Malison: Dragon Fury

by Moeller, Jonathan

  He heard the Conciliator’s voice raised in command, and the goblins responded with a shrieking cry. They charged forward, brandishing their weapons, and cast spells as they ran. The mounted scouts loosed one final volley of arrows and retreated back towards the footmen

  “Shield spells, first line!” roared Rudolf, pointing his sword. The serjeants in the front line responded to the command and cast their Shield spells in unison, creating an overlapping magical barrier. The goblins’ hurled Lance spells struck the Shields, jagged ice spikes shattering against the magical defenses. Some of the Shield spells collapsed under the onslaught, but they kept the goblins’ Lance spells from striking the men.

  “Second line, Lances!” said Rudolf.

  The men of the second line cast the Lance spell. Most of the serjeants of the Order of Embers had an affinity for the magic of elemental flame, and dozens of shafts of fire burst from their hands, shot past the first line, and plunged into the goblins. A half-dozen goblins fell dead, while the rest of the creatures cast Shield spells of their own, deflecting the volley of Lance spells.

  “I’ll handle the Conciliator,” said Tyrcamber, watching as the mob of goblins faltered under the Lance spells.

  “Yes, sir,” said Rudolf, watching the battle. “We’ll take the goblins. Second line, Lances!”

  The second line had time to fling one more volley of Lance spells, and fire and lightning ripped across the shrinking distance to the goblin mob. Again, Tyrcamber saw the crimson glow of a blood spell beginning, and again he cast the Lance spell, forcing the xiatami priest to cast a Shield instead.

  “Hold fast!” roared Rudolf. “The first line will hold…”

  The ragged goblin mob crashed into the line of serjeants. Swords and axes rang against shields and armor. Tyrcamber saw several of his men fall to the earth, but many more goblins dropped. The men of the Order had better armor and weapons, and more importantly, they had superior training and discipline. The shield wall closed over any wounded men, holding fast, while their swords rose and fell, glistening with the blue blood of the goblins.

  Tyrcamber put spurs to his horse, kicking the animal to a gallup, and drew his sword. The blue blade flashed in the harsh glow of the sky fire. He had carried the sword of dark elven steel for three years now, ever since he had taken it from an umbral elf he had slain before the siege of Tongur. The Order’s smiths made good arms and armor, but they still were not the equal of dark elven steel, and Tyrcamber’s sword had been undamaged in all the battles of the last three years, stronger and sharper than normal steel.

  He would put that weapon to use right now.

  Tyrcamber galloped past the struggling goblin mob. The line of serjeants had begun to advance, pushing back their foes with methodical precision. Three goblins broke off and tried to attack him. Tyrcamber galloped past the first, trampled the second beneath his mount’s steel-shod hooves, and attacked the third. His sword blurred down, all his strength and his horse’s momentum driving the blow, and he took off the goblin’s head in a spurt of blue-tinted blood.

  Then Tyrcamber was clear of the melee, and he thundered towards the xiatami priest and his guards.

  The scouts had claimed to have seen a half-dozen xiatami with the goblins, but fortunately, they had been pessimistic. Three xiatami snakemen stood behind the goblins. Two were xiatami commoners, human-shaped with a skin of golden-brown scales, thick tails tipped with bone rattles and enormous wedge-shaped heads with fangs and the unblinking black-slit eyes of serpents. The xiatami commoners wore steel chain mail and spiked helmets and bore swords and shields.

  The Conciliator was a xiatami noble, his body covered in scales of black and jade. A hood surrounded his wedge-shaped head, like that of a cobra, and the priest wore an ornate robe the color of blood. A black dagger rested in the sash of his robe.

  All three xiatami looked at Tyrcamber as he charged towards them, and he urged his horse faster. Both the Conciliator and the two common soldiers began casting the Shield spell, no doubt thinking that Tyrcamber intended to hurl Lances of elemental flame.

  Instead, Tyrcamber leaped from his saddle and sprinted at the xiatami, working a spell. He cast the Armor spell, charging it with elemental flame, and a crackling aura of fire sprang into existence around Tyrcamber. To him, the flames only felt like a cool aura of power. But the fires would burn his enemies, which he proved as he charged at the nearest xiatami soldier. The soldier fell back with a hiss of pain as Tyrcamber’s fire washed over him, and Tyrcamber killed the xiatami with a swift chop to the throat.

  The second xiatami lunged, and Tyrcamber parried, catching the blade upon his own sword. Steel rang, and Tyrcamber went on the attack, hoping to overwhelm the xiatami soldier with the flames of his Armor spell. But the xiatami cast an Armor spell of his own, sheathing himself in freezing mist. The competing Armor spells canceled each other out, and Tyrcamber dared not drop his own spell, or else the icy mist would freeze his skin and choke away his breath.

  He parried another blow from the xiatami soldier and sidestepped, his blade sweeping around. His sword crunched into the back of the soldier’s right knee. The xiatami wore chain mail and boots reinforced with steel plates, but the back of the knee was unguarded. The soldier let out a hiss of pain, and Tyrcamber whipped his sword back up. The blade of dark elven steel slashed across the soldier’s throat, and the snakeman thrashed and collapsed to the ground, the bone rattle on his tail letting out a rasping click.

  Tyrcamber whirled to face the Conciliator, and the xiatami priest cast a spell. Black light snarled around his clawed fingers, and a wave of pulsing despair filled Tyrcamber’s mind. He stumbled back with a gasp. Dark memories churned through his mind. He remembered weeping at his mother’s funeral, the cold, contemptuous glare from his father for showing weakness in public. Again, he saw the desperate siege of Tongur, the dead lying carpeted outside the walls of the town. He saw Corswain Scuinar twisting in the transformation of the Malison, and Tyrcamber drove his sword into his friend’s heart, killing him.

  He wanted to fall to his knees and weep, but something in his mind rebelled at the thought. And the part of his mind that the Order had trained in magic recognized that the despair was artificial, that the xiatami priest was using a spell of mind magic on him. Tyrcamber snarled, reached for more magic, and cast the Ward spell. A flare of yellowish-orange light appeared around him, and the despair vanished from his mind without a trace.

  Tyrcamber staggered and charged with a yell of rage, his sword drawn back to strike, his whole magical strength holding the Ward spell in place. The xiatami priest hissed, hood flaring, shadows writhing around his fingers as he poured more dark magic into his mind-spell. Tyrcamber gritted his teeth and threw all his magical strength into the Ward, keeping the dark shadows of the Conciliator’s attack from reaching his mind.

  As he did, he felt the black shadow of the Malison dance at the edge of his thoughts, sinking its cold fingers into his mind. Tyrcamber had grown stronger with the Seven Spells since he had joined the Knights of Embers, partly from the rigors of the Order’s training exercises and partly from the constant skirmishes against the Valedictor’s forces, but no mortal man was immune to the Malison.

  Yet for now, it didn’t matter.

  Tyrcamber closed the distance and swung his dark elven sword with both hands. The Conciliator tried to step back, but it was too late. Tyrcamber’s sword sliced through the xiatami priest’s neck, and the cobra-like head hit the ground and rolled away. Greenish blood spurted from the stump, and the Conciliator’s body collapsed into the dust.

  Tyrcamber released his Ward spell, and a wave of fatigue rolled through him. The flickers of the Malison brushed through his mind, but not enough to cause him harm. Tyrcamber was stronger than he had been when he had first become a knight, but he was still careful not to use too much magic, lest the dark power of the Malison transform him.

  He had seen the horrific consequences of that firsthand too often.

  But f
or now, he had a more immediate problem.

  The goblin mob buckled, retreating beneath the press of the serjeants. If they broke and fled, Tyrcamber would find himself in their path, and the goblins would overwhelm him. He raced back to his horse, which had stood waiting for his return, and vaulted back into the saddle.

  As he did, a dark shadow passed overhead.

  Tyrcamber looked up just in time to see a golden-white shape outlined against the sky fire, a glittering lance in hand.

  ***

  Chapter 2: Knight of the Griffin

  Tyrcamber froze in shock for a moment, preparing to summon magic to defend himself, and then his brain caught up to his eyes.

  The creature swooping towards the melee was a griffin.

  It was, he had to admit, a magnificent beast. The griffin had the body of a lion, its sides and limbs covered with golden fur, its paws equipped with sharp talons. The creature also had the white-feathered head and massive wings of an eagle. The mighty wings unfolded and flapped as the griffin swooped upon the desert goblins, and its talons raked across the throats of two goblins even as the griffin soared back into the air with a shriek.

  Upon the back of the griffin sat a knight of the Empire.

  The knight was lean and wiry and wore no mail, but instead leather armor reinforced with steel studs. Tyrcamber caught a glimpse of a sun-weathered face and a shock of graying brown hair. The knight had a long lance of bronze-colored metal strapped diagonally to his back, and he carried a short bow. His hands blurred even as the griffin took flight once more, and arrows sprouted from two of the goblins.

  Between the griffin’s arrival, Tyrcamber’s charge, and the implacable advance of the serjeants, the goblins had seen enough. The survivors broke and fled to the east, making for the deep deserts.

  “Hold!” shouted Tyrcamber. He did not want his men chasing after the goblins into the desert. The surviving goblins might be cunning enough to lure his men into a trap, to say nothing of the dangers of exhaustion, dehydration, and the giant scorpions. “Hold, men! Do not pursue!”

  “You heard the knight, lads!” thundered Rudolf. Tyrcamber was still not sure how Rudolf managed to bellow that loudly. “Hold! Form up at the road. Form up!”

  The serjeants stopped their pursuit of the fleeing goblins and got back into formation. The flying griffin circled over the goblins, the knight upon the mighty animal’s back loosing a few more shafts at the fleeing enemy. Then the griffin banked, swooped towards the road, and landed in a puff of dust.

  “Sir knight?” called the griffin rider. He spoke Frankish with the rough accent of a commoner from the Imperial Free Cities. Probably the city of Annoc, Tyrcamber thought, or maybe Falconberg. “You’re in command here?”

  “Aye,” called Tyrcamber, steering his horse towards the griffin rider. His mount gave the griffin a wary look, snorting through his nostrils.

  “My name’s Olivier of Falconberg, Knight of the Order of the Griffin,” said the wiry knight, “and I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  Tyrcamber took a good look at Sir Olivier of Falconberg and his formidable mount.

  He was a good ten or fifteen years Tyrcamber’s senior, probably somewhere in his late thirties or early forties. He had a massive bushy beard that was turning frown brown to gray. Knights of the Griffin usually wore long beards, to help keep their faces warm while in flight. A blue cloak hung from his shoulders, and he also wore a blue surcoat adorned with the golden griffin sigil of his Order. A harness and a saddle had been strapped to the griffin, and from the harness hung Sir Olivier’s sword and several quivers of arrows. All that was common enough. While griffins were uncommon, they were not exactly rare, and Tyrcamber had seen Knights of the Griffin and their winged mounts several times before.

  What was unusual was the weapon strapped across the knight’s back.

  It was a spear forged of a metal that looked like bronze but was actually stronger and lighter than steel. Strange blocky glyphs had been carved into the spear’s haft and blade, and from time to time the glyphs flickered with a harsh light like the glow from a blacksmith’s forge. It was a dwarf-lance, forged by the mysterious and reclusive dwarves of the city of Khald Akkar far to the north, and it had been enchanted as a powerful weapon against dragons.

  “My name is Tyrcamber Rigamond, Knight of the Order of Embers,” said Tyrcamber, “and while I am grateful for your assistance, I had hoped it would come without the bad news.”

  “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Olivier. “There’s trouble on the way. I was following three manticores over the desert, and they’re headed your way.”

  Tyrcamber felt a surge of alarm. “Manticores?” The deserts of Mourdrech had numerous predators that hunted men, goblins, and xiatami alike. The giant scorpions were one such hazard and were dangerous enough.

  But the scorpions were bound to the earth. The manticores could fly.

  “Aye,” said Olivier as Rudolf jogged over. “I’m on my way to Tamisa. Saw the three manticores heading up out of the south, and I was afraid they would attack the city. But I got ahead of them, lured them out to the desert. I was hoping to lose them here, but then I came across your fight.” Olivier shook his head. “The smell of goblin blood will draw the manticores. They’ll be here any moment. I’m afraid you’ll have to fight…wait. Serjeant-captain Rudolf?”

  “Aye, Sir Olivier,” said Rudolf, and he grinned. “Good to see you, sir. Kindly of you to deign to visit us earthbound mortals.”

  Tyrcamber blinked, and Olivier laughed. “Aye, and I suppose you’ve got your serjeants so frightened of you they won’t take a shit without your permission.”

  “Discipline is important for the serjeants of the Order of Embers, sir,” said Rudolf.

  “That’s good because we’re about to need it,” said Olivier, his smile fading. “Your men are trained to fight manticores?”

  “The men of the Order of Embers, sir, are trained to face any foe,” said Rudolf. He looked at Tyrcamber. “Your instructions, Sir Tyrcamber?”

  “Prepare for aerial combat,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Aerial combat!” roared Rudolf, and the serjeants hurried to obey.

  The Order of Embers trained to fight all the Empire’s enemies, and many of the enemies of the Empire could fly. Manticores, for one. Fire drakes were common in the mountains, and umbral elves often bound wyverns as their mounts.

  And the dragons, the creations of the Malison, were ever a threat. Powerful dark elven nobles could bind dragons to serve as their mounts, and they could wreak terrible havoc on an unprepared army. And the dangers of the Malison were ever present. If a man used too much magic, the shadows of the Dragon Curse filled his mind, and he would transform into a dragon, his will and freedom forever lost.

  Tyrcamber remembered a woman he had killed before the siege of Tongur. In a fit of rage, she had induced the Malison, transformed into a dragon, and burned her husband and children alive. He did not regret killing her, though he wished it had not been necessary. It reminded him of the dangers of the Seven Spells, of the perils of using too much magic.

  A danger that he and his men now faced. Manticores were not as dangerous as dragons, but they were still deadly foes, and resistant to many kinds of magic. They were strong and quick as lightning, and their venom could kill a man in a matter of moments.

  And as if this were not enough, they could also breathe fire as dragons could.

  “Prepare for aerial combat!” roared Rudolf, gesturing with his sword. The serjeants began scattering, spreading themselves out so the manticores could not kill a score of men with a single blast of their fiery breath. “Crossbows ready! Remember, Shield spells, no Lance spells. If I see a man dumb enough to throw a Lance spell at a manticore, he’s going to be digging the privy trench the next time we camp.”

  Tyrcamber took a deep breath, clearing his mind and pushing back the shadows of the Malison that danced at the edge of his thoughts. He thought about remaini
ng mounted but decided against it and dropped from the saddle to stand next to Rudolf. He could move faster while on horseback, but a mounted man also made a better target for a manticore.

  “As soon as they come into sight,” said Olivier, turning his griffin to face the west, “I’ll take to the air and distract them. I’ll see if I can put a few arrows through their wings, force them to the ground.” He patted the dwarf-lance that hung against his back. “And maybe I can get close enough to give them a good stabbing.”

  “We shall be glad of the aid, sir,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Here they come,” said Olivier, the good cheer turning to grimness in this voice. To the west, Tyrcamber saw three crimson specks outlined against the sky fire. “God go with you, sir knight, serjeant-captain.”

  With that, he murmured something to his griffin, and the great beast let out a piercing shriek and leaped into the air. The white wings unfolded, and Olivier and his mount soared upwards, circling over the waiting serjeants.

  “Any further orders, sir?” said Rudolf.

  “Fight hard, serjeant-captain,” said Tyrcamber, “and look after yourself.”

  Rudolf nodded. “You as well, sir.”

  The three crimson specks grew larger as the manticores approached.

  Tyrcamber had heard of the beasts, but he had never seen them before. They looked like lions with fur the color of blood, albeit lions larger than the biggest warhorse that Tyrcamber had ever seen. Their eyes glowed a sullen yellow-orange, and great black wings rose from their backs, leathery like those of a bat. Their tails were long and black and segmented, tipped with a barbed stinger that dripped with poison. Manticore venom was one of the most poisonous substances found within or without the Frankish Empire, and many tales spoke of evil courtiers poisoning their unsuspecting lords with manticore venom.