Soul of Swords (Book 7) Read Free

said Mazael, thinking. “You.” He pointed at a tall, handsome man in the blue and silver surcoat of the Justiciar Order. “You’re Aidan Tormaud? The Justiciar commander that helped Gerald escape?”
    He saw a flicker of pain pass over Molly’s face. She had been in love with Nicholas Tormaud, Aidan’s younger brother, until the Old Demon and Corvad had murdered him. Now she was betrothed to Riothamus, but Mazael suspected the old pain would never quite leave her.
    “Aye, my lord,” said Aidan.
    “I suspect you are the highest-ranking Justiciar officer who hasn’t followed Caldarus into his lunacy, Sir Commander,” said Mazael. “Which means you are now the commander of the Justiciar Order.”
    Aidan’s mouth fell open. “But…”
    “Not all the Justiciar officers and knights will follow Caldarus,” said Mazael, “and we need every man. Someone has to lead them.”
    Aidan swallowed, and gave a sharp nod. 
    “My lords and knights,” said Mazael, raising his voice, “we have plans to make. Rufus! Get Master Cramton, and have rooms found for our guests. We will have a feast tonight, and then a council of war.” 
    Rufus bowed again and ran to fetch Mazael’s seneschal. Pages hurried forward to take the lords’ and knights’ horses. Mazael stepped closer to Rachel, Romaria at his side, while Riothamus and Molly spoke in low voices.
    “This is your second son?” said Mazael, looking at the child in Rachel’s arms.
    For the first time she smiled. “He is. Belifane.”
    Mazael looked at Gerald. “Named for your brother.”
    “Aye,” said Gerald. “My brother Belifane was slain fighting in the Grim Marches twenty years ago. I suppose it is a peculiar twist of history that I should bring my son Belifane to the Grim Marches to keep him safe.” 
    Mazael felt a touch on his arm.
    He turned and saw Romaria staring up at the sky. 
    “What is it?” said Mazael. Her half-human, half-Elderborn heritage had given her keen senses, and he knew to trust them.
    “Skythain,” said Romaria, and Mazael saw the black speck against the blue sky. “I think he’s going to land in the courtyard.”
    The skythains usually landed their griffin mounts in an enclosed field outside of Cravenlock Town, a half-mile from the castle. The scent of the griffins terrified horses, and the beasts sometimes stole pigs and sheep when their riders’ attention was elsewhere. 
    Only urgent news would bring a skythain directly to the castle. 
    The black speck grew larger, circling towards the courtyard.
    “Father, look!” said Aldane, his voice full of delight. A murmur of alarm went through the lords from Knightreach, and Mazael remembered that they had never seen a griffin before. “A griffin!”
    “Gods,” said Gerald, reaching for his sword. “Is that…”
    “Hold!” said Mazael, his voice cutting through the noise. “The Tervingi scouts ride griffins.”
    The griffin circled lower, its white wings spread, its golden-furred limbs tucked close to its body. A man in leather sat on a saddle atop the beast’s back, his reins looped through the griffin’s razor-edged beak.
    Gerald shook his head. “I thought griffins were only a story.”
    Molly snorted. “Wait until you see a mammoth, Lord Gerald.”
    “Mammoth?” said several of the lords. 
    The griffin landed at the base of the keep, downwind from the stables. Mazael recognized the lean, sunburned man in the saddle as Toric son of Torvmund. Toric had been a skythain in the service of the hrould Athanaric, and after Athanaric’s death, had become a headman in his own right. 
    “Toric!” said Mazael. “What news?”
    “Ill news, hrould,” said Toric. “There is a party of horsemen upon the road,” he glanced at the nobles from Knightreach, “and I see they have arrived.”
    “This is my sister Lady Rachel, her husband Lord Gerald of Knightcastle, and their sworn men,” said Mazael. “Their arrival is hardly ill news.”
    Toric shook his head. “It