Malison: Dragon Fury

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Only five?” said Rauldun. “What happened?”

  “We ran into a band of desert goblins led by a xiatami Conciliator, and then were attacked by manticores drawn by the spilled blood,” said Tyrcamber.

  Rauldun raised his eyebrows. “All that and only five men lost? I hope you are not exaggerating, Sir Tyrcamber.”

  “I am not,” said Tyrcamber. “The credit for the victory goes to the men and Serjeant-Captain Rudolf, all of whom performed admirably.”

  Rauldun nodded. “Who killed the Conciliator? Their blood magic makes them powerful foes.”

  Tyrcamber hesitated. “I did, sir.”

  Again, Rauldun raised his eyebrows. “And you do not boast of it? Another knight who slew a Conciliator would have hired a bard to sing his praises.”

  Tyrcamber shrugged. “I surprised the Conciliator, sir. Had things gone a little differently, I might now be dead and the desert goblins victorious. I wish I could have gotten to Tamisa with fewer of my men slain in the fighting.”

  Rauldun stared at him for a moment and then nodded. “A surprising amount of modesty for a young knight, Sir Tyrcamber. You come with a good reputation. Perhaps it is merited.”

  Tyrcamber shrugged again. “I wish only to do my duty well.”

  “Perhaps you shall have the chance,” said Rauldun. “Come with me. We have affairs of the Order to discuss.”

  “Of course,” said Tyrcamber, though a faint prickle of suspicion went down his nerves. The other preceptors of the Order of Embers he had met always had been surrounded by their officers and squires. Rauldun had met Tyrcamber alone in the courtyard of the Duke’s castle, and Tyrcamber had expected to meet the preceptor in the Order’s chapterhouse.

  He disliked the suspicion, but his experience with Sir Marchoc in Tongur had taught him wariness.

  Rauldun crossed the courtyard and climbed a flight of stairs to the jade wall overlooking the bay. Tyrcamber followed him, taking care to keep his balance. The jade stone was smooth, and he suspected it would have been slippery when wet, though it infrequently rained here. They reached the battlements and looked towards the bay. It was late afternoon by now, the sky fire a harsh yellow-gold, and the rippling waters reflected that light.

  “Tell me,” said Rauldun. “What do you think of the preparations for battle?”

  “The Duke seems well-prepared to face the xiatami,” said Tyrcamber.

  Rauldun nodded. “The fighting in the Mourdrech desert follows a familiar pattern. The desert goblins go raiding, or the xiatami launch an attack across the border. The Duke responds, usually with the help of one of the Imperial Orders, and a few villages and castles change hands, and the xiatami are driven back.” He tapped the jade battlements with a finger. “So long as we hold Tamisa, the pattern will not change. The city is too strong.”

  “So long as we are vigilant,” said Tyrcamber, “and do our duty.”

  Rauldun nodded. “Did you notice the heads mounted over the eastern gate?”

  Tyrcamber hesitated. “They would have been hard to miss.”

  “Dragon Cultists,” said Rauldun. “I fear they were planning to hand Tamisa over to the xiatami, to open the gates to them. Apparently, they believed that the shock and fear of a xiatami invasion would cause people to turn to the Malison, transforming them into dragons, and mankind would be one step closer on the path to becoming a kindred of dragon gods.” Rauldun gave a grim shake of his head. “Folly. A dragon is vulnerable to magical enslavement. The xiatami would bind anyone who succumbs to the Malison, or the Valedictor himself would do it. Sir Dietrich interrupted one of their meetings, and he believes that we have purged the Dragon Cult from Tamisa.”

  “But you don’t, sir,” said Tyrcamber.

  Rauldun looked back at the courtyard. Tyrcamber followed his gaze and saw that Sir Dietrich had turned, riding hard. He swung down from his saddle as a pair of squires hurried forward to take his reins, and then strode for the castle’s chapel.

  “Come with me, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Rauldun.

  Tyrcamber hesitated, and then nodded and followed the preceptor. He realized that he was getting pulled into a political intrigue of some kind, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Did Rauldun want his help against the Dragon Cult? Or was this a plot against the Duke?

  Or was Rauldun himself part of the Dragon Cult? Tyrcamber did not like the thought, but he remembered how Sir Marchoc had nearly handed the town of Tongur over to the Valedictor’s goblins. Even the five Imperial Orders had been infiltrated by the Dragon Cult in the past, seduced by the cult’s promises of immortality and godhood.

  Tyrcamber would have to remain on his guard.

  They walked to the chapel. Rauldun thrust the doors open, and they stepped inside. The chapel was a good-sized space, about the size of a rural village church, though much more ornate. Colorful tapestries showing scenes from the scriptures hung between the narrow windows, which admitted dim light. Rauldun genuflected in the direction of the altar, and Tyrcamber followed suit.

  Two men and a woman stood near the left wall of the chapel.

  The first man was Sir Dietrich Normand, who frowned at Tyrcamber.

  The tall woman was his sister Adalhaid Rigamond Berengar, wife of the Duke, and she smiled at Tyrcamber.

  The second man was not human.

  He was a cloak elf, and he wore dusty traveling clothes of wool and leather beneath the gray cloak his kindred usually donned while traveling. His eyes were a strange shade of silver, and his black hair and close-cropped beard were shot through with gray. In his right hand, he held a staff made from a reddish-gold metal, topped with a stylized dragon’s head. Tyrcamber recognized him at once, a cold chill spreading through his chest. The man was a friend, of sorts. He was also a legend, a man who had been present at the founding of the Frankish Empire and who had counseled the Emperor and his lords ever since.

  “Sir Tyrcamber,” said Rilmael, Guardian of Cathair Kaldran. “We meet again.”

  Tyrcamber took a deep breath to steady himself. “Lord Guardian.”

  The unease would not leave him.

  The last time he had met Rilmael, the Guardian had come to warn of potential disaster.

  Did that mean the men of Tamisa faced catastrophe?

  ***

  Chapter 4: The Duchess

  A silence stretched between them, and then Adalhaid laughed.

  “Well, brother,” she said, “I suppose you must greet the Guardian first, but have you no word for your only sister?”

  Tyrcamber blinked, and then smiled. “My lady Duchess. My heart is lifted at the sight of your countenance once more.”

  Adalhaid sniffed, and then she too smiled. “It is good to see you have a civil tongue in your head, brother. The valiant men of the Order must have taught you courtesy.”

  Tyrcamber laughed. Of all his siblings, he had always gotten along the best with Adalhaid. She was tall, just an inch shorter than Tyrcamber, with shoulders broader than average for a woman. She also looked a great deal like their father when she scowled. Perhaps to compensate for this, God had also given her bright gray eyes, thick black hair, a pretty face, and a bosom that was evidently so impressive that several of her prospective suitors had written poetry about it. One of those suitors, the Duke of Mainzia’s heir, had composed a poem comparing her bosom to the “green-cloaked hills of the great forests of the Empire, in which the majestic stag courts the sleek doe.” It had been an appallingly bad poem, and Adalhaid had roared with laughter as she read it aloud to her embarrassed ladies-in-waiting, much to their father’s disapproval.

  Unsurprisingly, Adalhaid had not wed the son the Duke of Mainzia.

  “I learned from you, my lady,” said Tyrcamber.

  Adalhaid snorted out a laugh. “You are many things, brother, but you are a terrible liar.” He crossed to her side and kissed her cheek. “And I am very glad you are here. Sir Rauldun, Sir Dietrich, Lord Guardian, we may rely on my brother utterly. Of all my brothers, he is the only one I woul
d trust with a cup of wine, let alone a matter of this urgency.”

  “A matter of urgency?” said Tyrcamber. “You’re not in any danger, are you? Or your children?” The last he had heard, Adalhaid had two children. He didn’t think she was pregnant again. She didn’t look pregnant, certainly.

  “At the moment, I am as safe as anyone in Tamisa,” said Adalhaid. “Which, alas, is not very safe.” She frowned at Rilmael. “Lord Guardian, you haven’t yet mentioned how you know my brother.”

  “It was three years ago, during the Valedictor’s attack on Tongur in northern Chalons,” said Tyrcamber. “We didn’t know the Valedictor was behind it then, or that he had begun gathering the goblin and ogre tribes to his side. The Guardian came to warn us.”

  And the warning had proven accurate. The Valedictor had been behind the attack, making a mere raid of goblin tribes into a dangerous siege. And Rilmael had warned Tyrcamber that he would stand at the center of that siege. The Guardian’s foretelling had come true. Tyrcamber had stopped the Dragon Cult from handing the town over to the Valedictor’s goblins, and Rilmael had guided Duke Chilmar’s forces to Tongur in time to save the town. They had been victorious.

  But it had cost had been the lives of many men, including Tyrcamber’s friend Sir Corswain Scuinar. And Tyrcamber had been forced to kill Corswain himself. He remembered the transformation of the Malison coming over Corswain’s face, the magic starting to twist Corswain into a new-made dragon…

  “I see you have achieved your ambition, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Rilmael, his voice quiet. “A Knight of the Order of Embers.”

  “Aye, my lord,” said Tyrcamber. He took a deep breath, pushing aside his emotions, and looked around at the others. “I am at your command, Sir Rauldun, and I will help you in any way that I can, sister. But I would like to know what this is all about.” He glanced at Adalhaid. “This has the air of a conspiracy.”

  Dietrich frowned at Rauldun. “You are sure we can trust him?”

  “He is a Knight of my Order,” said Rauldun.

  “My brother is worthy of trust,” said Adalhaid.

  Dietrich frowned. “I have heard you say many…harsh things about your father, my lady.”

  Adalhaid’s eyes narrowed. “My father is most certainly not my brother.”

  “Sir Tyrcamber has already seen the nature of the evil we face,” said Rilmael, “and he has stood against it.”

  Dietrich let out a breath. “Very well. I shall be blunt, then. Sir Tyrcamber, the Dragon Cult has infiltrated Tamisa, and we need your help to root it out.”

  “The heads over the eastern gate,” said Tyrcamber. “That wasn’t the entire chapter of the cult?”

  “It seems not,” said Dietrich. “Perhaps it would be best to start from the beginning. My lady?”

  “My husband the Duke,” said Adalhaid, “is more interested in matters of war than affairs of governance. While he is a shrewd judge of soldiers, the business of government bores him quickly, and he sometimes places more trust in his councilors than they deserve. So, I have undertaken to provide him with men worthy of trust. Several months ago, before the xiatami became bellicose, I dismissed a servant who had been stealing from the castle larders. He attacked the men-at-arms sent to escort him from the castle, and so we threw him out, and searched his possessions to make sure he had stolen nothing else.” Adalhaid took a long breath. “Among his possessions we found a totem of the Dragon Cult, an iron figurine of a man with a dragon’s head.”

  “I have seen such things,” said Tyrcamber, remembering the iron figure in Marchoc’s hand.

  “When confronted, the servant denied nothing, and began ranting and raving about the Dragon Cult, how he would rule us all as a dragon god,” said Adalhaid. “Then and there, he drew in enough magic to trigger the Malison and began to transform. Fortunately, the men-at-arms slew him before he could hurt anyone. We made a thorough search of the castle but found no other traces of the cult.”

  “Then the murders began,” said Rauldun, voice grim.

  “Murders,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Ritual murders,” said Dietrich. “The victim’s throat was cut, the blood drained, and the dragon symbol of the cult was painted nearby. As you can imagine, the murders caused quite a stir in the city.”

  “You said murders, sir,” said Tyrcamber. “How many were there?”

  “Seven,” said Dietrich.

  “We exerted all our efforts and influence to find the cultists,” said Adalhaid. “The Duke even summoned a Knight of the Third Eye from Sinderost, so he could use his spells to compel suspects to speak the truth.”

  “At last, after much investigation,” said Dietrich, “we found the cult’s lair in a warehouse in one of the outer villages. We took them unawares and arrested them all. They proudly proclaimed their guilt, and so the Duke ordered their executions. That was a week ago. I had thought we had rid ourselves of this evil, and we could turn our full attention to the xiatami threat.”

  “But there have been more murders, haven’t there?” said Tyrcamber.

  “Two,” said Rauldun. “The same as the first seven.”

  “This is the worst possible time,” said Dietrich. “The Duke’s full attention is on the campaign against the xiatami. Knowing that Dragon Cultists are loose in the city will drain the morale of the men-at-arms. How can they focus on their duties knowing that a mad cultist might slit the throats of their wives and children while they are away on campaign? For that matter, the xiatami have all the cold cunning of serpents, and they might exploit the situation.” He struck his fist against the pommel of his sword in frustration.

  “As if this were not bad enough,” said Rauldun, “the Guardian arrived yesterday with more bad news.”

  Tyrcamber blinked. Rilmael had only arrived the day before?

  “I fear you are ever the bearer of bad news, my lord,” said Dietrich with a rueful smile.

  “I cannot deny it,” said Rilmael. “But I go where I am needed, sir castellan. With God’s favor, perhaps we can keep bad news from becoming worse.”

  “What worse news is that, lord Guardian?” said Tyrcamber.

  Rilmael’s silver eyes met his. “I believe these ritual murders are an attempt to create a Dragonmaeloch.”

  Tyrcamber’s chill got worse.

  “You know the lore of the Dragonmaeloch, Sir Tyrcamber?” said Rauldun.

  “I do, preceptor,” said Tyrcamber. “Dragons are vulnerable to magical enslavement. A Dragontiarna is a man who has mastered the Malison, who can change between human and dragon form at will. Such men are rare.” He remembered his boast to Rilmael that if he succumbed to the Malison, he would become a Dragontiarna, and shuddered at his folly. “The Dragonmaeloch are something worse. A Dragonmaeloch can change between human and dragon form at will and cannot be enslaved or controlled. But the Dragonmaeloch are insane, their reason destroyed by the power of the Malison, and they rampage and kill until they themselves are slain.”

  Dietrich frowned. “You’re quite familiar with dark lore, Sir Tyrcamber.”

  Rauldun gave the castellan a sharp look. “The Knights of the Imperial Orders must be familiar with such dark things, for we are the defense of the Empire.”

  “There are some things that cannot be unlearned, Sir Dietrich,” said Tyrcamber. “Even if you might wish to forget.”

  That seemed to satisfy Dietrich, who gave a curt nod.

  “The Dragonmaeloch are the creation of the Dragon Cult, an attempt to allow men to transform into dragons while retaining their free will,” said Rilmael. “Unfortunately, the transformation causes homicidal madness and destroys the subject’s moral reasoning, assuming the Dragon Cultist who transforms still possesses any. In centuries past, the Dragon Cult and the Dragonmaeloch ripped apart the Empire in terrible civil war.” He tapped his fingers against his staff. “I fear that is what the Dragon Cult hopes to accomplish here.”

  Rauldun glanced at Adalhaid. “If you wish to withdraw, my lady, none here will think les
s of you. We must discuss terrible things.”

  Adalhaid shook her head. “No. My children live in this castle, my lord preceptor, and this would-be Dragonmaeloch thinks to threaten them.” Her gray eyes glittered with terrible rage. “They shall learn the folly of their ways.”

  The cold fury made her look a great deal like Duke Chilmar. Tyrcamber wondered if he resembled their father when he got angry.

  “Well, the plan of the Dragon Cult is obvious,” said Rauldun. “They will wait until the Duke and most of the fighting men have gone to deal with the xiatami. Then they will create their Dragonmaeloch and unleash him upon the city.”

  Tyrcamber nodded. “What must be done, then?”

  “We must do what the men of the Empire have always done,” said Adalhaid. “We will find our enemies and destroy them.”

  Tyrcamber looked at Rilmael. “Can you use your magic to find them?” Rilmael had spoken of a power called the Sight, one that allowed him to glimpse the past and future. Perhaps that would let him find any remaining Dragon Cultists in the city. Tyrcamber doubted it, though. Rilmael had powers far beyond the Seven Spells all mankind learned or even the skills of the Imperial Orders, but even the Guardian’s great power had limitations.

  Tyrcamber had seen that firsthand in Tongur.

  “That is the entire reason I have come here, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Rilmael. “The Sight showed me a possible future of a Dragonmaeloch rising in Tamisa and laying waste to the city. If that happens, the xiatami will conquer Mourdrech and press further north into the Frankish Empire. The Valedictor will seize the opportunity to attack from Urd Mythruin, and the Empire will be assailed on two fronts.”

  “But you cannot pinpoint the location of the Dragon Cultists,” said Tyrcamber.

  “No, for three reasons,” said Rilmael. “First, the Valedictor…”

  Tyrcamber nodded, remembering their conversation before the battle of Tongur. “If you use your magic now, he’ll know where you are.”

  “Aye,” said Rilmael. “If he realizes that I’m in Mourdrech, he might think to strike at the northeastern Empire while my attention is otherwise occupied. Second, the remaining Dragon Cultists are almost certainly within the catacombs.”