“How many people has he killed?” said Tyrcamber, gazing at the headless corpse.
“There’s no way of knowing,” said Rilmael. He raised his staff and brought the end down, shattering the burned skull. “But dozens, conservatively. Probably many more. He would need that many victims to sustain his life for this long. Likely he has not been in the catacombs of Tamisa for a great deal of time. Knights of the Blood Order tend to move around often. Too many deaths in too short of a time tends to draw unwelcome notice.”
“I don’t suppose he was the one behind the ritual murders?” said Olivier.
Rilmael shook his head. “No. If Erkan had killed them, he would have taken the dead and raised the corpses as undead minions. The Duke and the Duchess would think there had been a wave of mysterious disappearances in Tamisa, not murders. And my Sight can still see the dark magic of the Dragon Cult’s shrine below. We just had the ill fortune to encounter two different dark powers on the same day.”
Olivier snorted. “Ill fortune. That’s about right. Well, a man doesn’t join the Imperial Orders to enjoy good fortune, does he?”
“You had to use magic during the fight,” said Tyrcamber. “Will the Theophract know that you are here?”
“He may,” said Rilmael. “But Erkan’s own dark aura might have masked my presence. Or the Theophract might not have been paying attention. There are too many different factors to know for certain.”
“Then we have no choice but to continue on,” said Tyrcamber.
“Aye,” said Rilmael.
They crossed the dead necromancer’s workroom and entered the stairs beyond, descending deeper into the earth.
***
Chapter 7: Theophract
Like the catacombs of the dark elves, silence reigned in the ancient halls of the cloak elves.
Though they were less unsettling than the dark elven catacombs. While they had also been built out of white stone, the alien angles were absent. The lines of the cloak elven catacombs were stark and simple, perhaps even beautiful in an austere sort of way. The statues of the cloak elves showed wizards in robes and warriors in armor, or women in gowns holding infants. The statues had a solemn sort of beauty to them, lacking the malice that Tyrcamber had seen in the statues of the dark elves above.
Yet the catacombs had an aura of menace nonetheless.
The bones ensured that.
Bones lay scattered across the floor, accompanied here and there by rusted weapons. From time to time Tyrcamber saw a weapon made from the golden steel of the cloak elves, untouched by time. The bones had mostly come from goblins and muridachs, though Tyrcamber also saw skulls that had come from slain cloak elves. In a few places lay the heaped black bones of urvaalgs, twisted and dark, or even the skull of an ursaar.
Ancient lamps of glass and bronze hung from chains on the ceiling. Even after all this time, their magic still functioned though many had been smashed and broken. The remaining lamps threw wild shadows across the bones.
“What happened here?” said Tyrcamber in a quiet voice.
“A battle,” said Rilmael, his voice quiet. “Long, long before humans came to this world. Long before your ancestors came out of the forests of Germania to invade the Empire of the Romans. The last survivors of the city would have made their stand here. They could have held out for a time, but they would have been overwhelmed in the end.” He glanced at Tyrcamber. “This is part of the reason why I aid mankind. Partly to defend Cathair Kaldran, yes. But partly because I do not wish your kindred to be brought to ruin as the cloak elves were. Once we had cities larger than any in your Empire, but now Cathair Kaldran is all that remains. I would see your Empire grow and thrive.”
“Well, you’re certainly useful in a fight, Guardian,” said Olivier.
“High praise,” said Rilmael in a dry voice. “This way.”
They passed through the maze of corridors, Rilmael leading the way. He seemed to know the path. Tyrcamber wondered if the Guardian had visited this place before it had been ruined. Or perhaps the catacombs of the cloak elves had been built to a common plan.
The corridor ended in a small hall, more bones littering the floor. An archway opened on the far side of the hall, and a harsh red glow came from it. Tyrcamber also heard the faint sound of chanting.
“The shrine is directly ahead,” said Rilmael in a low voice. He sheathed his sword and took his staff in both hands. Tyrcamber wondered why, and then realized that so close to the shrine, there was no further need for the Guardian to conceal his magic. “Follow my lead. We will try to take them unawares. If the Theophract is there, I shall deal with him. I will need you to handle any guards he might have.”
“Sounds like there are quite a few cultists,” said Olivier.
“Aye,” said Tyrcamber. “I think Sir Dietrich was optimistic. There are more cultists than the seven he caught.”
“Agreed,” said Rilmael. “Follow me. Keep quiet and try to keep out of sight until I give the word.”
They crossed the hall to the archway, and Rilmael dropped to a crouch. Tyrcamber and Olivier followed suit. Tyrcamber was surprised that Rilmael and Olivier could move in silence while carrying their long weapons, but both men moved with practiced ease.
The archway opened onto a broad balcony overlooking a long hall. It was much like the other halls that Tyrcamber had seen within the cloak elven catacombs, with pillars of white stone and statues standing in niches.
But unlike the other halls, this one had been desecrated.
Crude masks had been fitted over the statues, giving them the features of dragons. Tyrcamber remembered the totem of the Dragon Cult he had seen, an image of a man with the head of a dragon. On the far side of the hall, a strange altar had been constructed of bones and skulls. It radiated a harsh bloody light and looking at it gave Tyrcamber a headache. Even without using the Sense spell, Tyrcamber felt the dark magic surrounding the thing. The crimson glow from the altar was the only source of light within the hall, and dark, tangled shadows lay everywhere. It gave the room a hellish look.
A dozen men in hooded black robes knelt before the altar, chanting. The loose robes concealed their forms, and every one of the cultists wore an iron mask wrought in the shape of a dragon. Sir Dietrich had indeed been too optimistic.
Between the kneeling cultists and the altar stood a dark elf.
The dark elf wore armor of overlapping plates of blue steel. A great black cloak hung from his shoulders, the cowl drawn up to shadow his head. He wore a helmet of blue steel, the faceplate wrought in the image of a roaring dragon. In his right hand, he carried a staff of some sort of black metal that seemed to drink the crimson glow from the altar. It was almost like looking at a slash in the air.
That dark elf had to be the Theophract.
The Theophract raised a hand and started to speak in the Frankish language.
“You have been faithful,” said the Theophract, “in the face of great adversity and challenge.” His voice was deep and melodious, even beautiful, but something in it made Tyrcamber’s skin crawl. “Your brothers have been hunted and persecuted by the fools ruling the city above us. But you stayed true to the Path of the Dragon, the path that leads to immortality and godhood.” He gestured with his free hand at the altar. “You have seen us gather the power to raise your leader to godhood. Now, at last, the hour has come. Behold the final victim!”
He gestured with the dark staff, and a small door behind the altar opened. Two cultists in black robes and iron dragon masks hurried out, dragging a prisoner between them. It was a man of middle years wearing a red tunic and dusty trousers, his boots dragging against the floor. There was blood on his face and a gag in his mouth.
Tyrcamber’s eyes widened. It was Sir Rauldun, the preceptor of the Order of Embers’s chapterhouse in Tamisa.
The cultists dumped him on the floor before the altar.
“Alas,” said the Theophract. “It seems the intrepid Sir Rauldun realized the truth and went to warn the Duke of his c
ity’s danger. We could not allow that, so your leader brought him here. Fitting, is it not, that Sir Rauldun will be the final sacrifice to raise the Dragonmaeloch?”
“We’ll have to act now,” murmured Rilmael. “I will strike at the Theophract. When I do, attack the cultists and kill as many of them as you can. We cannot allow them to kill Sir Rauldun. The spell upon the altar is almost done. When it is finished, they will have gathered enough power to create a Dragonmaeloch.”
Tyrcamber nodded, and Rilmael beckoned. They moved along the stone railing of the balcony towards a flight of shallow stairs. At any moment, Tyrcamber expected the cultists or the Theophract to see them, but the members of the Dragon Cult gave no notice. Perhaps the shadows filling the room obscured their vision, or their attention was bent upon Rauldun. The Theophract began casting spells, bloody fire dancing around his armored fingers. The hooded and robed cultists answered with a chant, crimson fire shining around their own hands. The cultists were casting spells, feeding their power into the Theophract’s will. Sir Rauldun sagged between the two cultists holding his arms.
Tyrcamber tensed. He hadn’t known Rauldun long, but Tyrcamber was a Knight of the Order of Embers, and he would not let an officer of his Order die upon the bloody altar of the Dragon Cult.
“I am going to strike,” whispered Rilmael. “When I do, attack.”
In one smooth motion, he surged upright, leveled his staff, and cast a spell. A howling bolt of lightning leaped from the end of his staff, arced across the hall, and slammed into the Theophract. The lightning was so bright that for a heartbeat it drowned the shadows in the hall, and the thunderclap was immense, the echoes rolling back and forth against the walls of white stone. The blast struck the Theophract and threw him backward. It would have flung him into the wall, but the dark elf slammed his staff down, and something like tentacles of shadow erupted from the weapon and seized the floor, holding him in place.
Tyrcamber yelled and sprinted down the stairs, Olivier at his side. He cast a spell as he ran, fire blazing around his left hand. The stunned cultists whirled to face him, and Tyrcamber cast the Lance spell. A burst of elemental fire leaped from his fingers and struck a cultist, throwing the man dead to the floor. Olivier cast a spell of his own, hurling a net of lightning. The lightning leaped from cultist to cultist, not with killing force, but with enough to stun.
Tyrcamber reached the cultists, and he started killing. He had slain three of them by the time the others recovered and surged to their feet, casting spells. Tyrcamber stepped back and worked the Shield spell, and the half-dome of hazy orange-yellow light appeared in front of him, deflecting a volley of Lance spells. As he did, Olivier attacked again, and the dwarf-lance ripped out a cultist’s throat. The man spun around and fell dead to the floor. Tyrcamber waded into the cultists, holding his Shield spell in place. Like all men, the cultists had their magic, but Tyrcamber had a sword of dark elven steel and chain mail, and none of the cultists had any weapons larger than a dagger. Tyrcamber killed two more cultists, and the rest began to fall back.
A shining blast of blue fire hurtled past, shattering against Rilmael’s Shield spell. Both the Theophract and the Guardian began casting spells, focusing their magic against each other. The cultists scrambled backward, and the survivors fled, dropping Sir Rauldun to the ground and vanishing through the narrow door.
“Enough!” thundered the Theophract, his voice ringing through the hall. “So, Guardian, you have chosen to try your hand against me at last?”
He took a long step back, moving next to the altar of bones. Perhaps he wanted to put it between him and Rilmael. The black staff shivered in his grip, and a tentacle burst out and coiled against the ground.
“Care to surrender?” said Rilmael. “It would make things much easier.”
“Surrender so close to the end?” said the Theophract. “For fifteen thousand years we’ve been dueling each other, Guardian, and the end is almost at hand. You know what is coming. The five Heralds of Ruin will open the way. The Warden is coming, and the world will perish in dragon fire.”
Tyrcamber felt a chill. “Who is the Warden?” Sir Marchoc had said much the same before Tyrcamber had killed him.
The dragon-faced helm turned in his direction. “I am not in the habit of explaining myself to my enemies. Should you wish to know, you can follow the Path of the Dragon like my other disciples.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Rilmael. “Whatever you’re going to accomplish in Tamisa is finished.”
“Is it, Guardian?” said the Theophract. “The Empire must be destroyed. But even a human nation cannot be overcome in a day. Instead, it must be broken piece by piece. Once my Dragonmaeloch burns Tamisa, the xiatami will overrun Mourdrech easily, perhaps even strike all the way to Sinderost itself. The Empire will burn…and the way to Cathair Kaldran shall be clear at last.”
“The Empire will never be overcome,” said Olivier.
“Never?” said the Theophract. “Never is such a long time, human. Your Empire has stood for eight centuries, and you think that a long time. But eight centuries is nothing. Naught but a grain of sand upon the scales of eternity.”
“That eternity might end for you now,” said Rilmael, pointing his staff at the Theophract.
“No,” said the Theophract. “It won’t.” He gestured at Sir Rauldun’s prone form. “You see, I needed this fool’s death to empower the altar for the final phase of the spell. But when your pet humans very annoyingly killed some of my disciples, their deaths released necromantic power. Just enough, I think, to empower the altar, and to let me do…this!”
He took a quick step back and swung the end of his staff against the altar. There was a flash of red light, and the altar erupted into howling crimson flames. A pillar of fire shot from the altar and stabbed into the ceiling, vanishing from sight. The altar itself shuddered once and collapsed into smoking ashes, and the Theophract laughed.
“What have you done?” said Rilmael.
“I’ve given you a choice!” said the Theophract. “You can pursue me. Perhaps you will even catch and kill me after all these millennia. But some of my disciples escaped, and they have orders to kill the Duke, the Duchess, and their children.” Tyrcamber’s hand tightened against his sword hilt. “And, more importantly, the transformation is underway. The cult leader has received the power of the altar, and at any moment he will transform into a free-willed dragon. Choose, Guardian! My life, or the lives of all those humans above us!”
He let out a wild, mad laugh, and became a wraith of mist and gray light. The Theophract hurtled backward, vanishing into the wall an instant before Tyrcamber’s Lance spell splashed off the white stone.
“Don’t bother,” said Rilmael, hurrying forward, voice grim. “He’s gone.”
“Where did he go?” said Olivier. “Did he turn invisible?”
“No,” said Rilmael, stopping before the ashes of the altar. Tyrcamber and Olivier joined him as Rilmael went to one knee next to Rauldun. “He cast the Wraith spell. It’s a spell of dark magic that makes the body immaterial. He can use it to walk through solid stone, and he’s employed it to escape from me before.”
“We have to move,” said Tyrcamber. “Those cultists are going to go after Adelaide and her children.”
“Yes,” said Rilmael. He yanked the gag from Rauldun’s mouth and tossed it aside. “But Sir Rauldun is still alive. And he will know who the cultist leader is. Else how did he wind up down here?”
That was a good point. Tyrcamber wanted to leave the shrine at once, run to the surface, and warn Adalhaid and her retainers of the danger. Yet his mind knew that would accomplish nothing. If the cultist leader was about to transform into a Dragonmaeloch, they needed to be able to find the man. For that matter, Tyrcamber wasn’t sure he could find his way out of the catacombs and back to the crypt without Rilmael’s help.
Rilmael cast the Heal spell, golden fire shining around his fingers. The fire sank into Rauldun, and the preceptor’s eyes popp
ed open. He sat up with a strangled croak of alarm, looking around for foes.
“Be calm,” said Rilmael. “Be calm! You are safe for the moment. The cultists have been driven off…”
“A wizard,” said Rauldun, blinking in confusion. “A dark elven lord. He was leading the cultists. He’s too strong to fight.”
“He fled rather than face me,” said Rilmael. “As he has before. He is an old, old enemy of mine. Sir Rauldun, the surviving cultists are going to assassinate the Duke and his family. You must tell us what you know.”
Rauldun blinked, and his expression hardened. “Dietrich. Sir Dietrich. He is the cult leader.”
“What?” said Tyrcamber.
“Those seven men he found?” said Rauldun. “They were Dragon Cultists, but men whose loyalty to their dark cause was wavering. Dietrich fed them to us to throw our suspicions off the proper path.” He scowled. “He gloated about it when he ambushed me. Last night, I feared that when you and Sir Tyrcamber and Sir Olivier went after the cult’s shrine, it might spur them into rash action. I went to arrange additional guards for the Duke’s castle, and Dietrich and that dark elven sorcerer surprised me. The dark elf’s magic put me to sleep, and when I awoke, Dietrich was more than happy to boast. He intends to become a Dragonmaeloch and conquer Mourdrech as his kingdom.”
“He won’t,” said Rilmael. “The transformation will destroy his sanity. He will destroy Mourdrech, and he’ll start by burning Tamisa to ashes.”
“Can we stop him?” said Rauldun.
“We must go at once,” said Tyrcamber.
“Yes,” said Rilmael. “Sir Rauldun, they wouldn’t have used the entrance below the church. The cultists must have a secret entrance to the catacombs.”
Rauldun scowled. “The cultists have secret entrances everywhere. Including one that opens into the cellars of Castle Berengar. They brought me that way when I left dinner last night.” He got to his feet with a grunt. “I remember the path. I can show you.”
Malison: Dragon Fury Page 10