The Dragon Soul (Vagrant Souls Book 2)

by Samuel E. Green

  Alfric willed that he was closer to her, and his form shimmered. He stood next to her, only an arm's length away, when something grabbed him.

  "No!" Hurn's voice came.

  Alfric was hurled back to the glade. On his hands and knees, he coughed and vomited.

  "You can't be there," Hurn said, standing over Alfric. "Elmyra will discover you and learn what we intend. My sister watches constantly from the other-realm, paranoid even after four hundred years that I might betray my oath. Entering Dragir, even through the other-realm, ventures far too close to oathbreaking."

  Alfric wiped his mouth and stood. His legs possessed barely enough strength to stand. He had seen Fryda. Why was she imprisoned? Had Elmyra found the dragon soul? That would make Fryda useless. She couldn't survive in a city of dragons.

  When Alfric looked at Hurn, all he could feel was anger. "If you had allowed me to remain in the other-realm longer, I might have been able to help Fryda."

  "The woman has entered Dragir?"

  "She was inside a cell." Alfric gritted his teeth. Hurn didn't seem to care the slightest for Fryda's safety.

  "Then Elmyra already possesses the dragon soul." Hurn cut his hand with the knife. He held his hand aloft so that blood trickled from it and splashed onto the glade's crystal floor. The crystal consumed Hurn's blood as it had Alfric's.

  "Why didn't you let me speak to Fryda?"

  "Sending a message is nearly impossible. You might have been capable of it, but you could have equally turned the woman's brains into soup. That would have been regrettable." That sounded a little like he cared, enough to calm Alfric. "Forget the woman for now. If we make haste, you might be able to bring her, along with the dragon soul, out from Dragir."

  Inspired by this, Alfric readied himself.

  "My blood will provide added lifesoul," Hurn said. "Do not think about this woman. Doing so might lead us back to Dragir. Do you remember much of the reliquary in Kranak-Ur?"

  “I remember enough,” Alfric said. Exhausted after the first attempt, he wasn't sure he could do it again, let alone do something even more difficult. But he had to help Fryda.

  Hurn continued, "You now know how to enter the other-realm, but you must do more. You cannot simply go in spirit. You must also bring your body. And not just yours. Mine also. It will be more dangerous in body. Leaving the other-realm and returning to your body is simple. But entering the other-realm and bringing our bodies with us is much more difficult. Not only that, but venturing into the reliquary with our bodies could mean alerting the Sentinel of Kranak-Ur as soon as we enter. Let's hope he's grown weak in his old age."

  Hurn folded his sleeves to the elbow. He held out his palms. "This time, you must invoke Madrem, the dragon god. Think on the reliquary. Allow its image to fill your mind. At the same time, channel your spiritsoul."

  "I don't know how to do that. I don't even know what spiritsoul is."

  Hurn clicked his tongue in frustration. "You know so little." He glared up at Eosor's orb. "Why, Eosor, is a babe so important to our quest?"

  The orb pulsed upon the altar but didn't speak.

  "Every exchange of divine power comes with a price," Hurn said to Alfric. "Spiritsoul is time of service in the afterlife. If you use Madrem's power to open rifts, you must serve her when you die. You haven't visited Madrem's bargaining plaza, so you've yet to establish a price. It would be wrong of me not to tell you that this price may be exorbitant. Opening this rift may mean serving Madrem for hundreds, if not thousands—"

  "I'll do it," Alfric said. "Anything to save Fryda."

  "Then do exactly as I say. Center your thoughts on the reliquary this time. Do not allow yourself to think of the woman in Dragir."

  Squaring his shoulders, Alfric thrust both hands in front of him. He imagined being elsewhere, back in the reliquary, and thrust his fingers into the open air. His fingers met something solid, and they peeled away reality, opening another rift like the one he'd stepped through.

  "That is a rift into the other-realm," Hurn said. "We need something greater. One that will take more than our spirits. Invoke Madrem and open another rift inside the first one."

  Alfric reached into the window. An energy pulsed within him, and a blue aura extended from his fingers like a shadow. He controlled the aura so that new fingers pulled against the fabric of existence inside the rift. Another rift opened, barely large enough to fit a hand through.

  "Offer your will to Madrem. Everything you have."

  The blue shadow fingers pulled harder against the smaller rift. Alfric screamed as the rift shuddered and started to close.

  "It's not enough," Hurn cried. "You must offer more."

  With every ounce of his being, Alfric gave himself to that peculiar energy. The rift suddenly surged with light. It crackled, and a tingling sensation touched every hair on Alfric's body.

  Hurn walked around the rift, appraising it. "A formidable rift, especially for one untrained in traveling. Even the Order of Pathfinders would have found it difficult to fashion one as steady as this." He sighed. "But you spent much spiritsoul to craft it. Madrem has requested much from you. Let's hope you're able to accomplish what Eosor expects of you before Madrem seeks her repayment."

  Alfric stepped through the rift after Hurn. The rift zapped and closed. They stood in the room with the iron door. Hurn stepped through it, as if he was completely aware that it wasn't solid.

  The constellations above shone as they'd done when Alfric had first come to the reliquary.

  "These stars," Hurn whispered, "are those that shine in the night sky of the Infernal City."

  Alfric ran to the shelf where he'd first seen the scepter and the dragon within it. "It's not here," he said. "The silver scepter is gone."

  Hurn snarled, dashing his hand across the shelves. Items smashed on the floor. Potions oozed from their glass containers, smoke rising as the liquid bubbled.

  "Stop!" Alfric shouted, but Hurn wasn't listening. Priceless magical relics broke into pieces as Hurn continued his tirade.

  He vanished behind more of the shelves. A crash sounded as one toppled. Alfric leaped out of the way as they all fell over. A chittering noise filled the air. Alfric turned and saw flying winged monkeys. More of the creatures filtered out from their broken cages that had once sat upon the shelves.

  There came the roar that Alfric had heard the first time he'd come to the reliquary. This time, without the other-realm dulling his senses, it made him clutch his ears. The great volume threatened to rupture his eardrums. The thunderous shaking of the walls made the winged monkeys cower among the toppled shelves and broken relics.

  Hurn turned toward Alfric, a smile on his face. "The Sentinel of Kranak-Ur has heard us. Let's hope he brings the silver scepter."

  Alfric realized that Hurn's enraged outburst had all been a plan to bring the Sentinel. Hurn had known that the silver scepter had been taken, and that the sounds of destruction would draw the Sentinel here.

  I hope Hurn knows what he's doing.

  A giant orc crashed through the doorway, tearing the bricks apart with his shoulders. A lopsided crown rested on his head. A filthy fur robe, made from the hide of an animal larger than any Alfric had seen before, lay over his back.

  "Hurn!" The giant orc stared at the chaotic mess. "You filthy sorcerer! What is this mess you've made in my castle?" Spittle frothed from his mouth. "I will be very mad unless you've come to give me something else. Another carcaern orb? Someone stolen the last one you gave me."

  "I have no gifts for you today," Hurn said calmly. "You think too highly of yourself, Sentinel. You are its caretaker. You are no god. The orcs have no gods."

  "That's cause we make our own." He prodded the crown with a grimy finger, setting it straight. He hit the ground with his staff. The eye sockets of the dragon skull atop the staff glowed, and the air rippled around the Sentinel. "It's been a while since the bones on my throne have had some new friends."

  "I haven't come for a fight. I want the s
ilver scepter. It belongs to this human." Hurn nodded at Alfric.

  "The silver scepter?" As though noticing Alfric for the first time, the Sentinel knelt down and peered at Alfric with round eyes larger than a human head. "This puny human is the one who put his fingers on my silver scepter?"

  "Aye," Hurn said. "And this puny human stole the dragon soul from you all those years ago."

  The Sentinel snorted. "You lie."

  "He might be human, but he wields the power of Madrem."

  "Madrem don't call no one no more."

  "Then how did we get into the castle?"

  The Sentinel shook his head, the crown teetering. He furrowed his brow, as though the question was too difficult to answer. "Elven sorcery," he spat through his teeth. "This disgusting human isn't the one who took the dragon soul. It was the same warlock, one of Vigash's men, who thieved my staves thirty years ago. That foul thief returned to take the dragon soul. He was the one who put his dirty fingers on the silver scepter. I would cast all the bones of my throne into the Great Chasm for a chance to tear off his head." The Sentinel's green fingers strangled the staff like it was a throat.

  "Vigash died twenty years ago, along with every one of his warlocks. They couldn't have been the ones to take the dragon soul. You haven't ventured out from Kranak-Ur in some time, else you would know this." Hurn held out his arm toward Alfric. "Vigash's warlock might have stolen your staves, but this human took the dragon soul. And he was here a week ago and touched the silver scepter. Madrem has called him."

  The Sentinel turned his nose up at Alfric in disgust. "This one's bones are too weak to join my throne. He will serve me here. I need someone to fetch me wine. These old legs moan and creak worse than a whore and her bed frame." He chuckled to himself. When neither Alfric nor Hurn joined him, he growled. "I'm sick of this game. You're trespassing in my castle, and you've gone and broken all my relics. It's time for you to die." He raised his gnarled staff.

  Alfric rolled out of the way as the staff met the ground with a resounding crack. The tiled floor split into a dozen cracks, each racing toward Alfric and Hurn. Alfric leaped into the air, grabbing a sconce as the floor tore apart, great chasms opening that would have swallowed him up.

  "Eosor, hear my voice," Hurn yelled. There was a flash of light and the sound of rushing wind. The winged monkeys swarmed the Sentinel. They screeched and scurried up the orc's fur cloak. The Sentinel tried to fend them off with his staff, but they ran along it as though it were an elm's branch. He roared as a monkey tore out his eyeball. It flew away even as the Sentinel reached out. The monkey tossed the eyeball into the chasm with a mischievous giggle.

  The Sentinel, in a fit of rage, grabbed at the monkeys at his chest. His hands found one and squeezed. The monkey screamed as it popped in the orc's grip. The other monkeys snarled, as though their game had been ruined. As one wave of flying fur, they toppled the Sentinel over. They tore at his chest, burrowing into it like moles into earth.

  "The imps were a risk," Hurn said as he looked at the monkeys. Their snarls became pleasant smiles as they tossed each other the Sentinel's organs in a new game. "I wasn't sure whether Eosor's magic could be used to command them. After I saw that the silver scepter had been taken, I knew the Sentinel had discovered you'd been here. I was forced to break the relics to bring him here. Years ago, he would have known that someone had entered the moment they'd arrived. We came in body, and he still didn't notice.

  "I knew that we would have to kill the Sentinel to retrieve the silver scepter. He's guarded this place for some time, but he's grown lax with age. For that reason, I feel no guilt for killing him. Now that he's dead, scavengers will come, searching for the relics. Thankfully, they will find few items of power. Some could have been used by my army in the coming war, but better they be destroyed than fall into our enemies' hands. Had the Sentinel not been so senile, we might have enlisted him in the cleansing. Not to mind—there will be others who will join us."

  Alfric peered down at the orc's corpse. Hurn had so easily disposed of the reliquary's legendary protector. In an astounding display of Eosor's power, a single incantation had commanded the minds of every one of those imps. The imps now lay on their backs, their stomachs bulging after gorging themselves on the Sentinel's insides.

  "Imps are creatures of another world," Hurn said. "Just like the wraiths, they feed upon lifesoul."

  "So that's why the wraiths make skinwalkers drink blood?"

  "You think they like to cause suffering as an end in itself? You have much to learn about the intentions of evil beings. Few do evil for the sake of evil. I'm certain there are many of my enemies who believe my actions evil. That doesn't mean there is no fact of the matter. What I am doing is restoring the rightful balance of things. It's my hope that you, young Alfric, will see that and join my cause." Hurn left the reliquary through a narrow doorway. Alfric followed after him through the castle’s vast halls until they came to the throne room.

  A crimson carpet led up to the throne of bones. The Sentinel had been a giant orc, at least nine feet tall, but the throne was three times that. It had to have taken dozens, if not hundreds, of creatures to build. Each bone shone a brilliant white. A dozen different colored lights burst from the window behind the throne.

  Alfric approached the window. Outside, the rocks sparkled with many colors. Alfric realized that the window's glass was clear, and the colors were reflections of the multicolored stones.

  "The Sepulchers," Hurn said. "Where the last—and greatest—battle in the God Wars was fought. The stones are crystallized spiritsoul, each color representing the god to whom it was offered in exchange for power." Hurn stared through the window, his antlers first blue, and then red, and then green as the light from the stones touched them. "Kranak-Ur is the only building still standing from the God Wars, at least in the North. The South was spared the worst of it. Did you know that this castle is like the spire in Indham? It's constructed from the same enchanted stone that binds itself to its owner. Many think the First Priest built the spire, but it is not so. It, and the others like it, are even more ancient than him. More ancient even than me. In the coming war, this castle will be the seat from which I will lead my army."

  Unsettled by the talk of war, Alfric went over to the throne of bones. He found the silver scepter hidden in a compartment in the throne's left arm. The wingless dragon tumbled within it.

  Alfric heard fluttering above him and looked up. The winged monkeys—imps as Hurn called them—chased each other in the air above. The Sentinel's blood stained their white fur.

  Hurn's boots clicked along the marble floor. "Let us return to Eosorheim. We must prepare the others to enter Dragir."

  Alfric held the silver scepter underneath his arm, closed his eyes, and pulled open the air in front of him. It was much easier this time, and he wondered whether the silver scepter might have had something to do with it.

  The imps dived down, landing in front of the rift. They peered into it, seeming unsure whether it was dangerous, and exchanged a series of hoots and squawks. There was an intelligence behind their black eyes.

  "Why were they locked within the reliquary?" Alfric asked.

  "One of Eosor's first creations," Hurn said. "Being the first, they were rather unsuccessful."

  "Should we leave them here?" The memory of the imps tearing at the Sentinel's guts was horrible, but Hurn's talk of beasts the other day had Alfric wondering whether taking them to Grimwald might be the right thing to do.

  "They've driven entire cities into madness. Do you really think it wise to bring imps capable of killing the renowned Sentinel of Kranak-Ur back with us to Grimwald?"

  Alfric shook his head, unable to disagree. He wanted nothing more of those terrible creatures and their grotesque games. He'd witnessed too much death and destruction because of the wraiths. With the silver scepter, he'd never have innocent blood stain his hands again.

  27

  Bradir

  Bradir sat by a pond, watc
hing otters play in its waters. For the first time since the wraith had taken him, in fact, the first time in many years, he felt well-rested. He hadn't turned last night, so he was hungry for blood, but his mind was alert.

  After arriving in Eosorheim, Hurn had taken the pack to the center of Grimwald Forest. Bradir had been expecting to meet Eosor. Instead, he'd seen only the antlered elf. The peculiar event on the bridge that had killed the skinwalker hunters made it clear that the elf was a mage. In Bradir's opinion, mages weren't to be trusted. They served the Guardians only for the gifts they were given.

  Cyne swam in the pond, chasing the otters as they ran over her body. They ruffled her fur, and she laughed.

  Bradir smiled. She was taking to the change well. He had lost Radbod and Olsten, and Velmit hadn't made it to the forest. He had even been hurt by Gos's betrayal. But Bradir had found the beacon and the home of the Guardian who had chosen him—Eosor.

  Beyond the pool, in a clearing outlined with glowing wards, were three-dozen other skinwalkers. These ones were rabid. Bradir had told the other pack members that they'd been chosen by a Guardian, but now that he was in Grimwald Forest, it seemed more a roll of the dice. What separated him from those skinwalkers inside the wards? Was he truly holier than they were? He'd been a bandit, after all. Murdering and thieving were as natural to him as swimming was to the otters in the pond.

  The antlered man approached the warded clearing, carrying a corpse over his shoulder and another in the crook of his arm. He tossed the corpses into the group. The skinwalkers tore at each other to get to a carcass at the center. Hurn walked toward Bradir.

  The mystery of the beacon was at the forefront of Bradir's mind. Why had Hurn called them here? He had been speaking with Alfric often, but he'd said little more than a few words to Bradir.

  "Thank you for bringing those men here," Hurn said. "The skinwalkers were growing hungry. Inside Eosorheim, the wraiths do not control them, but their spirits were consumed. There is nothing human left in them, so they are merely mindless creatures."