Malison: Dragon Fury

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Tongur felt real enough,” said Tyrcamber.

  “That was just the beginning,” said Rilmael. “You know it as well as I do.”

  He was right.

  “You won’t be able to use much magic in the catacombs, will you?” said Tyrcamber.

  “Why do you say that?” said Rilmael.

  “You’re not here because of the xiatami, the Dragon Cult, or even the Dragonmaeloch,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Preventing the creation of a Dragonmaeloch will save many lives,” said Rilmael.

  “But you’re not here for that,” said Tyrcamber. “You’re here to kill the Theophract. You won’t use your magic because he’ll sense it, but you want to surprise and kill him.”

  “If I can,” said Rilmael. “He has been an enemy of mine for a long, long time. The Dragon Cult is old, my friend. Older than your Empire, and older than human civilization. The Theophract founded Dragon Cults among other kindreds, the umbral elves and the goblins and the xiatami and the others. But humans…humans are more vulnerable to the Malison than any other kindred. The Theophract is working towards some plan, some goal, but I cannot yet see what it is.”

  “Whatever you are guarding in Cathair Kaldran?” said Tyrcamber, and Rilmael raised his eyebrows. “Corswain thought that.”

  “Your friend who died in Tongur,” said Rilmael.

  “He thought that was the reason you aided the Empire,” said Tyrcamber. “To protect Cathair Kaldran.”

  “Your friend possessed insight,” said Rilmael. “Within Cathair Kaldran is a door that must never be opened, because if it is, the world shall be destroyed. I was appointed Guardian to protect that door, and the best way to defend Cathair Kaldran is to keep the enemy far from the city.” His mouth twisted. “As difficult as it has been to convince the ruling lords of the cloak elves of that. There was another reason, Sir Tyrcamber. Your kindred is fierce and warlike, and I disliked the thought of the dark elves enslaving you. As I disliked the thought of them enslaving anyone.”

  “You told me at Tongur that I might cast a long shadow on the Empire, for good or for ill,” said Tyrcamber. He hesitated and rallied his courage. “Does…will that happen tomorrow?”

  Rilmael did not answer for a long moment.

  “I do not know,” said the Guardian at last. “There are so many things that I do not know. The future is forever shifting, a thousand different shadows. Yet one of those shadows will become reality. I do not know which one will become the future.” His voice hardened. “But I do know this. The catacombs of Tamisa are dangerous, and we shall need to be on our guard.

  Tyrcamber nodded. “I can do that.”

  ***

  Chapter 5: Ruins of the Serpent

  The next morning, Tyrcamber and Rilmael walked with Sir Dietrich and a half-dozen of his men-at-arms to the catacombs.

  Adalhaid had seen them off, since Faramund had already ridden out to inspect the camps outside the city. Tyrcamber had been surprised Rauldun hadn’t accompanied them, but no doubt he was busy with his duties. As the preceptor of the Order’s local chapter, he would accompany Faramund on the Duke’s march against the xiatami. Adalhaid was left to oversee the business of the castle and the city. The Duke gave a great deal of responsibility to his wife, especially when he was away on campaign. The rumors said (spread by Tyrcamber’s father) that Adalhaid had dominated her husband, but Tyrcamber didn’t think that was true. Rather, Faramund seemed to trust Adalhaid, and Tyrcamber thought Faramund was more competent than the rumors claimed.

  Else the xiatami would likely have overrun Mourdrech some time ago.

  Tyrcamber put aside his musings. There were more urgent matters at hand.

  “There isn’t an entrance to the catacombs within the castle?” said Tyrcamber.

  Dietrich glanced at him. “There are three, in fact. The Duke ordered them all sealed with rubble and then bricked up. He feared the xiatami might attempt to enter the city through the catacombs. If they can seize the castle, Tamisa is lost.” He scowled. “But there are dozens of entrances to the catacombs throughout the island, and more on the shore beyond the villages. Often creatures enter the catacombs and make a lair for themselves, and so the Duke’s knights and men-at-arms must drive them out. Therefore, all the entrances to the catacombs within Tamisa have been sealed, save for one.”

  “All the entrances that you know about, anyway,” said Rilmael.

  Dietrich’s lips thinned for just a moment, but he nodded. “You speak truly, Guardian. Likely there are secret entrances that we have never discovered. For that matter, sometimes criminals and rogues think to avoid the gate tax, and smuggle goods into the city through the catacombs. They can reap great profits by doing so…or they lose their lives to the creatures that dwell beneath the earth.”

  They came to the square at the center of the city. It looked like a market square anywhere else in the Empire, lined by shops and taverns, merchants selling goods from wooden stalls. On one side of the square stood a large stone church roofed in fired clay tiles. Directly behind the church rose one of the peculiar jade pyramids of the xiatami. In fact, Tyrcamber saw that the church had been built against the pyramid, with one of the step pyramid’s tiers serving as the foundation of the church’s rear wall. It made for an odd sight.

  Sir Olivier waited near the doors to the church, leaning on his dwarf-lance like a staff. He straightened up as they approached and grinned behind his beard.

  “Sir Tyrcamber!” he called. “You’ve been invited on this jaunt as well?”

  “Aye,” said Tyrcamber. “I suppose hunting through tunnels beneath the earth is a bit different than flying a griffin.”

  “Somewhat,” said Olivier. “But your sister can be very persuasive when she sets her mind to it. I imagine people do not tell her no very often.”

  “You are speaking of the Duchess of Mourdrech, Sir Olivier,” said Dietrich, his voice growing cold.

  “It’s just as well she is wed, sir,” said Olivier. “Else the poor woman would be hard-put to resist my charm.” He tapped the end of his dwarf-lance against the ground, and the dwarven steel made a peculiar ringing noise. “An honor to join you, Guardian.”

  “Sir Olivier,” said Rilmael. He looked grave and solemn now, all trace of dry humor gone. “I am glad of your help.”

  “If you want something done right, get a Knight of the Griffin,” said Olivier.

  The dry humor returned, and Rilmael smiled. “Then thank God you’re here, sir.”

  “This way,” said Dietrich, gesturing.

  His men-at-arms pushed open the doors, and they strode into the church. It was a large, gloomy space, the air scented with smoke and candle wax and incense. The church had been built in the style of the Romans upon Old Earth, with thick square pillars supporting a vaulted ceiling. Narrow windows between the pillars admitted the dim light of the sky fire. Morning mass had concluded, and at the moment, the church was still and silent.

  They paused to genuflect to the altar, and then Dietrich led the way down the nave. There were two doors on the left wall near the altar. One, Tyrcamber knew, led to the priests’ quarters. Dietrich opened the second, revealing a flight of stairs that spiraled into the earth.

  “You two,” said Dietrich, pointing at his men. “Cast the Sword spell on your blades. We’ll need light down there.”

  “No need,” said Rilmael, and the Guardian gestured. A sphere of blue light whirled to life above his palm, giving off a gentle glow.

  “Very good,” said Dietrich.

  They took the stairs and came to the church’s crypt. Thick pillars supported the ceiling, and monuments and sarcophagi stood almost at random throughout the chamber. Three of the walls were built of rough-mortared stone blocks. The fourth was the jade of the xiatami, and in the wall was a gate with a door of iron-bound oak, locked with steel chains.

  The gate to the catacombs.

  “We shall wait for you here,” said Dietrich, and he crossed to the gate and unlocked the cha
ins. “Should you not return within a day, our orders from the Duke are to search for you.” The men-at-arms pushed open the gate, and the heavy hinges groaned. Beyond Tyrcamber saw a corridor built from jade stone leading into the darkness.

  “Thank you, Sir Dietrich,” said Rilmael. “We shall seek out our quarry and return soon, I hope.” He glanced at Tyrcamber and Olivier. “If you are ready?”

  Tyrcamber nodded, and he and Olivier followed the Guardian into the gloomy jade corridor. Rilmael’s blue light threw odd shadows over the wall, and in the light Tyrcamber saw inscriptions written in the angular script of the xiatami.

  “Guardian,” said Olivier. “Shall…”

  “Wait a moment,” murmured Rilmael, and Olivier fell silent.

  The corridor opened into a large rectangular room. Niches lined the walls, and in the niches rested dead xiatami warriors in rusting armor. Cobwebs mantled their skeletons, and while their flesh had decayed, their scaly skin remained, withered and desiccated. Looking at the wedge-shaped skulls with their empty eye sockets and their jutting fangs was an unsettling experience.

  “We are far enough from the gate that we can talk freely,” said Rilmael.

  “They’re not undead, are they?” said Olivier, giving the skeletons a wary look.

  “No,” said Rilmael. “The xiatami Conciliators do not use necromancy and kill any of their kindred who practice it. They prefer to inter their dead in peace.” He paused. “The dark elves have no such restraint and would raise the xiatami corpses as undead. But there is no necromancy here.”

  “Why did you want to wait until we were away from the gate to talk?” said Tyrcamber.

  “Because,” said Rilmael, his eyes roving over the hall, “I am reasonably sure that the Dragon Cult has at least a few spies in the Duke’s castle. Likely one of the men-at-arms accompanying Sir Dietrich was a cultist.”

  “If that’s so,” said Olivier, “shouldn’t we warn him? I was born a commoner, so I’m not used to the experience of having servants and men-at-arms and suchlike, but I think I’d want to know if one of them was a bloody Dragon Cultist.”

  “He wouldn’t believe us,” said Rilmael. “Dietrich Normand is convinced that he found all the Dragon Cultists in the city, and that only one or two are still hiding in the catacombs at most.”

  “Couldn’t you just wave your hand and use your magic?” said Olivier. “I heard the Guardian of Cathair Kaldran shoots lightning from his eyes and fire from his mouth.”

  “If I had a spell that allowed me to wave my hand and solve a problem,” said Rilmael in a dry voice, “then I likely would have employed it centuries before you were born, Sir Olivier. The difficultly of fighting the cult is that its members are nearly impossible to find if they are clever. I could look into their minds, yes, but that is a risky business. No, we have only one way to solve this problem. We find the remaining cultists and the Theophract, and we slay them all.”

  “How shall we find them?” said Tyrcamber.. Two high corridors led off from the chamber, their walls lined with more niches of xiatami dead. “This place is huge, and undoubtedly a maze.”

  “We have two advantages,” said Rilmael. “First, now that I am within the catacombs, my Sight is somewhat clearer. I can perceive the dark magic that the cultists have been working. They are indeed preparing to create a Dragonmaeloch by using necromancy to siphon the life force of their victims. The cultists will have a shrine far below, and we can make our way in that direction.”

  “What is the second advantage?” said Olivier. “A man can never have too many advantages in my opinion.”

  “I can make a reasonable guess at the layout of the catacombs,” said Rilmael. “What is now Tamisa was a cloak elven city before the dark elves conquered it, and then it was a xiatami city before your Empire seized it. Therefore, we shall have to pass through three levels of catacombs. The xiatami level, the dark elven level, and then the level the cloak elves built when this city was first raised. That will be the deepest, and consequently the safest location for the cultists to raise their shrine. We will find them there.”

  “Well,” said Olivier. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Remember, our main goal is to surprise and kill the Theophract,” said Rilmael. “If we can do that, we shall cut off the head of the serpent, and the threat of the Dragon Cult to the Empire will diminish. Barring that, we must destroy the shrine the cultists are using to summon power for their Dragonmaeloch.”

  “Will that stop their spell?” said Tyrcamber.

  “Yes,” said Rilmael. “There are several different methods of becoming a Dragonmaeloch. However, the easiest way is to craft a sort of shrine and charge it with necromantic power. The cultists will then commit ritual murders, drawing the stolen life energies of their victims into the shrine. Once there is enough stored life force, the chosen cultist will draw on the power and transform.” Rilmael gave a shake of his head. “In a way, it is successful. The Dragon Cult wants to transform humanity into free-willed dragons, and a Dragonmaeloch cannot be dominated through magic. But a Dragonmaeloch is totally and utterly insane, and it will destroy everything in sight until it is slain.”

  Olivier snorted. “Some success, lord Guardian. That’s like burning down your house to kill the rats. Aye, you’ve got all the damned rats, but you’ve got no house left.”

  “And more likely than not the rats fled as the house burned,” said Rilmael.

  Olivier nodded in agreement. “See, this is exactly why I became a soldier and not a rat-catcher. Though the pay isn’t as a good.”

  “Just who are the rats in this metaphor?” said Tyrcamber, who had lost the thread of the conversation.

  “The cultists themselves, I expect,” said Rilmael. “But if we act swiftly, we can catch the rats before they flee. Follow me.” He hesitated. “I shall have to dim the light considerably. If I use too much magic, there is a very real danger the Theophract will sense my coming.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” said Tyrcamber, and he raised his left hand and gestured. He summoned magic and shaped it into a sphere like the one Rilmael had created. Tyrcamber’s sphere gave off a dim yellow-orange light. It required a constant flow of power, but a small one, not nearly enough to bring any risk from the Malison.

  “That will suffice,” said Rilmael, dismissing his own light.

  “Just how the bloody hell did you learn to do that?” said Olivier. “That’s not one of the Seven Spells.”

  Tyrcamber shrugged. “You know as well as I do that each Order has its own secret lore and spells. I’m sure the Order of the Griffin taught you some spells I’ve never seen.” The Order of Embers had taught Tyrcamber several of its own spells. The Light spell was simply one of them. Most of the rest were powerful spells of battle magic that he would only use in desperate circumstances.

  “It would make a good lamp,” said Olivier. “Though a good target at night, alas.”

  “Aye,” said Rilmael. “Follow me.” He drew his longsword of golden steel with his right hand, shifting his dragon-headed staff to his left hand. “The Sight will give me advance warning of any magical traps.” He paused. “At least, I think it will.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Olivier with good cheer.

  “This way,” said Rilmael.

  ###

  Tyrcamber and Olivier followed Rilmael deeper into the jade maze of the xiatami catacombs.

  They passed thousands of dead xiatami resting silently in their niches. Most of them seem to have been common soldiers, to judge from the bone rattles lying between their legs. Many, however, had been nobles in gilded armor, jewels glittering in the hilts and crosspieces of their rusting swords. Tyrcamber wondered why the men of Tamisa had not looted the tombs of the xiatami and received his answer when he saw a dozen mummified human corpses lying on the floor. They wore the rough clothes and leather armor common to bandits and rogues.

  “They triggered a warding spell on that tile,” said Rilmael, pointing with his staff. “A s
pell of dark magic. It sucked away their life force and left them as desiccated shells.” He gestured at the niche next to the corpses, which held a xiatami corpse in gilded armor. “Probably they wanted to take that jeweled sword for themselves, and instead got more trouble than they expected.”

  “Poor fools,” said Tyrcamber.

  “Knew a few lads back in Falconberg who went into tomb robbing,” said Olivier. “Digging up old dark elven ruins or delving into those ossuaries the goblins build for their dead. One or two of them struck it rich. Most of them never came back.”

  “Tombs like these,” agreed Rilmael, “tend to collect additional dead.”

  Xiatami commoners and lower-ranking nobles rested in the wall niches, but powerful or wealthy nobles merited more ostentatious burials. Tyrcamber and his companions passed through large rectangular halls that held single sarcophagi set in the center of the room. The sarcophagi were carved from translucent jade, and Tyrcamber glimpsed the dark forms of leaden coffins within them. The lid of the sarcophagus was carved with an effigy of a xiatami noble in plate armor, both hands grasping the hilt of a greatsword. Rilmael said the sarcophagi housed a xiatami royal, the king or prince of one of the city-states that made up their dominion.

  Each one of the royal tombs also had a shrine to Xophiramus. A towering statue of a huge cobra reared over an altar, the statue covered in a strange metal that looked like silver. Glittering emeralds composed the giant serpent’s eyes. Before the statue rested an altar adorned with both goblin and halfling skulls, their empty eye sockets filled with shadows in the glow of Tyrcamber’s Light spell.

  “A shrine to Xophiramus,” said Rilmael, gesturing at one of the altars. “Don’t touch it. The altar is charged with dark magic. But every royal tomb of the xiatami has such an altar. When a royal xiatami dies, he is buried with the sacrifices of dozens of slaves to stave off the wrath of Xophiramus.”