river would make a good pathway for marauding Northmen.

  Though what would Northmen find to raid here?

  Raelum walked on, doubt beginning to grow. Perhaps the knight’s wraith had been mistaken. Or perhaps it had misled Raelum. Could Marsile have commanded it to lie? Raelum saw no sign that Marsile and his minions had ever come this way. Then again, the constant wind removed any tracks.

  Three days later, Raelum saw stone towers poking over the barren trees.

  He quickened his pace. A stone crag stood ahead, cas
ting its shadow across the river. Atop the crag squatted a small fortress of hewn stone, stern and grim. The rose sigil of the Divine had been carved over the gates.

  “St. Arik’s, then,” said Raelum. The place looked abandoned, its towers crumbling. What Brothers would come to such a desolate place? Raelum sent his senses over the cloister, seeking for demons.

  He found none. But he did sense gathering darkness within, as if many fresh, unburied corpses littered the monastery, waiting for demons to claim them...

  Raelum broke into a run. The monastery’s gates had not been barred. He pushed them open, ran into the courtyard, and skidded to a stop.

  A half-dozen brown-robed bodies lay on the cold ground, frozen blood staining the walls and the earth. Raelum knelt besides one of the mangled corpses.

  The Brother hadn’t been dead long. Marsile must have killed everyone in the monastery. Otherwise the Brothers would not have let the corpses lie unattended. Raelum felt the dark energy gathering in the dead flesh. Another night and another day, and they would rise.

  He shot to his feet, an alarming thought filling his mind. Perhaps Marsile and his servants still prowled the monastery. Or maybe Marsile himself watched Raelum from one of the tower windows. Raelum drew his sword and felt a tingle of excitement, despite the carnage. Could he have caught Marsile at last?

  Yet Raelum had grim work to do first. He loathed it, but no doubt the Brothers themselves would have preferred it. He took a deep breath, gripped his sword in both hands, and started severing heads.

  It did not take long. The Brothers’ flesh had begun to freeze, yet Sir Oliver’s sword sheared through necks without difficulty. Raelum finished and crossed the courtyard to the monastery proper.

  He strode into an ornate entry hall and stopped. A few stained-glass windows of stunning beauty sat high in the stone wall, spilling colored light across the floor. Raelum walked through the hall, head craning back and forth, seeking signs of life.

  He found two more dead Brothers lying at the base of a spiral stair. The dead men had taken their wounds in the back. Had they fled from the courtyard and been killed here? Raelum stopped to behead the Brothers, then started up the stairs. How many Brothers had the monastery housed? He might spend all day beheading their corpses.

  The stairwell ended in a large domed chamber. Rows of tall windows let in the sunlight, and ranks of wooden desks lined the walls. Each desk held an inkpot, sheets of paper, and a variety of writing tools. This place must have been the monastery’s scriptorium.

  Another door stood in the far wall, near two dead Brothers. Raelum beheaded the corpses, wincing as the thick blood oozed across the stone floor, and pushed open the door.

  He entered the monastery’s library. High windows flooded the room with sunlight, glinting off enormous leather-bound books upon polished bookcases and long tables covered with scrolls. Here the Brothers had spent their lives in study. Now they would neither read nor pray ever again, and their monastery would crumble into ruin.

  More blood on Marsile’s dripping hands.

  Raelum stared at the books, squinting at the titles. He spoke any number of languages, but had never found reading easy. Sir Oliver had taught him a great deal, yet Raelum still struggled.

  “The Deeds of St. Arik,” he read. “The …the Black Wickedness and Base Treachery of the Hierarchs of the Old Empire. Theological Disputations. The…um, the Holy…Nature of the Divine. ”

  Raelum shook his head. The book Marsile had come to claim would not sit on these shelves. Yet where would the Brothers have kept it?

  Raelum turned to go, and something moved under one of the tables.

  Chapter 6 - The First Brother of St. Arik’s

  Raelum whirled, his sword raised. “Who’s there?”

  A piteous, watery groan came to his ears. Raelum took two steps back and peered under the table.

  An old man lay on the floor, his robes stained with dried blood, an enormous gold ring upon his finger. The man clutched a pendant with the rose sigil of the Divine like a shield.

  “By the Divine,” wheezed the old man. “You’re a devil, one of his devils, come to finish me off.”

  Raelum did not move. “I have not come to harm you.”

  “Who are you?” said the old man. “Answer me!”

  “Raelum, once of Khauldun, now a Silver Knight.” He let the man see the sword-and-rose sigil upon his blade.

  “The…the sigil,” said the old man. “But…how…” A cry of joy slipped his lips, followed by racking coughs. “You must be a Silver Knight. No demon could bear the touch of such a sword. I…” The coughs overpowered him.

  Raelum slid the old man from under the table, hoping to use the Light to heal him. A quick glance over the hideous burns on the old man’s chest and belly quashed that hope. Raelum was not strong enough with the Light, and if he tried, he would only kill the old man, and perhaps himself.

  “My time is short,” wheezed the old man. “I…I ask that you…”

  “Keep you from rising as a demon?” said Raelum. The old man nodded, white hair rustling. “Aye. I shall do that. But who are you?”

  “I am Portlock, First Brother of this monastery,” said the old man. “My brothers are all dead, slain at the hands of that fiend and his monsters. Lord Paladin, will you keep them from the demons?”

  “Aye,” said Raelum. “I already have for ten, ere I found you. But what happened here?”

  “A man came to our gates,” said the First Brother. “He wore the crimson robes of an Adept of the wicked Conclave. I told him that no wielder of magic would pass our gates. He laughed and said that his name was Marsile of Araspan, once of the Conclave, and he sought not entry but a book.” Portlock coughed. “A dark book, one that has been in our care for many generations. I refused, and Marsile summoned men in the robes of Brothers from the woods, and…”

  “And they were not men but demons,” said Raelum, “ghouls under his command.”

  “Yes,” said Portlock. “How did you know?”

  “I have hunted him for a long time,” said Raelum.

  “His monsters stormed the monastery. My brothers fell one by one, and the ghouls drove us into the library. Marsile himself came. He looked at me, and said…and said…”

  “What did he say?” said Raelum.

  “‘Your faith means little, old man. Has it ever saved anyone from death?’ He…seemed almost sorrowful. I told him that we find life again in the next world, through the grace of the Divine, and then…”

  “And then?” said Raelum.

  “He laughed at me. ‘Permit me, lord abbot, to disprove that fallacy’. Fire exploded everywhere. I have never felt such pain. I woke up…and saw you, standing there. ”

  “The book,” said Raelum, “he came here for the book. What was it?”

  “The Book of Summoned Dead,” said Portlock. “I never read it, for it was forbidden. But…the histories of our order said it was a grimoire from the Old Empire, a book written by one of the Hierarchs, the demon-worshipping mage-lords of the Old Empire. Only a wicked man would covet such a hideous book. ”

  “Aye,” said Raelum. “Where was the book kept?” Perhaps he could catch Marsile yet.

  “A vault under the shrine,” said Portlock. The First Brother’s thin hand clutched Raelum’s arm. “I beg you, put my brothers to rest. There were thirteen others here, not counting myself. You have saved ten, but three remain. I beg you, keep their corpses from the demons’ grasp.”

  “I shall,” said Raelum.

  “And warn the others,” said Portlock, his voice weakening.

  “What others?”

  “The monastery of St. Tarill,” said Portlock, “northeast of here. It, too, safeguards a book of darkness. If Marsile learns of it…he will go there.”

  “St. Tarill,” said Raelum. If Marsile had already left the monastery, he could not be more than a few hours ahead. Raelum could cut him off and lie in wait at St. Tarill.

  “Stop him,” whispere
d the First Brother. “Stop him from doing this again.”

  “I promise you,” said Raelum, “that I will find him, and I shall make him pay for what he has done or die trying.”

  “Do not,” said Portlock, “do not kill him for revenge. Kill him to stop him, to keep him from spreading more darkness across the world.” He blinked. “The Divine…”

  Portlock sighed and went still. Raelum stood, took his sword, decapitated the corpse, and said a brief prayer. He wished could burn the Brothers’ corpses to ashes, but Raelum had not the time. Improvised measures would have to do. Better that the Brothers’ bones lie in peace than rise as ghouls.

  And if Raelum could catch his enemy, Marsile would pay for the Brothers’ deaths.

  Raelum went back down the stairs and took another corridor. Tapestries hung from the walls, heroic scenes depicting the Seeress leading the nations from the demon-haunted wreck of the Old Empire. The corridor ended in another pair of double doors.

  Raelum opened the doors and stepped into the shrine. Colored light streamed through more stained-glass windows, and another dead Brother lay before the altar, grasping it with cold hands. Raelum dragged the corpse into the corridor and beheaded it. He did not want to further profane the shrine with spilled blood. Once he had finished the grim task, he returned to the shrine, searching behind the altar.

  A door had once stood in the wall behind the altar, but it had been smashed with tremendous force. Beyond the door a narrow stairwell sank into the earth. Raelum retrieved a candle from the altar, lit it with his flint, and descended into the earth, candle in one hand, sword in the other.

  The stairs ended in a dank vault. A single moldering shelf sat against the far wall, holding an assortment of books and scrolls. Besides it rested a shattered glass case. A velvet pillow sat in the case, dented as if something heavy had sat there for a long time.

  “The book,” muttered Raelum. Marsile must have already taken it and left.

  Raelum turned to go and saw the bodies.

  The remaining two Brothers lay in the vault’s corners. Unlike the others, they had not been slain by the ghouls or burned by Marsile’s spells, but their throats had been cut. Dried blood crusted the front of their robes, symbols in blood written upon their foreheads and jaws.