Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  Of course.

  He stared at the empty street for a moment, struggling against the growing unease. He was in a great deal of danger. His body no doubt still lay in the Garden of the Temple at Deepforest Keep, and he had no way of knowing how much time had passed in the physical world. If Ultorin broke through the walls, the Malrags would kill Lucan as soon as they found his body.

  And then he would be trapped here forever.

  Well, not forever. Only until the reapers found him. If Mattias was right, if they were the manifestations of the Demonsouled power Lucan had stolen, they would never stop hunting him.

  Assuming Mattias wasn't lying.

  What did he want from Lucan? Doubtless his advice had a price. And Lucan suspected that “Mattias” was not his real name.

  He wondered if Mattias was even human.

  But Mattias was right - Lucan had to get moving. He could not stay here. Sooner or later the reapers would overpower him...or someone would kill Lucan's physical body in the material world.

  He left the village and walked towards the mountain and the black city.

  Chapter 10 – Vengeance

  Corvad was not pleased.

  “All of them?” he said, almost shouting.

  Molly gave an indifferent shrug. “As far as I know. Mazael and those Arminiars had killed most of them by the time I made it to the mistgate.”

  She and Corvad stood on a cliff, an icy wind whipping around them. Corvad liked to move every few days, traveling via mistgate to a new location. Considering the number of people who wanted to kill him, it was a sensible precaution. This time Corvad had chosen a long-abandoned mining village high in the foothills of the Great Mountains, just below the tree line. It was as far into the mountains as Corvad could go.

  At least via mistgate. Mistgates did not work in the Great Mountains.

  “You got all the Malrags killed?” said Corvad. His gray eyes looked colder and harder than the sides of the mountains. “All seven hundred of them? And all four of the Ogrags?”

  “You're the one who sent the Malrags through the mistgate, brother,” said Molly. "And you chose not to lead them. That is hardly my doing.” She smirked. “Were you afraid of catching more arrows in the throat?”

  Corvad's scowl sharpened, and for a moment Molly was certain that he would attack her. Let the fool try! So close to the cliff, she would pull them both off. Corvad would plummet to his death, while Molly walked the shadows to safety.

  She doubted that even Demonsouled healing could handle a thousand-foot fall.

  “The Malrags were sent to distract the townsmen,” said Corvad, “so you could steal the books. I did not send them to get slaughtered!”

  “So?” said Molly.

  “So?” said Corvad. “Do you know how much time it took to create that many infused Malrags? And with that fool Kjalmir on our trail, we shall need every Malrag we can find!”

  “Infused or not, Malrags are only tools,” said Molly. “Go dominate some more and infuse them. Or raise more zuvembies with that diadem of yours.”

  “Grandfather will be displeased,” said Corvad.

  Molly laughed. “Grandfather does not care about the Malrags, and nor should you. Besides, you didn't know that Mazael would be there in person.”

  “No,” said Corvad, the rage in his eyes sharpening. “No, I didn't. It will take more than Malrags to kill him.”

  “I will kill him,” said Molly. Suddenly her rage matched Corvad's. “For what he did to me. For what he did to Nicholas.”

  “Those were my Malrags,” said Corvad, voice quiet and hard. “You shouldn't have wasted them.”

  She met Corvad's glare with one of her own. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him. And over some Malrags? He had hardly cared about their losses at the ruined castle. Uneasiness threaded into Molly’s rage. Powerful Demonsouled often went insane, descending into homicidal mania.

  Had Corvad lost control of himself at last?

  “If you're going to kill me,” said Molly, “wait until I've killed Mazael first. I don't care what happens after that.”

  Corvad blinked, and something like sanity returned to his face. “Yes. I do want to kill things, sister. And our grandfather promised we could kill thousands, if we only listened to him.” He blinked again. “The books?”

  Molly handed him the two ancient books she had taken from the church of Cravenlock Town.

  “Good,” said Corvad, turning from the cliff. “Come.”

  She had nothing better to do, so she followed him.

  Malrags and a few Ogrags wandered through the ruined village, indifferent to both the cold wind and the occasional flake of drifting snow. All that remained of the village was a maze of stone walls, the doors and roofs having long since perished. Corvad walked into the wreckage of the village's manor house. Part of the roof was still intact, sheltering his collection of books and scrolls. Lucan Mandragon lay against one wall, limbs twitching, eyes trembling behind closed lids.

  The Malrag warlocks stood in the corner, the crimson glow of their third eyes staining the rough stone a pale red.

  “Why did you want those books, anyway?” said Molly.

  “They're histories,” said Corvad, seating himself at the scorched table. He'd had the Malrags carry it through the mistgate. “A copy of the chronicles of Old Dracaryl. Incomplete, of course. Most of the books of Dracaryl were lost in the dark magic that devoured their kingdom. But it may be enough.” He tapped a pair of scrolls. “Arylkrad is mentioned in both of these scrolls, in a record of the tribute the barbarian tribes across the mountains paid to the high lords of Dracaryl. Between that, and the book, I should be able to find what I seek.”

  His voice changed as he spoke, becoming almost passionate. Her brother enjoyed history, enjoyed studying it for its own sake. Had their mother not died, had the Skulls not taken them, Corvad could have made an excellent scholar.

  Had they not been Demonsouled.

  Molly wondered what her life would have been like had she not been cursed with demon-tainted blood.

  Might Nicholas still be alive?

  “Am I boring you?” said Corvad. The anger was back.

  Molly gave an indifferent shrug. “You were always one for old books, brother. I have different amusements.”

  “There is power in these old books,” said Corvad. He lifted his black diadem from a corner of the table. It had been fashioned in the shape of a dragon wrapped around the wearer’s head, a massive emerald nestled in the dragon's claws. The stone was dark now, but when Corvad wore it, the gem would flicker with ghostly green light. “Great power. The high lords of Dracaryl were wizards of might. Their spells commanded the dragons themselves, and their magic raised armies of the dead.”

  “Little good their power did them,” said Molly. “They were devoured by their own dark magic, in the end.”

  Corvad scoffed. “Because they were fools. We are the Demonsouled, sister. Power is our birthright. The high lords of Dracaryl proved unworthy of their power. I shall claim their power from their ruins, and the world shall be mine.”

  Molly laughed. “The world, yes. And what will you do with the world once you have it, Corvad? You'll run out of people to kill sooner or later.”

  Corvad sneered. “You spent too much time around that dead pet of yours. He's made you weak.”

  Molly's vision turned scarlet, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

  She wanted to draw her sword and ram it down Corvad's gullet until not even his Demonsouled blood could heal the wounds. Her hand closed into a fist. She needed Corvad. She could not kill Mazael Cravenlock without him, without his plan.

  And killing Mazael, avenging Nicholas, was more important than anything else.

  Molly spun away from Corvad and stalked into the shadows.

  When she reappeared, she stood on a boulder a few hundred yards above the village. Again she walked into the shadows, and again, until she perched on an icy ledge far above the ruins. Below she saw t
he tough pine trees dotting the foothills, and beyond the vast expanse of the Grim Marches.

  She was alone.

  Molly slumped against the side of the mountain, ignoring the cold.

  It had been over a year since Nicholas had offered marriage to her, offering it to her as if she had been a proper noblewoman, and not the bastard child of a minor noble.

  As if she had not been a Skull, trained to deal death from with poison and blade.

  But he had offered and she accepted with all her heart. He spoke of traveling to the free cities, and disappearing into their crowds. Or taking ship to the distant ports beyond the Great Southern Forest, and starting new lives there. Molly only wanted to stay with him, to leave her past behind, to abandon all of it.

  Then she had returned to find Nicholas dying in his own blood.

  Molly hissed, her fingers closing so hard her fingernails dug into her palms. She had almost been free. She had almost been happy. And then Mazael Cravenlock had taken all that from her. She would find him and make him pay. A hundred years of agony would not repay him for what he had done to her.

  Ten thousand would not repay him for what he had done to Nicholas.

  Molly sat on the icy ledge from a long time, the tears trickling down her cheeks and turning to ice. Her fingers grew cold and chill, but she did not care. Eventually the cramps and the hunger pangs in her belly grew too sharp to ignore. She could not avenge Nicholas if she starved to death on the side of this desolate mountain.

  She rose, walked the shadows, and returned to the ruined village.

  -Great mistress-

  One of the infused Malrags stared at her, crimson veins throbbing across its face.

  -The great master bids you to speak with him, once you return-

  “I'm sure he does,” said Molly.

  Gods, but the Malrags disgusted her. They were clever and fierce, but tortured and killed for no purpose but the sheer joy of it. What, she wondered, would the Malrag have done to Nicholas, had it found him wounded?

  She almost killed the creature on the spot, but decided she didn't want another argument with Corvad. Instead she walked the shadows and reappeared in the ruined manor house, next to Corvad's table. His pet warlocks remained motionless in the corners. Lucan Mandragon twitched in the depths of his nightmares. Corvad still sat at his table, paging through one of the books Molly had brought.

  He was smiling.

  “There you are,” said Corvad. “What do you do when you wander off like that, I wonder?”

  “I'm plotting against you, of course,” said Molly, “for I plan to murder you and seize control of this rabble of Malrags for myself.”

  To her annoyance, Corvad did not take the bait. “Unlikely. You hate Malrags. And I have found what we need.”

  Molly blinked. “A map to Arylkrad?”

  “No,” said Corvad. “But I know where to find one.” He tapped the ancient book. “The high lords of Dracaryl thirsted for more dark magic, for more necromancy. And few necromancers can match the prowess of the San-keth archpriests. So the high lords of Dracaryl made an alliance with the serpent people, trading with them and sharing their secrets. They allowed the San-keth to build a temple below what is now Castle Cravenlock.”

  “So you think the temple has the map?” said Molly. “Unlikely. Mazael Cravenlock found the temple and slew the San-keth. Do you really think he would keep books of dark magic for his own use? Most likely he burned them all.”

  “Oh, Mazael would have,” said Corvad, “but Lucan Mandragon?”

  Molly looked at the unconscious wizard.

  “Grandfather told us that Mazael sealed the temple,” said Corvad, “but I suspect the Dragon's Shadow made himself a lair down there. It would be a perfect sanctuary, would it not? Especially if everyone else believed the temple had been sealed. He could have hidden anything he wanted in the temple.”

  “Including the temple's library,” said Molly. It made sense a great deal of sense. For all her brother's rage, he was not a fool.

  “Yes,” said Corvad. “The high lords of Dracaryl made gifts of books and scrolls to the San-keth. Among them, almost certainly, is a map to Arylkrad...or at least an indication where we can find one. And you, sister, are going to take that map.”

  Chapter 11 – Duel

  Romaria awoke in darkness.

  She lay naked in bed, resting against Mazael. Romaria had spent long months traveling through the wilderness, and grown accustomed to sleeping on the ground, wrapped in a cloak to ward off the chill. She had taught herself to wake at the approach of predators

  Needless to say, sleeping upon a mattress underneath a roof was preferable.

  So why had she awakened as if a predator approached?

  She lifted her head from Mazael's chest. His bedroom was silent and dark, moonlight leaking through the windows and balcony door. Mazael was asleep, his breathing slow and steady. No sounds of alarm came from the windows. Castle Cravenlock seemed secure.

  So why did it feel like something was wrong?

  Years ago, she would have dismissed the feeling as mere fear. She knew better now. Romaria was the daughter of a human father and an Elderborn mother, and the magic in the Elderborn half of her soul manifested itself as the beast. The beast's senses were keener than her own, and often noticed things that she did not.

  Of course, she was the beast, and the beast was her.

  Romaria slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Mazael, and walked barefoot across the cold stone floor. She dressed, pulling on her boots and trousers and leather armor. Most of the women of the castle regarded her as a dangerous wildling come out of the south to seduce their lord. But that was all right – they also regarded Mazael with a mixture of respect and terror, fearful of the man who had defeated the Malrags, yet grateful that such a knight was their lord and protector.

  She picked up her weapons and stepped into the hallway, sniffing at the air.

  ###

  Molly perched on the curtain wall, watching the dark mass of Castle Cravenlock's keep.

  Armsmen walked the ramparts and kept watch over the surrounding countryside, attending to their duties with diligence. Mazael had trained his men well. Yet Molly knew how to remain unseen, and she kept hidden in the shadows of the battlements.

  It would have been easier if Corvad's pet warlocks had simply opened a mistgate inside the castle. But the warlocks could not. The castle had been layered in wards. Lucan's work, no doubt, or that of another wizard. The mistgate opened in a quiet field a few hundred yards from the base of the castle's hill.

  But no spell could keep Molly from walking the shadows.

  She stepped into the swirling darkness and reappeared atop the castle’s highest tower. No one could see her here, and she could walk the shadows into the keep with ease.

  She lifted her left wrist.

  A bronze chain wrapped around her arm held a crystal vial of black blood. One of the warlocks had made the thing, drawing the blood from Lucan Mandragon, muttering spells over it all the while.

  “Think of it as a...compass, sister,” Corvad had said. “Mazael ordered the temple sealed. I suspect Lucan used his spells to arrange his own private entrance to the temple. A low-power mistgate, most likely, allowing him to enter the temple unseen. That vial of blood detects Lucan's spells. Use it to find whatever magical method he had to enter the temple.”

  Molly waved her arm over the keep, the vial sliding against her sleeve. As she did, it grew colder, and tugged against its chain, like a nail inching towards a lodestone.

  One of Lucan's spells. Below her.

  She drew on the burning darkness within her and entered the shadows.

  ###

  Romaria walked through the hallways of the castle.

  There was something...wrong. Something in the air. So faint that even she could barely smell it, but it was there. Some taint, some corruption. She didn’t recognize it, but it was there, and getting stronger.

  She left the King's T
ower, where Mazael kept his bedroom, and entered the main keep. The faint odor grew stronger as she climbed the stairs to the higher levels of the keep.

  For a moment Romaria considered becoming the great black wolf, and using its senses, but she discarded the idea. The armsmen had grown used to her sudden transformations, but many of Mazael's vassals and servants might turn against him if they saw her transform.

  Besides, whatever was causing that smell was on the top of the keep. Romaria could find it in human form.

  She kept climbing, her hand twitching towards the hilt of her bastard sword.

  ###

  Molly opened the door.

  The chamber occupied the top floor of the keep’s corner tower. The room was not large, and held only a narrow bed, a writing desk, and an empty wardrobe. Hardly the place one expected a wizard with the fearsome reputation of the Dragon's Shadow to live.

  But the vial trembled on its chain like a living thing.

  Molly closed the door, turning in a slow circle with her arm extended. There. The empty wall opposite the bed. She crossed the room and held her hand against the stone wall. Her fingers tingled with the presence of magic, and gray mist swirled across the wall. A small mistgate appeared before the her, swirling and writhing.

  The vial strained against its chain.

  Molly shook her head, part in annoyance, part in admiration. Sometimes Corvad went berserk with rage, but he was clever. Cleverer than Lucan Mandragon, apparently. Lucan had conjured this secret mistgate, even within the castle's defensive wards, but Corvad had puzzled it out anyway.

  She drew her sword and stepped into the mistgate.

  ###

  Romaria reached the top floor of the keep.

  The smell was stronger here, almost strong enough for her to recognize it. And it made the teeth peel back from her lips in a snarl, made her reach for the hilt of her sword. Whatever it was, it was the smell of an enemy.

  She froze.

  Lucan Mandragon.

  It was the smell of corruption and tainted magic that she had smelled from his black staff. It was the same reek she had smelled on his twisted body after the victory at Deepforest Keep. Damn it all, but Mazael should have killed him. If Lucan ever woke up, Romaria suspected he would no longer be sane.