The street ended, and he stepped into the smoking wreckage of the northern market. The stone church on the western side was nothing but a shell, the roof collapsed, flames dancing inside its walls. The tavern on the eastern side had collapsed to broken rubble and stone, smoke and flame rising from the debris. Thousands of slain humans and goblins and muridachs lay scattered across the ground, many of them burned by the explosion, but others killed by sword and spell and arrow.
Thousands of living goblins poured into the square, and quite a lot of them turned towards Tyrcamber and began to charge.
Tyrcamber walked alone to face them, his pace unhurried, Kyathar burning in his right hand.
He ought to have been afraid, he knew. Fear would have been the only rational response to the situation. But the fear had been burned out of Tyrcamber. He had died dozens of times. He had been enslaved for thousands of years. What could these wretched creatures do to him that was worse than what he had already experienced?
He didn’t feel fear. Instead, he felt…
Joy.
A hard rictus of a smile spread over his face.
For so many millennia, he had seen this army destroy the Empire and enslave humanity. He had been forced to help this army destroy the Empire over and over.
And now, at last, he would be able to fight them. At last, he would have a chance to repay them for all his torment, for all the horrors he had witnessed.
He would have a reckoning with their master.
Tyrcamber raised his left hand and called magic.
The Malison blazed through him. Previously, there had been limits to how much magic he could summon at once. The danger of the Dragon Curse meant that he could only draw on a small amount of magical power lest he lose control and transform into a monster. But he had already succumbed to the Dragon Curse. He had become the monster, and he had passed through the madness and the horror to become something else.
He was the Malison, and it surged into him at his call.
Tyrcamber gestured and cast the Fire Stream spell.
It was one of the spells the Order of Embers taught to its knights and serjeants, and Tyrcamber had used it before. He was a powerful wizard by the standards of humans, but he had never been able to use the spell more than once or twice without needing rest. Now, the limitation of the Malison no longer applied to him, and the power tore through him like a surging river.
A bar of fire the width of his leg leaped from his hand. It blazed white-hot, so hot that Tyrcamber could not look at it directly. He swept his hand before him in an arc, and the shaft of fire sliced across the square and into the goblins.
Hundreds of goblins died in the blink of an eye.
The shaft of fire cut them in half as if they had been made of soft butter instead of flesh and bone. Pieces of the slain goblin soldiers fell smoking to the ground. Sinderost already stank of smoke and blood and death, but now the stench of charred meat filled Tyrcamber’s nostrils.
The goblin horde surging into the market reeled for a second, shocked by the sudden death of so many of their fellows.
But Tyrcamber still wasn’t done.
He strode closer to the goblins and cast another of the Order’s spells. He had been one of the more powerful wielders of magic among the Order, but he hadn’t possessed the strength to cast the Fire Rain spell. Only a few of the strongest knights had that ability – his friend Angaric Medraut, for one.
Tyrcamber just had time to hope that Angaric was still alive, and then the power exploded out from him.
He gestured with his free hand, and dozens of fist-sized spheres of flame formed overhead. They began to fall like hailstones, and when they struck the ground, they exploded in blooms of fire. Each one erupted with enough force to kill dozens of goblins, and Tyrcamber killed hundreds of his foes. The stink of burning muridach fur joined the reek of charred flesh that filled the square. The attack through the shattered gate reeled back further, stunned by the destructive fury that Tyrcamber had unleashed.
By then he had reached the front of the goblins, and he lifted Kyathar’s burning blade before him and cast the Shield spell. Instead of a dome of light, the spell twisted through the channels in his armor, and it settled upon his left gauntlet, a round shield of flame about four feet in diameter resting on his forearm. Tyrcamber cast the Armor spell, and a corona of elemental flame snarled around him.
He strode into the goblins and started killing.
He didn’t know what metal had been used to create Kyathar, but the sword was sharper and lighter than any weapon he had ever wielded, and it could bite through steel armor to find the flesh beneath. The inferno of his Armor spell killed any goblin that drew too near. And the Shield blazing upon his left arm was so hot that any weapon that touched it disintegrated. Arrows burst apart into burning splinters. Swords shattered into glowing shards.
Tyrcamber dodged around the swing of an ogre’s massive war axe. It blurred past his head, the metal edge glowing white-hot as it passed through the edge of the Armor spell. The ogre bellowed in pain as the heat seared its right hand, and Tyrcamber attacked. Kyathar chopped through the ogre’s cuirass and sank into its thigh, and the creature bellowed in agony, stumbling to one knee. Tyrcamber drove Kyathar into the ogre’s throat, wrenched the sword free, and turned to face another foe.
As he did, the men of the Empire charged into the market, hitting the goblins and muridachs from three sides at once.
Duke Chilmar or Master Ruire or one of the other high nobles must have organized it. The serjeants and men-at-arms carved into the goblins, and the Valedictor’s advance into the market turned into a panicked rout. Between Tyrcamber’s fury and the sudden attack, the goblins retreated, falling into disorder as they fled outside of the city.
Tyrcamber spotted Rilmael, Duke Chilmar, and Master Ruire approaching, and he turned to join them. Rilmael looked calm, if weary, and both Duke Chilmar and Master Ruire seemed unsettled.
Even the grim Duke and the veteran Master had not seen horror and bloodshed on the scale that Tyrcamber had.
“They are retreating,” said Ruire.
“Then we must pursue them and strike,” said Tyrcamber.
“We do not have the numbers,” said Chilmar. “Even if we took every available fighting man and marched from the northern gate at once, we would still be outnumbered three to one. And the attack on the eastern wall is still underway.”
“Then get ready to march,” said Tyrcamber, returning Kyathar to its scabbard. The sword’s fire went out. “I will deal with the attack on the eastern wall.”
Chilmar scoffed. “All by yourself?”
“Rafts burn, don’t they?” said Tyrcamber, turning to the east.
He walked a few steps, far enough that he wouldn’t crush anyone, and he reached for the Malison and let it flow through him. The golden fire erupted, and Tyrcamber expanded, his body swelling into immensity as he took on dragon form again. Golden scales covered him, talons sprouted from his fingers and toes as each of his limbs became larger and thicker than his human body, and the black wings rested upon his back.
His armor and cloak and sword had indeed disappeared with the transformation. A neat trick, that.
Tyrcamber felt the nearby soldiers staring at him in astonishment, his father and the Master not least among them. Only Rilmael remained unsurprised, but he knew what was happening.
“He truly is a Dragontiarna,” said Ruire, shock in his voice.
Tyrcamber leaped into the air, his wings unfolding, and hurtled to the east, flying low over the rooftops of the New City. His wings carried him with great speed, as did the power of the magic that had transformed him, and he shot over the battlements of the eastern wall and across the River Nabia. At a glance, he took in the struggle at the eastern wall. The men of the Empire fought along the entirety of the wall, battling goblins and muridachs. Ogres stood on the narrow strip of ground between the wall and the river, holding the base of siege ladders, massive shields raised over their h
eads. Dozens of wide rafts floated on the river, large enough that they were almost barges. Each one held hundreds of goblin and muridach soldiers. Arrows hissed from the battlements, along with occasional catapult fire, but the enemy soldiers had shields and there were so many rafts the catapults could not get them all.
But the rafts had been built of rough-hewn pine logs cut from the forests and sealed with tar. They would not be vulnerable to arrows.
But fire, though…
Tyrcamber could bring fire.
He flew to the north, shooting so low over the water that the river rippled beneath him. The goblins and muridachs on the rafts looked up at him with surprise, but no alarm yet. After all, they served the Valedictor, the dark elven lord who had seized both the Dragon Imperator’s throne and his ability to command dragons. Any dragons they saw would be on their side.
So their surprise was absolute when Tyrcamber banked, turned south, and breathed fire.
He flew along the wall, wings flapping as he poured fire from his jaws into the base of the wall. The flames engulfed both the bottom of the ladders and armored ogres holding them in place. Tyrcamber shot past the southern point of the city, past the strong fortress of the Imperial Palace, then turned and flew back to the north. A curtain of flames burned at the foot of the eastern wall, and Tyrcamber saw the ladders collapsing in the heat of the fire.
Tyrcamber also saw the sudden panic among the goblins and the muridachs on the rafts.
More fire burst from his jaws as he began to burn the rafts.
It did not take much effort. The pine logs and the tar coating went up like kindling, and hundreds of goblins and muridachs died as they burned. More died as they jumped from the rafts, pulled down to drown by the weight of their armor and weapons. It helped that the rafts were packed close together as they crossed the river, making it easy for Tyrcamber to burn them. He swept back and forth over the water, spraying fire upon the enemy. Some of them had the wit to loose arrows or javelins at him, but the missiles rebounded from his golden scales. It would take more than that to pierce the hide of a dragon, and all the Valedictor’s siege engines were on the other side of the river for the assault on Sinderost’s northern wall.
Tyrcamber didn’t know how many of the enemy he killed. Thousands, certainly, and thousands more drowned in the waters of the river. He had burned about three-quarters of the rafts by the time the rest of the goblins had seen enough. They turned their craft and paddled frantically back to the eastern bank.
He burned two more rafts and then flew back to the west, soaring over the defenders on the eastern wall and back to the northern square of the New City. The men of the Empire had driven the goblins and the muridachs out of Sinderost, but that would not last long. The Valedictor might not have been able to get his reinforcements across the River Bellex, but he still had a strong army north of the city, more than strong enough to storm through the broken gate and take Sinderost.
Especially when the Valedictor himself took to the air upon the back of his great black dragon, flanked by the lesser dragons he had dominated.
Already Tyrcamber saw the Valedictor’s army moving into position, preparing to force its away into the city. They would most probably be victorious.
Unless Tyrcamber killed the Valedictor first.
Thousands of years. For thousands of years, he had been the Valedictor’s slave.
Today, it would end.
Tyrcamber circled over the square, spotted his father, Master Ruire, and the Guardian, and landed in front of them. He commanded the Malison and resumed his human form in a burst of golden fire. Tyrcamber caught his balance as he returned to human shape, and he was glad to see his armor and clothes and sword had come along with him. He had much, much bigger problems right now, but he was still pleased that he had not reappeared naked in front of the Master and the Duke and half the fighting men of the Empire of the Franks.
“God and the saints, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Ruire. He sounded shaken. “We received word from the knights in command of the eastern wall. A golden dragon appeared and annihilated the attack over the River Bellex. We can recall the men from the wall and march out to fight the Valedictor’s forces.”
“This is madness,” said Duke Chilmar. “If we fight outside the walls, we’ll be annihilated.”
“I will kill the Valedictor,” said Tyrcamber, “and his army will break apart once he is no longer there to control them.”
Ruire hesitated and looked at Rilmael.
“This is the hour, my lords,” said the Guardian. “This is our chance to defeat the Valedictor and stop him from rebuilding the dominion of the Dragon Imperator. This is the hour that shall decide the fate of the Empire. The Valedictor will either triumph, or we shall. There is no other option.”
Chilmar scowled. He did not look happy, but he nodded. Whatever else his flaws, no man could accuse the Duke of Chalons of indecision. “So be it.”
***
Chapter 9: The Lord of the Dark Elves
The army of the Empire issued from the broken gate of Sinderost, forming up to face the Valedictor’s horde.
The Valedictor’s forces had fallen back in disarray from the northern wall of the Imperial capital, but the enemy was organizing. Companies of goblins and muridachs were marching, and Tyrcamber heard the hoarse roar of ogre warriors shouting commands. Tyrcamber’s attack and the failure of the assault on the northern wall had given the enemy a shock, but they weren’t beaten yet.
The army of the Empire streamed from the ruined wall, moving into battle array below the ramparts. Ranks of serjeants, men-at-arms, and spearmen hurried into lines, weapons and shields turned towards the enemy. Lines of archers and crossbowmen formed up behind them, checking their bows. Armored knights atop horses moved to the flanks, preparing to charge.
“There are still too many of them,” said Duke Chilmar from atop his horse, scowling at the ranks of the Valedictor’s horde. Tyrcamber’s father and Master Ruire between them had taken command of the city’s defense, possibly because they seemed like the only men who had anything resembling a plan. “If we march out to fight them, they will envelop us. Or they will push us right back into the New City, and we’ll have a running battle in the streets. That will be a bloodbath.”
“Aye,” said Master Ruire, his voice grim, “but perhaps that may be worth the cost. If the western Dukes cross the River Nabia and strike while the Valedictor’s force is bogged down in the city, they might have a chance to smash his host.”
“It will not come to that,” said Tyrcamber. He had not bothered with a horse, and he walked next to Master Ruire’s mount.
He would not need one.
“And just why is that?” said Chilmar.
“I will find the Valedictor and kill him,” said Tyrcamber. “Before I do, I will throw his host into chaos. That will allow you to strike.”
“We will be ready,” said Rilmael. He had claimed a horse as well, and he sat with his staff laid across the saddle. “If you create any chaos, we shall use it to full effect.”
Tyrcamber walked to the side without another word, ignoring his father’s angry questions. When the transformation came, he needed more room, and he didn’t want to accidentally crush anyone. Tyrcamber reached for the fury of the Malison and called it forth. He felt the magic roar through him. His armor and weapon disappeared, and again Tyrcamber swelled into immensity, taking the form of the great golden dragon. The first time he had transformed all those millennia ago, it had been a hideous, nightmarish experience, his body twisting and breaking and becoming a prison of flesh that bound his trapped mind. Now he felt as comfortable in his dragon form as he did in his human body.
The Valedictor had given him thousands of years of experience with using his dragon form to kill.
Now it was time to pay that back.
Tyrcamber leaped into the air, his wings flapping, and flew towards the Valedictor’s host. He saw the shocked looks the soldiers gave him as he passed overhead, low enoug
h that the wind of his passage tugged at their cloaks. They would have heard the rumors that a golden dragon had destroyed the assault on the eastern wall, but rumors were one thing. Seeing a dragon fighting for the Empire was quite another.
He heard a few cries of “Dragontiarna” as he passed, and then he shot towards the Valedictor’s horde, keeping low to the ground. The Valedictor’s army had siege engines, catapults and ballistae, and the ballistae were powerful enough to kill Tyrcamber. But all the siege engines had been targeted at the walls, and there hadn’t been time to adjust their aim in the mad scramble. Additionally, the ballistae of the Valedictor’s soldiers were large, heavy weapons, not the lighter, swifter weapons the xiatami had used to kill Tyrcamber. Unlike the xiatami, the Valedictor’s soldiers had not expected to face hostile dragons and had trusted in their own dragons to defend them from griffins and stormhawks.
It was time to show them the danger of that mistake.
Tyrcamber opened his jaws, and fire exploded over his fangs.
He flew over the Valedictor’s horde, and the fire slashed a burning line through the ranks of the soldiers. Goblins and muridachs died, and others fled screaming, wreathed in fire. Tyrcamber passed entirely over the army, reached the River Nabia, turned, and flew back to the south, breathing more fire. The Valedictor’s lines shuddered as he passed over them, and he felt the impacts as the goblins and ogres and muridachs shot arrows or threw javelins at him. But the weapons were not powerful enough to penetrate his scales, and Tyrcamber unleashed more fiery havoc.
Malison: Dragon War Page 10