Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  The statue shivered, and the stone eyelids closed, the green light winking out.

  “Riddles and mummery,” said Romaria. “The lords of Dracaryl relied upon these things for wisdom? Little wonder their own dark magic devoured them.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael. Was there a way to victory without the blood of his children on his hands? Mazael didn't know.

  But he would find out.

  One way or another.

  He returned to his waiting men.

  “What did the thing tell you?” said Gerald. “You spoke for so long I almost thought you'd been bewitched, but the wizards said the statue cast no spell upon you.”

  “Nothing I did not already know,” said Mazael. “Corvad and his Malrags are above, and he's trying to claim the Glamdaigyr.” He raised Lion. “Best we stop him before he does.”

  “Aye,” rumbled Kjalmir, hefting his massive hammer. “For too long, Corvad has escaped punishment for the blood of the Arminiars upon his hands. Well, no longer!”

  Mazael started for the stairs, the men following.

  They made sure to give the statue a wide berth.

  Chapter 28 – The Glamdaigyr

  The stairs ended, and Molly found herself beneath the great black dome of Arylkrad.

  The round chamber was enormous. Corvad's enslaved dragon could easily have taken flight with room to spare. Thick pillars supported a ring-shaped balcony around the chamber, just below the base of the dome. In the center of the chamber rose a pyramidal black dais. Statues of kneeling slaves ringed the balcony, each holding an iron staff topped with a glowing green crystal, flooding the chamber with eerie light. A throne sat atop the dais, no doubt once the seat of the High Lord of Arylkrad.

  Molly's eyes swept the throne room. After the sharp fight in the chamber below, she expected to find more resistance here. Yet the throne room was deserted, without any trace of the ancient Malrags, the ebony dead, or the Seneschal itself.

  There was not even a hint of motion...

  Wait.

  A flicker of green light, atop the pyramid-like dais.

  “There,” said Corvad, pointing with his sword. “Is it there?”

  One of the warlocks whispered an incantation in the rasping tongue of the Malrags.

  -An object of vast power awaits atop the dais, great one. Stronger than our spells, stronger than anything else in this castle-

  Molly had never seen Corvad's face so eager.

  “The Glamdaigyr,” he whispered.

  He hastened across the vast stone floor, not bothering to see if the Malrags and the zuvembies followed. Molly hurried alongside him, fighting the growing uneasiness inside her. Corvad's expression...she had seen him eager before, when he was killing.

  But she had never seen him look like this.

  Corvad stopped at the base of the dais. From here Molly had a good view of the throne atop the pyramid. It looked exactly like the sort of chair she imagined the High Lords of Arylkrad once used – huge, black, and grim. A single block of stone sat before the throne.

  The Glamdaigyr rested point-down in the block.

  It could be nothing else.

  It was a two-handed greatsword, the pommel sculpted in the shape of a dragon's skull. A line of sigils had been carved into the black blade, and green fire flickered within the symbols. A shiver went down Molly's arms. The sword looked....cold, somehow, as if it sucked the life and warmth out of the very air surrounding it.

  “Mine,” said Corvad, his gray eyes reflecting the green fire.

  He put one foot upon the stairs.

  -Great one-

  Corvad turned, scowling. “What?”

  One of the warlocks gestured.

  -A ward of tremendous strength protects the sword-

  “Dispel it,” said Corvad.

  -We cannot. Its power far exceeds our own-

  Corvad growled. “Then blast through it! You destroyed the wards around the castle, do it again.”

  -This ward is greater than any of the others. Our combined powers would not suffice to shatter it-

  “Then I will do it myself!” said Corvad.

  He started up the stairs, armor clanking.

  “Are you mad?” said Molly. “That ward will tear you apart!”

  “I will be the Destroyer!” said Corvad, still climbing the stairs. “The sword is mine. I will not be denied!”

  Molly watched him, half-fascinated, half-horrified. Had he gone mad? She knew the presence of Demonsouled power often deranged the mind, that many Demonsouled descended into madness. Had Corvad lost his reason?

  He reached the top of the dais, no more than ten paces from the Glamdaigyr, and the ward went off.

  Green lightning erupted from the dome and ripped into Corvad, blasting pieces of his armor to molten shards. Corvad staggered, but kept walking. Ghostly flames erupted from the floor, sheathing him in crackling fire. Corvad shrieked, the smell of burned flesh flooding Molly's nostrils.

  “It is mine!” he screamed, lurching forward.

  Another lightning blast hurtled from the dome, smashing Corvad's sword to glowing splinters and tearing away his cuirass. Molly saw his skin turn red, and then black, as the flames chewed at his flesh.

  Yet he did not fall, and he drew closer to the Glamdaigyr. It took all his Demonsouled strength, Molly realized, to keep him upright. A normal man would have been slain at once. Yet even Corvad's Demonsouled power could not heal him fast enough, could not keep his skin from charring and his flesh from sizzling.

  “Mine!” shrieked Corvad, his voice inhuman with agony. “The Glamdaigyr is mine! I am the Destroyer!” He looked like a burned corpse, his skin a patchwork of seared flesh and black char. “Mine!”

  Molly shuddered. She hated Corvad, and had thought about killing him more than once. But she had not wanted to see him suffer like this.

  She did not want to see him die like this.

  But Corvad did not fall. The flames intensified, and fingers of crawling lightning curled around his burning flesh, yet still he did not fall.

  Then both his hands closed about the Glamdaigyr's hilt, and he wrenched the sword free from the black stone. The symbols carved into the blade shimmered with green fire, the aura of cold darkness around the weapon intensifying. Corvad swayed, trembling under the burden, but lifted the sword.

  “Mine,” he hissed, his voice an inhuman growl. “Mine. Mine!”

  His triumphant scream echoed off the black dome.

  The green lightning stopped, and the raging flames winked out.

  Darkness swirled, and the Seneschal appeared next to the black throne, leaning upon its skull-topped staff.

  “You,” growled Corvad, turning. His nose and lips were gone, his voice hissing and snarling. Yet Molly saw patches of fresh skin growing on his neck and jaw, saw his Demonsouled essence healing the terrible damage.

  The Seneschal's three eyes turned towards Corvad.

  -Master-

  Corvad paused, the Glamdaigyr still raised for a blow.

  -When our master departed, he left his sword in our care, until he returned to claim it. Or until one strong enough to claim the sword arrived. You are now the master-

  “Yes,” said Corvad. Bits of char fell from his chest, revealing fresh skin beneath.

  -Arylkrad is yours-

  The Seneschal beckoned, and both ebony dead and ancient Malrags emerged from hidden doorways beneath the balcony. Some of the ebony dead bore silver trays, elaborate pieces of black armor resting upon them.

  -You are High Lord of Arylkrad. Do you wish the badges of your authority-

  “Bring them to me,” growled Corvad, a wet lump shining in his face as his nose grew again.

  Molly watched as the ebony dead climbed the dais, carrying the elaborate black armor. They pulled away Corvad's ruined plate, dressing him in the ancient armor of the High Lords of Arylkrad. A black cuirass, adorned with reliefs similar to those upon the wall. A knee length shirt of black chain. Gauntlets, greaves, and b
oots of dark metal. A helm crowned with a roaring dragon, concealing his diadem. The armor looked fantastically heavy. Yet from the way Corvad moved, Molly realized it was far lighter than normal steel.

  Corvad had always possessed an aura of power, of menace, from his Demonsouled blood. Yet the armor made him looked like an ancient high lord of Dracaryl come to life. And the Glamdaigyr...the weapon looked like death fashioned in steel. Molly could not shake the sense that the sword was alive, that it yearned to drink her blood like a man dying of thirst in the desert.

  “Today it begins,” said Corvad, his voice cold and clear. All hint of the burn wounds had vanished from his face. “The world shall be mine.” He beckoned, and the Malrags holding Lucan Mandragon's cot carried him to the top of the dais. Did he intended to transform Lucan into a Malrag Queen then and there? “I shall be the Destroyer, and you shall be my slaves. Again armies of Malrags will gather beneath the walls of Arylkrad. We shall march forth and take the realms of men. We will smash the walls of their cities and raze their castles. Their dead shall choke the rivers. The world shall be mine, and I declare that it will burn!”

  The Malrags, ancient and infused alike, lifted their gray-skinned faces and howled their terrible cries, the noise echoing through the great dome. The sound made Molly's stomach turn. The Malrags were vile creatures, and the thought of spawning legions of them from Lucan Mandragon's corrupted flesh made her stomach turn.

  But vengeance upon Mazael Cravenlock was worth it.

  Wasn't it?

  She thought of the Malrag hordes falling upon Northreach, slaying and burning. They would have killed Nicholas, had they found him as he lay wounded and dying.

  “Come to me, my servants,” said Corvad. The three Malrag warlocks walked past Molly to join Corvad atop the dais. Other Malrags laid Lucan across the block of stone that had once held the Glamdaigyr, like a sheep laid upon an altar for sacrifice, and the warlocks began to mutter spells over him.

  Very soon he would become a Malrag Queen. Molly wondered if they were as horrifying as all the tales claimed.

  A terrible thought seized her. Nicholas had been a nobleman, the youngest son of the Lord of Ironcastle, yet he had ridden north to fight alongside the Knights Arminiar. He had slain Malrags, had seen the horrors they wrought. And now Molly stood in the midst of a Malrag warband, plotting with her brother to loose a Malrag horde upon the world.

  What would Nicholas think of that?

  What would he think of her?

  “Sister!”

  Corvad's deep voice cut into her thoughts.

  Molly flinched, despite herself. Power and strength rolled off Corvad like smoke from an inferno. She had always been wary of Corvad, but had never feared him. Now he terrified her. He looked as she always imagined the Old Demon might look, if their grandfather ever decided to reveal his full might.

  He looked like the Destroyer.

  “Join me,” said Corvad. Even his voice had become deeper, and a glaze of red light glimmered in his gray eyes. He extended an armored hand, the gauntlet tipped with claws like a dragon's razor-edged talons. “Take your place of honor at my side.” His cold face hardened. “Come and claim your destiny.”

  Such power filled his voice that Molly almost took a step forward, almost walked through the shadows to his side. She swayed, yet her fear of Corvad proved stronger than his voice.

  Her fear of what he might do to her.

  “I'd prefer to watch from here,” said Molly, trying to keep her tone light. “I'd rather not get blood on my boots.”

  “Sister,” said Corvad, his right hand tightening around the Glamdaigyr's hilt. “You will join me. Come. I command it. Now!”

  Again Molly almost obeyed. His power wash over her, demanding that she obey, bend to his will...

  She walked into the shadows, and reappeared in the pillared hall, sweat dripping down her face. Dead Malrags and destroyed zuvembies littered the floor, but the room was otherwise deserted.

  “Gods and devils,” she croaked.

  What had the Glamdaigyr done to Corvad? Her brother had always been a powerful Demonsouled, but not like this.

  She had thought the Glamdaigyr only a conduit, a way to drain the power from Corvad's blood into Lucan's corrupted flesh. But what if the greatsword held other powers? What if it contained a measure of the dark magic the lords of Dracaryl had wielded before their fall?

  Dark magic that was now in the hands of Corvad.

  What kind of monster had she helped create?

  “It doesn't matter,” muttered Molly, speaking to the empty vastness of the hall. “Mazael has to pay for what he has done.”

  But who would make her pay, she wondered, for what she had done?

  For what Corvad would do?

  “None of that matters!” said Molly.

  But that answer, she realized, was not good enough. Not with what Corvad had become. And in trying to avenge Nicholas, she might have done far worse than Mazael had ever done.

  Darkness swirled, and Molly snatched her sword from its scabbard. The Seneschal appeared before her, skull-crowned staff in hand.

  “You got away from me once,” said Molly, “but you'll not be so lucky a second time.”

  The Seneschal made no move to attack.

  -I do not come to slay you. For you are the sister of the master, and he has bade me to return you to his side. Come with me, and the master shall honor you above all mortal women-

  Molly laughed. “So Corvad wants to honor me, does he? Well, if he wants to honor me, he can do so himself, and not send his stinking pets to fetch for him.”

  The Seneschal did not even blink. The creature's third eye, flickering with green light, remained fixed on her.

  -The master commanded that you were to be neither harmed nor slain. But he bade me to return you by whatever means necessary. Come with me, or I shall take you-

  Molly bared her teeth. “Try it, worm, and we'll see your black blood on...”

  She paused. A distant rattle came to her ears, the sound of metal clanking against stone.

  The Seneschal turned its head to look in the direction of oracle statue's chamber, all three of its eyes narrowing.

  -Intruders come. Arylkrad is invaded. The master must know of this-

  The Seneschal turned and vanished in a flicker of darkness.

  Molly gazed at the stairs, heart hammering beneath her ribs.

  Intruders. Mazael Cravenlock and his men. It had to be. No one else would have dared journey to Arylkrad. He had indeed pursued them to the ends of the earth.

  Little good it would do him. Corvad would break him, now.

  But not if Molly killed him first.

  A bleak anticipation rose within her. No more running, no more games. Corvad had urged her to ruin the Grim Marches and Mazael's hopes before slaying him. But now Molly would take matters into her own hands.

  She would kill Mazael Cravenlock. Or he would kill her. This would end today, one way or another.

  Roars and the clang of metal echoed from the throne chamber. Corvad's Malrags, both infused and ancient, racing to meet the attackers. Let them come! Mazael belonged to Molly, and Molly alone.

  She set herself, sword in hand, and waited for Mazael and his men.

  Chapter 29 – Only Blood Can Pay For Blood

  “Form a shield wall,” said Mazael, “once we see the enemy.”

  The stairs ended in a vast hall, the lofty ceiling supported by dozens of thick black pillars, each carved with reliefs showing the glory of Old Dracaryl. Signs of recent violence marked the room. Mazael saw the crumbling bones of destroyed zuvembies, the black-armored forms of infused Malrags lying in their own blood.

  Along with a different kind of Malrag.

  These Malrags wore crimson armor. The image of a roaring dragon marked each cuirass, no doubt the sigil of the High Lords of Arylkrad. And the Malrags looked...old, the gray leather of their skin creased with countless wrinkles, their jaws and faces dotted with tumor-like growt
hs.

  “Ancient Malrags,” said Kjalmir, tapping one with his hammer. “Malrags live forever, unless something kills them first. And they grow stronger and more vicious with age.”

  “Where did Corvad find them?” said Gerald, sword in hand. “Wandering the mountains, perhaps?”

  “I doubt it,” said Romaria. “I think the High Lord of Arylkrad left them sealed in the castle as guardians.”

  “There are traces of a spell over them,” said Timothy, gesturing, “similar to the dark magic in the rest of this place. I think the Malrags were bound to the castle's defenses. Corvad must have fought his way through them.”

  Osric snorted. “Perhaps the Malrags will kill Corvad for us.”

  “I doubt it,” said Mazael, looking over the corpses. “Most of the dead are Malrags in red armor.”

  “Let us hope the guardian Malrags weakened Corvad's force,” said Gerald.

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael. But looking over the slain, he doubted it. And it would take more than Malrags, no matter how ancient, two kill two grandchildren of the Old Demon.

  “There is a source of great necromantic power above us,” said Circan, pointing. Far in the distance, down an aisle of massive pillars, Mazael saw a broad flight of stairs rising higher into the castle.

  “Then let us destroy it before Corvad claims it,” said Mazael, raising Lion. The blade shimmered with azure flames, responding to the dark magic hanging over Arylkrad.

  Then the sword jolted, the flames blazing brighter. Mazael's gaze swung back and forth, searching the rows of pillars for any sign of enemies.

  He saw none. But Lion's fire only responded to dark magic, and...

  Shadows swirled, and Mazael expected to see Molly step forth, steel in her hand and hatred in her eyes.

  Instead, a Malrag shaman appeared.

  The creature was ancient, and its third eye pulsed with green light. A black staff rested in its clawed right hand, three human skulls swinging from leather cords.

  Romaria's bow snapped up, a razor-tipped arrow speeding towards the shaman's face. The creature made a twisting gesture, and the arrow shattered in midair. The shaman began to speak, its language grotesque and snarling, but the meaning echoed inside Mazael's head.