Soul of Dragons

by Jonathan Moeller

  Or the desire to fill her with Lucan's corruption.

  Molly screamed, every muscle rigid, but the chains did not break, and the warlocks chanted their spell over her.

  Chapter 31- The Soul of the Dragon

  Lucan Mandragon strode into the heart of the black city.

  Towers and palaces that stood miles high ringed the massive plaza, larger than any architecture that could exist in the material world. The reliefs covering the walls displayed the worst moments of Lucan's life, depicted in colossal figures. The death of his mother. Marstan's attempt to seize Lucan’s body. The end of his betrothal with Tymaen. The first time he used the power of Demonsouled blood. His murder of the Elderborn druid in the Great Southern Forest.

  The bloodstaff shattering in his hands as Malavost laughed.

  Lucan walked further into the plaza. The black clouds danced and writhed overhead, but here they swirled, spinning around a central point.

  The plaza itself.

  It was here, Lucan knew, that his fate would be decided.

  A lone figure awaited him in the center of the plaza.

  The manifestation of the Demonsouled corruption, the avatar of the cancer Lucan had taken into his soul.

  Again it wore the form of Lord Richard Mandragon, his armor of crimson dragon scales reflecting the red lightning overhead. Richard watched as Lucan approached, black eyes cold and hard in his expressionless face.

  Lucan stopped a dozen paces away.

  “So,” said Richard. “You have come at last.”

  “And your time is over,” said Lucan. “I will defeat you, and return to my physical body.”

  Richard lifted an eyebrow. “And will you defeat yourself? For I am you, the portion of your soul imbued with Demonsouled power. You know this. Will you fight yourself? Will your right hand struggle against your left?” He held out an armored hand. “We are one, you and I, sundered pieces of the same soul. Let us be rejoined, and bring death and terror to our enemies.”

  “I don't want to bring death and terror to anyone,” said Lucan. “I only want to keep others from suffering as I have suffered.” He could almost bring himself to believe that, even after everything that had happened.

  Almost.

  “You lie,” said Richard. “And I know you lie, because I am you. You cannot lie to yourself, not here.”

  “No,” said Lucan. “Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I do want to kill my father and my brother and anyone who has ever harmed me.” He took a deep breath. “But I can choose not to kill them. I can choose to show mercy. And I choose not to let you control me.”

  “This is true,” said Richard. “And you chose to forge the bloodstaff, to use the Demonsouled power. Your actions put to the lie to your words. You want to wield such power so that no one can ever harm you again. And with my power, you can scour the world of dark magic.”

  “Or,” said Lucan, “I can reject the power. Which I am doing now.”

  For a long time the apparition of Richard Mandragon stared at him.

  “So be it,” said Richard at last.

  He lifted his hands, crimson fire filling his fingers. Lucan began casting his own spell, armoring himself in wards to deflect arcane attacks. But Richard raised his hands, the blood-colored fire burning hotter.

  And thousands of reapers boiled into the vast plaza. They poured out of the surrounding streets like a vast black tide. Their clawed hands clicked and scraped against the stone tiles, and Lucan felt the weight of thousands of empty hoods staring upon him.

  Lucan began another spell.

  He had been wrong, he realized, in his tactics against the Demonsouled manifestation and its minions. He relied too much on his magic and the Demonsouled power infecting his soul – weapons the manifestation could use against him. But this was the spirit world, not the material world. Here, Lucan suspected, the limitations of his flesh did not bind his will. And without those limitations, perhaps he could defeat the manifestation without using the Demonsouled power.

  The reapers surged closer.

  He was going to find out, one way or another.

  Lucan’s spell conjured psychokinetic force, but far more focused than his earlier attacks. He sheathed himself in a bubble of force, protecting himself from physical attacks, and wrapped shells of mental force around his arms and legs. The psychokinetic power would augment his speed and strength, making him far faster and stronger. If he had tried this in the material world, the strain would have ripped him to bloody shreds.

  But this wasn't the material world.

  The reapers closed around him, and one reached for his throat.

  Lucan punched it.

  He didn't hit it that hard. But the psychokinetic force bound to his arm exploded from his fist, expanding his strength to stupendous levels. The reaper hurtled backwards like a bolt shot from a ballista, flinging a dozen others to the ground.

  For a moment the reapers paused, stunned. Richard stared at Lucan, a slight frown on his face.

  “Take him,” said Richard.

  The reapers charged.

  And Lucan moved.

  He sprinted, the psychokinetic force enhancing his speed, and blazed forward like a thunderbolt. One instant he stood in the center of the plaza. In the next he stood below one of the vast towers, moving almost two miles in a heartbeat.

  And the gale thrown up by his passage threw hundreds of reapers into the air like leaves tossed in a storm.

  Physical limitations did not bind Lucan in the spirit world. A pity he hadn't realized it earlier – he could have reached the black city all the sooner. The remaining reapers, a vast black sea of them, spun to attack him.

  Lucan attacked.

  His punches sent dozens of his foes hurtling through the air. A kick blasted a reaper across the plaza with enough force to smash into the wall of a tower, shattering it in a spray of jagged stone splinters. Lucan raced through them in short bursts, the hurricane wind raised in his wake flinging the reapers into the air like toys.

  Hundreds upon hundreds of reapers dissolved into swirling black smoke, their attack collapsing into chaos. The reapers fled, scattering in all directions.

  “Take him!” said Richard.

  Lucan spun, intending to attack the manifestation, and stopped.

  A dozen figures stood around Richard. His brother Toraine. His mother. Tymaen and others, all people from Lucan's past, some of them depicted on the vast reliefs covering the colossal towers. Their eyes glowed with red light, and they began casting a spell in unison.

  Hooded shadows. And their spell would unleash a massive hammer of psychokinetic power at Lucan, far more than his wards could possibly deflect.

  He focused on the bubble of psychokinetic force surrounding him, reshaping it into a broad shield. An instant later the hooded shadows released their spell, striking at him with crushing force. Lucan's wards did not have the power to stop the spell, and he did not even try. Instead he let his shield of force bend with the strength of the blast, let it carry him backwards like a branch caught in a river's raging current.

  The spell hurled him from his feet and flung him backwards, faster than any arrow. An instant later he slammed into one of the great towers with such speed that the entire wall exploded like a pane of glass, tons upon tons of broken stone raining down. But his shield of psychokinetic force held.

  Though the collapsing wall would crush it, and him, like an insect.

  Lucan scrambled back to his feet, cast another spell, and thrust out his hands. He poured all his power and strength into the spell, and even then, it only gave him barely enough power to conjure a sheet of invisible force over his head.

  Which gave the falling rubble just enough of a gentle tap to change its direction.

  The tumbling boulders poured into the plaza, smashing the black tiles with their impact. A storm of broken rock crashed into the hooded shadows, crushing some, reducing others to nothing more than swirls of black smoke. At last the collapse ended, and Lucan picked his
way over the rubble.

  The plaza lay in ruin, littered with debris. There was no trace of the hooded shadows or of the remaining reapers. Or of the manifestation itself, for that matter. For a wild instant, Lucan hoped that he had won, that he had been victorious.

  Then he saw Richard Mandragon striding past pieces of broken wall, bloody fire blazing in his hands.

  The first burst of crimson fire erupted forth, and Lucan knew that his wards would not hold against it. So he dodged, moving with psychokinetic-propelled speed. The bolt screamed past him to explode against the ground. Again Richard unleashed a blast, and again Lucan dodged, moving with such speed that gales howled through the plaza.

  But he could not dodge forever. Sooner or later his strength would wane, or the manifestation would get lucky and land a hit. Lucan had to take the offensive, soon.

  Richard flung a bolt of fire, and Lucan jumped, his psychokinetic power fueling the leap, and he flew up into the air.

  And up, and up.

  The arc of his leap peaked a thousand yards above the plaza. Lucan felt himself fall, and again focused his will, hurling himself down like a falling star. The manifestation scrambled out of the way with gratifying speed, but Lucan wasn't aiming for him.

  He sheathed himself in a cocoon of invisible force an instant before plunging into the ground. Every paving tile for a hundred yards in all directions exploded, and Lucan sank at least forty feet into the earth, his impact throwing up a huge mass of shattered rock from the mountain's crest. He began casting again, throwing all his power and will into another spell to fling at the tumbling rubble. Even with the aid of the bloodstaff, he would never have possessed the psychokinetic power to move that much rock.

  But adjusting the path of the falling debris...that was just within the limits of his strength.

  Richard Mandragon's eyes grew wide, and then a boulder the size of a plow horse slammed into him. The impact drove him back a dozen yards, sent him tumbling. Another boulder crushed his legs, and another impaled his chest. More and more fell, and the manifestation disappeared beneath a cairn of jagged boulders.

  Lucan lowered his hands, chest heaving from exertion.

  He climbed out of the impact crater, the rough edges hot against his hands, and staggered into the plaza. The battle had left the surrounding city in ruin, with some towers destroyed, and many more damaged. Few of the massive reliefs of Lucan's memories remained intact. If the black city represented his mind, he wondered, had the battle destroyed his memories? His very self?

  He gazed at the massive pile of rubble covering the manifestation with satisfaction.

  At least the Demonsouled power would not take control of him.

  The cairn trembled, beams of red light leaking out between the broken boulders. The ground shook, and Lucan jumped backwards, his spell-fueled leap taking him to the far side of the impact crater.

  The cairn exploded, boulders raining in all directions.

  The blood-colored dragon emerged from the rubble. The great beast was wounded, its scales marred and torn by cuts and gashes. Yet it still radiated strength and power.

  “We are one, Lucan Mandragon,” said the dragon, its voice like thunder. “When you fight me, you only fight yourself. It is inevitable!”

  The dragon sprang into the air with a terrible roar, its black wings blotting out the storm overhead. The fanged maw opened wide, and a cone of crimson fire blazed forth, the fires devouring the stone of the ground. Lucan raced away, moving with the enhanced speed of his magic, but the dragon's fire pursued him.

  The manifestation circled overhead, loosing blast after blast of flame. The fires burned even after the dragon passed, consuming the ground in walls of heat and smoke. Lucan soon saw the manifestation's plan. Bit by bit, the dragon was boxing him in, trapping him between the walls of flame and the ruined towers. Soon, Lucan would have no more room to maneuver, and then the manifestation would take him.

  Unless Lucan cheated.

  He backed towards the corner of the plaza, and the dragon swooped towards him, black wings spread wide.

  The manifestation’s dragon form could fly.

  Why couldn't Lucan?

  He jumped, his spell-enhanced leap carrying him high into the air, higher than the wall of flames, higher than even the dragon, which somehow managed to look startled.

  And he kept going, pushing against the ground with a psychokinetic grip. Had he attempted this in the material world, the sheer speed would have killed him or torn his body in two. Yet here, in the spirit world, he soared past the plaza, over the great towers of the black city, the mountain and the dead forest and the black sea spread out all below him.

  It was terrifying.

  Exhilarating.

  Despite his terror, despite his exhaustion, Lucan laughed with the wonder of it.

  The dragon banked over the city, pursuing him. The beast was just as fast as Lucan, its black wings driving it forward with terrific speed. Its maw yawned wide, and blast after blast of crimson flame lanced for Lucan's back. He dodged and weaved, soaring and plunging to avoid the flames. Soon he discovered that while the dragon could match his speed, he was far more maneuverable, and could dance around the flames with ease.

  Yet he was tired. The long journey up the mountain had drained his strength, and this battle had exhausted more of it. If he did not land a killing blow, the manifestation would win out of sheer endurance.

  Unless Lucan let his blood spill upon the ground...

  No. Not that.

  But if the alternative was letting the manifestation take control...

  Lucan drove himself faster, weaving back and forth over the black city like a maddened bee. The dragon circled after him, filling the sky with crimson fire. Lucan rose higher, the writhing black clouds drawing closer, the red lightning flickering and dancing.

  Lucan frowned.

  The red lightning...

  He doubted it represented any aspect of his mind or soul. Therefore it was something of the spirit world. The raw power of the place, perhaps? Magic charged the spirit world, imbued its creatures with great power. And if Lucan could tap that power, redirect it toward the manifestation...

  He had no better ideas.

  He soared upward, the dragon following. Red lightning flashed and sparked, eerily silent, and Lucan began a spell.

  A bolt shot from the sky, and Lucan caught it, the lightning drawn by his spell.

  Pain erupted through him, and he screamed, fingers of red light coiling up and down his arms. The dragon saw its opportunity and surged towards him, mouth yawning wide. Lucan threw out his hands, and red lightning erupted from his fingers in sizzling arcs, tearing into the dragon, blasting scales free from its sides. The dragon bellowed in agony of its own, limbs twitching, wings growing limp. Through the agony Lucan tightened his grip on the psychokinesis spell, tried to push himself away from the dragon.

  He was a half-second too slow.

  The dragon's foreleg wrapped around his waist as it fell, the talons sinking deep into his belly.

  Lucan screamed and tried to rip free, but pain roared through him in debilitating waves. The dragon plummeted towards the black city, still twitching and writhing in the red lightning's grasp. Lucan tried to focus his will for another spell of psychokinesis, but he could not concentrate through the agony.

  The dragon hurtled towards the ruined plaza. The ground rushed up to meet Lucan, and then everything went black.

  An instant later he felt the sensation of flying through the air, and he slammed into the ground, sliding over the broken tiles.

  It felt as if every bone in his body had shattered.

  Lucan came to a stop against a chunk of wall, the carved relief showing Tymaen turning her back on him.

  He tried to stand, failed, slumped against the rubble.

  The dragon lay a few hundred yards away. It, too, had taken a terrible battering in the fall, its scales smashed, hideous gashes carved into its limbs and flanks. Yet the manifestation
seemed to be recovering. Once it got back on its feet, it would come for Lucan.

  He had to escape.

  But he could not even stand.

  Lucan tried to cast a spell, any spell, and found that he could not. He felt weak, his strength shattered. His body could not be destroyed, not here in the spirit world. Had he exhausted his magical strength? Had his mind been scarred and maimed?

  Again he tried to stand, and could not.

  He could barely lift his arms, could barely turn his head to look at the dragon. The manifestation shuddered again, its talons scraping against the ground. Once the beast recovered, it would destroy Lucan.

  No. It would merge with him, take him over. The Demonsouled corruption would dominate Lucan, and he would become a creature like Ultorin, a ravening monster driven mad.

  Frantic, Lucan flicked his shaking wrist, letting droplets of his blood fall upon the earth.

  The burning Demonsouled power rose up to fill him...but he could not grasp it. He didn't have the strength. He shook more blood from his palm, and more power rose up...but he could not seize it.

  It dissipated a moment later.

  The dragon's tail lashed back and forth, smashing boulders as it struggled to regain balance.

  Lucan struggled to stand, even to crawl away. He would not let the manifestation claim him. He would not turn into a monster like Ultorin. He would not!

  But he could not move, could do nothing but tremble.

  A clicking noise reached Lucan's ear.

  A boot heel, striking the paving stones.

  The Old Demon walked into Lucan's field of vision.

  “Ah,” said the Old Demon. “Did I not say you would find the answers you sought here?” He glanced at the struggling manifestation. “Though it appears the answer is that you will be devoured by the Demonsouled corruption and twisted into a monster. Unless Corvad kills you first, of course. Assuming he manages it. My grandson has proven less...competent than I might hope.”

  “Have you,” said Lucan, his voice a shaking whisper, “have you come to gloat?”