Sir Nathan frowned. “The Grim Marches have not seen a dragon attack for generations.”
Mazael shrugged. “Until this year, the Grim Marches had not seen a Malrag raid for a century.”
“There are only two safe passes through the Great Mountains,” said Romaria. “Relatively safe, anyway. The Green Pass, which opens into the foothills near Deepforest Keep. I traveled there, guiding caravans from Deepforest Keep to the barbarian nations.”
“And in the High Pass, north of here,” said Timothy, “guarded by Castle Highgate.” He cleared his throat. “If Arylkrad is indeed seventy miles south of Mount Drachgan, we should take the High Pass. And I believe that Arylkrad stands right...here.” He tapped a spot on the map.
“About a hundred and fifty miles from Castle Highgate,” said Mazael.
“Five days to Castle Highgate from here,” said Romaria, “and then another two weeks through the mountains to Arylkrad. If all goes well.”
“And Corvad will have at least a five-day head start on us,” said Mazael.
“Not necessarily,” said Timothy. “Lady Romaria said that many of the old wards remain active in the mountains. She is correct – the brotherhood of wizards avoids the Great Mountains, though some of our bolder brothers have ventured among the peaks. They report that the wards remain active, and almost certainly the wards will prevent mistgates from opening.”
“So we have a chance of catching Corvad,” said Romaria, “before he transforms Lucan into a Malrag Queen.”
“Very well,” said Mazael. “We will leave at first light tomorrow.”
###
Later Mazael and Romaria lay together in his bedroom.
After, Romaria climbed off him, pushed the sweaty hair from her face, and laughed. “I much prefer to do that in a bed.”
Mazael nodded, resting his head against the pillow as he caught his breath. “Aye. I'm getting too old to sleep on the damned ground.”
She grinned and ran a hand down his chest. “But not too old for other things.”
He laughed. “Plainly not.”
They lay in silence for a moment.
“You're troubled,” said Romaria.
“I am,” said Mazael. “I am going to have to kill my own children.”
Romaria said nothing.
“I already have the blood of a sister and a brother on my hands,” said Mazael. “I would have had Rachel's blood on my hands, had you not stopped me.”
“Amalric Galbraith was a monster,” said Romaria. “Morebeth would have turned you into a monster like him. You didn't kill Rachel. And Corvad and Molly started this fight, not you.”
“They started this fight,” said Mazael, “because of what they are. Because they are my children, with my Demonsouled blood. Because I impregnated their mother, and then abandoned them.”
“You didn't know she was pregnant,” said Romaria, “and as far as you know, she never tried to contact you.”
“No,” said Mazael.
“If you had known she was pregnant,” said Romaria, “would you have stayed?”
“I don't know,” said Mazael. “I doubt I would have wed her. I would probably have tried to support her and the children – found them lands and income, rather than wandering around the realm for years.”
“You seem to think,” said Romaria, “that if you had stayed, Corvad and Molly would not have become what they are.”
“Molly said that the Skulls raised them after Elizabeth died,” said Mazael. “If I had been there...”
“They might still have become what they are,” said Romaria. “You've come to wisdom, Mazael...but later in your life. If you had stayed, what would you have done with the children? No doubt Corvad would have become a knight like you, wandering and slaying. You managed to keep a balance within yourself...but neither Corvad nor Molly might have done the same.”
“They're still my responsibility,” said Mazael.
“Aye,” said Romaria, “but they're not your fault. Perhaps you would have raised them better than the Skulls. But both Molly and Corvad made their choices, as did you.”
“And I will stop them,” said Mazael.
“You will stop them,” said Romaria.
He stared at the beams of the ceiling, thinking. If he had known of Molly and Corvad, he would have tried to save them. But he hadn't, and now it was too late. He could not turn them back from their path, and he had to stop them before they brought ruin and death to his lands.
Perhaps the only way to save them was to kill them.
###
The next morning, Mazael swung into Hauberk's saddle, armor clanking.
Noise and confusion filled the courtyard. Knights climbed into their saddles, squires running to bring weapons and shields. Armsmen checked their crossbows, while Kjalmir's Arminiar knights formed up below the gates. Mazael looked up, saw the women of the castle standing on the walls. To watch their husbands and sons and fathers ride off to battle once again, as they had so many times in the months since first Malrag warband had raided Cravenlock Town.
Gerald reined up his horse beside Mazael.
“You don't have to ride with us,” said Mazael. “Corvad's going to the Great Mountains. He won't launch any more attacks on the Grim Marches. You should be able to take Rachel safely to Knightcastle.”
“I could,” said Gerald. “But if Corvad turns Lucan into a Malrag Queen, he'll destroy the Grim Marches. And then the Malrag horde will fall upon Knightcastle next. No, if I'm to keep my wife and children safe, I'll need to do it here.”
Mazael nodded. “I am glad for your aid.”
Gerald grinned. “We've gone to battle together many a time. Though I've never seen you so morose, not even when it seemed certain Ultorin would triumph.”
Mazael hesitated. Gerald didn't know the truth. Of everyone at Castle Cravenlock, only Romaria and Lucan had known about Mazael's heritage and Demonsouled blood. He didn’t know how Gerald would react to the truth. Gerald might cut him down, then and there.
“I am weary of war,” said Mazael. “When Skhath killed Mitor and I became Lord of Castle Cravenlock, I hoped to have peace, to bring prosperity and order to my lands. Instead I have ridden to war against the Dominiars, and against Ultorin's Malrags. And now Corvad and his Malrags.” He shook his head. “Will it ever end?”
“Perhaps not,” said Gerald. “My father is Lord of Knightcastle, and he has waged war for most of his life. Yet he was able to bring order and protection to the people of his lands. You are Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and you'll be able to do the same.”
“Thank you,” said Mazael. He looked at the sky. “Well, let's get on with it.”
He snapped his reins, steering Hauberk to the castle gates.
###
Molly perched on the brink of the ledge, watching the sun rise over the massive jagged bulk of the Great Mountains.
The Malrags and zuvembies wandered through the abandoned village, awaiting Corvad's orders. He had remained shut up with the map and his pet warlocks since returning from Morsen, plotting the best route to Arylkrad. Apparently the ancient wards of the old lords of Dracaryl still functioned within the mountains, blocking mistgates from opening.
Not that it would hinder Molly's ability to walk through the shadows.
But they would have to walk to Arylkrad, and moving that many Malrags and zuvembies through the mountains would prove difficult.
But the effort was necessary. With the Glamdaigyr, Corvad would turn Lucan into the abomination of a Malrag Queen. He would raise a horde of infused Malrags and burn the Grim Marches to ashes. And then he would become the Destroyer, and rule over the world.
Molly didn't care about that. She only wanted to make Mazael Cravenlock suffer as she had suffered.
Before she killed him.
Restless, she strode into the shadows.
She reappeared in the ruined manor house. Corvad stood over his table, gazing at the map. His pet warlocks waited motionless in the corners. Lucan Mandrag
on still lay against the wall, his misshapen limbs thrashing and twitching.
“Sister,” said Corvad. He wore his black armor and plate, a dark shadow looming over the table. “So good of you to deign to join us.”
“I got bored,” said Molly.
“This should hold your interest. I have found the best route to Arylkrad,” said Corvad, tapping the map Molly had taken from the temple.
Molly squinted at the map for a moment, and then grunted. “Looks dangerous.”
“Almost certainly,” said Corvad. “We face the risk of dragon attacks and wild Malrag warbands roving through the mountains. Though if we encounter Malrags, I will simply take control of them. And for dragons,” he touched the black diadem about his brow, “I will deal with them, as well.”
“As you say,” said Molly.
“Fear not, sister,” said Corvad. “Soon enough, we shall reach Arylkrad. The Glamdaigyr will be mine, and we shall have a Malrag Queen at our disposal. Then you shall have your revenge upon Mazael Cravenlock.”
A moan reached her ears, and Molly spun, sword flying into her hand. But it was only Lucan Mandragon, thrashing and muttering in the depths of his stupor.
Corvad gave an ugly laugh. “Jumping at shadows, sister?”
Molly sneered. “I've lived this long by taking proper caution, brother.”
“Yes, you are a master of perception,” said Corvad.
Molly sheathed her sword and gazed at Lucan a moment. “Look at the fool. He seems trapped within a nightmare.”
Corvad shrugged. “Perhaps he is.”
Molly turned her back on Lucan. “If he knew what you planned to do to him, I wonder if he would be more terrified of that or of the nightmare.”
Corvad snorted. “Perhaps you'll find out, one day.”
A new voice answered, sonorous with a sardonic edge. “You'll both find out.”
Molly whirled, drawing her sword, and Corvad did the same.
A man stood over Lucan, clad in wool and leather, a ragged brown cloak hanging from his shoulders. He was in his middle fifties, with a lean face and gray-shot brown hair. He had gray eyes the color of sword blades, cold and icy.
Gray eyes that glimmered with a rime of red fire.
Corvad fell to one knee, laying his sword across his leg. “Grandfather.”
Molly knelt as well, though not as fast. “Grandfather.”
The Old Demon gazed at them for a moment.
“Rise,” he said at last.
Corvad climbed to his feet, as did Molly. She kept her eyes on their grandfather. The Old Demon had come to them as children, during their training with the Skulls, and told him the truth of their heritage. He taught them to use their Demonsouled power and showed Molly how to walk through the shadows. And it was the Old Demon who had formed them into weapons, into tools to use against his enemies.
Molly had rebelled against him, fleeing until she came to Northreach. Where she met Nicholas Tormaud, and tried to forget the past. But then Mazael murdered Nicholas, and Corvad came to her, offering to take her back.
So Molly had gone. She had nowhere else to go, after all.
“My grandchildren,” said the Old Demon, smiling the cold smile of a hungry wolf. “Tell me. Have you been successful?”
“We have, grandfather,” said Corvad. “We have Lucan Mandragon. And now we know where to find Arylkrad and the Glamdaigyr.”
“Good,” said the Old Demon. “Very good. Go to Arylkrad and claim the Glamdaigyr. Create the Malrag Queen, using the ritual I taught you. Then raise the Malrag horde and destroy the Grim Marches. Do this, and I will name you the Destroyer, and the world shall be yours.”
“Yes,” said Corvad. “It shall be as you say. I am strong enough. I am worthy enough. I will show you, and you will name me the Destroyer.”
Molly heard the devotion in Corvad's voice, and her lip curled in contempt. Corvad liked to boast how he would rule the world, but in the Old Demon's presence, he turned into a cringing dog.
“And you, my daughter,” said the Old Demon, his red-glinting eyes shifting to Molly. “What of you?”
Molly shrugged. “Rule the world. Or destroy it. I don't care.”
Corvad laughed. “All she wants is revenge.”
“No,” said Old Demon and Molly at once.
Molly lifted an eyebrow. “So what do I want?”
“You wanted Nicholas,” said the Old Demon, his voice quiet.
Molly said nothing.
“But since you can't have him,” said the Old Demon, “you want to see the world burn.”
“Yes,” hissed Molly.
“And you shall, I promise it,” said the Old Demon. "Go. The Glamdaigyr awaits you.”
An instant later he was gone. He, too, could walk through the shadows...but his skill far exceeded Molly's.
“I will be worthy,” said Corvad to the empty air. “I will prove that I am strong. I will be the Destroyer.”
“You trust in him too much,” said Molly.
Corvad scowled. “He is the Old Demon. You do not fear him enough.”
“I fear him just fine,” said Molly. “But I do not trust him. He regards us as tools, Corvad. As weapons. If we fail him, he will cast us aside in a moment.”
“He only casts aside the weak!” said Corvad. “And I am not weak! You might be weak, sister, but I am not. I am strong, and I will prove to our grandfather that I am strong.”
Molly scowled. Corvad was a fool. But perhaps he knew something that Molly did not. Corvad wanted to become the Destroyer. Molly only wanted to kill her father.
And then? What did she have to live for then?
“Come,” said Corvad. “We have a great deal to go.”
They left the ruined village an hour later, walking at the head of the Malrags. Four Malrags carried Lucan between them, lashed to a cot. Molly gazed at the mountains.
“Mazael will probably follow us, you know,” said Molly.
“Then we'll simply kill him,” said Corvad.
“Yes,” said Molly. “I will.”
Chapter 22 - Castle Highgate
Four days from Castle Cravenlock, the plains ended and the foothills began.
Along with the ruined villages.
There had been mining towns in the foothills of the Great Mountains, but Ultorin's Malrags had destroyed most of them, and Mazael and his men rode through ruin after ruin, picking their way around bleached bones and burned-out houses. From time to time they passed villages that had by skill or chance survived. Most of them sheltered behind stone walls both tall and thick, militiamen watching with suspicious eyes as Mazael's men rode past.
“Gods,” said Gerald. “I thought things were bad enough near Castle Cravenlock. I didn't realize the eastern Grim Marches had been so devastated.”
Mazael shook his head. “The Malrags fell out of the mountains like a storm. When that first warband attacked Cravenlock Town, they had already destroyed dozens of villages.”
“Aye,” said Kjalmir. “We Arminiars keep close watch over the Great Northern Waste. Yet we are too few, and we cannot be everywhere, and sometimes Malrag warbands slip past us. And when they do, they attack the villages of Northreach.” He sighed. “Entire regions of Northreach that have been depopulated, save for bones and crows. Monuments to our failures.”
“Still,” said Mazael, “from what I understand, no Malrags have been seen south of Northreach before Ultorin's attack. Were it not for the vigilance of your Order, the entire realm might have been laid waste by Malrags.”
“Thank you, Lord Mazael,” said Kjalmir. “Often we feel that the southerners have forgot us.”
“I did,” said Mazael. “Until this year I had only a vague notion of the Arminiars and the Malrags were only a legend. To my sorrow, I know better now.” He gripped Lion's hilt. “Once this business is over, I shall send what aid I can to the Arminiars, in repayment for your assistance against Corvad.”
“You are gracious,” said Kjalmir.
They tr
aveled the rest of the day, and saw no sign of the Malrags, save for the dead villages the warbands had left in their wake.
###
The next day, they reached Castle Highgate itself.
The castle sat high in the foothills, guarding the entrance to the High Pass. Three concentric rings of stone wall, each higher than the next, surrounded a massive drum-shaped keep bristling with ballistae and catapults. It was one of the strongest castles in the Grim Marches, and during Ultorin's invasion, ten thousand Malrags had broken against its walls.
“Run up the banners!” Mazael ordered as his men climbed the path to the castle. “Let Lord Robert know that we're here.”
The standardbearers obeyed, raising the banners. The black of the Cravenlocks, marked with three crossed silver swords. The blue of the Rolands, adorned with the sigil of a silver greathelm. And the crimson of the Knights Arminiar, marked with their eight-pointed star.
The castle's gates swung open, the portcullis rattling up, and a band of horsemen rode forth, flying the banner of the Highgates, a white field with a sigil of a castle gate atop a mountain. Lord Robert himself rode at their head. He had grown stout, and his chain mail made him look like a steel pear. Nevertheless, he knew how to lead men, and how to win in battle.
The chain of Malrag claws dangling from his belt proved that.
The two parties reined up, and Lord Robert cast a half-amused, half-curious look over Mazael.
“Mazael,” said Robert. “My leg aches, you know.”
“Then you should have covered it better,” said Mazael. Years ago, when they were squires, Mazael had broken Robert's leg during a sparring match.
“I'm surprised to see you're still alive,” said Robert. “You rode south with two hundred men to chase after Ultorin and a hundred thousand Malrags. You were victorious, I trust?”
“Ultorin's host broke against the walls of Deepforest Keep,” said Mazael. “I slew Ultorin with my own hands and shattered his bloodsword, and Lady Rachel slew Malavost.”
“Rachel?” said Robert, astonished. “Your sister? Sir Gerald's wife? She slew a wizard of power?”
Soul of Dragons Page 21