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
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
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