Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I know where your foe is going.”

  It was the raspy, hissing voice of a San-keth cleric.

  Mazael turned, raising Lion, and Romaria drew her bow.

  Szegan slithered across the dais, blood dripping from the hideous wound behind his scaled head. Apparently, the wound had not proven fatal quite yet.

  “So you are Demonsouled, Mazael Cravenlock,” said Szegan. “A child of the Old Demon, yes? That explains much. How you defeated Skhath and Straganis, for one.” The serpent coughed, blood splattering over his fangs. “It is folly for the servants of great Sepharivaim to meddle with the Demonsouled. You are too strong to control and too dangerous to wield as weapons.”

  “You can ask Sepharivaim about it, when you see him,” said Romaria, taking aim with her bow.

  “Wait,” said Mazael.

  Romaria frowned, but held her fire.

  Mazael stared at the wounded San-keth. The ambush to stop Corvad had failed, badly. Molly was gone with the map, and no doubt Corvad's Malrags retreated through the mistgate even now. Timothy's spell could find Lucan anywhere. Yet with Corvad's warlocks and their mistgates, Mazael could chase him from one end of the Grim Marches to the other and never catch him.

  Unless he knew where Corvad was going.

  “You know what my foe plans?” said Mazael.

  “Of course not,” whispered Szegan. His yellow eyes focused on Mazael. “But I am not a fool. I know what she intends.”

  “How?” said Romaria.

  “Your daughter,” said Szegan. “I saw the map tucked in her belt. I know what it is.”

  “What is it, then?” said Mazael.

  “This is a San-keth cleric,” said Romaria. “How do we know he speaks the truth?”

  Szegan coughed a hissing laugh, his coils trembling. “You do not. But comfort yourself with this thought. I have no reason to lie. You are a mortal enemy of the San-keth people, Mazael Cravenlock, and your destruction would be a great victory.” He twitched closer, scales rasping against the stone floor. “But your daughter has dealt me a mortal wound. I wish to see her dead. So I will send you after her. If she slays you, I have won a mighty victory for Sepharivaim. And if you slay her, my death is avenged.” Again he made a hissing laugh. “Perhaps you will both slay each other! Then my victory shall be complete.”

  “This map,” said Mazael. “What is it?”

  “A map of the kingdom of Old Dracaryl,” said Szegan.

  Mazael shared a look with Romaria. Corvad and Molly had been stealing books and scrolls of Old Dracaryl. Had they been hunting for a map all along?

  “Why did have a San-keth temple have a map of Dracaryl?” said Romaria.

  “It was a gift,” said Szegan. “In ancient days, the high lords of Dracaryl were mighty rulers, fell and terrible. Their magical powers commanded the dragons, and between their spells and the dragons, no foe stood against them. But they desired to live forever in splendor, and studied necromancy to extend their lives. And to learn necromancy, they turned to the San-keth, for we are the masters of that art. The map was a gift from the High Lord of Arylkrad, one of the chief strongholds of Dracaryl, a castle seventy miles south of Mount Drachgan.”

  “That doesn't help us find Corvad,” said Romaria. “The kingdom of Dracaryl ruled the Grim Marches, the Black Plains, the Whitewood, and the Great Mountains. Corvad could be anywhere within these lands.”

  “Perhaps,” said Szegan, trembling as he inched towards the edge of the dais, “but I know where he is going.”

  “How?” said Mazael.

  “Because of the corruption of Lucan Mandragon,” said Szegan, “and because your enemy took him.”

  “And how did you know about that?” said Mazael.

  Again Szegan loosed that hissing laugh. “The servants of Sepharivaim have many eyes and ears, even among your own sworn men. We knew what befell Lucan after the great battle at Deepforest Keep. Once your daughter stole the map, I knew what she intended. Your enemy desires to claim the Glamdaigyr.”

  “The Glamdaigyr?” said Mazael. “What the devil is that?”

  “The word is High Elderborn,” said Romaria. “It means...sword of souls, I think. Or perhaps a dagger that drinks souls.”

  “Yes,” said Szegan. “Ere they fell, the lords of Dracaryl forged weapons of great dark magic. The Glamdaigyr was one of them. It drains away the life force of its victims and transfers that power to its wielder. The High Lord of Arylkrad claimed the sword for himself, and sealed it in his citadel before dark magic devoured Dracaryl. The sword lies there to this day.”

  “If it is so powerful,” said Romaria, “and you know where it is, why haven't the San-keth claimed it?”

  “Because we cannot,” said Szegan. “The High Lord was a wizard of great potency, and ringed Arylkrad with wards and guardians. Five times the archpriests have sent expeditions to Arylkrad, and five times the guardians have destroyed those expeditions.”

  “But Corvad thinks he can take the sword,” said Mazael.

  Szegan hissed. “Demonsouled have power. And you have a way of destroying enemies others cannot defeat.”

  “All this for a sword?” said Mazael.

  “The Glamdaigyr is powerful,” said Szegan, “and your enemy can use the Glamdaigyr to obtain far greater power.” Szegan shuddered, some of his coils falling to the first step of the dais. “You have seen the infused Malrags, yes? The Malrags strengthened by the blood of a Demonsouled? And with the Glamdaigyr and Lucan's blood, your enemy shall create a Malrag Queen.”

  “I have never seen a Malrag Queen,” said Mazael. "I understood that the Malrags have no gender."

  “The Malrags are only demon spirits inhabiting bodies of crude flesh,” said Szegan. “Those bodies are grown in dark hives, far below the earth. And within those hives dwell the Malrag Queens. Vast, misshapen beasts, grotesque to behold, some larger than the sanctuary of this temple. Many who look upon them go mad. The Malrags grow like tumors in the flesh of the Queen, until they are strong enough to rip their way free from its hide. One Malrag Queen can spawn tens of thousands of Malrags.”

  Mazael remembered the vials of blood on Lucan’s table, remembered the black staff burning in Lucan's hands. He remembered how Lucan had been left twisted and deformed, his skin gray and bulging with growths...

  The answer came to him.

  “Gods,” said Mazael, “that's it, isn't it? Lucan.”

  Szegan's yellow eyes glittered. “Yes. You understand. The Dragon's Shadow corrupted his soul...and made himself vulnerable.”

  “What about Lucan?” said Romaria.

  “Corvad's going to transform him into a Malrag Queen,” said Mazael. “The corruption Lucan brought into himself. Corvad will use the Glamdaigyr to combine that with the power of his own blood, and transform Lucan into a Malrag Queen.”

  “But Lucan is male,” said Romaria.

  Szegan's tongue flickered over his fangs, and he slid down another step of the dais. “The Malrags have no gender. They spawn from a Queen, grow in its flesh like tumors. But you are correct, Mazael Cravenlock. This Corvad...I assume he is the Demonsouled commanding the Malrags, yes? Right now he only commands the remnants of Ultorin's horde. But once he transforms Lucan into a Malrag Queen, he will produced uncounted legions of Malrags. Perhaps he will even become the Destroyer foretold in the prophecies.”

  Mazael scowled. Ultorin and his horde of Malrags had been bad enough. But Ultorin had only been a renegade knight equipped with a bloodsword forged in Demonsouled blood. An army of infused Malrags, commanded by a true Demonsouled, a grandson of the Old Demon himself, would be far worse. What would Amalric Galbraith, Mazael wondered, have been able to do with an army of Malrags at his command?

  “We must stop Corvad,” said Mazael. “Molly wants me dead, fine. Corvad wants to conquer the world. And with a Malrag Queen, and a Malrag army, he'll be able to do it. He'll become the Destroyer.”

  And, worse, the Old Demon would triumph. If Corvad became the Destroy
er, the Old Demon would devour him and his strength. Mazael's father would gain the power of a living god.

  He did not want to think about the kind of world his father would create with such power.

  “You shall not stop Corvad,” said Szegan.

  “I shall,” said Mazael, turning from the dais, “and...”

  Szegan snarled and launched himself into the air, fanged mouth yawning wide. He had been stalling for time, Mazael realized, inching closer until he could attack. Calibah poison was deadly. The poison of a true San-keth, one of the serpent people, was utterly lethal. Perhaps even potent enough to stop the heart of a Demonsouled.

  An arrow slammed into Szegan's side, sinking deep. The San-keth's head missed Mazael's neck, sliding past his shoulder to slam against the floor. The serpent priest recovered quickly, rearing up to strike, but Mazael was faster.

  Lion swung in an arc of blue light, and Szegan's head bounced across the dais. For a moment cleric's body thrashed and writhed like a rope caught in the wind, and then went still. Lion's blue flames dimmed and went out.

  There were no creatures of dark magic left in the temple.

  Mazael let out a long breath. “Good shot.”

  “I should have killed him on the spot,” said Romaria. “The San-keth are not trustworthy.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “He had information we needed. And we know what Corvad wants, and what we must do to stop him.”

  And what Mazael had to do to stop his mistakes from causing more damage than they already had.

  He should never have seduced Elizabeth of Barellion.

  He should never have trusted Lucan.

  Mazael would stop Corvad. Whatever the cost to himself.

  “Let's go,” said Mazael, turning his back on Szegan's corpse.

  ###

  The battle was over by the time Mazael and Romaria returned to the village.

  Great heaps of Malrag dead lay before the ruined gates. Most had been slain with crossbow bolt and spear, but many had been burned to charred husks. Timothy, it seemed, had possessed the strength for a few more fire spells. Amongst the Malrag slain Mazael saw dead men in armor, some wearing Cravenlock colors, others in the blue and silver of House Roland or the crimson cloaks of the Arminiars.

  Far more than Mazael would have liked.

  He found Gerald and Kjalmir standing near the ruined gate, giving commands. Both men had come through the battle uninjured, their armor dented and bloodied, their cloaks and surcoats torn to shreds. Timothy sat on a fallen stone, face haggard, sipping water from a clay cup.

  All three looked up at Mazael approached.

  “You're alive, thank the gods,” said Gerald.

  “How?” said Kjalmir. “When the street collapsed I was sure you were slain.”

  “The street collapsed into a tunnel,” said Mazael, “and the tunnel opened into the San-keth temple. It took some doing, but I fought my way clear.”

  “An impressive feat of arms,” said Kjalmir.

  “Not impressive enough,” said Mazael. “Both Corvad and Molly got away. How many did we lose?”

  Gerald grimaced, flexing his sword hand. “Twenty-seven of yours slain. Six of mine.”

  “Seven of mine,” said Kjalmir. “They died as true brothers of the Knights Arminiar, facing the Malrags with sword in hand.”

  “Damn it,” said Mazael, a wave of rage rising in him. Those were men under his protection, and Corvad had slain them. He would slay both Corvad and Molly for this. He would hunt them to the ends of the earth, he would...

  Mazael pushed back his fury. Blind was rage was not something a child of the Old Demon could ever afford.

  Not when the rage might turn him into something worse than Corvad, worse than Amalric Galbraith.

  “Then we failed,” said Kjalmir. “We will not have another opportunity to ambush Corvad.”

  “We have failed,” said Mazael. “But we gained something from this failure. I know what Corvad wants, and I know where he’s going.”

  “Where?” said Gerald.

  “A place called Arylkrad, a ruin of Old Dracaryl,” said Mazael. “Seventy miles south of Mount Drachgan in the Great Mountains.”

  That got Timothy's attention. “He's going into the Great Mountains? That's madness. There are dragons in the Great Mountains! And...other things, as well, horrors and spells left over from the final days of Dracaryl.”

  “We are going after him,” said Mazael. “There’s a sword of dark magic in Arylkrad, a weapon called the Glamdaigyr. Corvad will use that and Lucan's blood to create a Malrag Queen.”

  “Gods!” said Kjalmir.

  “You've encountered such a creature before?” said Gerald.

  “No,” said Kjalmir, “but they are recorded in the annals of my Order. Four times the Knights Arminiar have gathered to slay a Malrag Queen, lest it spawn a horde of Malrags. Four times we have been victorious...but every time, tens of thousands fell in the battle, and Northreach was left desolate of men for a generation. And a Malrag Queen under the control of a Demonsouled...this cannot be allowed!” Kjalmir's eyes blazed. “We must stop Corvad.”

  “And we shall,” said Mazael. “We will ride for Castle Cravenlock at once, to obtain maps and supplies. Then we shall make for Castle Highgate and the Great Mountains.”

  “We may be too late,” said Gerald, “if Corvad uses a mistgate to reach Arylkrad.”

  “Ah,” said Timothy. “That is...unlikely.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “Many ancient wards of Old Dracaryl linger in the Great Mountains, wards beyond the skill of any living wizard. I suspect opening a mistgate in the mountains would be...unwise. Remarkably so. The results would be rather explosive.”

  “Even so,” said Mazael, “Corvad can take a mistgate to the edge of the mountains, and proceed on foot from there. He'll have an eight-day head start, and we need to move at once. Gerald, Kjalmir, get your men ready. I want to be gone from Morsen within the hour.”

  “What about the villagers?” said Gerald. “They’re almost certainly San-keth proselytes. Should we just leave them here?”

  Mazael hesitated. The dark part of his mind, the Demonsouled part, wanted to kill them all. But there were children among them. And perhaps not all of the villagers had been proselytes. Perhaps only a small minority had known of the San-keth temple below the church. And Mazael did not have time to sort the innocent from the guilty.

  Not with Corvad planning to create a Malrag Queen.

  “Send some men into the temple,” said Mazael. “Have them burn the books in the library – they're tomes of dark magic and necromancy. But they're to keep any maps. We might need them in the Great Mountains.”

  “What of the villagers themselves?” said Timothy, frowning.

  “Leave them,” said Mazael. “They trusted in the San-keth to protect them...and the serpent priests failed. Perhaps they'll rethink their faith in Sepharivaim.”

  ###

  Two hours later Mazael rode to the east, his face grim.

  Corvad and Molly. His children, both of them. And together they threatened to destroy the Grim Marches, to slay the peasants and knights and nobles under his protection. But not if Mazael stopped them.

  Not if Mazael slew them.

  His own children.

  His scowl deepened, his hand tightening around Lion's hilt.

  He already had the blood of his half-brother and half-sister on his hands, Amalric and Morebeth Galbraith.

  No doubt he could live with the blood of his children on his hands, as well.

  Chapter 20 – Master of Shadows

  The moaning wind never ceased.

  Lucan made his slow way along the road, one hand braced against the rock wall of the mountain. The path here was little more than a twisting ribbon of stone, clinging to the mountain's jagged side. The slope wasn't quite a cliff, but steep enough that a fall would kill him.

  He laughed a little at the thought.

  One needed a physical body in order to die. And what woul
d happen if he was killed here? Would his spirit disintegrate into nothingness? Would the Demonsouled corruption devour him? Or would he be trapped here forever, the reapers and killing him over and over again?

  That thought did not make him laugh. Perhaps the Old Demon had lied to him, and his physical body was already dead. Perhaps he was trapped here.

  “No,” growled Lucan. He would escape from this place. He would return to his body. Then he would take vengeance upon Malavost, upon his father, upon his brother, upon anyone who had ever caused him pain.

  He gazed up at the mountain, at the ruined black city overhead. It was much closer now, and he had a clear view of the gaping holes torn into its black walls. What was the black city? Everything else here was either a manifestation of the Demonsouled corruption or something spawned from the depths of Lucan's own mind. So what did the black city represent? The Demonsouled power of the bloodstaff? Lucan's inner mind? Or something else entirely?

  He would find out, soon enough.

  Assuming the reapers and the hooded shadows did not kill him first.

  Lucan glanced backward, at the foothills and the dead forest and the roiling black sea. He had seen no one else since leaving the burned castle in the foothills, and the long road let him see anyone attempting to ascend the mountain. Not that it mattered – Lucan suspected the reapers would not rely on anything as mundane as walking.

  The road widened as it followed the curve of the mountain. Lucan lifted his hand, drawing on power for a spell. The wider road meant that more than one reaper could attack him at once, if they wanted a fight. He kept walking, hand raised, and the road widened into a broad ledge.

  Then he saw the ruins ahead.

  “Not again,” he muttered.

  A courtyard jutted from the side of the mountain, built of the same black stone as the ruined castle and the city atop the peak. Broken statues littered the courtyard, images of men in armor and women in flowing gowns. It looked a great deal like the Court of Swords at his father's castle of Swordgrim.