Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Lucan and stopped the Great Rising from animating any more runedead? You did. Who kept the Tervingi and the lords of the Grim Marches from tearing each other apart? You did.”
    “With Riothamus’s help,” said Mazael.
    “They follow you, not Riothamus,” said Romaria. “You’ve held the Grim Marches together. You are the reason the Grim Marches has not become a score of warring fiefdoms or a runedead-haunted wasteland. Perhaps you should have killed Lucan, but you thought him a better man than he was. His deeds are not your fault.”
    “No,” said Mazael. “No, they may not be my fault, but they are my responsibility.”
    He fell into silence.
    “You’ve done all you can,” said Romaria. “You’ve kept the Grim Marches safe, and you’ve driven out or destroyed most of the runedead. No one can ask more of you than that. And you broke the Great Rising, Mazael. There might be tens of thousands of runedead, but no new ones will rise. Sooner or later, we’ll destroy them all. Perhaps it will take decades. But someday the last runedead will be destroyed, and no one will fear them again.” 
    Mazael said nothing for a moment.
    “You’re right,” he said at last. “It could be worse.”
    At least Lucan Mandragon was dead, and could work no further harm.

Chapter 3 – Awakening

    Lucan Mandragon stood motionless in the darkness, gazing at the underground lake.
    How long had he been standing here? Two days? Three? A week, perhaps? 
    A month?
    It didn’t matter. 
    He had nothing but time.
    He had been standing for days, yet he did not feel the slightest ache in his legs. He did not feel the draw of his breath, nor the beating of his heart, most likely because both had stopped. 
    He felt nothing at all. 
    Save for the occasional flash of grief that tore through him. 
    Followed always by rage like an inferno.

    ###

    “How long, I wonder,” said a sardonic voice, “are you going to stand there contemplating the water?”
    Lucan blinked – not that he had any need for it – and turned his head. 
    He stood in the vast underground cavern that had once served as his teacher Marstan's hidden workshop. Marstan had claimed the wizards’ brotherhood had expelled him for challenging their authority, but in truth he was a necromancer. He had tried to transfer his spirit to Lucan’s body and claim it for his own, but Lucan had fought him off. Yet the ordeal had left many of Marstan’s memories and powers in Lucan's mind. 
    Was that where he had first gone wrong?
    “As long as necessary,” said Lucan, turning from the underground lake.
    A broad ledge encircled this end of the cavern, filled with tables and workbenches, their surfaces laden with jars and vials and glass tubes and peculiar brass instruments. Heavy shelves stood against the cavern’s walls, lined with books and scrolls. 
    A lean, fit man in his early thirties stood a dozen yards from Lucan. He wore gleaming black boots, black trousers, and a black leather vest over a spotless white shirt. His blond beard and mustache had been trimmed with razor precision, and a fine sword and dagger hung from his leather belt. Despite the rigors of the long journey to Arylkrad and back, he kept up his grooming, and looked like one of the minor nobles that infested the Prince of Barellion’s court. Yet the man had the balance of a master swordsman, the cold green eyes of a hardened killer…and an aura of dark magical power that brushed against Lucan’s senses.
    An aura that had grown much stronger. 
    “As long as necessary?” said the man. “I suppose you could stand down here until all your enemies are dead, given your new...state, but that hardly seems like an efficient use of time.”
    Lucan stared at him. “Why are you here, Malaric?”
    Malaric grinned. “Why, to follow you, my lord Lucan. Power follows in your wake." 
    "And death," said Lucan. 
    He remembered the life fading from Tymaen's blue eyes, the shard of the Wraithaldr transfixing her